Apple Brown Betty (28 page)

S
aturday.

Nighttime.

An opportunity for some much-desired thug love.

Felicia stood in the middle of the floor looking at the outfit she had laid out across the bed. Silk-and-wool patchworks wrap skirt with embroidered flowers along the hemline. A blouse made of fine lace. And a new pair of suede knee-length boots with side laces and tassels that she hadn't broken in yet. All the items were designer, all expensive.

Felicia stared at the items on the bed. She thought of Slay. Remembered that animal look in his eyes. Instinctively her hand rubbed over her stomach as she thought about his rippling muscles, as she imagined the faces he'd make as he pumped in her like an engine piston. The faces and sounds she'd make as that piston moved through her. Thug love.

Felicia shook off the fantasy and walked over to the floor-length mirror and checked herself out. She wore only a black bra-and-panties set. Her legs were long and cut with precision, her stomach flat; her breasts bulged from her bra enough to make men lick their lips but not so much as to make clothes designers give her the thumbs down. She was sinewy and shapely to the fashion folks.
Gat damn!
to the brothas. She wasn't quite sure of what she was to herself. She continued to study her reflection, her skin glistening from body oil like a Thanksgiving bird painted with its moist juices. She smiled at the reflection, took a deep breath and wheeled from the mirror. She was a beautiful and sophisticated young woman and she needed to remember it. Plus, this was going to be the most special night of her young life. She was prepared to give away the most precious gift she had; prepared to give it to the charming thug lover that showed up on her doorstep as if directed there by God.

But then that outfit greeted Felicia again. She turned away from it quickly then caught herself. “Get a grip on yourself, girl,” she said aloud. “You are most definitely tripping.”

Determined, she marched over to the bed and picked up the wrap skirt, and without further thought fit her hips inside the clingy warmth of it. She eased the lace blouse over her head, slowly, so as not to disrupt her carefully done, beautifully coiffed hair. She adjusted the skirt so the material didn't bunch around her hips. She pulled the blouse up so the line of cleavage and the plumpness of her breasts were less prominently displayed. She moved to the mirror again and clucked her tongue in approval, giving herself a finger snap. She needn't worry. Bring on some of that much desired thug love.

Felicia called for a taxi and sat in the living room lacing up her boots as she waited. Within half an hour an old blue car with white lettering on the side door pulled into the circular driveway out front. Felicia could see plumes of black smoke trailing the bumper and the hood vibrating. It wasn't the horse and carriage that she dreamed about, that was for sure.

She got up in a hurry. Even though she'd been sitting doing nothing for a good ten minutes, she wasn't prepared for the cab's arrival. She grabbed her coat and hung it over her arm. She looked around for her purse, found it on the couch. Made sure she had the spare key Desmond cut for her, and headed for the door as the horn sounded a third time for her outside. Desmond was out on his own jaunt, so she didn't have to bother leaving him a note. She'd probably be home before him, unless her thug lover put it on her as she dreamed he would. She shook her head and smiled at the thought of the dreams she'd been having for the past week. She'd had more than enough opportunities to give her greatest gift to a young man, but the time had never felt right. Today, though, and with Slay, it felt right. She couldn't explain why, and hadn't even tried to analyze why. All she knew, finally, she was headed for her thug love. She hoped he appreciated what she was about to give him.

She walked outside, scooted in through the back door of the taxi. The driver turned around, his arm up on the seat, and looked her up and down. He had a Yankees cap, two sizes too small, squeezed on his head, but Felicia could see that his black hair was graying throughout. The skin on his cheeks was pink and peeling. He had a thick wide nose with hair protruding from his nostrils and bushy eyebrows that carelessly connected in the middle.

Felicia could smell the mix of coffee and cigarettes on his breath. She noticed the Yankees pennant banner and the nude-model deodorizer hanging from his rearview mirror. Great, she'd hit the cabdriver jackpot. She had to be sure to thank her thug lover for subjecting her to this.

“Thought you weren't coming out, sweetness,” the driver said. “I'm glad I waited, tho'. Where you headed looking so—” he stopped and kissed his fingertips “—divine?”

Felicia rolled her eyes. This guy was the cover boy for
Stereotypes
magazine. The Guido issue. “Berkeley Carteret, along the boardwalk in Asbury Park,” she said.

“Ooh, a nice little ride so we can get acquainted,” the driver said. He smiled and his eyes continued to soak up the whole of her. “By the way, my friends call me Mondesi.”

“What do the people who can't stand you call you?” Felicia said.

He smiled. His teeth were both yellow and brown. He shrugged. “Sonovabitch, I guess.”

Felicia tapped her watch and pointed to his steering wheel. “I'm on a tight schedule…sonovabitch.”

Mondesi smiled again, pointed his finger at her and narrowed his eyes. “Ha, I get it. You're a little firecracker, aren't you? I shouldn't say little, though. Geez, your legs are longer than my Joey Nightstick.”

“Joey Nightstick?”

Mondesi smiled, a habit for him, it seemed. “Yeah, you want to meet him?”

Felicia shook her head. “Some other time.” What was it about her that brought out the crassness in men? Other than her thug lover she couldn't think of the last guy that showed any sexual restraint in her presence.

Mondesi turned around and pulled the transmission handle down to drive. “Suit yourself.”

It wasn't much longer after that exchange before he pulled up in front of the Berkeley.

“The royal Berkeley Carteret, sweetness,” he said.

Felicia unzipped her carry purse. “How much do I owe you?”

“Twenty-one,” Mondesi told her.

“Dollars?” Felicia's voice rose and her eyes were threatening to bulge from the sockets.

Mondesi licked his lips. “We can do some other type of exchange if you like.”

Only one person she wanted to barter with, thug lover; her wit and wisdom in exchange for his street smarts and rugged sex appeal. Her wet tunnel for his hard shaft. Felicia pulled the money from her purse and handed it to Mondesi. “It's been real, sonovabitch.” She stepped from the cab and switched inside.

The lobby was an ultrachic blend of fall colors—mustards, tans and various browns. There were several large paintings hanging on the walls and a soft-playing classical piece emanating from some small, wall-mounted speakers. The bellhop, dressed in burgundy, smiled as Felicia passed. An old white couple boarded the elevator, their arms interlocked, with the husband singing some old tune to his blushing wife as the doors closed.

Felicia rang the bell at the main desk and a young black gentleman emerged from the back. He had on a simple dress shirt and slacks, a gold-plated nametag—Barkley inscribed on it—and a deep black beard that looked as if it had just been trimmed that day.

“Hello,” Felicia said. “Shammond Slay told me I should stop and have you give me the key to his suite. You're Barkley, right?”

He nodded. “Felicia Rucker?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, Slay told me to expect you. He's not in as of yet.”

Felicia nodded.

Barkley swiped a plastic key through a machine and handed it to Felicia. “His suite is on the third floor. We're having a problem with the elevator, but you can take those stairs right over there.” He pointed to a door in the far corner of the lobby.

“I just saw someone ride up the elevator,” Felicia said.

“It chooses when it wants to break down. I've called maintenance three times today,” Barkley said. “Management wants me to pretend there's no problem, but I wouldn't want to see a sistah get stuck. You know?”

Felicia gripped the key and smiled at Barkley. “Thanks.”

He picked up the phone and half smiled. “Glad to be of service. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Felicia walked through the stairwell door; it slammed hard behind her. She stopped and looked at the stairs before her. Don't dwell on the glitches so far—the cabdriver from hell and three flights of stairs—think about the thug love, she thought to herself. The music from the lobby was piped through to the stairwell also. Felicia wrapped her little carry purse in her coat and placed it under her arm, started the climb upward.

As she rounded the turn for the next landing she heard a heavy door above her slam shut. Some low voices and snickers echoed down to her. She climbed on.

Halfway up the set of steps that led to her floor she paused. A group of four young black males surrounded the door. They were facsimiles of one another, all wearing big goose-down jackets and oversize jeans and unlaced boots. All with baseball caps on, the caps pulled so low you couldn't clearly see their faces. They looked as if they were waiting for her. Didn't Slay say something about renting a string of suites? They were probably here for the party that would begin later. Felicia swallowed and regained her strut up the stairs. The four stood, watching her move to them. Felicia glanced down at her feet as she climbed, as her heart rate climbed as well.

“Open the door for the lady,” one of them said as she neared the top. He was dressed in all FUBU.

Felicia relaxed. She'd been worried for nothing. She smiled in appreciation to the FUBU-clad boy and went to move through the door. The young guy holding the door shut it just before she could clear the entrance.

“Not so fast, chicken,” he said to Felicia.

Felicia looked to FUBU, hoping his earlier courtesy continued. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled wickedly. “Excuse me,” Felicia said, raising her arm to take the handle herself.

One of the other two, who'd moved behind her, took hold of her wrist.

Felicia turned to the owner of the ashy, rough hands. “What are you doing?”

He didn't say a word. She wrestled her wrist free and reached for the door handle again. One of them took hold of her shoulders, pulled her back to the corner of the landing.

“No,” Felicia said. She felt herself falling back into their arms. She felt sandpaper fingertips gripping her ankles. Sandpaper fingertips running up her thighs, hiking up her beautiful and fashionable skirt. Sandpaper fingertips tugging at her panties. “No,” she said again. Sandpaper fingertips touched her waist and poked at her breasts. Her voice left her, and tears came, sudden and warm against her cheeks, as those sandpaper fingertips whittled away her dignity. This certainly wasn't the thug love she had had in mind.

 

Saturday.

Nighttime.

An opportunity for some much-desired love.

Desmond stood in Cydney's kitchen sipping on a flute glass of sparkling cider as Cydney prepared a bowl of popcorn. He wore only his boxers and a smile. Cydney wore only his dress shirt, the buttons unfastened, her breasts stable beneath the material. The back of the shirt stuck to her moist shoulders, the shirttail hung low but jutted out slightly as it passed her round ass. Desmond was content just watching her, she could be his movie.

“Why are you staring at me?” Cydney said after a while.

Desmond moved his lips from the flute glass and licked the moist cider from them. “You're beautiful. I could see it becoming a habit of mine.”

“I'm determined that we watch this movie before we do anything else,” Cydney told him. “We've been going at it like two horny little rabbits.”

Desmond moved to her, wrapped his arms around her waist as she removed the dish of melted butter from the microwave. “Can we snuggle while we watch the movie?”

Cydney moved to the counter with her lover draped over her like a shawl. His arms wrapped around her, making her task difficult and awkward, but she dare not tell him to release his hold, it felt too good. “Snuggling, that's a must,” she answered him. She poured the butter on the large bowl of popcorn, sprinkled salt, picked up the sugar bowl and dipped out a spoonful of the sweet stuff. Desmond's weight eased off her back.

“What are you doing with that sugar?” he asked her.

Cydney looked at him. “I'm going to sprinkle it on the popcorn.”

“Wait a minute,” Desmond said as he moved beside her and leaned an arm on the counter. “Salt and butter, I understand. But sugar?”

“Not a lot of sugar, just a few pinches.”

“That's odd.”

“Trust me on this, it gives the popcorn a special bite. The salt and sugar contrast nicely.”

Desmond waved his hand. “Do your thing.”

Cydney pinched off some of the sugar and sprinkled it on the popcorn. “So you really want me to come with you and meet your family for Thanksgiving?”