Unconditionally Single (18 page)

T
he mission to arrest Valentino had gone awry but my date with Santonio Ferrari the night before was amazing. He reminded me how some cops lived on the edge, defying death. Death to a cop was a possibility each day he or she suited up and reported for duty. Maybe that was why I craved control.

Minus our minor interruption by Honey, we’d laughed, found we had a lot to talk about. I fed him crab cake. He spoon-fed me chocolate mousse. After the short drive to my house, I invited him in for another cocktail. He lit my fire and the fireplace in my bedroom. We cuddled under the sheets, fell asleep twisted like a pretzel.

“Morning,” I said, prying my leg from between his thighs. “Gotta shower, then pack. Time for me to head to the City of Angels or Sin City.” Had no idea where I wanted to go next but I appreciated being on my schedule, not anyone else’s.

Santonio propped a pillow behind his back, leaned against the headboard. “Top of the morning to you, beautiful. You were energetic last night. Can we have one more hip-locking orgasm before you fly off into the sky?”

Typical. Men had sex on the brain all the time. Santonio was forty-five—fifteen years my senior—so energetic was relative. Riding him, I’d done most of the work, he’d done most of the talking. Not a bad combination, him keeping me motivated to buck through five orgasms. I rode him like I was a jockey but when it came time to get off his horse, I couldn’t unbend my knees. I’d fallen off sideways. Inch by inch I’d straightened my legs. Next time I’d take a few Excedrins in advance.

Santonio told me he was previously married. Also that his wife had passed away a year ago and he hated being alone. He didn’t like casual sex but casual sex was better than none, and sex with me was great. I’d agreed he was also a fantastic lover.

I was sure I liked Santonio. I wasn’t sure I wanted to invest my future with an older man with two adolescent kids. A fifteen-year spread wasn’t bad at my age but what about when I hit forty, fifty, then sixty and he’s fifty-five, sixty-five and seventy-five? My realization was that, I wasn’t the motherly or marrying kind anyway so our age difference didn’t matter.

“I guess that means no,” he said, getting out of bed.

“Rain check?”

Santonio picked up my blue dress, sniffed it. “Can I keep it for a souvenir?”

Hell no.
He knew better than to ask that of a cop. I had no idea what he’d do with my DNA. “How about I keep it for you?” I said, tossing the dress into my suitcase. “You can shower in the guest bedroom.” I went into the master bath, took a fifteen-minute hot steamy shower.

He was already dressed, sitting on the edge of a stripped bed. “Hope you don’t mind. I tossed the sheets in the laundry room hamper. Habit, you know. You decided where you’re headed?”

“To check on the condo.”

“No, I mean when you leave here.”

Okay, hopefully Santonio wasn’t one of those older men that suffered from CRS—can’t remember shit. I just answered that. Probably some sort of cross-examination to see if I’d say the same thing twice. “Not sure. Vegas, maybe LA.” I packed my clothes, zipped my suitcase, thinking,
New relationships are nice.

“How about Charlotte?” he asked. “Come meet my kids. Be our guest for a week or so. You’ll love my boys.”

My loving them was not the problem. Would they like me? “Maybe another time.”

“Come here. Sit next to me.”

I made my way to the edge of the bed, heard, “Can’t be gettin’ mad! What you mad? Can’t handle that!…” I glanced at my cell ID. Hunter could wait.

“Why are you so afraid to let me love you?” he asked, holding my hand.

Before I answered, Hunter called again.

“You’d better take that,” Santonio said. “Might be important.”

Trying to live in the moment, I said, “Not more important than you.” I paused, then said, “What if I told you I was going to LA to kill my stepfather? Would you still want me to visit you? Meet your boys?”

Santonio didn’t hesitate when he said, “Only if I could talk you out of it. Having a license to kill doesn’t give us the right to a man’s life. Killing is inhumane.”

“So is molestation and rape. The Bible says an eye for an eye. What if he’s out there raping another woman?”

He hunched his shoulders. “You decide,” Santonio said, standing. “You have my number. If you kill him, don’t call me.”

Was this a conspiracy? I didn’t need his help, his sympathy, his approval, his advice, his nothing. Santonio had no idea what Alphonso had put me through. I didn’t owe Santonio or anybody else an explanation. What was worse was he didn’t ask for one. “Then I guess we should say our good-byes now.”

We hugged. He left.

I inspected the town house, made sure I wasn’t forgetting anything, then tossed my suitcase in the trunk. On my way to the condo I called my boss.

“Bleu, what the hell is happening over there? You’re not taking my calls.”

My sexual high had diminished. “I’m on my way over there now.”

“Judging by the pictures the police e-mailed, the damage is estimated at twenty-five thousand dollars. Where’s Hunter? I’m not filing an insurance claim. I’m taking every cent out of his pay, Bleu. You hear me?”

“I don’t care. It’s not my money.”

Hunter needed a wake-up call. Who better to give it to him than our boss? Being attached to money more than his family is what got him kicked out. Spending his money on cars, a big house, expensive clothes to impress others, he’d forgotten he had a wife and kids. His fault.

“Boss, I just got here,” I said. “The windows are boarded up. I’m removing the tape in front of the garage and going in.”

“Where were you? You didn’t answer your phone all night.”

Turning on the light, I said, “Busy. Working my ass off.” That was the truth. “Hunter really trashed this place.” One peep inside the bedroom, and I bolted out of the condo.

Pacing outside, I said, “You won’t believe what has happened.”

“Q
uiet on the set!”

Those four words resounded in my mind…surreal. I’d dreamt since I was my son’s age of being on television. Raven-Symoné, her role in
The Cosby Show
and her growth spurt to
That’s So Raven,
inspired me to not so much be like her, but to do my best.

“Breakfast is ready,” Mama shouted from the kitchen.

We were in temporary housing in Inglewood. A comfortable two-bedroom my agent leased for his clients. Pictures from
Chinatown, Glory, Diary of a Mad Black Woman, Titanic, Doubt, Slumdog Millionaire,
and more movies decorated the walls in each room.

Ronnie sat at the table. “Mommy, I want to be an actor when I grow up.”

“Baby, you can be whatever you want, including the president of the United States of America,” I told him. This was a proud time in our lives. Enthusiasm for our new president soared in the film industry. “Mama, have a seat. Let me serve you.”

“Baby, you’re the one who has to work. This is my job,” Mama said, putting the platters of pancakes, eggs, and bacon on the table.

Mama sat at the table, said grace. “Dear Lord, thank You for blessing us abundantly. Let this food nourish our bodies so that we may better serve You. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

“Amen!” Ronnie said, reaching for the syrup.

“Have you gained enough weight for your role?” Mama asked.

Her question took me back to how I tried to eat half of Benito’s pizza. “I haven’t lost any, so that’s good. We’ll see. I still have two weeks before they start filming my part.” My concern was how I was going to go from a DD to DDD cup size in two weeks.

I stuffed two helpings of everything down my throat, kissed Ronnie and my mom. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later. Memorize your lines, sweetie,” I told my son. Even if Ronnie didn’t become an actor, memorizing lines from his books would help with his studies.

“I will, Mommy. Am I going to see my daddy again?”

I stopped, looked at my baby. “Do you want to see him again?”

“No, Mommy. I don’t want to ever see him again because he made you cry.”

Batting back my tears, I kissed my son. “Then you don’t have to. Nobody’s going to make you,” I said, then kissed my mom. If I ever had to cry on the spot for a movie scene, all I had to do was recall this moment.

“I love you Mommy. Bye.”

There was no replacement for genuine love. I smiled, realizing how fortunate I was. Outside our door was a limo driver waiting for me…for me! I smiled again, got in the back, then stared out the window at luxury cars, limos, black Town Cars with tinted windows driving by and alongside us.

An hour later we arrived at my agent’s office. I stepped out the limo, took a snapshot of my surroundings, then hurried inside the building.

The receptionist greeted me. “Hi, Ms. Waters. Here’s your revised script and your check.” The receptionist resumed working.

Taking my package, I said, “Thanks,” then waited.

“Is there something else?” she asked.

“Yes. I have a meeting.”

“Oh, your agent is in an important meeting right now. He’ll get in touch with you later. If you have any questions about the revisions, give me a call.”

She spoke casually, as if my meeting with my agent wasn’t important. “Thanks,” I whispered.

“You’re free to go now,” she said.

“Of course.” I stepped backward without turning around. “Oh, I’m sorry.” I’d stepped on someone’s foot.

“Unless you have eyes in the back of your head, you’ve got to stay on your toes around here,” he said.

I returned his friendly smile. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

“I’m Brennen,” he said.

Before today, I’d known Brennen by name only. I closed, then opened my eyes. “Hi, I’m Velvet.”

Brennen Mosely was the executive producer for
Something on the Side.
His filmography was extensive. The demand for him in Hollywood was high. This was his first time producing an “all black cast” film. I kept my hands at my sides.

“Relax, Velvet. I’ve heard great things about you. Are you busy?”

Wanting to be appreciative of my opportunity, I said, “Have to study my lines.”

“You can study them over lunch with me,” he said.

We arrived at a tall building in the limo, and Brennen dismissed the driver. In the elevator on the way to the penthouse, I became nervous, not knowing what to expect. Was Brennen expecting special favors for my role? We sat at a table for two by a window overlooking the city.

“Tell me your goals,” he said.

His personal servers came and went at his command. Proving I was committed to gaining weight, I ate everything on my plates. We laughed. I shared my goals. Brennen shared useful information on how to stay in good favor with important people in Hollywood by saying, “Always say thank you, follow up with a handwritten thank you note, or send a tasteful token of appreciation, but never do either of these simultaneously.”

I gobbled up this helpful advice along with dessert.

“Velvet, I’d like for you to be my guest at the private screening.”

I bounced in my seat. Settled myself, then said, “I’m so excited and can’t thank you enough.”

“That’s what I love about you, Velvet. You’re stunning and sincere. Those are the two qualities I admire most in a lady.”

A lady? That was a first, but hopefully only the beginning of many positive reinforcements.

S
hit was stale up in this bitch-ass condo.

Benito was sulking over a bitch who didn’t want his ass. I was legally married to a bitch that disowned me. Grant had me pretending I was a punk-ass nigga trying to speak like his proper ass. That lame shit was for softees, not me.

Slapping Benito’s feet off the sofa, I said, “Let’s roll, nigga,” turning off the television.

“I don’t feel like going anywhere. If you see Lace, tell her I love her.”

“Get your…forget it. Stay here.” I picked up the keys and cellular, put the remote on his chest, and left his ass on the couch.

Now that the chase for Lace was over, I had no idea where I was headed. The phone rang. Not this bitch. What the fuck did Sapphire want? I answered, “What’s up now?”

“Got a proposition for you,” she said.

Did I have
proposition me
airbrushed across my ass? “I’m straight. I don’t want shit from you.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Sapphire said.

“What? What?” I was so frustrated I’d repeated myself.

“I have an emergency. I’ve gotta get to the airport. Come over to the condo where Honey was.”

“I don’t know where you were hiding that bitch.” Sapphire thought I was what, a fool? Thought Valentino James was her fucking gopher? “Come over there and…?”

“And I’ll tell you when you get here,” she said. Sapphire gave me the address, unit number, then ended the call.

A nigga wasn’t rolling over there on foot patrol. I drove Grant’s Benz in case I had to get away with a fuckin’ quickness. I was no fucking freeloader. Time had come for me to get my own spot, my own rims, my own hos. I parked parallel in front of a fucked-up bandaged condo that looked like a tornado touched down on that bitch and that bitch only.
What the hell happened here?

Sapphire waved at me. “Come this way. Follow me.”

My eyes narrowed, scanned left and right. I asked, “Who fucked up this spot?” Following her through the garage, into the bedroom, I said “Oh, hell, no! Damn! What the fuck?” A nigga’s stomach rose up to his chest, then pressed down.

Sapphire said, “I want you to call the cops and paramedics, then stay here until they come.”

“So I can get framed for this assassination massacre? Hell fuckin’ no,” I said. “I don’t give a fuck what’s in it for Valentino James. You can eat that shit.”

In the bed were a man, a woman, and two kids. All on their stomachs. All with a bullet in the back of their head. That shit reminded me of that dude in California that took his whole family out after him and his wife lost their jobs. The recession was an opportunity for a nigga to regroup, then recuperate, not to fuckin’ retire.

“I’ll have all charges against you in Nevada dropped, expunge your record, and you’ll be a free man. You can roam the world wherever you please. Even go home to your wife and kids.”

That was a pretty package for a nigga to consider unwrapping, but in a few seconds? Not the wife and kids part—the part about being a free man. Either way my ass was fucked. I headed toward the door. “Let’s step outside. Nigga can’t inhale up in this bitch.”

“What about the kidnapping charges?” I asked.

“Honey needed a sabbatical. You did her a favor. I’ll do you a favor. I’ll dismiss that too,” Sapphire said. “I’ve got a flight to catch. Call nine-one-one from your phone,” she insisted.

“This isn’t my phone. It’s Grant’s.”

“If I make the call, you’re going straight to Nevada State.”

Bitch had me by the fucking nuts. “How do I know you’re not setting me up?”

“You don’t,” she said, dialing her phone as she said, “Nine.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to say?”

“One,” she said, pressing another button.

“Fuck it.” I dialed 9–1–1.

Sapphire held up her pointing and middle fingers, kissed them, waved at me, got in her car, then drove on out.

Waiting for whoever the fuck was going to show up, I called Lace.

“Hello,” that bitch sang like a canary.

“It’s Valentino. I’m ready to hear your proposition.” Might as well know all my options.

“Hey, Valentino. I’m glad you called. Are you home? Or I should say, Are you at my sweetheart’s condo?”

I’m going to pray she hadn’t fallen and bumped her head on Grant’s head because most dicks were diagnosed with amnesia.
And when a chick got the raw end of a dick, a nearby nigga was the recipient of her backlash. I wasn’t going to ask her shit about Grant. “Something like that.”

“Good, I’ll meet you there in a half hour. Bye.”

“Wa—haaa.”

Sirens blared in the background. A nigga had zero knowledge about what the fuck was going on with that dead family. What would happen if I left before the cops got there? Wasn’t my fucking phone. Leaving was a chance a nigga was going to have to take.