65
Good Lovin’
“Hope!” Frieda threw her purse on the living room couch and headed to the master suite. “I know you’ve got your lazy self in bed even though it’s five o’clock. Get your butt—ow!”
Hope’s timing was perfect. The pillow she’d thrown as Frieda came around the corner from the sitting area had hit Frieda squarely in the face.
“You’d better be glad you’re my cousin and I love you. Otherwise I’d kick your—”
“Yeah, whatever. Go get those SunChips on the counter for me. And there’s some dip in the refrigerator. Please.”
Frieda crossed her arms. “I thought the doctor said to watch your food intake. That’s part of the reason you’re miserable.”
“No, I’m miserable because, as you’d say, I have two people sitting on my pussy. Now go!”
Frieda was stunned and then let out a whoop of laughter. “Oh—my—God! Did I just hear Miss Church Girl use the P-word?” She turned to exit the room. “There’s hope for you yet, girl,” she threw back over her shoulder.
Hope knew Frieda was trying to be helpful, but no matter what anybody around her did these days, it pissed her off. Yet no one but her knew the real reason: she’d snuck onto Cy’s e-mail account and saw that Millicent still e-mailed him. The mail seemed innocuous enough. Most referenced Jack or their ministry or the house or Darfur. But why did she have to keep e-mailing her husband? True, they’d broken bread and had a kumbaya moment, but so what? The warm fuzzy of that evening was long gone. Why couldn’t she just leave Cy alone?
“What, are you hurting?”
Frieda came around the corner with a tray containing a large bowl of cut vegetables, a small plate of chips, and the dip Hope had asked for.
“I’m okay.”
“Well, let your face know because you’re looking evil as hell. What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
Frieda sat on the couch with the tray between them. She reached for a celery stick and dipped it in the creamy blue cheese. “So tell me about nothing.”
Before she knew what was happening, the tears came, as did the news she hadn’t shared with anyone else. “It’s Millicent,” Hope said wetly and reached for a chip. “Like I said, nothing at all.”
Frieda left the room and came back later with her arms full. “Here,” she said, putting down chips, cookies, a liter of 7UP, and a tin of leftover baked chicken.
“I’ve got to go, so here’s a spread for when you get hungry. But just so you know, it’s not the food you’re craving. You need some good loving.” She went on before Hope could interrupt. “Don’t even try to protest. Just give Cy some tonight. It will make you both feel better and keep me from having to put my foot in your stuff the next time you hit me.”
Frieda bent down and hugged her cousin. When she left, the smell of Frieda’s Prada perfume wasn’t the only thing she’d left behind. So was the feel-good vibe yet no-nonsense energy with which she had filled the room. Hope reached for a chip and a piece of chicken. She felt better already.
Cy reached for his briefcase. He was going home. Nothing in life was more important to him than Hope and how she was feeling. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for her right now, emotionally as well as physically. Before they’d gotten off the phone, Derrick had suggested Cy go online and purchase a couple books on pregnancy so he’d be able to empathize with his wife’s roller-coaster mood swings. He’d done that, as well as called his favorite LA chef and ordered a gourmet meal for two that would be delivered later that night. There was just one call and stop he needed to make before going home and doing whatever it took to make the mother of his children feel better.
He was just reaching for his office phone when it rang. “Taylor,” he said.
“Hey, Cy.”
“Millicent, I was just getting ready to call you. I’m going to have to cancel our meeting today.”
“Oh, no, I’m already en route.”
“It can’t be helped. Hope needs me.”
There was a slight pause on the other end. “Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing a little TLC won’t take care of.”
“You’re a good man, Cy Taylor. But I’m sure Hope knows that. Of course you’re going to cancel on me and take care of your wife. And that’s how it should be. When would you like to reschedule?”
“I’ll call and let you know.”
The house was quiet. Cy stepped into the living room and placed the packages on the sofa. Bypassing the master suite, he walked into the guest room, stripped, and stepped into the shower. Afterward, he walked back into the living room, took the gifts out of their noisy packages, and went into the master suite.
Hope was sleeping, curled into a fetal position on her side. Her arm lay protectively around her stomach, as though holding the babies as she rested.
Conversations with Carla
was muted on the television, and various baby books were splayed across the covers. Cy stood silently a moment, in his glorious nakedness, staring down at his wife.
He walked over to the nightstand and picked up a tray of uneaten food. Once he’d come back from placing it in the kitchen, he opened the first box. It was a glimmering tennis bracelet of yellow, pink, and white diamonds totaling seven karats. Then he sat and waited. Within minutes, Hope shifted and moved her arm to the side. Cy smiled and eased the bracelet on her arm. She frowned, and her eyes fluttered, but she didn’t wake up.
Next, he placed the outfits he’d purchased from Nordstroms on the chest at the bench at the foot of the bed, and he placed the large vase of perfectly grown bird-of-paradise on the dresser directly opposite the bed. After him, they’d be the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes.
Or maybe the bracelet,
he thought, smiling.
He eased into bed next to her and cuddled spoon style, placing his arm under hers and around her growing belly. He planted kisses along her shoulder and at the nape of her neck. “I love you,” he whispered.
Not quite an hour later, Hope stirred. Unconsciously she rubbed her booty against Cy’s hardness. She placed her hand on top of his and nestled deeper into the pillow. And then her eyes flew open, and she looked down at the hand she held.
What is Cy doing home at this hour? He had meetings. Oh, my gosh, what’s wrong?
She struggled to turn over her growing body. When she did, two dark brown eyes shining with emotion stared at her.
“Hey, beautiful.”
“Cy, what are you doing here?”
“I live here, remember?”
“But it’s early, you have meetings—”
“
Had
meetings. But I decided another meeting was more important.” Cy tweaked Hope’s nipple to show just what type of meeting he had in mind. “You were sleeping soundly; do you feel rested?”
Hope reached for pillows to put under her back. Cy was right there, helping, holding. “I do. Frieda came over. You know she’s good for changing a mood. And then I took a long shower. There’s still a little throbbing in my lower back, but the hot water helped a lot.”
“Hmmm. I just showered too.” Cy reached over and gently lapped Hope’s nipple with his tongue. He fully expected her to rebuff his advances, as she had for the past two months, but he wanted her to know she was still his sole desire.
To his surprise and delight, Hope took his hand and placed it at the apex of anticipation. She opened her legs, and he quickly eased a finger along already wet folds. His moan was involuntary and genuine as he enveloped Hope in a lingering kiss.
But his lips didn’t stay there long. He positioned Hope in a comfortable position, almost sitting up, and gently spread her legs. And then he began a journey from her upper lips to her lower ones.
“But wait, Cy. I want to pleasure you too,” Hope protested.
“Later,” Cy breathed. “Right now, it’s all about you.”
Cy took a long time bathing Hope’s body with his tongue and talking softly to his children as he planted kisses along Hope’s stomach—and on the foot that made an imprint on that stomach.
“Ooh!” Hope exclaimed.
“Is that for what the baby is doing, or for me?” Cy asked.
“Both,” was Hope’s breathless reply.
Cy spread her legs farther. Hope eased her body down to a more reclined position for easier access. She was rewarded with a warm, wet tongue separating her feminine folds and probing her love button. Her writhing, grinding body told him she was close to release. He intensified the thrusting with his tongue and let his fingers join in the symphony.
Hope’s orgasm was violent, shattering her sanity and ripping a yell from her throat. She began to cry and reach for the man who’d given her the type of pain release a pill couldn’t duplicate. She was glad she’d followed Frieda’s advice. Cy, coming home early, had obviously followed someone’s advice too.
Maybe God’s?
she thought.
“My turn,” she whispered as she eased into a kneeling position, straddled Cy’s legs, and took his large, hard manhood into her hands. She began slowly, lovingly returning the favor, trying to lavish her eternal love from tip to base. She got as much pleasure from giving as receiving; she’d forgotten how much she loved satisfying her man. And she forgot something else too—the remembered joys of pleasure made her forget all about her back pain.
66
Another Beat-Down
Shabach and his crew sat around the studio, heads bobbing in unison as they listened to the track play through the speakers.
“Beat-down, beat-down for the devil,
Got a fist for the mist who is always causing trouble,
Got a . . . beat-down, beat-down for the devil . . . yo!
No, no, no, no, no, no mo’—Go!”
“Man, that track is screamin’!” the producer yelled, jumping up from his chair and playing an air guitar. The other men in the studio nodded their agreement while the engineer kept playing with the knobs on the board.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, pump that bass,” Shabach instructed. “I like that.”
He was the most subdued in the group, sitting back in a black, leather recliner with a hood pulled over the Braves baseball cap he wore over dark shades. A toothpick dangled at the side of his mouth as he studiously listened, barely moving. Every now and then he’d point a finger, emphasizing a key or tempo change, and then sit back in the recliner. He was pleased with the remix and could already hear it jamming in clubs across America.
The vibrator on his BlackBerry went off at the same time the door opened. He hit the text-message button: Police, man—get out the studio!
But it was too late. They were already parting the men in the studio like Moses did the Red Sea. Even Shabach’s bodyguard moved like a punk, raising his hands in a “Man, what can I do?” gesture.
Shabach was cool. Whatever this was couldn’t be that serious. Probably a warrant on a traffic violation. It wouldn’t surprise him if his accountant had failed to pay the speeding ticket he’d recently gotten in Atlanta.
I’ll dock Junior’s pay for this, for real!
The engineer stopped the music just as the first officer reached Shabach’s chair.
“Yes, officers,” Shabach said as he smiled and looked from one officer to the other. “What can we do for you?”
“Are you Joseph Reubens?”
Shabach looked around at his buddies and laughed. Only a handful of people outside Atlanta knew his real name. A couple joined in with nervous laughter of their own.
“I’m Shabach, baby, you heard?”
“Are you Joseph ‘Shabach’ Reubens?” Their was an underlying sarcasm to the officer’s voice. The second officer’s hand went to the handle of his gun, and rested there. Two more cops entered the room.
This is a lot of heat for a traffic warrant.
Normally the room was considered large for a studio, but right now it felt so crowded Shabach could hardly breathe.
Shabach stared at the cop who’d asked the question. The cop next to him began easing his gun out of the holster.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever man. I’m Joseph. So what’s up?”
“You’re under arrest.”
“For what?” Of course, Shabach already knew about the ticket, but he wanted to make sure his buddies understood to stay cool, that he had this.
“For sexual assault against a minor. Now get up!”
“Sexual assault—what the hell? Man, get these handcuffs off me. I haven’t assaulted anybody!”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—”
“Call my attorney, man!” Shabach shouted to his bass player.
“If you don’t have an attorney, one can be appointed—”
The silence screamed as the door slammed behind the officers who’d just taken Shabach away.
“Man, that’s fucked up,” someone finally said.
“This is some bullshit, man. All the pussy that gets thrown at your boy? Ain’t no way he’s going down for something like this. Just some female trying to make rent next month, take a brothah down as usual.”
“You right about that,” the bass player said as he took out his phone and headed for the door. “I’m getting ready to call his lawyer now. He’ll probably be out by morning.”
The engineer nodded and reached for a knob. Soon Shabach’s defiant voice filled the room.
“Beat-down, beat-down for the devil,
Got a fist for the mist who is always causing
trouble . . .”