The Pleasure Trap (13 page)

Pleasure removed his jacket and draped it over the back of the couch, leaving his white V-neck shirt exposed as he pulled up the linen slacks before sitting down on the sofa across from her. “I'm not saying my side hustle is something for me to get up in church and testify about, but it is
my
life and
my
decision,” he stressed, crossing his fingers in the air between his knees.

Quinn sat cross-legged and rested her forearms atop her knees. “Look . . . I apologize for going in your phone. That was wrong—I was wrong.”

“True,” Pleasure interjected and then held up his hands when she gave him an irate stare.

“I just think you're so much better than that, Graham,” she said as she lifted her shoulder-length curls from her neck.

“You know me, Quinn, but there's a lot you don't know,” he admitted. “This world does not owe me any more pussy. I'm young. I'm having fun. I'm good. Trust me. Sex and money are not the two worst things I've loved in my life.”

“Don't you want more?” she asked.

Oh shit.
Pleasure sat back a bit as he saw a light in Quinn's brown eyes that made things so much clearer to him. “Um, no, I don't. Having to be accountable to someone else is more than I'm willing to deal with right now. I still have urges to get high. When I hit a mental wall, especially when I'm angry, I have to catch myself from thinking, ‘Man, hell with it. Let me go get fucked up and forget all this bullshit,' ” he said, hoping he clearly conveyed why a girlfriend was the very last thing he wanted or needed.

Quinn leaned back and propped her elbow on the back of the chair as she eyed him. She opened and closed her mouth a dozen times, showing she was struggling to say something.

“Look, are we good?” he asked, rising to his feet and picking up his jacket.

She nodded. “We're good,” she said, rising to walk him to the door.

Pleasure felt if he could just reach the door and made it to the other side than Quinn would not dare ask him—

“So you've never thought of
us
together.”

Pleasure closed his eyes and dropped his head so low to his chest that his chin almost rested on the top of a bicep. They'd just officially slid into the cliché zone.
Shit. Damn. Why, Quinn, why?

“Graham,” she said again.

He turned as he slid his jacket on and looked down at her. “No,” he admitted, shaking his head regretfully. “I never did because I wouldn't want to lose you as a friend.”

She was in love with him. He'd let his needs for a nonsexual outlet lead to him overlooking the affection she had for him. Feelings he didn't share.

Quinn crossed her arms over her chest. “Thinking about it and acting toward it is two different things. So you never looked at me in that way?” she asked, her big brown eyes disbelieving.

It was his turn to open and close his mouth as he struggled for words.

“Not once?” she asked with attitude as she arched a brow.

“Quinn—”

“So you blind or just dumb?” she asked, waving her hand up and down the length of her body. “Because all of this was hard-earned. Trust and believe that.”

“Quinn—”

She held up her hands. “No, I'm cool. I'm good. I'm chill. I'm straight,” she said with a smile too big to be authentic.

“You sure?” Pleasure asked, his voice filled with the disbelief he felt.

She nodded.

He reached out and lightly caressed her cheek. “I'll call you later,” he said.

She nodded again.

He opened the front door.

“What's your rate?” she asked in a rush.

Pleasure heard her but he left the house like he didn't. He pulled the door closed but she was on the other side fighting to open it. He released it and moments later he could hear her stumbling backward and crashing into something.

Pleasure stood on the porch deciding whether to go check on her or not.
Damn.
Just as he turned, the door opened and Quinn stepped out onto the porch to stand beside him.

“So the strangers are okay,” she said, her voice weepy. “Just not me, right?”

Everything between them became different.

Pleasure felt guilt and irritation nipping at him. “I'm sorry, Quinn,” he said honestly. “But this is too much for me.”

He turned and walked down the path to the sidewalk.

“Graham,” she called behind him.

“I'll call you,” he called over his shoulder.

“Graham.”

“I'll call you,” he repeated the lie.

He climbed in his car and cranked the car speeding off before she could reach the curb.

 

 

“You
beyond
fucking crazy,” he shot back.

Y'all? Huh?

Assefa

 

 

Pleasure clasped his hands behind his back as he stood to the right of the groom in his custom-tailored tuxedo. Kezia had taken the time to connect and twist his dreads backward and then secure the ends with a black leather strap. He looked good. He even felt good.

Still . . .

He looked over at his mother and couldn't believe that she was so beautiful in her off-white lace-covered gown. She smiled at him from beneath her sheer veil, and he forced himself to smile back at her. He knew she had to have the same doubts and questions that he did. She
had
to.

But she was grown and she'd made the choice to wed. He could do nothing but respect that. Honor it. Back it up.

She was his mother and he loved her. He would fight for her even though there was a time he'd felt so much anger at her that he used to fight others to keep from lashing out. The feelings of anger had dulled, and he had a better understanding for the cause of that anger, and they were better. Much better.

At twenty-six, he had the best relationship with his mother since before the days of “the divorce,” and now she was getting married again. He just wished he could have come to be at peace with her decision. That he was still working on.

He glanced back at the people crowding the church and did a double take at the sight of Geneva sitting in one of the rear pews. He hadn't seen her since that night at the train station, and the unexpected sight of her made his pulse race. She looked just a little older, but with a maturity and an awareness of self. His heart tugged and he knew that was a little of the love he would always carry for her.

He forced himself to look forward as her father officiated over the wedding ceremony, but twice more he glanced back at her.
Is she married? Still a virgin? Excited to see me?

“What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder,” Reverend Garrett read from his leather-bound Bible. “Well . . . again.”

The wedding attendees laughed lightly.

Pleasure forced a smile, looking on as the minister pronounced them man and wife. “You may kiss the bride,” he said.

He looked on as his father and mother turned to face each other. Tylar raised Cara's veil and then pressed his hands against her jawline as she tilted her face upward for his kiss, which deepened as he wrapped his arms around her.

His parents had wed again.

After years of warring and fighting and accusing and avoiding, they had somehow rediscovered love a year ago and decided to do it all over again.

This used to be the dream of his teenage years, and now as a grown man who had personally seen his father dog more women than any one man should be allowed, he didn't want him to pull his stunts with his mother... again. He loved them both and he didn't want to choose sides. The reverend cleared his throat and lightly patted his father's lower back. As his parents finally pulled apart to the applause of everyone looking on, Pleasure looked down and saw the reverend had extended his hand to him.

He looked down into the man's eyes and wanted so badly to say, “I'm not the skinny kid you thought wasn't good enough for your daughter, am I?” But he didn't.

Pleasure wanted to brush past him. But he didn't.

He slid his hand into Reverend Garrett's and tightly squeezed it just having to have that moment of dominance over the man before he turned to follow his parents down the aisle. His eyes immediately went to the spot where Geneva had been sitting, but she wasn't there any longer.

He felt relief.

The truth was that although he was the one selling his wares to women, in his eyes his father was the true whore. He didn't want to treat any woman he was in a relationship with the way his father had. Therefore, for now, until he was ready, he slept with attractive women and made money doing so, but all rules were laid out beforehand. All cards were on the table, and there was no chance of anyone being fooled or hurt or cheated.

Sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks, Pleasure looked on as everyone left the church and surrounded his parents to offer hugs, kisses, and well wishes. They waved him over as the photographer worked his way through the crowd to them. Pleasure followed his parents' lead, not at all missing the appreciative stares of many of the women—young and old. As he moved through the crowd, he towered over the women and many of the men. He was a hard figure to ignore.

He pulled his trick phone from the inner pocket of his tuxedo blazer. It was a cheap throwaway prepaid phone. He didn't recognize the number and he had no one scheduled for the day.

“Graham,” his mother complained at the sight of him flipping the phone open.

“It's work,” he lied. “I'll be right back.”

Walking away before she could insist he didn't, he moved to an empty section of the parking lot. “Pleasure,” he said, his voice deep.

“Well, hello, Pleasure,” a sultry voice said. “I understand you're the man to call about some . . .
work
I need done.”

He chuckled. “I'm definitely the man,” he said confidently.

“Time will tell that,” she countered smoothly.

Graham could tell from her confidence that she was a woman in her thirties or early forties. Turning to look behind him to make sure he was still alone, he pressed his phone close to his ear to ensure she wasn't picking up too much of his background noise.

Early on he had learned to talk very little when he was with one of his clients. He revealed nothing about himself and asked only enough of them if he felt they needed to be warmed up a bit before he laid it down. He didn't care if they were married or not, had kids or not, liked their jobs or not. He put on no façades. They only knew him as Pleasure, and that was enough.

“Who referred you?” he asked, pulling his aviator shades from his pocket to slip on with one hand.

“MiMi . . . and Georgia . . . and Fran,” she said. “You're quite the talk over martinis.”

His country-club set. Good money. Damn good money.

“Are you available tonight?” she asked.

“Not until very late,” he said.

“That's fine. It should make me sleep like a baby.”

Pleasure spotted his father walking toward him. “Text me the address,” he said, keeping his voice smooth even as his heart rate sped up a little.

He closed the phone and slid it back into his pocket as he walked to meet his father.

“Everything okay?” Tylar asked, placing his arm around his son's shoulders.

“Yeah. No biggie,” Pleasure said, as they walked back toward the church steps where the photographer was positioning his mother and her lone bridesmaid—one of her friends from work—for pictures.

Most of the wedding guests had left the church for the reception while he was on the phone.

“So the dog ready to sit on the porch and watch the cars go by instead of chasing them?” Pleasure asked, looking down at the tip of his handmade Italian leather shoes as they walked together.

Tylar tensed a bit. “Well, with all due respect, son, whatever happens between your mother and me, is between your mother and me . . . but yes, this old dog don't hunt no more.”

Pleasure slid his hands into his pants pockets. “And with all due respect to you, Dad, remember that she's not just another woman, she's my mother, and so I feel how I feel.”

Tylar laughed off his son's subtle threat. “Like you ready for this,” he quipped, turning to playfully air-box.

Pleasure laughed, deepening his dimples, as he raised his fists. “Don't get hurt, old man,” he warned with a grin.

“Boys,” Cara said sharply. “Really? On church grounds? Really?”

They both paused in their fighting stance and turned their heads to look at her before turning their heads again to look at each other in almost perfect unison. Laughing, they shared a hug and continued up the steps.

Pleasure parked in front of the two-story brick home and climbed from the silver Ford F-250 that he'd purchased after selling the Corvette. He jogged up the stairs to the massive wood double doors. He rang the bell as he stood with his hands in the pockets of his black track pants. Even at night, the Bridgewater, New Jersey, neighborhood was quaint and cute. On the surface it looked like the perfect place to raise a family in happy suburbia. But these places of seeming perfection hid so much unhappiness. He knew that firsthand.

“Well, look at you.”

Pleasure slowly turned, and he was surprised when he saw the woman standing in her doorway as naked as Eve. And she had every reason in the world to flaunt her body. Almost methodically, he took in her assets.

She was a brick house—soft where she needed to be soft (breasts, hips, and ass) and toned where she needed to be toned (abs, arms, and legs). It was clear she was fit and solid and well-shaped. Hers was a body urban models and video vixens paid well to have.

Pleasure's dick was ready to salute the beauty before him.

She took her time stepping back, as one of her neighbors went jogging past.

Pleasure entered her home, turning to finally look at her face. She was a beautiful dark-skinned beauty with features straight from Ethiopia, and her short ebony curls only emphasized that. He couldn't tell if she was twenty-five or forty-five. She was timeless.

”A little back story,” she said, picking up an envelope from the back of the sofa and tossing it to him. “My ex-husband supposedly worked from home as a medical transcriptionist.”

Pleasure caught the envelope with one hand and felt the bills inside. He didn't bother to count it as he slid it into his pocket.

“My neighbors—my
so-called
friends—sat back and watched him parade a line of cheap young women in and out of my house while I was working this big ass off to pay all the bills,” she continued, taking him by the hand to lead him across the living room and up the stairs.

“They said nothing as they smiled in my face and sipped on my wine during many dinner parties,” she said calmly as she opened the door to her bedroom—an all-red affair that gleamed with candles everywhere.

“It took me hiring a private detective to finally discover just what he was doing all day that his paycheck wasn't adding up to the hours he claimed to work. Foolish me, I thought he was on drugs,” she said before laughing and shaking her head.

She released his hand and moved to the nightstand to open a large gold-trimmed wooden box. Inside were enough condoms to stock a Walgreens. “So I really don't give a fuck if they see me naked as I stroll a big, handsome man into my home for the night,” she continued, sitting down on the bed and then lying back with her arms splayed across the crimson satin. “Especially one who I heard should be called... the backbreaker.”

Pleasure removed his black sleeveless t-shirt and dropped it to the red-tiled floor as she spread her legs wide and opened the bald lips of her pussy.

“So now that you've gotten a li'l bit of my business, let me get into some of yours,” she said. “Are you everything they have made you out to be?”

“Yes.” He kicked off his athletic sandals and then took off his pants.

“Commando, huh?” she asked.

Pleasure walked across the room, massaging the length of his dick in his hand. Standing by her nightstand, he reached inside the open box for a condom and tossed it onto the bed beside her before reaching down to rub his hands up her thighs, her hips, across her flat abdomen and upward to massage her breasts.

“I'm Assefa, by the way,” she said languidly as she stretched her arms above her head and arched her back with her eyes closed. “And I hope you're worth every cent.”

“I am,” he said confidently as he crawled onto the bed between her open thighs.

 

 

Pleasure sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his sleeveless T-shirt over his head before he shoved his feet into his sandals. The bed dipped as Assefa rose from it. He looked over his shoulder as she began to blow out the candles before she hit the switch to bathe the large room with light. His eyes stayed on her body, loving the way she moved, almost like a panther.

She came to stand before him and reached out to stroke his chin with a smile. “My friends are easily impressed,” she said.