“Really?” Kahlil yelled in the phone. I could hear the relief in his voice. “That’s great, Rayne.”
“What day and time would you like for me to be ready?”
“Saturday at six.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Thanks, Rayne.”
“No biggie.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I was about to call Chance to spill the news, but a sporadic dial tone alerted me to messages waiting. I dialed into my voice mail service and there were two calls from Momma wanting more cash and one strange one. Someone was only breathing on the line for a few seconds and then hung up. I assumed it must’ve been Kahlil since my Caller ID registered my last two calls as “Blocked ID.” He’d probably called one time earlier and didn’t want to leave a strange message. No matter. I was simply happy as hell that he’d called back.
Boom hooked my do up once again. When Kahlil showed up Saturday evening, I was ready to make my official debut as his woman. I went out and purchased a three-hundred-dollar suit, which was totally absurd behavior for me. If it meant winning Kahlil over and, better yet, his parents so they’d sweat him about getting serious with me, then it was well worth it.
I was waiting out front when Kahlil pulled up in his Volvo; another first. I never wanted to seem pressed about a date, but I was standing there anxiously with a grin on my face when he pulled up. When I spotted another brother in the passenger seat, I was shocked. Granted his friend was fine. I couldn’t help but notice when he got out of the front and hopped in the back. Kahlil got out the car also, walked around, and held the door for me. I reached out my arms to hug him, but didn’t even get so much as a kiss on the cheek in return.
He introduced his friend as Oliver. Oliver was golden honey with brown dewdrop eyes and an aquiline nose. I could see Chance hooking up with him right off the bat, if Ricky weren’t in the picture.
The ride out to Kahlil’s parents’ house in Alexandria, Virginia, was a pleasant one. Oliver did most of the talking. He’d moved to the D.C. area less than a year before from San Diego and was struggling to get his PhD from American University. Kahlil seemed kind of preoccupied. I wondered what all that was about.
“You okay, Kahlil?” I asked him.
He took his eyes off the road long enough to flash me a cinematic smile. “I’m fine. Just wondering if we need to go over a few things before we get there.”
Oliver started chuckling in the back seat. Obviously, he knew Kahlil planned on passing me off as his longtime girlfriend; even though we hadn’t seen each other in ages.
“What types of things?”
“How long we’ve been together, where we met, those sorts of things,” Kahlil replied.
“You think your parents are going to ask me all that?” I felt a sharp pang in my stomach. I hadn’t thought of the possibility when I’d accepted his invitation.
“I’ll try to keep them away from you.”
Oliver was still laughing. “Kahlil, you’re going to scare Rayne. With hundreds of people at the party, your mother won’t have time to go for the jugular.”
Jugular? Was Kahlil’s momma a queen bitch or something?
Kahlil turned the radio up and Nina Simone cranked through the speakers the rest of the way there. We pulled into a long, circular driveway and pulled up to a palatial home. There were dozens of cars parked on the spacious lawn and three valets standing out front to do the honors.
I was glad I’d parted with the cash to buy an expensive outfit. It made me feel better when I met “the folks.” Rich and phony; an interesting combination. Luckily, they barely said ten words to me between the two of them. His mother simply looked me over and made no effort to mask her actions. His father zeroed in on my bustline, licked his lips, kissed my hand, and then headed into another direction.
Oliver seemed to be having more fun than anybody. He danced with practically every available woman in the place; from twenty to eighty-five. I was checking him out big time for myself. I was crazy about Kahlil, always had been, but Oliver looked like he could show a woman a good time.
I was lost in the buffet for most of the night. I hadn’t seen a spread like that since a Christmas party I’d attended a few years ago at a bonafide billionaire’s home. Rack of lamb, crab meat parmesan canapés, roast duck, braised veal with green olives and capers, vegetables in spicy cream sauce, parisienne apples with calvados butter. It went on and on as far as my eyes could see. Throughout the night I tried a little of everything, vowing that I’d utilize my lifetime membership at Bally’s the next morning and endure at least two step classes.
I was nursing a pink pony, beginning to feel the effects of the tequila, when the live band finally played a song I was feeling. I surveyed the room, searching for Kahlil so we could take a spin around the dance floor but he was nowhere in sight. Neither was Oliver.
I ventured out of the ballroom and explored the mansion. The farther I got away from the center of the party, the quieter it became. I was about to forget about looking for them and head back to the party when I heard a noise coming from the end of the hall.
After pushing open a set of French doors, I saw them. Oliver and Kahlil were tonguing the shit out of each other in front of this painting of a woman that was larger than both of them. They didn’t see me, thank goodness. I wouldn’t have known what to say. I’d seen a lot of things in my life up until that point, but I’d never seen two men slobbering each other down. I watched for a few minutes in silence, my feet glued to the floor. Then I high-tailed it out to the parking area where I begged one of the valets for a ride. He said he didn’t have a car. I convinced him that it would be all right to borrow a car from one of the guests since the party was still in full swing. All he saw was pussy potential, but I didn’t care as long as I made it home.
I had him drop me off on the corner of Wisconsin and M, gave him a fake number, and then walked the rest of the way home. Kahlil had left three messages on my voice mail, wanting to know why I’d left the party. I was so disappointed, I cried. I was sick of men. I didn’t really fault Kahlil. He was what he was and felt obligated to put up a pretense in front of his parents. He could’ve been open with me and I probably still would’ve gone with him. After all, it was hard as hell for me to tell anyone “no” about anything. But he shouldn’t have let me get my hopes up about the two of us. Why did men always insist on playing games with me?