Lipstick Hustla Page 5

  Sailor, on the other hand, was a homebody, reminding her of Brick in so many ways. Like Brick, he liked to relax and watch TV or play video games during his down time. And like the old Brick who used to love her, Sailor was also smitten by her beauty. He constantly strived to please her.

  “Sailor!” Misty yelled. She counted silently, curious to see how many seconds it took him to respond.

  Twelve seconds later, he appeared in the bathroom. “Hey,” he said cheerfully.

  Misty felt a little let down. The last time she’d timed him, it had only taken ten seconds.

  “What’s wrong?” Sailor asked, sensing her mood.

  “Nothing,” she said, pouting. She squeezed soap on her large, pink sponge.

  “Want me to wash your back?” His eyes adored her, but that wasn’t enough. Misty needed more verification of his affection.

  “I guess,” she uttered. Her eyes watered.

  “S’matter?”

  “I don’t think you really love me.”

  “I do.” He sat on the side of the tub and wiped the manufactured tears from her eyes. “What can I do to prove it?”

  “I’m not used to living like this, Sailor. You gotta get me outta this dump.”

  “I’m trying. I work hard for you.”

  “But you’re so picky.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “You know…the way you only deal with female clients.”

  “Not true. I take care of that married couple.”

  “Yeah, but…” She lowered her eyes.

  “What?”

  “Bitches are so cheap. We could make so much more money if you’d start servicing men.”

  “I can’t do that. It’s gross.”

  “You let Horny Hubby lick your nut sac.”

  “That’s different…I guess. With his wife there, I don’t feel like I’m doing anything gay.”

  “And I’m not asking you to do anything gay. All you have to do is let my male clients give you a blow job. How easy is that? Stand still and get your dick sucked.”

  Looking troubled, Sailor scratched his head. “I don’t know. Seems gay.”

  “You’re not a homosexual. In my opinion, you’re all man. Doesn’t my opinion matter?”

  “It matters a lot.”

  “Okay, then. Let me line you up with one of my loyal clients. I’ll go with you, if you want. I’ll even hold your hand. You’re the only person I can depend on, Sailor. Troy’s not holding up his end like he should. When I get on my feet, I’m kicking Troy out of the crib.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m getting tired of his triflin’ ways.”

  “It’s just gonna be you and me living here?”

  “Yes. But you have to do your part. Please, Sailor. You gotta do this for me. Do it for us.”

  He closed his eyes and lowered his head and nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  Misty squealed with joy.

  Sailor swallowed hard. “This has to stay between us. I realize that Troy does that kind of work, but I’d feel really uncomfortable if Troy or anyone else found out.”

  “What you do behind closed doors is your business and mine. Troy don’t need to know.”

  “Okay,” he repeated, sounding like he was trying to convince himself that he was making the right choice.

  “I’m in love, Sailor.”

  He lit up. “You are?”

  “Yeah,” Misty responded breathlessly, picturing her hands gripping the steering wheel of the new Lexus RX that was being advertised on TV.

  Sailor bent his head and kissed her. “I don’t know what’s better, kissing your beautiful lips or your sweet cunt.”

  “Make a choice.”

  “Uh…”

  “If you could only kiss one set of lips, which would you choose—my mouth or my coochie lips?”

  Put on the spot, Sailor’s cheeks tinted crimson.

  Wearing a devilish smile, Misty rose up from the sudsy water. She faced Sailor, who sat on the side of the bathtub. She pressed her coochie against his mouth and whispered, “I’ll decide and make the decision on which lips get kissed.”

  There was tension in the car. Looking battle-weary and shell-shocked, Sailor stared into space during the drive home. Misty turned on Power 99, and then switched to a station that played the kind of white-boy music that Sailor liked.

  A song by the band Train was playing. Stuck in some kind of trance, he didn’t light up or bob his head to the whack music he usually enjoyed.

  “Yo, Sailor.” Misty waved her hand in front of his face. “Snap out of it. You’re creepin’ me out, dude,” she said, chuckling as she spoke in Sailor’s vernacular.

  “I don’t wanna talk right now. I’m feeling kinda nauseous.”

  “Stick your head out the window if you planning on throwing up in the car.”

  To her amazement, he leaned out the window, and started making gagging sounds.

  Misty snorted in disgust. “Dr. Hardy slobbered on your dick a little bit. So what? It’s not that serious. You tryna throw up and shit, acting like somebody spread your ass cheeks and took your manhood.”

  Unsuccessful at retching, he pulled his head back inside the car. “I don’t wanna talk about it. Is that okay with you?” he yelled.

  Misty hit the brakes, holding up traffic, forcing motorists to have to swerve around her. “Hold up.” She waved a finger in Sailor’s face. “Mufucka, you don’t think I’ma let you talk to me any ol’ kind of way. You can get the fuck outta my whip. Go holler at the moon like a goddamn werewolf if you need to be raising your voice, but I’ll be goddamaned if you’re gonna sit in my ride and scream at me. Get out!”

  Sailor was aghast. “Get out? Are you for real?”

  “Fuckin’ right. I can’t stand an ungrateful bastard. Get the fuck out. I’ll stick with Troy. Troy don’t like to hustle hard, but he’s loyal. He don’t bite the hand that feeds him. I took your ass off the streets, so go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

  “Misty? I don’t get it…what did I do that’s so terrible? I was only expressing my feelings. I’m confused and hurt over what happened at that doctor’s office.”

  “You acting like a bitch-ass. Complaining and pouting instead of staying focused on getting money. I don’t need this kind of bullshit. I’m not gon’ be babying your ass every time a muthafucker gives you some good damn head.”

  “I’m not upset with you, Misty. I’m confused and mad at myself.”

  “Whatever, Eskimo-ass nigga. Get over it.”

  He winced at the name calling, but quickly recovered. “Okay. I’m over it.”

  Somewhat satisfied, she took her foot off of the brake and accelerated.

  “Hungry?” she inquired in a sudden sugary tone.

  “Starving,” he responded with an appropriate amount of enthusiasm.

  “Wanna get some seafood at Joe’s?”

  “Super!”

  Sailor’s swift change of disposition filled Misty with warmth. She’d won the power struggle. She would ride him like a stallion later when she got him at home and in bed. There was something about a cooperative man that made her coochie act up. Dripping and drizzling and running like a faucet.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sailor had been whining about getting his belongings. Misty had no interest in helping him get his corny clothes, but she did want to get her hands on his personal ID. She couldn’t say for certain why she wanted Sailor’s ID, but it seemed like something she needed to have in her possession. Maybe one day she’d see a shrink about her control issues.

  But in the meantime, she had to make it her business to charm this Uncle Marshall character into giving up Sailor’s possessions, and she didn’t intend to give the greedy, thieving old man one red dime.

  After sneakily thumbing through Sailor’s pocket-sized composition book, Misty found Uncle Marshall’s phone number and address.

  Misty dolled herself up, showing lots of skin. The summer sun had turned her skin to a
coppery color, enhancing her exotic beauty. Merely gazing at her would probably cause the man to cum in his pants.

  According to Sailor, Uncle Marshall was in his fifties. She hoped her drop-dead gorgeousness didn’t give the ol’ head a heart attack; at least not in her presence. She was not in the mood for the images that were running through her head.

  In her mind, she could hear an EMT worker asking her what had happened to Uncle Marshall. She saw herself shrugging and then nonchalantly stating, “Ol’ head took one look at me and the nigga dropped. His heart couldn’t take all this lusciousness and beauty.” Her musings had her laughing out loud.

  But she took the dire possibility of ending up with a body seriously. That would be entirely too much drama for her tastes. Needing to rethink her wardrobe selection and come up with something less lethal, Misty waded through fabric in the small closet that was jam-packed with her wardrobe and only a meager few items that belonged to Sailor.

  Troy stayed garbed up in fresh gear. For a person whose elbows and kneecaps stayed ashy all the time, Troy had some nerve being so particular. He was like a bitch when it came to his clothes. His jeans and T-shirts were folded in neat piles on the single shelf inside the closet. His sneakers were kept in pristine condition, contained in their original boxes and stored under the bed.

  Uncle Marshall lived in Germantown, a couple blocks from that homeless place where Sailor had been staying. He lived in a big stone house on the corner. Long, interesting windows that were without curtains or shades drew Misty’s attention.

  From across the street where she parked her car, she could see movement inside the spacious single home. It seemed like Uncle Marshall was openly bragging about having a big house with high ceilings and lots of open space. Obviously, Uncle Marshall had big bank.

  She thought about the cramped little apartment she called home and became instantly irritated. Sailor should have prepared her for the way Uncle Marshall was living. She would have enticed Uncle Marshall with some sinfully skimpy clothes had she known the ol’ head was stacking paper like this.

  Fuck Sailor’s ID; she needed to get on Uncle Marshall’s good side. She’d flirt with the older man and get him to come up off of a weekly allowance. Nah, she needed more than that. Ol’ heads usually had good credit and since Misty knew her mother wouldn’t dream of helping her out anymore, she had no choice but to use her good looks to bedazzle Uncle Marshall. She’d hoodwink the old fool into putting some cash down and co-signing on that new Lexus she’d been lusting after.

  It was raining men up in Uncle Marshall’s crib. Gorgeous men that looked like they belonged on a billboard decked in Calvin Klein underwear. Through a window, Misty could see a bare-chested, black-as-tar, gladiator-looking mufucka doing pushups on the hardwood floor. Damn! She licked her lips as her eyes roved to a mocha-colored hottie. His hands were clasped at the back of his head as he lounged on the couch, watching TV.

  Another stunning physique passed by a window. This one was tall and medium brown. Resembling an ebony demigod, his lower body was displayed in a pair of boxer briefs. In the front of his underwear, a bunched-up bulge of manliness tantalized her. Misty’s mouth watered with lust. That mufucka is holding down there.

  Someone wearing a white wife beater said something to the dude holding the remote. She was only able to get a quick glimpse of him. From what she’d seen of him…sculpted torso, bulging biceps. Mmm. He could get it.

  She moved her gaze back to the black gladiator. He hopped up from the floor. Pellets of sweat trickled down his beautiful body structure. Her breath caught in her chest. She watched, awestruck as his Adam’s apple bobbed while he chugged water from a gallon container. The innocent act of swallowing was a provocative and alluring sight.

  Uncle Marshall’s house was filled with male eye candy. Misty had a powerful sex drive and these hard-bodied men looked like they could provide the kind of work-over she’d been craving. Each man looked equipped to satisfy her darkest desires. Men like these were designed to provide maximum pleasure.

  She wanted to fuck. Her coochie clenched with need. It didn’t appreciate being denied something it wanted. Misty could feel her pussy folds swelling. She squeezed her thighs tightly together. Her temperamental coochie was trying to throw a fit. Bad. Her body’s reaction to all that unexpected testosterone was overwhelming. Her nipples were erect and a fiery liquid passion slid down her slender thighs.

  Get yourself together, she told herself as she flipped a long swath of hair over her shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the doorbell.

  She heard movement. Lots of movement. Taking a peek inside, she saw masculine forms retreating into the shadows.

  What the fuck?

  The door opened. “Yes? May I help you?”

  The man standing in the doorway was long and lean. He stood with the erect stance of a dancer. His lips were pursed, his hands clasped together. His complexion was eerily flawless…not a wrinkle in sight. The smooth skin, no doubt pulled tight by a surgeon’s hands. Additionally, he had that frozen-in-surprise, Botox look. His jet black hair had tight, processed curls. His eyebrows were arched with dramatic flare, and were dyed black—matching his tinted hair.

  It was a hot sunny day, yet he was dressed in a blue jacket, a glittery shirt, and white flared pants. His neck was swathed in a white silk scarf, as though he was so fragile, the air conditioned chill might have an ill effect on his health.

  The man obviously thought he was grand, but to Misty he looked a hot mess in his costumy…over-the-top, elegant attire. This man was no trendsetter. The old kook was biting off the fashion style of the silver screen-era.

  Misty wrinkled her nose. Seemed like she’d caught a whiff of an unpleasant scent. Did ole boy pull his gear out of a trunk filled with mothballs and shit?

  “Uncle Marshall?” Misty couldn’t help from giggling. The man looked like a complete fool.

  Taken aback, he blinked a few times. “Only close friends call me Uncle Marshall. What can I do for you?” he said, sounding very annoyed.

  “I’m a friend of Sailor’s.” She waited a beat, allowing him a few seconds to read between the lines. Her tone of voice accused him of a host of heinous crimes.

  Acting guilty, the man Misty presumed to be Uncle Marshall inhaled sharply at the mention of Sailor’s name.

  “I’m here to pick up his ID and the rest of his things,” she said, cutting to the chase. The seduction she’d planned for Uncle Marshall was pointless. Limp-wrist mufucka had more sugar in him than Kool-Aid at a neighborhood block party.

  Trying to put two and two together, Misty ventured a peek over Uncle Marshall’s shoulder. Not a muscle man in sight. They’d all fled to other parts of the house…to secret places where they wouldn’t be detected. Something’s not kosher up in this dip. Misty turned up the corner of her top lip. She didn’t like Uncle Marshall at all. He was full of his faggoty-ass self for some unknown reason. She couldn’t imagine why. He was a throwback from ancient times and his wardrobe sucked. He was a fake-ass, black Hugh Hefner. But instead of a having a bunch of bunnies hopping around, he was surrounded by beautiful young men.

  Gathering his wits, Uncle Marshall smoothed out his jacket. “Did Sailor send the money he owes me? He ran up a huge tab.”

  “A tab? You make it sound like you running a casino in ya crib. What kind of tab did Sailor run up?”

  He tsked and waved his hand, as if brushing away an annoying insect. “Nothing illicit. Sailor owes me room and board.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said, her voice colored with suspicion. “Are you a landlord or something? I mean…damn, you act like Sailor broke the lease that he signed.”

  The prissy man smiled indulgently. “Sailor and I were not bound by legalities. We had a gentlemen’s agreement, which he reneged on.” He released a titter of laughter that had an ugly, malicious sound.

  Misty was starting to get the picture. Somehow, Uncle Marshall had lured handsome, young men into his spacious home. How he kep
t them there was anyone’s guess. Misty had a strong suspicion that the hunks she’d seen through the window had all come from that Caring Cottage place where Sailor had been staying.

  She glared at the homosexual. Nasty-ass, deviant bastard.

  He returned her look of loathing with a scornful roving gaze that traveled from her red toenails, past her tight jeans, and up to her dark, shimmering mane. “Our little chat is over. Tell Sailor that I’m willing to discuss his financial responsibility…” He paused and glanced at his manicured nails, and then began twirling his hand around with great flourish. “Sailor and I can sit down and discuss the matter, man-to-man. There’s no reason for you to return, my dear. There’s nothing here that concerns you.”

  He started to close the door, and then stopped. He arched a dark, tinted brow as though he’d been struck with a bright idea.

  “Don’t let Sailor’s good ol’ boy routine fool you, Miss Thang. He’s not as innocent as he appears.”

  With those words, he stepped back, looked over his shoulder, and cast a smile at someone who was out of Misty’s visual range.

  Blushing, eyes twinkling like he had something naughty to attend to, he flagged Misty with a motion of his hand. “Be on your way, Miss Thang. There’s nothing here for the likes of you.”

  While Misty was drawing enough breath to fire off a round of obscenities, he gave Misty a wink and then, ever so gently, closed the door in her face.

  CHAPTER 11

  No, that flaming fag did not wink at me and then close the door in my face! I’m surprised he could even work his paralyzed eye muscle into a wink. I should have ripped that scarf off and exposed that wrinkly neck he’s tryna hide. Shoulda put a chokehold on his freak ass. Nah, I should have sucker punched ol’ boy…put a crack in that frozen face.