Dangerously In Love Page 8

  “Well, your dad’s an attorney; talk to him. Find out what you can do to get Reed’s name off the deed.”

  “I don’t think it can be done. Besides, I don’t want to involve my parents at the moment. I’ll be giving them information on a need-to-know basis.” Dayna pursed her lips together in a manner that let Cecily know she did not intend to discuss her parents any further.

  “Men! You give them the best part of yourself and all they do is trample on your heart and feelings until you can’t take it anymore,” Cecily declared, wisely taking the focus off the taboo topic of Dayna’s parents.

  “The odd thing is I feel like I’ve been playing some sort of role that really isn’t me. I can’t believe I allowed myself to behave like such a wimp. And I could kick myself for putting on all this weight. But believe me, these excess pounds are coming off.”

  “I can see a difference already,” Cecily complimented.

  “You’re kidding. I’ve only been dieting for a few weeks,” Dayna said, blushing with pride. She’d dropped another two pounds and was thrilled that Cecily could see the difference.

  “I don’t know…your face looks smaller. And…” She scrutinized Dayna. “Something’s going on around your collarbone area. Have you been sneaking to the gym?”

  “Nope. Just working out with a yoga DVD at home.”

  “Yoga? Isn’t that boring?”

  “No, I like it. It’s relaxing and you don’t work up a sweat. You know how I am about my hair; I can’t be sweating out my ’do.” Dayna laughed heartily. “I don’t expect to see changes overnight, but I’m trying to get into a lifestyle change as I purge myself of Reed.”

  Dayna stopped for a red light and turned toward Cecily. “Reed is good looking; that’s all he has going for himself. He’s totally self-absorbed and honestly, there’s almost something evil about him. Every word he speaks seems to be a lie and if he’s not lying, then he’s criticizing something about me. He’s just not a very nice person and I feel like the wool has been suddenly ripped away from my eyes—like I’m seeing him for the first time.” She paused and looked at Cecily intently. “And I’m repulsed by what I see.”

  “Damn. It’s that deep?”

  “Yes, it is. I don’t want him sleeping next to me anymore; he actually gives me the creeps.” Dayna shook her head and accelerated when the light turned green.

  “How are you gonna kick him out of the bedroom?”

  “I don’t know, but I have no intention of ever again sharing the same bed with that man.”

  “Let me ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is Reed…um…does he get physical with you? Is he violent?”

  Dayna laughed. “No,” she said, shaking her head for emphasis.

  “Well, I don’t understand the comment about him being evil.”

  “I can’t explain it. It’s just a feeling.” Dayna shrugged.

  “For your information, the police will kick Reed out of the house if he puts his hands on you.”

  “Girl, I’m not trying to go there.”

  “I’m just putting it out there.”

  Dayna pulled up in front of Cecily’s house. “So, how are you going to get your car?”

  “The mechanic’s gonna pick me up.”

  “Oh yeah? Do I detect some hanky-panky?”

  “Oh, hell no. I don’t do greasy mechanics. I like my men to look good, smell good, and have clean fingernails.”

  Both women laughed.

  “Dayna! I forgot to tell you. Remember Kendrick?”

  “Who?”

  “Kendrick. The fine brother I met at that club in Manayunk last week?”

  “Oh, yeah. I didn’t know you two had kept in touch.”

  “We exchanged numbers, but I didn’t call him and he just got around to calling me last night. He invited me to an art exhibit—at his home. Apparently he lives in a big house in north Philly and leases space for various events.”

  “Sounds interesting, but with my marital problems, this isn’t a good time for me to purchase art or anything else.”

  “I’m not buying anything. I’m just going to have a good time and get to know Kendrick better. I get the impression that we won’t be attending a typical exhibit. He mentioned something about a jazz combo, a caterer who’ll be serving fried catfish, collard greens, candied yams, a whole smorgasbord of soul food.”

  “Sounds good. When’s the exhibit?”

  “Friday night at seven. Wanna go?”

  “Sure. Why not? I guess I can tolerate the artsy crowd,” Dayna said, laughing. Then she groaned, “Aw!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My diet! I’ve been doing so well, but I might have to let it go for some fried catfish.”

  “I know that’s right,” Cecily said as she exited the car and trotted up the steps to her house.

  Dayna watched Cecily enter her house before pulling off. She shook her head, envying the simplicity of Cecily’s life. Dayna knew she wouldn’t be attending the art exhibit with Cecily, but had played along because Cecily would have held her hostage in her own car until she agreed to go.

  Her emotions for her husband had suddenly gone from adulation to revulsion and just that morning she had dropped a serious bomb on him—the marriage was over and she wanted out. Something told her that Reed was none too pleased about her announcement and would soon be declaring war. And winning a war against Reed was not going to be easy.

  Chapter 13

  Deanna’s Den was billed as a gentleman’s club. It was considered the top strip club in the city—the chill spot for sports figures, entertainers, and all the major players with tons of money to throw around. Since Chanelle was in the market for a man with mucho mullah, she figured Deanna’s Den was where she needed to be. Supposedly, the dancers at Deanna’s Den made ten times what she made at Lizzard’s, so she considered getting kicked out of Lizzard’s a blessing in disguise.

  There had been complaints, however, that Deanna’s Den was worse than Lizzard’s with respect to hiring black girls, so Chanelle decided to pay the club an impromptu visit instead of calling in advance. She wanted them to see her pretty black face in person before they even thought about making a prejudiced determination.

  Chanelle took a cab and arrived at the strip club bright and early before the club officially opened for business. Certain that her unexpected presence would be perceived by the owner or whoever did the hiring as a gift from above, she boldly rang the bell.

  “Yeah?” a male voice crackled over the intercom.

  “I’m here to audition,” she said proudly.

  There was no response.

  “Hello.” She patted her foot in annoyance.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the voice asked.

  “No, but—”

  “Wait a minute.”

  Chanelle patted her foot for an entire ten minutes before she was buzzed in. Once inside she was hustled to a small room by a swarthy muscular guy who was carrying a clipboard. His T-shirt was extremely tight. So tight, Chanelle expected him to burst out of it like the Hulk.

  He ushered her to the dressing room, sat her at a dressing table, and handed her the clipboard. “Here you go. You have to fill out this employment application.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked.

  “That’s the procedure,” the overly pumped-up man replied. He shook his head and smiled grimly. “The manager will review your application and if she’s interested, she’ll give you a call back to audition.”

  “How will she know if she’s interested if she doesn’t even know what I look like?”

  “I’ll tell her.” There was nothing in his voice that indicated his impression of Chanelle’s appearance.

  Taking a deep breath, Chanelle peered down at the two-page application. Filling out a long-ass application was definitely not a part of her game plan, but if she wanted to keep her apartment and continue her frenzied shopping sprees, she’d need to have a reliable income.


  As she labored over the never-ending employment application, the emaciated dancers who worked there began to stream in. They regarded her with bemusement as they began readying themselves for the first shift.

  “You’re applying for a job here?” one of the stick figures asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Chanelle responded absently as she thought about her response to a portion of the application that asked her to disclose something about herself that no one else knew. What the hell kind of question is that? She looked up and caught a glimpse in the mirror of two women exchanging catty smiles. Realizing that they were amused by her, as if she shouldn’t be taken seriously, Chanelle glared at the women and went back to the application. Hmmm. Something about myself that no one knows?

  Then, hit with a burst of inspiration, she began scrawling: I’d like to settle down one day and have two or three children…maybe a beautiful set of twins—girls of course—and one little boy. But not until I’m married to a man who can provide a nice comfortable lifestyle for all of us. She reviewed her words and felt satisfied that what she’d written was impressive. Without spelling it out, she was letting the employer know that she wasn’t about to turn up pregnant. No, her life was well planned and they could depend on her until she was ready to settle down.

  Every now and then, Chanelle would gaze up from the application and check out the competition. Never in her life had she seen such scarily skinny women prancing around like they were the shit.

  Chanelle was appalled when they wiggled out of their street clothes and were stripped down to their underwear. They were all just skin and bones. Skeletal frames with crazy big tits, high cheekbones, puffed-out lips, and an occasional extra padding in the ass. Fake, fake, fake! Sure, most of the white girls at Lizzard’s had breast implants, but this shit was ridiculous. A pack of stick-thin women with synthetic body parts. She wondered how they could even move on stage without all that silicone and collagen—or whatever—shifting out of place.

  No one said another word to her; and she didn’t say shit to any of them. When she finally finished filling out the application, she left the dressing room to search for the Hulk.

  She heard snickers when she closed the door. It took all her strength not to yank off her earrings, barge back into the dressing room, and bust somebody in the mouth. But the thought of her knuckles being covered with that nasty mess that was injected in their lips gave her a change of heart.

  Three days later when she still hadn’t heard a word from Deanna’s Den, she called the club to find out what was up. The Hulk came to the phone.

  “Hey, how ya doin’?”

  “How I’m doing depends on what kind of news you have for me.”

  “Well…I’m not gonna jerk you around. The schedule’s full right now, but look…I have your number and as soon as there’s an opening, I’ll give you a call.”

  “In other words, don’t call us; we’ll call you?” she said sarcastically.

  The Hulk gave an uncomfortable snort. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Yeah, well fuck you, too,” she said, and then slammed down the phone.

  Fuck all those honky muthafuckers. Humph! Deanna’s Den and Lizzard’s weren’t the only jumpin’ spots in the area. Shit, she’d heard there were plenty of upscale places in Jersey. But damn…How the fuck was she gonna get to Jersey every night? She damn sure couldn’t rely on Malik.

  Thinking about Malik made her furious. Where the hell had he been for the past week, anyway? She’d left a zillion urgent messages on his cell, but he hadn’t called her back. It was as if the nigga had his antennae up, knew she was in need of some financial support, and had deliberately gotten ghost. What a punk!

  But it was all good. She wouldn’t be down long, and once she was back up, she was definitely going to give Malik her ass to kiss. He couldn’t do shit for her anyway. She needed somebody with their own dough.

  And dammit, she couldn’t find her future husband moping around the house. She had to get off her ass, get glamorous, and find herself a gig.

  Chapter 14

  The money Reed had spent on Aziza was worth every dime, but after the bomb Dayna dropped on him; he knew he’d have to tighten up on his spending until he could figure out if she seriously wanted a divorce or was just trying to mess with his head.

  Aziza had whipped it on him good. She did things with her pussy that no other woman had ever done. Aziza definitely knew what she was doing. Even though he could usually control his orgasms, Aziza let him know that her pussy was in charge.

  She’d wait until he had his dick deep inside her and after he’d caught a good groove, the kind of rhythm he could ride on for hours, she’d whisper in his ear: “Slow down, baby, what’s the rush; we got all night.” Then after obligingly stopping his thrust for just a second or two so he could downshift to second gear, Aziza took her big pussy lips and tied them into a knot—a tight knot around his dick—locking him in and making him ejaculate against his will. Yeah, Aziza had a powerful pussy. Expensive, too!

  He shook his head mournfully as he reminisced about their night together. He would not be seeing Aziza again anytime soon. With Dayna’s recent unpredictable behavior, he wasn’t sure if she’d cut off the funds he used for recreation. He had to spend his money more wisely. The two hundred dollars Aziza charged was now out of his price range.

  He needed an affordable hole to dip his dick into. It was time to mend his relationship with Buttercup. To show his contrition, he decided to pay her sixty bucks instead of the forty he usually paid. He figured sixty bucks was more than enough to kiss and make up.

  Reed checked the dashboard clock. Six o’clock. Too early for Buttercup to be out at any of the clubs, but knowing her as he did, he assumed her lazy ass was still lying in bed. He parked his Lexus and dashed to the front steps of her rundown apartment building on Pearl Street. He knew the doorbell didn’t work so he pounded on the front door.

  When the door finally opened he found himself staring into the inquisitive and paint-specked face of a sweaty man wearing painter’s garb. True, it was rather warm for May, but the man was perspiring like it was high noon in the middle of August.

  “You looking for Darlene?” The question had an accusatory tone.

  Reed assumed Darlene was Buttercup’s real name. “Uh, yeah,” Reed admitted uncomfortably. “Does she still live here?” He asked, not knowing whether the man owned the place or was just hired to paint it.

  “Nope, not no more; I had to put her out.”

  Reed wondered if Buttercup had left a forwarding address.

  “She kept crazy hours—played her TV real loud ’til all hours of the night and couldn’t none of my other tenants get no sleep,” the landlord complained. Reed shook his head sympathetically, which encouraged the man to go on.

  “She was a terrible tenant and she played too many games with the rent. Always giving me the rent money in dribs and drabs. Every time I came around to collect my money on the first of the month, I had to hear one of her sob stories.” The landlord screwed up his lips in disgust. “Man, I got sick of her mess. She acts like I ain’t got bills to pay, too.” He wiped his brow with the back of a paint-splattered hand. “If I had known how bad she had torn this place up, I would have put her out a long time ago.”

  The only thing that kept Reed from hurrying away from the long-winded malcontented landlord was the modicum of hope he held that the man might know Buttercup’s current whereabouts.

  “How do you know Darlene? You seem like a decent young fella, not like the drug addicts and winos she brings around here.” He paused and surveyed the meticulously groomed and well-dressed Reed. “By the way, young fella, you wouldn’t happen to be looking for a place, would you? ’Cause I’m not renting to no more riffraff.”

  Reed furrowed his brow, pretending to weigh whether or not he was in the market for an apartment. “No, I don’t need a place, but I have a cousin who may be interested.”

  “He got a job? ’Cause like I said�
��no more riffraff.”

  “Oh yeah, he’s working. Recently divorced…you know. My man’s trying to rebuild, get his life back together.”

  The landlord looked hopeful. “I’m gonna jot my number down. Tell him to call me and leave a message with my wife if I’m not there.”

  The landlord searched his pockets and withdrew a crumpled business card. He ran a line through the imprinted telephone number and scribbled in his current number. “Tell your cousin to give me a call. I should have this place ready to show in a couple of days.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that. Oh, yeah, you wouldn’t happen to know where Darlene’s staying, would you?”

  “Don’t tell me she owes you money, too?” the landlord asked suspiciously.

  Figuring it would work to his benefit to portray himself as a victim, Reed nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir, she sure does. She’s related to my wife,” Reed quickly lied. “My wife’s real soft-hearted and tried to help Darlene.” Reed shook his head. “I let my wife talk me into loaning that girl some money; would you believe she said she needed it to pay her rent?”

  “Ha! That girl ain’t paid me nothing,” the landlord exploded. “So, if y’all related, then you know her great-grandmother over on Delancy Street.”

  “No, she’s just an in-law. She’s related to my wife on her father’s side,” Reed lied quickly. “I don’t know that side of the family too well.”

  “Okay, well, I heard she’s living over there with Dottie, her great-grandmother, and that’s a damn shame because all Darlene’s gonna do is spend up the little bit of social security money the poor woman gets. Dottie ain’t right in the head no more. She lives right on the corner of Fifty-Fourth and Delancy—directly across from the barbershop.”

  Reed thanked the man and abruptly headed for his car.

  “Don’t forget to tell your cousin about the place,” the man shouted as Reed got in his car and took off.