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Take It There
By Kaira Denee
URBAN BOOKSCopyright © 2007 Kaira Denee
All right reserved.
Damn, I really am fine, I reassured myself while focusing on the small diamond stud in my navel, sparkling like freshly fallen snow.
Positioned in front of the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door, I dabbed Chanel in all the pertinent places: between my thighs, behind my earlobes, at the small of my back, at the nape of my neck. Sexy spots. Subtle and soft. On the other side of the door was the finest specimen of a man that I'd seen in a while. Finally, I tied my thick mane up in a ponytail so that it fell just below my bra line. Because it reminds me of Momma, I love my hair.
The clearest memory I have of my momma is her ass-length hair. My parents were born in Trinidad. Married at eighteen, they headed straight to America to start their lives together. Two years later, I was born. Every day for work, Momma would style her hair in one arm-width braid and twist it up into a tight, military-style bun. When she'd come home, the first thing she'd do was unravel her cascade of wavy hair, and it would slap her on the ass. I'd always giggle, because it looked like it hurt. Momma was a gorgeous woman; with her darkly tanned skin and long, jet-black, wavy hair, shelooked like a Hawaiian empress.
Unfortunately, Momma died when I was thirteen-just coming into womanhood. My little sister, Tangela, was six at the time. Momma's death was sudden and unexpected. At thirty-three, she was taken into glory by a heart attack. As Momma was being lowered into the ground, I stroked my onyx-colored hair, vowing never to cut it off. This way we'd always be connected. Our hair was the only thing we had in common. Otherwise, we were as different as mangoes and tomatoes. She was a sweet, old-fashioned kind of woman-never wore make-up or a dress above her knees. Me ... no way. Never that. From the moment that I could smell myself, I wanted to be grown. Wanted to shave my legs, wanted to wear my hair down, wanted to wear lipstick, wanted to buy a bra to cover my little breast buds. I prayed every night that my period would come. Oh, I couldn't wait to become a woman. Momma always told me that I was too damn wild, like my daddy.
My daddy. The ladies' man. I look just like him. People used to say that if I hadn't inherited my mother's beautiful hair, they wouldn't be able to tell she had anything to do with me. I have his Cream of Wheat complexion and his striking, big black eyes. Tall and slender. Of course, I have all the curves where it counts for a woman. Well, I guess I got that from my momma, too. Good lookin' out, Momma!
The summer after my senior year in high school, my daddy died in a four-car pileup on I-95. Good thing, too. I picture him and Momma turning over in their graves so many times that they've probably covered half the earth by now. I've become the woman they worked so hard to keep me from becoming.
I stroked my hair while savoring the tidbits of memories my parents left behind. Damn, I'm fine, I thought again as I checked myself out one last time. I was standing there in sheer white, looking like a new bride on her honeymoon, but the man waiting in my bed was hardly my husband. He was just some guy I'd met at the club about three hours earlier. I turned around to catch a glimpse of my firm, yet soft, ass and couldn't help but grin. I loved what I saw. The sight of my own body always turns me on. My pear-shaped breasts are still as perky as the day they grew into their full potential. With a wink of self-approval, I turned out the lights and headed out of the bathroom.
Dwayne, the man of the hour, was waiting eagerly for me. He still smelled of the club we'd just left. A mixture of sweat, smoke, and alcohol. I told him that he couldn't touch me until he took a shower. Without any hesitation, he jumped up and raced into the bathroom to handle his business. I decided to throw back another drink while he washed the club residue away. After gulping down two shots of Absolut-my favorite-I instantaneously felt a warm tingle and wantonness down below. The pulsating rhythm of the shower was all I could hear, and it annoyed me that he was taking so long.
Dammit. I couldn't wait, so I pushed my sheer white thong to one side and began massaging my velvety flesh. It never takes much to make me wet. With one hand, I squeezed and teased the tiny erections that protruded from my breasts. My body temperature started rising, and my leg began to twitch. By then, I had four fingers inside of my swollen diamond. Oh hell, no, I thought. He had to hurry up. I couldn't wait another minute, so I catapulted from the bed like damn Cleopatra Jones and busted through the bathroom door. He was singing and lathering up like we had all night. I jumped into the shower-lingerie and all-and fell straight to my knees. He was surprised when I took him into my mouth and did the damn thing. When I felt his leg start that ever too familiar twitch, I stopped.
"Why did you stop?" he whined.
I stood up, pulled my hair out of the ponytail, and dipped my head backwards under the water. Then I turned around and firmly placed my palms on the tile in front of me, leaving the streams of water pouring down the small of my back, over the curve of my ass, then between the warm flesh between my legs. He knew the deal. He pushed my thong to the side and went to work, first with his tongue, then with his third arm. Whew! It was getting hot in there. We sounded like hungry coyotes as I screamed and he panted with pleasure.
"Say my name!" he said.
"You say my name!" I replied. The truth was, after those shots, I had temporarily forgotten his name. I'd met so many men that night. Shit. I couldn't remember them all.
"Brittanyyyyy!!" he squealed as he pulled out of me and desecrated my shower tiles.
We washed in silence, got out, and dried off. It was that simple. There was an unspoken understanding. No strings attached. Drained, I lay down on my bed.
In a tone barely above a whisper, I told him, "You can find your way out." And he did, without even looking back.
The next morning I woke with a splitting headache. I popped three Excedrin and went back to sleep. I was finally awakened-sans headache-by the neighbor's badass kids. Every Saturday morning they terrorize the whole neighborhood with their noise. I live in the small community of Courtland Gardens, where everyone has known me since forever. Tangie and I once shared a bedroom in this condo. After Momma died, my father sold our four-bedroom house, and we downsized to this two-bedroom condo, which he left to me after his death. When I went away to college, I rented it to a nice couple for four years. That money put me through college and then some. Coupled with the insurance money from my parents' untimely deaths, I was set for a while. Since Tangie was only ten when Daddy died, she was sent away to Boston to live with my father's sister, our auntie Niki. Tangie and I had never really been close; we would call each other on holidays and stuff like that, but not much more, until now.
One morning Tangie called me out the blue, asking me to pick her up from the Greyhound bus station. Auntie Niki had kicked her out and was dead serious about not letting her return. Tangie was twenty but was still sneaking boys in her bedroom window and stealing Auntie Niki's car, like a teenager. So ... she had to go, and now she lives with me.
After college, I immediately started working. My major was in graphic design, so I took an entry-level position at a local design firm. Four years later, I'm the Creative Director and manage a team of twelve. I make all the decisions, from coloring to lettering, presentation, and orientation. Everything. Your girl has skills. Working for this firm has allowed me to meet interesting people, including my best friends, Shari and Nia. At first, we hated each other. It's a story that anyone who knows us knows has bonded us for life.
Quincy Malone. Two words that sum up why three beautiful and educated black women were clawing at each other like chicken heads at Freaknik. This man was amazing. As the president and CEO of a printing company in New York City that my firm uses quite often, he was even featured in Essence for his accomplishments as a young black entrepreneur. Fine, well-dressed, and knew how to treat a woman. He opened doors, gave amazing foot massages, was a great kisser, and was unbelievable in bed. I could go on and on, but I won't.
Our story begins with Quincy and Shari. They met at a Starbucks one afternoon and dated for six months before he met Nia. Shari actually introduced the two. Nia was having a little trouble with her finance class, and Shari asked Quincy to help her out. It was another six months later when Quincy walked through my office door, looking like he'd just stepped out of GQ magazine.
Quincy wasn't as tall as I usually like my men; he stood just under six feet. His deep brown eyes were nestled under a set of solid jet-black eyebrows and were the same hue as his bronzed chocolate skin. Blessed with chiseled cheekbones and a distinguished nose and chin, Quincy was able to finance the start-up of his business by landing a very lucrative modeling contract with both Tommy Hilfiger and FUBU. You know, I wasn't letting him get away without giving him a sample of my treats. Now, I'm not sure how many other women he had tangled in his web of deceit, but it was the three of us that met head-to-head one rainy day.
It was mid-September and I was headed to Manhattan-affectionately known as "the City" to locals. I was riding the Metro North train because I hated driving into the City. Too hectic. Once I sat down, I relaxed and pulled out the latest Eric Jerome Dickey novel and dove in where I'd left off. Where I live in Stamford, Connecticut, is about a forty-five-minute train ride to the City, if you take the Express. Although the endless banter of countless people talking way too loudly on their cell phones contaminated the air, I was able to concentrate on the sexy scene I was reading. Once in a while, I would shoot a disapproving glare at the man sitting across from me, because he put his stinking-ass bare feet up on the seat next to me.
When I arrived at Grand Central Station, Quincy was already waiting for me, with thirsty eyes. We pecked each other on the cheek and stepped away into the bustling streets of New York City. As always, there was a Lincoln Town Car waiting for us. Inside, we shared a glass of Cristal and slobbed each other down until we reached our destination-his penthouse on Park Avenue. As we passed the concierge desk, the attendant handed Q about ten messages; in return, Q handed him a twenty. I wondered whom they were from but decided not to ask. He was with me now, and that was all that mattered.
At that point, we'd been dating for about seven months and faithfully saw each other twice a week. I'd take a half day off from work every Wednesday, and we would do lunch and rent a room in the Stamford Suites for the night. Saturdays I would take the train out to his territory, and we'd shop, dine at the best restaurants, take romantic walks in the botanical gardens, or just veg out at his place.
That night we decided to stay in, and as the day slipped into night, we loved each other continuously. The next morning I woke with a migraine; mind-blowing sex does it to me every time. As I turned over to bury my head in his chest for comfort, I realized he wasn't there. Figuring he had run out to pick up some breakfast for us, I popped a couple of Excedrin and decided to take a shower so that I'd smell as fresh as the morning when he returned. I took a twenty-minute shower, making sure there were no traces left of the last night's passion, wrapped myself in his royal blue terry-cloth robe, and crawled back in bed to await my omelet, pancakes, or bacon and eggs. Whatever he brought back, it didn't matter, because at that point I was starvin' like Marvin.
After waiting another half an hour, I started to fume. I called the concierge in a rage.
"Park Towers concierge. How may I be of service?" a man's cheery voice answered.
"Hi. I'm calling from apartment P10, Mr. Malone's residence," I began.
"Is this Ms. Mitchell?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes," I answered warily.
"Mr. Malone said that you might be calling. He left an envelope with me. Would you like me to bring it up now?"
"No, I'll come down. Thanks."
An envelope, I thought. Obviously, he wanted me to leave, or else he would've just left it inside his apartment. A note left at the concierge was meant to be picked up on the way out! The phone rang a second later, and I hastily grabbed it.
"Hello?" I almost screamed.
"Ms. Mitchell. It's Andre, the concierge. I thought I also should let you know that Mr. Malone arranged a car service for you. The driver's been waiting for about a half hour ..."
I hung up on him, dressed quickly, and left in a frenzy. I was pissed!
I approached the concierge desk, where a young-looking brother was standing, holding an envelope with my name on it. I purposely opened it in front of him so that he could see how much money was inside. There were four crisp one-hundred-dollar bills inside. The boy probably thought I was some kind of call girl. To clear the situation up, I fabricated a story about being Quincy's fiancée and how we'd had a big fight, so I needed to find him. I offered half the contents of the envelope in exchange for any info. He gave me the address that Quincy had ordered his car to, and I hopped in my waiting Town Car and was on my way. I was not in the mood to be bullshitted.
We drove for about two hours, until we finally reached Southern Connecticut State University in New Haven, Connecticut. My stomach growled from a combination of anxiety, fear, and hunger as I exited my luxury taxi. The sign out front read SCHWARTZ HALL. Q was at a college dormitory.
Upon entering Schwartz Hall, a handsome thug-scholar, who was monitoring the sign-in sheet, greeted me. His name tag read RONNELL.
"Who you here to see?" he asked.
When did God start making college-aged men look so damn good? In '96, when I started school, they weren't that fine. Ronnell was dayum fine! He had the body of a grown-ass man, but his eyes displayed an innocence that made me throb. After a thirty-second daydream about taking Ronnell into the limo and teaching him a thing or two, I remembered what I was there for.
"Well, I'm looking for a friend. I was wondering if I could take a look at the sign-in sheet to see what room he's in," I slurred, finally snapping out of it.
"I'm sorry. I can't do that for you. You wanna speak to the Dorm Director?" Ronnell covered the sheet so I couldn't get a sneak peek.
"Sure," I said flatly, thinking about how to explain that I was hunting down my man to a pencil-pushing, pompous asshole of an authority figure.
Ronnell pushed a paging button. "Ms. Paine, there's someone out here that needs to see you."
Then a girl, who appeared to be Ronnell's age, emerged from the back office. She had honey blond hair that stopped about shoulder length. Caramel apple complexion. Stood about five-five, wearing black Capri pants, platform sandals, and a tank top the color of her golden tresses. Cute girl.
"Hi. I'm Shari. How may I help you?"
I could tell she was sizing me up the same way I'd just done her. I was on point, though. Although I wasn't at my flyest, I was looking quite cute in my coral velour sweat suit and pink and white Pumas. I felt relieved because I knew a sista would understand why I'd journeyed two hours to find my man.
"Can we speak privately?" I asked, with a sister girl friendliness, feeling at ease.
"Sure. Come into my office." Shari motioned for me to follow her. "Ronnell, stop looking at her ass," she teased as they exploded in laughter.
Inside her cluttered office, I explained what the deal was, and she seemed more than happy to help me out. She said that she knew Quincy very well and that he came up there twice a week to tutor one of her residents.
Excerpted from Take It There by Kaira Denee Copyright © 2007 by Kaira Denee. Excerpted by permission.
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