Between the Sheets (9781476775807) (6 page)

He joins in my laughter. “Yeah, aiight, muhfucka. I got ya ugly all right with ya chocolate Morris Chestnut-lookin'ass. Big bubblehead muhfucka.” I laugh as he pulls back one of the leather chairs situated in front of my desk and takes a seat. He removes his black Aviator shades. “I got in last week, bruh.”

I raise a brow, pulling out the other chair and taking a seat. “And you just checkin' me now? Funny-style ass. You coulda at least shot me a text to let me know you touched down. Damn, muhfucka.”

He rubs his manicured goatee, framed around full lips. “Nah, man. You know how it is, fam. You right, though. My bad. I got back, chilled with the family for a minute, then had to break my sidepieces off with some of this good wood.” He frowns, shaking his head. “Wait. Hold up. Why the fuck am I explaining myself to you? I got back when I got back. I'm here now. What, you want my autograph?”

“Yeah, muhfucka. You can sign over one of them damn checks you collecting.”

He laughs. “Yeah, yeah. You're the one making all the paper. So what's good? How's that sexy-ass wife of yours? You ever mess that up, I'ma be snatchin' that up. I'll do sloppy seconds for a life with that fine woman.”

I grin. “Yeah, aiight. Never that. Marika is good, man. You should stop down ‘n' check for her on your way out. She'd love that.”

“I just might. I see life's still treating you right. How's the radio show going?”

“Yeah, man. Radio show is still poppin'. You know the freaks love them some
Creepin' ‘n' Freakin' After Dark
.”

He shakes his head. “You the only cat I know on the radio melting panties off asses without dropping one damn album or singing one bar. Ya ugly ass can't even hold a note.”

I laugh. “Man, what can I say? It's the voice, my dude. The freaks love me. But, yeah, life's definitely good.”

He nods his head, smiling and taking in the ice in my lobes and dripping around my neck and wrist. “I see, I see.” He inhales a deep breath. “Smells like fresh money all up in this piece.”

“Nah, nah. I'm broke, niggah. You the one doin' it big, playa.”

“Yeah, okay. The lies you tell, muhfucka.”

I laugh.

But truth is, I'm that cat getting it. But bragging isn't what I do. Nah. I learned a long time ago that humility gets you a whole lot further in life than bravado ever will.

Watching my moms wake up every morning—not ever missing a day of work, rain, sleet ‘n' snow—with a smile on her face as she left outta the brownstone we shared with my grandmother, aunt and three cousins in Brooklyn, to scrub toilets for rich white folks out in the Riverdale section of the Bronx, then go clean office buildings at night so she could afford to send me to the best private schools the city had to offer taught me a lot about having an impeccable work ethic. About doing whatever it is you need to do to make it.

On everything, Moms was hard on me because my pops wasn't around, thanks to a bullet taking his life when I was five. But she had a mission. She was determined to make sure I had a shot at something much greater than what the hood could ever offer me. And she was dead-ass when she'd threaten to beat the hoodlum, the ruffian, the thug, and anything else that represented the streets out of me anytime I let my pants drop off my waist, or she heard me using slang. Other times she'd threaten to ship me off to Martinique to live with one of my pops' six brothers, or over to Grenada with her family. Becoming a statistic wasn't an option. Prison. Gangs. The streets. All not an option, if I valued my life.

“I'll kill you dead, first, before I ever let the streets have you.”

Real shit, everything that I am, everything that I've become, is because of my moms. I owe her everything. She was the poster girl for how to make nothing outta something without looking for a handout. And that's exactly what I did to get to where I'm at today. On top. And I didn't have to lie, scheme, fuck, bribe, or murder my way up to get here.

But if it weren't for the fact that my face has been plastered in
Vibe, XXL,
and
The Source
—to name a few, you would never know that I'm President of MK Records, and one of the most powerful cats in the music industry. Let
Maxim
and
Black Enterprise
magazines and BET tell it. I'm one of the Top Ten Hottest hip-hop and R&B moguls in the game. But, uh, without saying much more. Let's just say—with looks, swag, money stacked, numerous rental properties, a roster of some of the hottest artists in the game on my label, and a bangin'-ass wife—I stay winning.

“Yeah, aiight, muhfucka,” he says, laughing. “You're an entertainment mogul. Your name rings bells in the industry, niggah. So save that broke shit for them lames who don't know you.”

Carlos cracks me the fuck up, for real, for real. As articulate and polished as he is, you'd never know he wasn't bred in the hood by the way he talks behind closed doors. He has more hood swag than some of the muhfuckas who are actually from the streets.

“Aiight, aiight…” I run a hand up over the top of my head, caressing the deep spin of my waves. “We ain't gotta broadcast the shit. I'm sayin' though. What's good with you? How long you in the States, this time? And when you getting ya ass back up in the lab to drop some heat?”

He nods his head. “Man, funny you should ask 'cause I was just thinking on my way over here that it's time to get back in the studio and make this money. I'm ready. I'ma be here for at least the next six months.”

“Oh, aiight, aiight. That's what's up. I got this producer I think you should link up with. This young cat out in Queens; he's got some sick tracks.”

He gives me a quizzical look. “So what you saying, bruh? You tryna sign me?”

“Are you ready to grind hard?”

Now I'm not gonna front like I wasn't feeling some kinda way when Carlos signed a two-album deal with another label, but I understood his desire to sign with a major label. At the time, MK Records—the M is for Marcel and the K is for my last name, of course—was just starting out back then and didn't have the kind of star power on its roster that it has now. So I respected his hustle. Still, I kinda wanted to hate on him on the low until his debut song, “Lick Her Slow,” dropped and spent weeks on the charts. I knew then he had mad talent. Then when his second single, “Love Box,” peaked at number 6 on the Billboard Hot 100 and number 2 on the R&B charts, I knew dude was about to shut shit down. That joint blew up all the R&B and hip-hop stations and his album
Dirty lil Secrets
was not only nominated for both American Music Awards and Grammy Awards, but it also sold over 2.5 million copies.

So on some realness, I couldn't hate. But after his sophomore album,
Ballz on Fire—
which took two years for him to finish because of his modeling obligations—went flat, the label dropped him like a bad habit.

He shakes his head. “Whoa, hold up. Are you shittin' me? Or are you
saying
what I
think
you're saying?”

I laugh. “Yeah, muhfucka. What you think? I'm dead-ass. You been outta the game for a minute, but it's time for you to hop back in ‘n' resuscitate R and B.”

I can't even front. Right now, the only thing I'm hearing is cash registers ringing in my ears. And all I'm seeing are dollar signs swimming behind my pupils. Carlos is the complete package. He's not only a talented songwriter and singer. Dude is a gifted pianist. And he has mad sex appeal. All of his songs are raw, sexual and sensual about many of his sexapades around the globe and the things he's said and done to get a chick to drop them drawz. And today, like never before, sex sells…lots of it. Straight like that. And this freaky muhfucka has enough heat to turn up the streets.

Carlos reaches his hand out for some dap, grinning. “Then let's make music, baby.”

“Yo, that's what I'm talking 'bout,” I say, giving him dap. “ 'Bout damn time you got your mind right ‘n' brought ya yellow ass on over to the MK family. Let's go get this paper, bruh.”

He laughs, glancing at his watch. “You already know. Let's drop some hot shit ‘n' get these streets talking.”

“And them drawz droppin',” I add, laughing along with him. I rise from my seat. Tell him to have his manager get at me.

He stands, too. “Aiight, cool, cool. I'ma 'bout to head out.” We give each other dap, then our frat handshake, followed by a big-ass hug, which kinda takes me by surprise; especially since his body is pressed into mine a lil' closer than usual. “You've always been my boy,” he says, beaming. “And I got nothing but love for you, man.”

“That's real shit. Likewise, playboy.” I step back from him, abruptly moving around to the other side of my desk and pulling my executive chair out, taking a seat.

I shuffle some papers around on my desk. “Make sure you have your manager holla at me.”

“True indeed,” he says, heading toward the door. “Let's hit the courts one day next week so I can mop the floor with you.”

I laugh. “Yeah, aiight. Never that. You know you can't see me, fam. I'll bust yo' ass, pretty boy.”

“Aaaah, shit. Is that a threat?”

I smirk. “Take it however you want, playa.”

“Oh, aiight. I got you. I'ma take it to the hoop, bruh. Believe that.” He hits me with deuces and I eye him as he makes his way to the door, shaking my head.

When the door finally closes behind him, I take in a deep breath, then slowly blow it out, before getting up and locking my door, then walking back over to my desk and unloosening my Ferragamo belt buckle.
I'm horny as fuck
. I unzip my pants, then slide my hand into the slit of my designer drawz, snaking out my semi-hard dick.

I squeeze the head of my dick a few times, then push back in my seat and grab the base of my shaft. My mouth waters as I lean forward and stretch myself down into my lap, sucking the head of my dick into the warmth of my mouth.

Yeah, I'm a self-sucker. And, nah, I don't see anything gay about that shit. It's my dick. I'm not sucking another niggah's dick. I'm sucking my own. It's no different than jerking it, or playing with it. It's my shit. And it's me pleasuring myself. Only difference is, a muhfucka's using his mouth to add to the sensation. So fuck what ya heard. If I feel like I wanna wet my own dick, that's what I do.

On some real, I learned I was able to suck my own shit by mishap and curiosity when I was like thirteen, during one of my many horny nights of beating my dick in the bathroom. I leaned in to spit down on the head of my dick and realized that I was flexible enough—and my dick was long enough—for me to lick it. So I did. And liked it. But I kept that shit on the low because for some reason, as good as that shit felt, it didn't seem right. And I'd never heard of muhfuckas sucking or licking their own shit. And if they did, they damn sure weren't hanging around the hood or on the courts talking about it.

So licking my dick became my own lil' dirty secret.

And even though I was getting pussy, I still masturbated and locked myself in the bathroom and licked my dick. Then the more raw pussy I started getting, the stronger my urges to taste their juices on my dick got. So I'd finish smashing, then hop up from the bed with my wet, sticky dick swinging and lock myself in the bathroom to suck the cream off my cock. I'd be fucking some chick and the whole time I'd be thinking how I couldn't wait to taste her on my dick. So licking my shit quickly evolved into me sucking it.

Flashes of Marika's fat, wet pussy with my nut flooding out of it click in my head. I lick my lips as if I'm licking her cum-soaked cunt, groaning low. I spit on the head of my dick, stroking my thick shaft and sensually massaging my full, round balls before squeezing them. A mix of spit and precum coat my dick, becoming slippery lube to my shaft. The fire roaring inside of me is trapped, confined behind thick layers of muscle and skin.

“Aah, shiiit, baby…mmm …”

I lean forward and suck the head of my dick, bobbing my head up and down my shit. Horny. I need release. Need to empty this heavy sac. I suck myself to the edge.

Bowing at the crown of my dick, worshipping it, pumping it into my mouth, all the way to my tonsils.
“Aaaah…”

Here it comes. Here it comes…

I toss my head back, shut my eyes tight, bite into my bottom lip and buck as bolts of hot nut shoot, spurt, then splatter outta my dick.

Marcel

“Ooh, baby. Guess who came to see me today looking every bit of delicious today?” Marika says, walking outta her walk-in closet. I stare and lick my lips. She's wearing only a pair of red silk panties and high-heel red bottoms.

My dick stirs in my drawz.

“Who?” I ask as if I don't already know.

“Carlos.”

I grin. “Oh, word? And he was looking
delicious
, huh?”

She laughs. “Yes, every bit of…with a capital-D. That man is too fine for his own good.” She holds up a cobalt-blue strapless dress in front of her. Then tosses it onto our bed. I eye the growing pile of dresses and purses, shaking my head.

She looks at me feigning innocence. “What?”

“Seriously, babe?
More
clothes? Why are you packing all this shit, when you have a ton of things at the crib in L.A.? I thought I said to pack light. Translation: only pack ya purse.”

She rolls her eyes. “I
am
packing
light
. These are a few things I want to leave out there; that's it. Besides, a woman can never have enough options.”

“Well, how about leaving all that shit here as option one?”

She ignores me and walks back into her dressing room, then comes out with a lil' skirt set. She looks over at me, and smiles, tossing the ensemble onto the bed.