I pulled up the sleeve of my navy Hugo Boss suit and glanced at my watch. It wasn’t even midnight yet. We’d gotten there about eleven, and I was ready to go ten minutes later, but I promised Dvontè we could hang out. If nothing else, I am always a man of my word.
dvontè
Geren was getting on my last damn nerve. Always trying to playa hate. Like they say, “Don’t hate the playa. Hate the game.” He was just mad because the only woman who had tried to step to him looked old enough to have an autographed copy of the Bible. I mean, she looked older than my grandmother. The sistah was probably a waitress at the Last Supper. I chuckled because he had some ugly woman eyeing his ass. I know he sensed her, but I don’t blame him for not looking her way. She was so ugly, it looked like her neck threw up. Truth be known, though, if she could give good head, I would have closed my eyes and let her suck me like a lollipop.
I’ve never in my life used a woman. They use me. I just happen to get a little ass in the process. Hell, if it were not for men like me, there would be hundreds of thousands of lonely sistahs in the world. I make a woman’s life complete. Give her something to look forward to after a long, stressful day at the office. Put a little pep in her step.
Let’s face it. Most women, and men for that matter, spend the better part of every day doing something they hate to do: working. The majority of people work to pay bills and make ends meet. The only time they really get a chance to live it up is after work. I’m there waiting for these ladies when they come home with wet lips and a savory dick. What more could they ask for?
I’m a precious commodity these days—a black man with a job, a place, and no secrets hiding in the closet. I’m heterosexual, drug free, and I’m not a convicted felon. That alone makes me worth my weight in gold. Add to that the fact that I work, have my own crib and car, and what you get is a man’s man. That’s me. Dvontè Richardson is a prince among men.
I have always been straight up with the sistahs. I want to get some ass and then roll out. I never fake the funk. If they don’t want to play by my rules, then they can get to steppin’ and tell their story walking. Sistahs always blame the man when something goes wrong, as if they weren’t even present when the shit hit the fan. Like they were having an out-of-body experience, witnessing the whole sordid mess from afar. Who the hell are they trying to fool? I know my rights! I have the right to remain as freaky as I want to be for as long as I want to be. Simple as that! Looking back on things now, I should have kept my ass at home that night. Most of the sistahs were tore up from the floor up, and the one I ended up getting with almost ruined my whole damn life, even though she was fine. There is something to be said for making it a Blockbuster night. No doubt I would have been better off watching rented flicks.
CHAPTER 2
we be clubbin’
“’bout damn time you got here, Tempest!” Janessa took a deep breath so she could bend her midsection to get into the car. The red sheath she had on was too tight to maneuver in, and she barely managed to get into Tempest’s Camry without ripping open a seam. “I was ready to bounce an hour ago.”
“You have a lot of damn nerve,” Tempest hissed back. “Consider yourself lucky I even showed. I had other plans for tonight, but I canceled them when you phoned me with that sob story of yours about being lonely and Fred farting in your face.”
“Chile, please! You know you weren’t doing a thing except sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself.” Janessa reached over the gearshift to turn the radio down a few notches. “You think your music is loud enough? Sheesh!”
“No, not really,” Tempest replied, turning it back up. “That’s my cut!” she exclaimed, referring to “Nobody’s Supposed to Be Here” by Deborah Cox.
“Every song is your damn cut,” Janessa snapped back at her, searching through her tan leather handbag for a tube of ruby red lipstick.
“Yeah, but I can seriously relate to this one. I know exactly where the sistah is coming from when she sings about giving up on love.”
“I bet you do,” Janessa sneered sarcastically. “Anyone can look at you and tell your ass is celibate.”
Tempest pulled off from the curb in front of Janessa’s house with a jerk. “You are so damn silly! How in the world can someone look at me and tell I’m celibate? It’s not like I’m wearing a sign on my ass or anything.”
“No, there’s no sign on your ass. It’s just written all over your freakin’ face.” Janessa reached up to turn on the interior light, but Tempest stopped her. “Sistahs can tell when their homies aren’t gettin’ none. It’s all in the eyes.”
“No, use this.” Tempest handed Janessa a lighted compact mirror, igging the analysis. “The glare from the overhead light impairs my driving.”
“Thanks,” Janessa said, opening it and expertly applying the lipstick, which matched her nails perfectly. She glanced over at Tempest. “You look like a nun in that black suit.”
“Not a nun. A lady. Maybe you should try the conservative approach sometime.” Tempest giggled, looking Janessa up and down and making no bones about he
r disapproval of the outfit.
“Hmph, yeah, right,” Janessa smirked, brushing off the remark. “So what were you really doing when I called? Hmm? Watching television or doing those damn puzzle books again?”
Tempest didn’t want to tell her the truth—that she’d been drowning her sorrow in ice cream and Pepsi. That she was hoping a man, just about any man, would call, but the only calls she got the whole evening were from her mother and a telemarketer wanting to know if she wanted home delivery of the Washington Post.
She sighed. “Why are you all up in my business, Janessa? It’s not like you have a man!”
“I’ve had one since the last time you had one. That’s for damn sure. If Howard hadn’t gotten locked up on those bullshit charges, he and I would still be together.”
“Bullshit charges?” Tempest chuckled, trying to rationalize Janessa’s thought process. “His ass got caught red-handed pulling an armed robbery, and you keep trying to insist he was framed. You need to tell that nonsense to someone who isn’t up on such thangs like me.”
“Those charges were trumped up,” Janessa stated defensively. “Howard was an innocent bystander. They just locked him up because he’s a black man.”
“Whatever, Janessa, but I saw that shit on the Fox ten-o’clock news, and he looked guilty as all hell to me. He came out good only getting ten to fifteen years. His ass could have gotten life.”
“Howard is not going to do fifteen years. Not even ten. He told me when he called the other day that he would be out in about—”