MOTIF
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Teisha Bourne is a twenty-eight-year veteran obstetric nurse, and currently holds the position of Obstetric Patient Care Coordinator for the postpartum, well-baby nursery, and high-risk antepartum units at the Regional Medical Center of Memphis. The Zeta Phi Beta soror strives to overcome a vocal condition called spasmotic dysponia, and hopes to raise awareness of this condition by making writing her ultimate voice. Bourne is married with a son. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family. Motif is Bourne’s debut novel. To learn more about the author, visit www.teishabourne.com
MOTIF
TEISHA BOURNE
BELLETRISTIC PRESS
New York
Belletristic Press, LLC
31-64 21st Street, Suite 190
Long Island City, New York 11106
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Teisha Bourne
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Without limiting the rights of the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book; except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Belletristic Press colophon and design
are trademarks of Belletristic Press, LLC
Printed in the United States of America
First BELLETRISTIC PRESS Trade Paper Edition 2008
Library of Congress Control Number: 2008924462
ISBN 978-0-9796594-8-5
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
cover design by Gerald Johnson
DEDICATION
Gerald: Thirty-one years, and you’ve been with me through thick and thin. It’s still a thrill! I luv you, babe.
Gigi: Girl, God put you in my path. Thanks always.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
To my husband, Gerald Johnson, the chapters of our life’s book are still being written. My son, Jerald-Paul, when I see you, I see your father. Keep walking tall. My mom, Lillian Cooper, my brothers, Kenneth and Quentin Cooper, and the rest of the Cooper/Jones clan—you have an author in the family. To my mother-in-law Ms. Adell, Phyllis and the Johnson clan: thanks for all the love. To my editor, Charli Domelevo, you helped me see all my book can be. Best of luck and good wishes in your new position. Everyone at Belletristic Press, you’ve been my own private cheering section. Ruthie, you said you were proud of me—I believe you. Kenneth Brown and family, we’re friends forever. Sonya—miss you! Thanks again, G. Andi Rhos. And to God—He knows how to bless best. He’s gloriously wondrous and marvelously amazing!
1
“HOW can you cry and chew Bubblicious?”
Nineteen-year-old Tiffany Randal rolled her eyes as her best friend, Camisha Simmons, slid into the car with a heavy groan.
Camisha’s brandy-colored eyes were fire red. Tears brimmed in them, overflowed, and trailed down her cheeks in two fat rivulets. Such a grimace of agony displayed on her face while chewing a huge wad of green gum, you’d have thought she was in excruciating pain.
“You chew like a cow, Cami.” Pausing, Tiffany raised her voice several notches in patronizing emphasis, “And you stick gum everywhere. Some was on our water pitcher this morning. Ugh—suck on a peppermint.”
“Either I chew gum or snort crack,” Camisha sobbed. She spat out her gum and carefully wadded it in a soggy tissue. Digging in her tiny gold Baby Phat purse, she stuck the wad inside, pulled out another green square of gum, and popped it into her mouth. “Jaliel did me wrong. All that time and effort for nothing,” she sucked in her trembling bottom lip and gazed up at the car’s mauve ceiling, hoping heaven would open up and take her. “We were gonna get married.”
Sniffling, she began chewing again, slowly and wetly. “I had a top ten NFL draft pick snoring in my bed. I can’t believe I let him get away.”
“You’ve said that a thousand times.” Tiffany’s words were clipped pieces of frustration. “You got dumped. Get over it.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Your dad’s a big shot FedEx supervisor and your mom’s Suzie homemaker. You’ve always had it good.”
Tiffany glanced at Camisha. “Okay, Cami, so my mom’s name is Suzie, but don’t play. What’s my mother and dad got to do with you and Jaliel? This ain’t about me or no socioeconomic crap. I thought you were in love.”
Camisha whipped her head around, defiantly jutting out her chin. “Money and security is important, Tif, and don’t act like you’re so goody-two-shoes not to know it.”
“So you just wanted Jaliel because he had big money potential?”
“I’m not answering that, Tif.”
Tiffany exhaled. “Girl, if you’re moping over money, I ain’t sympathetic at all. I’ve been babysitting you all summer—we’re going back to Fisk soon.”
Camisha sighed. “I should’ve planned things better.”
“Lose one man, get another.”
Tiffany checked the traffic in her rear view mirror, then looked back at Camisha. Camisha stared straight ahead, a frown of consternation marred her smooth forehead.
Annoyed, Tiffany slapped at the firmly gelled waves of hair piled atop her head. Her scalp had been mercilessly itching for two days; the hot Memphis weather and Camisha’s bad attitude didn’t help. She felt like snatching all her weaved hair out just to get some much needed ventilation to her head. She’d tried to be sympathetic toward Camisha, but enough was enough. She’d recited pep talks, bought Camisha Iyanla Vanzant books. They’d gone to church, prayed at the altar—Pastor Mayer had even laid hands on Camisha. Tiffany had done everything she could think of to snap Camisha out of her self-induced depression, but Camisha remained a doleful sourpuss, pining over her playa ex-boyfriend. She was getting on Tiffany’s last nerve.
“You got some tissue, Tif ?” Camisha whimpered.
“I got stock in Kleenex by now.” Reaching into the backseat, Tiffany grabbed a half-full box of aloe infused tissue and tossed the box in Camisha’s lap.
Camisha blew her nose like a fog horn.
“Cami, you’re more aggravating than a tight thong riding up my butt. Jaliel’s at Jackson State fluffing Shakita Compton’s pom-poms and you’re here slinging snot. Why didn’t you learn to do cartwheels and handstands? Maybe he wouldn’t have dumped you for a cheerleader.”
Camisha rolled her eyes, blowing her nose again.
“It’s been four months. What would Lucretia and Myra say if they knew you were still crying over Jaliel?”
Camisha stopped rubbing her nose, her eyes widening. “You ain’t gonna tell ‘um, are you?”
Giving Tiffany a swift look, she popped open the glove compartment and found a bottle of Murine eye drops. She flipped a hunk of her foot-and-a-half long blond micro braids over the car seat, leaned her head backwards, and dropped a couple of drops of Murine in each eye. Then blotting each eye, careful not to smear her sky blue eyeshadow, she blinked long fake lashes at Tiffany.
“See, I’m not crying anymore. So don’t go telling Lucretia and Myra my business.”
Camisha then futilely tried to adjust her hot pink, skintight, cleavage-popping terrycloth dress. Her tugging didn’t even make the washcloth sized sundress hit mid thigh. Tiffany showed off her long slim legs and rounded butt and hips in a short Levi jean skirt. Her red halter top strained to contain her ample breasts, but she wasn’t half naked.
Finally giving up on covering up, Camisha flicked one of the sagging spaghetti straps back up on her squared shoulder, and snuggled her butt firmly in the seat before snapping on her seatbelt.
Tiffany blew out an irritated breath, even Camisha’s insistence on dressing in hoochie gear was irksome. Tiffany eased her Nissan from the curb of their rented townhouse to merge into the brisk Memphis Saturday evening traffic.
“You can cover your butt crack since Jaliel ain’t sniffing around it anymore,” Tiffany said.
With an insolent smack of gum, Camisha blew out a large green bubble, “This dress makes me feel better.” She produced a small ornate bottle from her purse spraying herself with a cloud of heavy musk cologne.
Cracking the car window, Tiffany glanced at Camisha’s feet. “I can’t see dressing like you’re about to slide down a pole making you feel better. And we are going to a movie—you know…stairs…dark—you’re gonna trip and break your neck in those skyscraper heels.”
“Anne Klein parfait bronze croco sling backs. I slaved two weeks at Sears to get ‘um… Quit analyzing me and my clothes. Just ‘cause you’re minoring in Psych, don’t make you Dr. Phil.”
Pressing a button on the car door, Camisha rolled up the window Tiffany had just let down. The car’s struggling air conditioner finally overtook the humid hot air of the late August weather. Camisha’s lips drooped as she slumped back on the seat and continued chewing.
“Show me some love—I lost my man,” she said through wet popping sounds of gum. “Why can’t you just give me a hug?”
“And a kiss?” Tiffany gave Camisha a disparaging look. “I’m not that into female bonding.”
Camisha raised her head a little, her slanted eyes flashing. “I’m trying to be nice, Tif—‘cause I’m weak. But you best stop being a bitch!” Her familiar fiery temper flared like quicksilver but, just as quickly, she melted back into misery. Her temper flickered and went poof.
“I can’t help being a bitch,” Tiffany made a sudden decision. “I’m not watching one more sad ass chick flick, and I’m not spending one more weekend mopping up your tears. We’re not going to the movie; we’re going to the mall. You need a new man—I can use one, too.”
Swerving off Winchester Road, Tiffany headed down Elvis Presley Boulevard.
~~~
In the South Memphis area called Whitehaven, Southland Mall was a favorite weekend hangout. And today it overflowed with mostly young Black folks.
Camisha’s skimpy attire was right on the mark for the mall. Inside, females put on a veritable summer fashion show, displaying every curve and cranny. Anything obscenely revealing proved acceptable and preferable. The men, old and young, acquired whiplash eyeballing the goods.
Tiffany and Camisha strolled into the mall, commanding their share of obeisance stares. Their long shapely legs marched in identical cadence, like a pair of statuesque runway models on the catwalk; their hips moving in auto-swivel.
Camisha’s café au lait complexion became flushed with excitement. She couldn’t stop the hint of smile that made her finely carved Egyptian features alluringly sexy.
Tiffany, the color of mocha cream, wasn’t exactly blushing, but she affected a saucy tilt of her head and mastered looking aloof, while letting the sultry sway of her butt and mesmerizing bounce of her breasts do all the enticing for her. She chewed on the straw of her recently purchased McDonald’s milkshake; and scanned the throng of people, searching out a worthy male.
“We’re in our element. Come on, admit it, Cami, the guys are fly. You got a smörgåsbord of choices as good as Jaliel.”
Camisha winced, “Don’t say his name.” She curved her tongue around her lopsided vanilla ice cream cone, making a loud slurping noise. “And buying me ice cream won’t make me feel better, either.”
Ignoring Camisha’s griping, Tiffany grabbed her arm; causing them to come to a grinding halt. “Hey, look over there,” she whispered.
A tall dark-skinned dude in slacks and an open-at-the-neck striped shirt headed in their direction. He was their age, about twenty, with broad shoulders straining at the seams of his shirt, and a million dollar strut like he owned the world.
“Now him I like. He’s going places,” Tiffany said.
“Jump on his back and go with him,” Camisha flipped several strands of her braids over her shoulder. “I need someone I can handle, he looks like trouble. Too much like Jaliel.”
The guy swaggered so close to them, Tiffany could smell his cologne.
“Get over Jaliel. That guy was tall, dark, handsome…” Tiffany’s eyes went dreamily half-mast as she set the guy’s scent to memory. “What kinda man are you looking for?”
Camisha sniffed then shrugged. “Someone needy, like me.” She wrinkled her nose, “someone…shorter.”
“Now I know you done gone loony, Cami. I’m five-eleven and you’re six feet. Duh—we dwarf a short man.”
“I need to start off small—no pun intended.” Straightening to her full height, Camisha made an exaggerated show of adjusting the hem of dress. The men nearby instantly honed in on her wiggling, giving her lascivious stares. “I want someone different from a muscle bound jock.”
Shaking her head, Tiffany sucked in vain on her too thick shake. “A shortster ain’t my thang. I don’t want a man shorter than my thirteen-year-old brother.”
Shrugging, Camisha moved over to one of the small tables in the center of the mall where a couple of young men played chess. She watched their game play for a moment. “Remember Marcus, in the park last spring? He was short.” Her face grew excited, “He jumped in front of that rottweiler that attacked us.”
“Uh huh…Marcus wouldn’t have had to jump in front of a rottweiler if you hadn’t stuck your nose in the dog’s face.”
“That rot’s owner weighed at least two-fifty.” Camisha eyes widened. “He was taller than me—I thought he was gonna smack me. But Marcus was ready to kick butt. Now that’s what I call a man. He was ready to Tai Bo the dog, too.” Camisha giggled.
Tiffany gazed heavenward. “Marcus almost went to jail. And you didn’t even like him. He kept blowing up your cell phone and when he couldn’t get to you, he was hounding me. I don’t know what possessed you to give him your number, and mine, too. Marcus was five-five. When you two were together, you looked whack. Now all of a sudden he’s a hero?” Tiffany sucked on her melting shake and swallowed. “You only put up with him ‘cause he promised to pay our rent that month.”
“Don’t hate. He paid it, didn’t he?” Giving her cone a quick lick, Camisha thumped her hip against Tiffany’s. “Look, there’s a prospect.”
Tiffany followed Camisha’s gaze. There were hundreds of people; men, women, children, all meshed in an incongruous sea. She didn’t know who Camisha was talking about.
“Brown shirt, black cap,” Camisha whispered hastily.
Squinting, Tiffany finally saw him.
The guy, walking alone, expertly weaved through the crowd without ever fully looking up from analyzing his scuffed, white K-Swiss sneakers. He’d shoved his black cap, with bold embossed New York City initials, low on his head like he was hiding. He stood about as tall as Marcus, skinny with slightly bowed legs, and wore baggy faded jeans and a shapeless pullover with a Sean John logo. The pullover must have belonged to his super sized brother because it virtually swallowed him.
“Uh-uh, not my type…” Tiffany started, but Camisha wasn’t listening.
Camisha jetted into short dude’s path; her ice cream falling smack dab on the toe of the guy’s left tennis shoe. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry!” She gasped with Oscar winning shock.
Short Dude stopped in his tracks. The girls ended up staring at the top of his cap while he inspected his tennis shoe as if it were melting as quickly as Camisha’s ice cream.
Camisha clicked the roof of her mouth in regret. “I really wanted that ice cream,” she batted her thick false eyelashes.
Tiffany quirked an eyebrow at Camisha acting affronted.
Short dude was still in shock.
“Want to buy me another?” Camisha quickly asked.
The guy slowly looked up, and up, until he met the eyes of the two girls fencing him in. Tiffany gasped, gawking. Camisha went still with mutual awe.
Short Dude was gorgeous, angelically so. He had the breath-stealing face of a model, but not the kind of face with sculptured cheekbones so sharp you could slice roast beef. And he didn’t have that signature cleft-chin deep enough to poke a spoon in. No, this guy’s face was, well—angelic, almost girlie cute. Slightly darker than Camisha, his hairless skin had a rosy undertone, and was smooth as a baby’s. His long lashed eyes were the color of a stormy gray sky and, when he pushed his cap from his forehead, closely cropped dark brown curls peeked out at them. He was at least thirty, older than the men Tiffany and Camisha usually dealt with. But he was—interesting, definitely deserving of a second look.
Tiffany still gaped at their intriguingly fine find, but Camisha quickly recovered.
“Well, what about my ice cream?” she nodded at the man’s shoe.
Working at hyper speed, Camisha had gone from devastated ex-girlfriend to flaming flirtatious vamp. Tiffany, raising her brow again, shrugged and picked up the game.
“Girl, how you gonna ask for ice cream and he’s standing there with vanilla coated feet? Aren’t you gonna help clean him up?”
“What do you want me to do, lick him off?” Camisha jutted a hip at Tiffany; making sure Short Dude had a better view of her amply rounded derrière.
The guy didn’t respond. He made an indecisive noise in the back his throat and craned his neck to gaze past them at some area in the far distance. Camisha’s best vamp smile remained pasted in place, but Tiffany was peeved. Who is Short Dude looking for? She stepped in front of his seeking eyes. He refocused—on Tiffany’s breast, because they were now almost touching his nose.
“You meeting someone?” Tiffany asked.
Short Dude cleared his throat, stepping back a pace.
“Well, yeah…I was, but…”
Tiffany’s ears tingled. Short Dude’s deep, husky voice with a down in the hood twang sounded as delectable as he looked. But he didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he produced a blue bandanna from deep inside his jean pocket, and wiped away the sticky vanilla mess Camisha’s ice cream made on his shoe.
Tiffany’s ‘other girl’s man’ sonar started beeping.
On reflex, she pivoted around, looking out over the mall. Of course that was futile, how was she to know who Short Dude was having a rendezvous with? She turned back to Camisha, who still grinned.
Camisha’s face must have been in a spasm by now. Tiffany grabbed her friend’s arm to pull her away from embarrassment.
“Come on, girl, he has previous arrangements.”
But Short Dude suddenly changed his plans. He captured Camisha’s other arm, stopping them.
“No, wait. I’ll buy you ice cream,” he said and added, “I’ll buy you both ice cream. Uh…you girls are…hot…”
Tiffany pondered his unfinished statement, and his flattery showed no enthusiasm. It was weak as water. Short Dude was lame, wasn’t acting right. Like he was baiting them.
Tiffany tested her instincts.
“Well—you’re hot too, baby. So, who you meeting? You got a girlfriend out there waiting to beat us down for screaming at you?”
Short Dude finished tending to his shoe, stood, and gave them a sheepish grin before answering.
“No—no, I’m a free agent.”
Tiffany’s lips tightened warily. Short Dude was stuttering. She didn’t trust his motives. But Camisha’s grin reappeared full bloom. Short Dude had stepped to the bat to play. Camisha wasn’t about to stop until she’d slid into home.
Groaning inwardly, Tiffany nodded to the guy. “What’s your name?” she murmured.
“Rayford, Rayford Hunchings,” Short Dude said.
Rayford? Tiffany almost laughed. What self-respecting Black mother would name her man-child Rayford? He was cute, sho’ nuff, but what woman would take a short man named Rayford seriously? Rayford was probably seriously hard-up. Tiffany relaxed. He would be easy.
Camisha would suffer a couple of days of drooling from Rayford, get her affirmation of female worthiness—or whatever, and they could move on.
Obviously having the same thoughts, Camisha hooked Rayford’s arm, hauling him to her side.
“How about it, Rayford, want to hang with us? I’m Camisha—call me Cami, and this is my friend, Tiffany—Tif for short.”
Rayford’s eyes bounced from Camisha to Tiffany, he was still thinking, but couldn’t vacillate. Camisha firmly towed him away.
Chucking her milkshake into a trash can, Tiffany took off after them.
~~~
They ended up at Piccadilly’s. The family restaurant didn’t serve ice cream, so Tiffany and Camisha settled for slices of pecan pie.
Rayford ate nothing, and he’d had a compelling voice but, as they ate, Tiffany and Camisha didn’t hear much of it. Rayford watched them talk while silently mapping their faces and bodies with covert glances. He seemed distracted—jumpy. Tiffany couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he had lied and was dodging a girlfriend. But after twenty minutes, no furious female had bum-rushed them. They finished their pie. Rayford paid then, surprisingly, invited them to a frat party on for that night.
Tiffany blinked. “You in a fraternity?” she asked.
“Nah, I know some frat boys,” Ray, (Camisha had earlier sliced his name to something tolerable), answered.
Tiffany tilted her head in thought. Now what kind of frat boys did Ray know? And what kind of frat party would thirty-something Ray take them to? She and Camisha would probably be surrounded by a bunch of drunken old geezers trying to grab their butts and feel up their skirts. Ugh—Ugh. Tiffany wasn’t about to be a showpiece for Ray’s old fogy friends. She opened her mouth to refuse the invite, but Camisha interrupted her.
“Ray…you have a car?”
“A Volvo,” Ray quickly proclaimed.
Camisha cleared her throat. “We’d love to come to that frat party, but,” she gave Tiffany a significant look. “Tif and I rented a limo. We were gonna cruise to that club, Fire and Ice—get tipsy, dance…you know, trip for a while…”
Tiffany’s eyes swept to Camisha. They hadn’t made any plans to go clubbing, nor had they rented a limo.
Camisha, her tongue rolling to her cheek, tapped a nail on the table.
“Can you drop by when you finish?” Ray eyed them hopefully.
“So, Tif, whatta ya think?” Camisha crossed one slim leg over the other, swinging it slowly. Her dress hiked up even farther—almost to the apex of her thighs. Ray eyes darted downward. Camisha’s voice dropped to barely audible. “You really want us to come?”
In pretense of feeling hot, she fanned her face with one hand and unzipped the front of her dress with the other—just a little. Ray’s eyes jerked to her bust. Camisha did a cleavage-heaving sigh.
“If it wasn’t for our seventy-five dollar deposit,” she told Ray, “we’d love to ride to the party with you in your Volvo.” Camisha smacked lips together that had been repainted with glimmering pink lip gloss. “Can you provide us with a refund?”
Ray’s hopeful smile slipped. Camisha vying for money was unexpected.
“After the party, you could show us your apartment,” Tiffany sweetened the offerings.
Camisha threw her a censoring look. Playing by ear was okay, but that unscripted suggestion was a no-no. They didn’t go traipsing into a man’s crib on the first date. But if Camisha was fabricating about a nonexistent limo ride, surely it didn’t matter about a make believe visit to Ray’s crib after a party they probably weren’t even going to.
“I live in a house,” Ray corrected Tiffany’s conclusion.
“Yours?” Tiffany asked.
Ray nodded.
“Impressive. A house and—a car,” Tiffany noted.
“It’ll be too late, Tif, we need our beauty rest,” Camisha broke in.
“We want to see Ray’s house.” Tiffany derived wicked gratification from irritating Camisha.
Camisha glared, shaking her head.
Ray didn’t seem to notice the interplay; he was anxiously looking around the mall again. Then, leaning over the table, he made eye contact with both girls.
“I got sixty dollars,” he pulled his cap off to smooth a hand over his short curls.
Entranced, Tiffany and Camisha watched those curls spring back to attention.
“Sixty dollars…” Camisha sucked her teeth. “Well, that’ll just about do it—if you take us out to lunch next week, too.”
Tiffany rolled her eyes, amazed at Camisha’s audacity. Camisha was selling both of them harder than a girl scout pushing butter cookies. Ray must be really desperate to pay for female company.
But again he hesitated.
Tiffany understood his hesitation. Camisha’s suggestion for cash and a meal was a bit much for a couple of girls he’d just picked up at the mall. But to Tiffany’s surprise, Ray blew out an unhappy breath then droned, “Okay, sure.”
The money was a victory, but Tiffany became annoyed again. If Ray wasn’t happy to drop the cash, then why do it? And it wasn’t like she and Camisha were that hard-up. Tiffany didn’t want Ray’s piddling contribution for their time. She wanted to tell Rayford Hunchings where he could stick his sixty dollars, but Camisha was still all game.
“Pick us up at nine?” Camisha winked, and confirmed their pact. When Ray nodded in agreement, she asked, “Oh—you wouldn’t happen to have some gum, would you, sweetie?”
“Uh, no—fillings,” Ray replied.
“Well…” Camisha’s word trailed into infinity as they sat in expectant silence.
The crowd outside Piccadilly ebbed and flowed. Tiffany glanced at a clock on the wall. It was getting late, she was getting bored. If they got rid of Ray, they could still catch a movie—something exciting with a sexy male lead—a new Denzel Washington flick was out… She drummed her long French manicured nails on the table and flashed Camisha a ‘let’s go’ look.
Camisha slanted her chin upwards. “Uh, Ray, about the sixty dollars…” Camisha paused, extended her hand and rasped her fingers together, letting Ray read between the lines.
“Oh, you want the money now?”
“The cost of the limo was part of our shopping money,” Camisha inclined her head apologetically. “If we get it now, we’ll buy something sexy for the party tonight.”
Ray’s jaw tightened, but he reached into his pocket and counted out sixty dollars.
A brother having sixty dollars on hand and actually dishing it out to a sista was—admirable. Tiffany begrudgingly gave Ray a point.
“You promise you’re coming?” Ray kept the money fisted.
“We’ll be there, honey—with bells on.” Camisha plucked the cash away. “Come on, Tif, let’s get our outfits,” she stood.
“Your address,” Ray burst out as the girls walked away.
Camisha rattled the address off to him without ever looking back. Tiffany did look back. Ray was scrambling for a napkin to write on.
Once outside Piccadilly, Tiffany giggled and turned to Camisha with an accomplished smile.
“That was easy enough. See, there is life after Jaliel. You even got paid for your feminine wiles.” Tiffany lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe we should have charged fifty a piece for our time.”
Camisha flounced her braids away from her face. “What’s up with you inviting us to Ray’s crib?” she probed her purse. “Where’s my gum…”
“The limo story was lame,” Tiffany frowned at Camisha’s frenetic searching. Shaking her head, she worked her hand into her tight skirt’s pocket. “Here, have a Tic Tac…”
Camisha opened the small clear container Tiffany gave her, and dumped several oblong orange candies into her mouth—and chewed. Then she pushed the Tic Tac container into her purse as if they were hers.
Tiffany pursed her lips tiredly. “I helped you out. I didn’t think we were actually going to the party. Why’d you give Ray our real address? Any frat party he’s going to has got to be a drag.” She sucked her lip, thinking. “We won’t be home when he comes. Let’s go to Fire and Ice…we haven’t partied all summer.”
Camisha was silent.
Grunting, Tiffany threw up her hands. “We did the short version of getting your short man. Pecan pie and a sixty-dollar tip is fair profit. I’m serious, Cami. When Ray comes tonight, we won’t open the door. I’m not going to no party with him and his ancient dork friends.”
Camisha didn’t say a word. Instead, she grabbed Tiffany’s hand and led her to a nearby clothing store adjacent to Sears. The store held a varied selection of the latest ‘sure I was in a rap music video’ duds. It was Camisha’s favorite spot to purchase flashy-trashy apparel. Hauling Tiffany with her, Camisha breezed in and scooped up a pair of blood red flared-bottom spandex pants and a matching bra top covered with long silver tipped shingles.
“So I guess I’ll have to handle our mini stud by myself, huh?”
Camisha shook the clothes she held in front of Tiffany. “Think I can shake my money maker hard enough in this.” Snaking her hips provocatively from side-to-side, she fanned out Ray’s sixty-dollar donation. “If you’re not using your thirty, can I borrow it?”
Tiffany jerked her share of cash from Camisha’s slim, gold polished fingers. “Don’t play. Give me my half, thank you.”
Camisha’s sassy grin held a realm of possibilities. She was going to that party. Tiffany wouldn’t know what the game plan was unless she went too, and she was too much a fly on the wall to be left out.
She laughed. “Ooh, you’re making my stomach hurt, Cami.”
Tiffany fanned herself with her thirty dollars. “Okay—okay. Even a party with Ray has got to be more exciting than collecting your snotty tissues.” Then as an afterthought, she asked, “Why do you think he was running hot and cold like that? One minute he was ready to flow with the flow, next minute he was acting like he was scared. Ray has a girlfriend.”
Camisha shrugged. “Girl, that’s immaterial. We’re not keeping him. We’re just borrowing him for a while.”
Flashing a satisfied grin, Camisha reached in her purse and flicked out the container of Tic Tac’s. She tossed the rest in her mouth. Then she flipped her chosen clothes over her arm, and towed Tiffany to a section of jeans to choose a hot outfit for her, too.
Stumbling to keep up, Tiffany secretly applauded her friend’s monstrous comeback.
2
RAY picked them up on time. He acted the perfect gentleman. But Tiffany stayed skeptical; he hadn’t even dressed for the occasion. He still wore the same grudge attire from the mall: oversized jeans, a faded blue sweat shirt, and the same K-Swiss tennis shoes spotlessly refurbished since Camisha’s ice cream “accident”. And his black New York cap was jammed low on his head.
But the party they went to turned out to be with the Omega Psi Phi Q-dogs. The frat house on the University of Memphis campus was bumping, and the wild out party, was da bomb.
And once Ray got liquored up, he gave multi-tasking a new definition. He laughed and joked with the guys, hugged and flattered the women, refilled the refreshments, gave the disc jockey grief with constant requests for old school jams, and insisted on dancing with both Tiffany and Camisha at the same time.
Okay, Ray was a partying fool, but what really got Tiffany’s bra in a bunch, was Ray kept running over to check up on them. He just wouldn’t leave them alone. Camisha basked in Ray’s adoring attention. He was so cute, so perfect. Too perfect for Tiffany’s taste. Ray’s fawning made her irritated and claustrophobic, and he kept her from getting any male play.
By the time the party starting winding down, Tiffany was fed up. She caught Camisha between dances.
“Let’s not go to Ray’s crib. He’s too clingy.”
“You chickening out?” Camisha shook her head. “We’re going all the way. I bet I’ll leave Ray’s place with a souvenir. Something he doesn’t want to give up.”
“Like what?” Tiffany asked.
Camisha rolled her eyes, “I won’t know until I see it. That’s why we got to go to his house.” She reached in her mouth and snagged her bubble gum. After looking around, she wadded up the gum, and stuck it on the edge of a nearby lamp.
Tiffany sighed, refusing to say anything about Camisha’s nasty habit. Instead, she nodded towards Ray, who opened another can of beer. He’d already been drinking the spiked punch like it was the waters from the fountain of youth.
“If Ray’s gonna drive, you’d better collect him before he falls on his face,” Tiffany told Camisha, then walked away.
Tiffany was ready to leave but, when Camisha had a plan, Camisha would follow through on it. It didn’t matter how much Tiffany protested or how risky or childish the plan was. The ongoing motto of their friendship had always been Camisha got what Camisha wanted. Tiffany had long since stopped flaring up at her friend’s selfish schemes. Camisha was fun—she kept the entertainment flowing. She was Tiffany’s loyal fan, been there through thick and thin. In short, Camisha was worth the extra trouble, so Tiffany put up with her.
Sighing, Tiffany weaved through the gyrating bodies of sweaty dancers, and headed towards a vinyl covered foldout table that held a limited selection of standard finger foods along with what was left of the punch. A cooler on the floor beside the table was layered with a few variously flavored Champales and several cans of Bud Light. Tiffany stood near the table watching Camisha who, as expected, hadn’t gone to fetch Ray. She’d accepted another invitation to dance with an overeager frat brother. Depending on how much Camisha enjoyed her new hulking partner, they could be there for another hour. Tiffany scooped up a handful of crumbled potato chips and dumped them on a napkin. She absently picked out one irregular chip at a time and grudgingly chewed.
“Baby, that ain’t nearly gonna fill up that fine body of yours.”
Half of Tiffany’s chips fell to the floor as she jumped. The drawling male voice came out of nowhere. Turning around, Tiffany squinted into the dimness as a tall slim shadow detached itself from the darkness of the wall. She was immediately intrigued.
“Keep talking, baby, cause you really sound sexy.”
Tiffany caught a whiff of the man’s scintillating and somehow familiar cologne. The woodsy spiced scent caused a ripple of sensation to skim over her skin. But the dude remained in the shadows. Tiffany couldn’t see his face.
“I’ve been watching you.” The man spoke again with cultured correctness.
“You’ve been watching me…” Tiffany licked her lips. “Come ‘round here so I can see who I’m talking to.” The man eased into the muted light. Tiffany’s mouth opened in surprise. “You were in Southland Mall this evening!”
The guy reared backwards at Tiffany’s vehemence.
Tiffany cleared her throat, and peered under her lashes to give her tall, dark, and handsome dream man from the mall a thorough up and down inspection.
“You walked right past me,” Tiffany tossed her half-empty napkin of potato chips on the table, and resisted the urge to fidget and look juvenile. Cause boy oh boy, Tall Dude was hot.
Long, lean with a strongly edged jaw and chin, his hair was cut low to the scalp. Tall dude studied her with deep brown mysterious eyes, under thick brows that looked professionally arched. Unlike the other ruffnecks with hanging jeans, oversized logo embellished tees and blinging neck gear, Tall Dude’s clothes were neat and preppy, dark slacks and a light colored open-at-the-neck Polo shirt. He left the table between them. Tiffany, repressing a shiver of delight, slunk around the table to get closer at him.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Phillip Terrell.” His voice was soft and whispery—sexy.
Tiffany inclined her head, wanting to catch his every word.
“Bet you’re quite a man to have two first names.”
“And you’re quite a woman. I like what I see. So you were at Southland Mall?”
“Yeah,” Tiffany inclined her head. “I’m Tif…Tiffany Randal. You one of the Q-dogs?”
“Nah, I’m not a frat boy. Don’t have time. I’m studying Law. Always studying.”
“Oh, so you’re gonna be a lawyer,” Tiffany leaned towards him. “Sure you’re not too busy to be talking to me?”
“I’m making time.”
Phillip edged closer, standing just within her personal space. His cologne was tantalizing and Tiffany liked the boldness of him getting up close and personal. Their hips touched. If Phillip had the inclination, he could easily trace a finger up her arm to the curve of her breast, or he could start lower—over her hip and detour down to her…
Tiffany’s mouth watered. Uh-oh, moving too fast.
She casually brushed her hips against Phillip’s. He didn’t move away.
“Your friend found her some more entertainment,” Phillip murmured into Tiffany’s ear. “How about you and me getting some fresh air? My house is a few minutes away.”
“Hey…” The word was meant to reprimand, but it came out a husky sigh. Tiffany smiled coyly. “Do I look easy?”
“I’m not inviting you to my bed,” Phillip let the meaning of his words float in the air between them, then he said, “I’d like to talk to you alone. Get to know you better. You’re an attractive girl.”
“I’m flattered. But I don’t ditch my friends.”
“You were with Rayford Hunchings. He’s your friend, too?” Phillip asked.
“You know Ray?”
“Rayford’s a good bud. We grew up together. I used to live two doors down from his grandmother’s house.”
Tiffany pursed her lips. “You don’t look like Ray’s type.”
Phillip tilted his head. “It’s funny the way you said that,” he raised an eyebrow. “You said it like me and Rayford were getting it on or something.”
“Nah—now that’s funny,” Tiffany laughed lightly. “What I mean is—you’re a college student. Ray works at a paint factory…”
“We have common interests.” Phillip paused. “Sports…men things, you know?”
“Oh, so you’re an athlete, too.”
“I can throw a mean pass…” Phillip inclined his head. “Uh, if you don’t want to come to my place now, can I call you? I’ll make it worth your while.”
Tiffany sliced her tongue over her teeth. She was heating up from inside out. She was inexplicably drawn to Phillip Terrell—that instant type of attraction that prickled the skin on the back of your neck. She sucked her bottom lip, thinking. Yep, she wanted to see more of Mr. Terrell. Tiffany was about to drop her number, when out of the corner of her eye, she saw Camisha and her partner were no longer dancing.
Camisha’s face was red, her mouth moving one hundred miles a minute as she jabbed a finger at her partner’s nose. Tiffany could hear snatches of Camisha cursing over the bumping volume of the music.
Shane, Camisha’s dance partner, was wobbly drunk. He smiled inanely as Camisha’s shouting grew louder. Shane wasn’t as tall as Camisha, but he was muscular and bulky. Each time Camisha tried to pass him, he shifted, blocking her. Other dancers began to stop and watch the developing ruckus.
Across the room, Ray had seen Shane’s harassment, too, and he looked totally pissed. Suddenly, he plowed through the onlookers and strode to the couple. Tiffany’s heart quickened.
“I gotta go,” Tiffany abandoned the tempting Phillip.
Ray was halfway to the dueling couple when Camisha developed strength born of rage. She shoved Shane to get him off her. He stumbled backwards, tried to right himself, but his momentum increased. Shane tumbled into several people, bounced over a table, rolled off its edge, landing—in Ray’s arms. Wrong place to be. Ray growled like a bee-stung bear. He wrestled Shane to the ground, straddled him, and started beating the crap out of him.
Oh, my God! Tiffany raced through to the fighting men. Camisha caught her arm, pulling her up short.
“Get off of him!” Tiffany shouted at Ray, while straining against Camisha.
The crowd tightened around the fighters. Cursing, Tiffany struggled harder.
Camisha wouldn’t let go. “Fight…it’s a fight,” she sang softly. Then she jerked Tiffany back so hard, breath flew out Tiffany’s lungs. “Look at my man go,” Camisha whispered.
The frat brothers did nothing to stop the fight. Some of them even egged the brawlers on. Aghast at the violence, Tiffany yanked from Camisha and pushed her way to Ray. Grabbing at his sweaty shirt, she screamed for him to stop. Her actions zapped everyone out of their amazed stupor. There was a sudden rush of voices and bodies. Ray was snatched up and held back. A couple of burly guys hefted up Shane. The alcohol and the beating had Shane dazed. His eyes were swollen slits sunk in a bloody raw face. Someone got scared and yelled to call 911. Others mumbled Shane would live. They didn’t want an ambulance—or possible police involvement.
A confining group of people encircled Ray, while the bulk of the fraternity brothers formed a huddle on the other side of the room. Ray was suddenly an unpopular interloper.
Camisha silently joined Tiffany. “Shane got what he deserved. He’s just like Jaliel,” she muttered under her breath.
“Let’s get out of here,” Tiffany watched every stray hand, and analyzed every agitated movement of the angry party goers. No telling what these frat boys were toting, bullets might start flying.
Tiffany’s suggestion went unheeded. Camisha vacated again, going to a group of girls tending Shane to gloat over the damage. Tiffany realized she’d have to drag Camisha from the scene of the crime.
Across the room Phillip strode to the grumbling huddle of guys. The men turned expectantly to him. Phillip said something. There was a volley of more heated words. Shrugging, Phillip glibly dismissed the sour-faced frat boys, and made his way to Tiffany. Tiffany met him halfway. Phillip wasn’t as composed as he had looked.
“Y’all better get going,” he advised, his eyes shifted to the huddled guys then, lowering his voice to that sultry whispery tone, he added, “You owe me your number, Tiffany Randal. Give it to Rayford. He’ll get it to me.”
Phillip went back to the disgruntled men, who slowly disbanded.
Moments later, Camisha sidled back to Tiffany.
“Shane’ll live, so don’t go on a guilt trip,” Camisha tipped her head in Phillip’s direction, then rolled her eyes at Tiffany “Who was the hunk? Whatever he said, everybody jumped to it.”
“The guy in the mall, remember?” Tiffany was surprised Phillip hadn’t burned his image into Camisha’s head, too. “The one you said was trouble. His name’s Phillip Terrell. He’s going to be a lawyer.”
“Oh,” came Camisha’s bored reply.
Tiffany scowled at Camisha’s indifference.“Get Ray and let’s go.”
“Ray’s the man,” Camisha chimed. “He knows how to use his hands. Wonder what else he can do with them big hands.”
Tiffany couldn’t believe Camisha stood there in a haze of sexy thoughts with a smile of anticipation. Didn’t she know they were about to be mobbed? Rolling her eyes heavenward, Tiffany rushed away to scoop up Ray herself. She broke into the tight little circle of onlookers cornering him, and pulled him away.
Ray leaned heavily on her as if exhausted, letting his head nestle firmly into the curve of her breast. Tiffany eyed him, irritated he was laying on the theatrics. Shane had been beaten to a pulp. Ray’s face was hardly bruised, and was tattooed with only a few bleeding scratches. When they reached Camisha, Tiffany thrust Ray at her.
Camisha cooed with concern and clamped onto Ray like a clingy, simpering vine of flesh. She whispered lovingly in his ear, and massaged his shoulders. When she saw Ray’s swollen scraped knuckles, Camisha threw her head back in shock, as if she were about to faint. Ray consoled her.
Tiffany inwardly cringed. This had been one hell of a night.
~~~
Tiffany’s mouth was clenched so tight, her gold fillings ached. She’d ended up driving Ray’s Volvo while Camisha sat in the backseat gushing over him like a helpless female. Tiffany kept looking back at Camisha and Ray, thinking about Ray’s unsettling display of warrior temper. He was already laying claim. She wasn’t about to be owned by any man, especially a minnow with a big fish complex. By the time she drove into the driveway of Ray’s small white-on-white house, Tiffany was ready to tell Camisha to back away from the shrimp, but Ray started pleading his case.
“Tif, I’m sorry for losing it, but Shane disrespects other men’s women all the time.”
Cutting the car engine, Tiffany looked over her shoulder and stabbed Ray with an icy glare. “If you’re implying Cami and I are your ‘women,’ you’re getting way ahead of yourself. Be glad Shane didn’t bash your head in. You got lucky.”
“Stop hating on our hero,” Camisha butted in, “Ray can have my back anytime. It’s sexy having someone fight over me.”
“You think I’m sexy, baby?” Ray’s voice was silky smooth.
“Real sexy,” Camisha tweaked his nose.
Tiffany stared ahead, wanting to pound the steering wheel. Camisha and Ray’s words dwindled to muffled whispers, then there was silence. Tiffany peeped in the rear view mirror. Camisha was slicking her tongue over Ray’s mouth. Then she nipped his bottom lip. Ray flushed. Camisha licked her lips hungrily. Tiffany’s stomach flopped.
~~~
Ray’s home was furnished like a House Beautiful layout. The house had a clean orderliness unnatural for a man. All furnishings were shades of white. Tiffany was afraid her butt would leave a dirt print if she sat on the white leather furniture in Ray’s front room. But Camisha was—well, Camisha. She kicked off her heels, plopped down on the spotless sofa, and tossed her purse beside her.
“Whew—who put this crib together?” Camisha asked.
“I did. I gots mad taste.”
Tiffany perched her hips on a matching white leather loveseat. She’d never been in a place so filled with white, from the cream painted walls, to the thick eggshell carpet. It was like stepping into a Tide commercial. And the stark white light from two over-hanging lamps made the room so bright, she needed sunglasses.
When Ray left them to make coffee, Camisha stood and strolled to a set of glass-topped tables. Each table was smaller than its mate and each one showcased a single ceramic item. On the largest table, a connected trio of monkeys posed in the familiar depiction of see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. The second table held a cutesy couple of brown bears joined at their paws and dressed in groom’s tuxedos. They lay on their sides as if exhausted after a wedding.
Nodding, Camisha targeted a dark-colored exquisitely designed dragon globe on the third and smallest table. She picked up the globe, letting the light filter through it.
“Ray’s giving me this,” she murmured, reaffirming her earlier objective. She turned the dragon from side-to-side watching the changing colors of the glitter inside.
Tiffany moved beside her, inspecting the globe. “Don’t take
nothing. We’ll be lucky to leave outta hear without having to clean Ray’s furniture.”
“I’m taking the globe. You told me to get a man. I’m getting one. And with Ray, if I say jump—I promise you, he’s gonna scream how high.”
Tiffany shook her head, “Girl, you crazy.”
“Who’s crazy?” Ray appeared with their coffee.
Camisha sat the dragon globe down, nodding at the white coffee mugs. The coffee was steaming and black. “Cream and sugar, please,” she told Ray.
“Try it like this,” Ray urged, “it’s an African blend.”
Tiffany and Camisha raised skeptical eyebrows. Camisha took a tentative sip. Her face already screwed in a grimace, she was ready to retch with distaste. Instead, she smacked her lips in appreciation.
Tiffany sipped her coffee. “Hum, pretty good,” she bobbed her head.
“Something special for my special girls,” Ray winked, “Want to see the rest of my house?”
Taking their cups, Camisha and Tiffany followed Ray, who hadn’t waited for an answer.
The other rooms of Ray’s two-bedroom home mimicked the front area, extraordinarily tasteful and extraordinarily spotless. But when they entered his bedroom, the girls let out twin astonished gasps.
Tiffany giggled nervously, sitting her coffee mug on a table in the hall, and walked into Ray’s bedroom. “Now, what do you do in here?” she asked with insinuating inflection, and glanced back at Camisha.
Gaping, Camisha walked into the bedroom, too.
The large bedroom had blushing pink walls. Three windows dressed in heavy fringed red velvet drapery, enclosed the room in cozy acoustic ambiance. A huge poster of a crouching Halle Berry in full Cat Woman garb was tacked to the wall above a king sized oval bed. A red velvet coverlet encased the bed. Several moon and star shaped pillows lay haphazardly at the bed’s curved head. Some of the pillows were sheathed in soft, shell pink covers; others were in shinny frilly candy apple red casings. A pair of handcuffs and a thin-linked chain with small clips on each end, draped the edge of the bed as if artfully placed.
One wall of the room had several gold framed plaques. The plaques held the forms of many alabaster white couples, posed in numerous sexual positions. The figures were silhouetted against a velvety midnight black background that made their whiteness even more shocking. Tiffany snickered. The naked couples must have been contortionists because only circus performers could have gotten in those kinky positions. Next to the oval bed was a waist-high wooden cabinet crammed with VHS tapes and DVDs. Tiffany peered at a title—One Hump Deserves Another? Jeez…
Her eyes slid to a life-sized mannequin in a far corner of the room, dressed like…Zorro—with a mask and a gleaming sword—hopefully fake.
Tiffany kept panning until she saw against another wall, a large gold-tasseled, dark oak trunk with its lid up. There were multicolored scarves, feathers, and another pair of padded handcuffs in the trunk. Also in the trunk was a leather-studded hangman’s costume, and what looked like the handle of a—whip…
Forcing out the breath caught in her throat, Tiffany couldn’t suppress another uncomfortable giggle as her eyes slid up to the ceiling. A huge rectangular mirror reflected her surprised expression back down at her.
Camisha discarded her coffee cup and walked to the auspicious trunk. Tiffany thought she was about to dig through it but, instead, Camisha turned and hitched her hands on her hips. Tilting her head, she waited for Ray’s explanation.
“A fantasy room of mine,” Ray walked to a wall switch and flipped it up. The room filled with the smooth voice of Luther Vandross singing “Here and Now”. “What’d you think?” Ray lovingly swept out his arm over his bedroom creation.
Tiffany twittered again. “This is more than a fantasy.”
“Never seen nothing like it,” Camisha agreed, her eyes alight with lewd ruminations.
Tiffany drifted to the closet and, on impulse, opened it. She inhaled a startled breath. A life-sized poster of Usher grinned at her from inside the closet door. The pop singer’s buff torso was naked, his nipples taunt, and his sculptured pecs begged to be touched. Usher’s thumbs were hooked in the partially unzipped waistband of his jeans, making them hang low on his hips. Tiffany’s eyes traveled down the carved V of muscles on his washboard abs until they disappeared near his groin.
“You’re into Usher?” Tiffany asked Ray. When Ray didn’t answer her murmured question, Tiffany turned.
He was hugged so tightly against Camisha, he hadn’t noticed his ‘other girl’ had gone exploring. Tiffany made an interrupting noise, pointed at the poster, and asked about Usher again.
Ray’s gray eyes darkened. “He’s hot,” was his quick reply. Then clearing his throat, he walked over to Tiffany. “Every man wants to have muscles like that. I’ve worked at getting my own, but I’m nothing like Usher. He’s inspiration.”
“Uh-huh,” Tiffany intoned.
Ray reached past Tiffany, attempting to ease the closet door shut. Before he succeeded, Tiffany spied a length of shimmering pink and gold lace material squeezed between the closet’s darker clothing.
“What’s that?” She thrust the door open again, tugging the questionable item into view.
The bright material was a long slim halter dress with thigh high splits on either side. Tiffany snatched it out, hanging it in front of her body. “Good fit.” She raised an eyebrow and slanted her head, daring Ray to clarify.
Camisha came over to have a look. Ray reddened.
In little more than a whisper, he said, “The dress belonged to a girlfriend of mine.” He hesitated, “We had a nasty break up. I kept her dress as a get-back.” Ray smirked. “I’m surprised she didn’t slash all my car tires and smash my windows.”
Tiffany was still inspecting the dress, when Camisha stole it away.
“This looks like my size,” Camisha said. “Can I try it on, Sweetie?”
“No!” Ray jerked the dress from a surprised Camisha, stuffed it back in the closet, and slammed the door shut. Panting, he faced Tiffany and Camisha, who looked at him like he was mental. “No,” Ray’s tone softened. “That dress holds bad memories. I don’t want to see you in it, Cami.”
Tiffany didn’t understand Ray’s reaction or his over-the-top sex boudoir. She was ready to go, but Ray pulled Camisha aside and the two of them started whispering again. Sighing, Tiffany rolled her eyes, and aimlessly trekked the room.
She tested the point of Mr. Zorro’s sword. Thankfully, the weapon was dull. Tiffany tried to bend it; it curled easily under her fingertips. Up close, the dark brown plastic male mannequin had the most startling long-lashed blue eyes that seemed to follow you. Suppressing a shiver, Tiffany wandered over to Ray’s trunk of love objects and gingerly peeped inside. She wasn’t even interested in Ray’s weird sex life utensils, but she was getting bored and irritated, and—is that a big purple penis! Ugh—what’s Ray doing with that? Tiffany slammed the trunk lid shut.
Both Ray and Camisha jumped.
“Camisha, can we go now,” Tiffany yelled.
“Why you slamming trunks, Tif, making all that noise?” Camisha’s head slanted from side-to-side with attitude. “And why you yelling?”
Then just as quickly as Camisha’s impatience flared, she turned back to contemplating Ray. Pressing her hips against him, Camisha twisted a finger in his hair. Ray smiled slowly. In answer, Camisha suggestively bit her bottom lip, with small squared teeth.
Blowing out an exasperated breath, Tiffany strode to Camisha, hooked an arm in hers, and yanked her from Ray.
“Ray—take us home,” Tiffany demanded. “Or do I need to call my mom. She’ll come get us.” She directed this to Camisha.
“Tif!” Camisha’s eyes bucked.
The unthinkable notion of confronting Tiffany’s pillar of propriety mother broke Camisha’s infatuated trance. Camisha always played chaste scholar with Mrs. Suzie Randal. Not that Tiffany’s mother was ever fooled by the charade.
“Uh…yeah, Ray, we’d better go,” Camisha agreed. “It’s late.”
Ray’s eyes were glazed with lust, but he absently nodded. He slunk away—hopefully to get his car keys.
Camisha elbowed Tiffany in the side. “Why you stopping the fun?” she muttered.
“Because you’re having too much fun,” Tiffany replied. “What’s up with you and Ray?”
“Right now—Ray’s my kinda man.”
“I ain’t feeling this, Cami…”
Ray called to them from the front room. Grunting with frustration, Tiffany hauled Camisha out the bedroom. Ray, stationed near the front door, jangled his keys.
Camisha unlocked her arm from Tiffany’s, marched to the glass topped tables, and zipped up the dragon globe.
“My grandmother gave that to me,” Ray said.
Camisha lifted the paperweight, turning it from side-to-side. “This can be a lovely reminder of the lovely time I’ve had,” she hugged the globe to her breast. “Can I keep it? I promise you’ll get it back.”
“I don’t know if…” Ray started.
Camisha interrupted him. “Come on. Your grandmother won’t mind.”
“I know she won’t. My grandmother’s dead,” Ray said flatly. “She raised me after my mom died. When she got mad, she’d hit me with whatever she could grab. It’s good she bought the globe when she got older and weaker, or else I might have gotten more than this scar.” He raised his chin, pointing to a thin three-inch line running along the edge of his jaw. “This came from a ring she wore.”
Camisha, making appropriate appalled sympathetic sounds, remained undaunted from her goal.
“So you won’t get all sentimental if I take the globe…”
“It’s expensive…” Ray explained.
Camisha raised the globe to the light, gazing into it. She had a knack of knowing the right buttons to push, when to push an issue, and when to let it rest. She silently let her request stew in Ray’s head.
Finally, Ray blew out a breath. “Okay, take the globe. Keep it for a while.”
With a little victorious sound, Camisha cradled her winnings in the crook of her arm. Then she dug in her purse and pulled out a Big Red stick of chewing gum. Folding the gum into her mouth, she happily chewed. Tiffany grimaced at Camisha’s furiously masticating jaws. Then she remembered she was supposed to give her telephone number to Ray to give to Phillip.
“Ray, you know Phillip Terrell?” Tiffany could have imagined it, but she thought Ray flinched.
“You’ve met Phillip?” Ray asked.
“At the party. He said you’d get my number to him.”
Ray paused—as if thinking, then said, “You might want to steer clear of Phillip.”
“Does your friend know you’re warding off his prospects?”
There goes that fleeting pained expression again.
“Phillip’s not my friend.” Ray stated.
“Whatever.” Tiffany scribbled on a slip of paper. “Give him my number, please.”
“He’s not my friend…”
“Well, if you happen to renew that bond—give him this,” Tiffany forced the slip of paper into Ray’s limp fingers.
Ray eyed Tiffany, then fisted the paper. “Maybe Phillip will call me one day.”
“Maybe,” Tiffany agreed.
~~~
Later, Camisha and Tiffany lay in bed munching popcorn while staring at Ray’s dragon globe, which now resided on top of Camisha’s TV set.
“So, when you gonna give back your prize?”
Tiffany pursed her lips with distaste. She removed a tissue from a box at the foot of the bed, and wrapped up a wad of Camisha’s moist chewed gum stuck on the rim of the popcorn bowl. She tossed the little ball in the trash and dug out a handful of popcorn.
“I’m keeping the globe,” Camisha replied, around a mouth of popcorn.
“What you gonna tell Ray? You lost it?”
“Who says I’m going to tell him anything?”
Glancing at Camisha, Tiffany sat the bowl of popcorn on the floor at the foot of the bed. “You’re not going to talk to Ray anymore? I thought he was the man that was going to be jumping through hoops—just for a taste of your love.”
“Ray’s not my speed.”
“So what? He’s just a pastime, right?” Tiffany threw several kernels of popcorn into her mouth.
Camisha flipped on her back, her face inscrutable.
“Right—Ray’s just a pastime.” Camisha nodded her head. “But the party was fun, men falling all over me. Girl, I’m back in the saddle.”
Tiffany used her tongue to search out a corn husk stuck between her teeth, then blew the shard to a far corner of the room. “So Ray’s a last bit of sport before settling down?” she threw more kernels in her mouth.