A Taste of Honey (7 page)

I
followed my therapist down the hallway toward her office. Due to her aversion to formality, from the first visit she’d insisted that I call her by her first name, Cameron. She led me in as always and I took a seat. She sat across from me, looking distinguished, yet carefully plain, dressed in a navy pin-striped blazer, white shirt, and matching skirt. Still she was attractive even while trying to take attention away from her looks. Her shoulder-length locks were dyed at the tips, framing her strong-featured face. Looking away from her eyes I scanned down and found myself next trying to avoid staring at her ample bustline. The blazers she wore to tone down her cleavage, and the glasses, were supposed to make her seem more like a doctor. I figured that she wanted to look the part and eliminate anything that might be disruptive to the doctor-patient relationship.

She needed to embrace that she was not only a licensed therapist. She was very good at what she did. The fact that she knew what she was doing made a nonissue of the fact that she came off as both sexy and confident.

At Cameron’s hands I’d been able to shed a lot of the hatred and anger that dwelled within me. For as long as I could remember I blamed every bad thing that happened to me on two women: my mother and Frannie. After I was abandoned by both, there hadn’t been anyone around for me to project that on. With Cameron’s help, I’d been able to see that all the time I thought that I was dogging women out, hating them, I actually had been hating myself. Afraid to love, because I never felt worthy of receiving it. According to her, I had given myself the right to believe this because I had faced the terrible fortune of never feeling valued by anyone.

I also came to get help because I had recurring nightmares of being molested. I’d wake up panting for air many nights, thinking that I was being raped all over again. I wouldn’t see myself as a little boy in those dreams though, which was weird. I was a grown man, yet I was still defenseless.

I’d been in therapy for two years off and on after the relationship with Kristen, a girl I’d dated just before I met Rorrie, came to an end. In a terrible incident, I’d punched the girl in the face. She didn’t understand why in the middle of the night when she reached out to hold me, my reaction had been to throw a hard right jab that broke her nose.

I tried to explain and believed that she understood when I said she’d startled me. I was shocked when two days later I found out that her friends had convinced her to press charges against me. We parted ways and to avoid having any criminal record I was ordered to counseling. Shortly after, I found Cameron and the whole thing proved to be a blessing.

I’d never been able to make any real progress until I met her.

“So how are you, Khalil?” Cameron asked. She had a way of
making me feel as though I was in grade school even though she insisted I call her Cameron and she wasn’t even ten years older than me.

“I’m fine, I guess.” Cameron never asked what was troubling me. She’d wait for me to get comfortable with her. I don’t know if it was the fact that I’d come to value the opportunity to talk with her or having another human being that I could spill my heart to. Being in her presence usually prompted me to open up, immediately. I fidgeted in my chair a little and then spit it out. “Cameron, I cheated on my fiancée.”

She didn’t respond. Instead she simply looked at me with inquisitive eyes, her hands flat on the desk. The office was dead silent except for the air blowing through the vent. I waited to make sure that she was blinking.

“I met her on a flight back from Miami. There was something about her the moment I saw her. I’m not sure why though, because I see beautiful women all the time. I had just spent a weekend in South Beach and the thought of cheating hadn’t entered my mind so it was more than the fact that she was beautiful and sexy.”

I paused and she offered an “Okay.” I could have predicted what she asked next before the words came out of her mouth. “So how do you feel about it?”

“I’m not sure how I feel about it.” Before I thought about what type of insight I could offer about my feelings, Honey’s face popped into my head. Then I was surprised that instead of her chocolate skin, hazel eyes, her perfect grapefruit-size breasts, I thought of her voice and the things we talked about on the plane. I remembered that in the midst of whatever she was going through, she’d been able to make me laugh. She was witty and smart. But then just as quickly my mind drove me into the depths
of what I viewed as my own depravity as I reminisced on how good it felt to be inside of her. There was no denying that she was incredible in bed.

“Well tell me what you believe you might be feeling about it? The first thing that pops into your mind,” she said, now sitting back.

“I can’t stop thinking about her. I feel bad because in spite of the guilt, I want to see her again. And it’s more than sex. I feel like even though I don’t know her, I want to. I almost
need
to. As if we have some type of weird spiritual connection.”

“Have you been speaking with her?”

This is what was driving me crazy. It had been two weeks since I’d dropped her off at the hotel and I’d been by the hotel every day since then spending an hour or two parked out front hoping to see her coming or going. I didn’t share this with Cameron. I knew it was crazy. “No, I don’t have a number for her.”

“If you did would you call?”

I nodded yes. “I know where she lives and I stopped by there to leave a note, but I could tell that she hadn’t been past her house.”

“How?”

“Fliers and junk mail jammed in the door. She hasn’t been there.”

“Did you leave your number or a note to let her know?”

“No.”

“So what do you want to do in regards to your relationship?”

I sounded defensive when I said, “I do love Rorrie. I know I do, but I’m having a hard time concentrating on what we have. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a thing I’m going through.”

“A
thing
? Be more specific if you could.”

“I mean…maybe it was just me getting caught up in the excitement of someone or something new. I’m sure it’ll pass, especially since I can’t contact her anyway.”

“Well you can. You said you know where she lives, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So do you think you’ll go back there again looking for her since you have no other way of contacting her?”

I wanted to tell Cameron that the day I’d dropped her at the hotel I’d sat in the truck for a moment before going into the lobby after Honey. I wound up practically begging her to give me her number. She’d told me basically that she thought I was confused and that by the time I had it all figured out everything would fall into place. At that moment it seemed that I didn’t have a chance with her and even if I did, I didn’t even know what I wanted a chance to do anyway.

I answered her question: “I don’t think so.” I paused and thought about how I was feeling. “I want to be able to let it go. I just don’t know how. I don’t want to hurt Rorrie, but I don’t know if I can trust myself not to.”

“Well there’s nothing wrong with being confused. It shows that you’re attempting to process some very conflicting emotions.” She had a pencil in her fingers that she twirled a bit back and forth. “Let me ask you this, Khalil. What do you think will happen if you can’t get over this? If you can’t stop thinking about this woman or what you did with her. Will you proceed into a future with Rorrie?”

I shrugged my shoulders and bathed in the shame that her question brought me. We continued to talk about my dreams and my anger for the next forty minutes. I left my session feeling extremely heavy. Rorrie was due in this evening and I knew I’d
be taking my bags of guilt to the airport with me when I picked her up.

M
y cell rang at a quarter past six. “What time you picking me up?”

It was my buddy David. He was getting married in the morning. Along with the other groomsmen, I was taking him out for his last night on the town as a single man. “Around nine thirty. I’m on the way to the airport to pick Rorrie up.”

“Don’t be late,” he barked. We’d had the rehearsal dinner the night before, which worked well with all that I had to do.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, partna. Hopefully
this
is the last time you do this.” I laughed, referring to the fact that he was on his third crack at marriage and he was only twenty-nine.

“That’s real funny, man. Just make sure your comedic ass brings plenty of ones, because I’m leaving my wallet at home.”

I laughed, because I knew he was dead-serious.

I
arrived at Reagan National Airport and pulled around as I searched for American Airlines. As I crept up toward the walkway just outside of the baggage claim I saw her. She was dressed in a pair of scrubs as she wheeled her one suitcase to the curb. I quickly stopped and climbed out to lift her bag, as she looked exhausted. She smiled and we embraced. For the first time I felt no electricity, only awkwardness.

“Hey you,” she said. We climbed in the truck and the first thing she did was turn down my stereo. I turned it back up from the steering wheel. I loved that feature. Nas’s
Street’s Disciple
CD was pumping through the speakers. “Baby, could you please?” she asked in a tone laced with irritation.

“Headache?” I asked.

“Just don’t feel like the noise. I’ve had a hell of a week.”

I looked over at her as I turned the music down and a bout of fear swept through my body. She was staring straight ahead and didn’t notice my careful gaze. I took in her profile, her hair and the trademark ponytail, the mole on her cheek, her bright white teeth, finally even her well-developed bustline. Just that quickly I’d judged her like a prize poodle in a canine competition and come up with a chilling verdict. For the first time I didn’t see the beauty that had always hypnotized me.

The sight of her didn’t move me at all; neither did her voice or her presence. My heart started to pound as I began to dread the thought of how I’d spend the next forty-eight hours sharing space with her while trying to come up with words to keep her from realizing that we had a problem.

A serious problem, because I needed to feel something for her as I always had, but I didn’t. I glanced at her once again to confirm that there was nothing left about her that would bring me to my knees.

The condition of my heart had been just as it was since the day I’d left the lobby of that hotel, begging for a chance to get to know
her
. Even looking my fiancée dead in the face, I could see only one woman and it wasn’t Rorrie.

M
iles Amory arrived on the East Coast early in the morning via his G4. Loaded with cash, he was a classy gentleman who didn’t mind parting ways with large sums of money when it meant having a good time. I looked forward to spending the evening with him. He reminded me of a younger Harry Belafonte in poise and physical appearance. Miles had a high-octane lifestyle and already he’d concluded a ten A.M. meeting in New York and an early dinner at the Borgata in Atlantic City, where he usually spent the next hour or two gambling a couple hundred thousand dollars at the blackjack tables.

He’d wind up at his home on R Street in Georgetown, a nine-thousand-square-foot mansion that he slept in probably thirty nights a year. At fifty-two he was extremely well-kept. He was the only African-American on his entire street and I suspected one of the very few who lived in the heart of Georgetown. One look at how he lived and it was plain to see that he was important to a lot of people all over the world. He bragged about having five
thousand employees and making money in five time zones. But to me, he was nothing more than a stream of revenue.

I’d met him at a fund-raiser that George Bush held for his reelection campaign a couple of years back at the Ritz-Carlton. Galas like those always brought out the deep pockets and were can’t-miss events for those such as myself who were about the business of forming mutually beneficial friendships. Give me a shipping magnate, a technology CEO, or an oil baron over Allen Iverson and T.I. any day.

I pitied the groupies who didn’t know where the money was. They studied ballplayers. I studied the person who signed their checks. I looked at the one exception that I’d made in dating an athlete, Priest, as a huge mistake. After all of the drama that I’d gotten caught up in, I was pissed at myself for ever breaking my own rules. Never again.

When Cheron knocked on the door of the hotel room I greeted her with a huge hug. “Hey, girl.”

“Heeeyyyyyy,” she screamed back. “Damn, you looking really hot, Hailey, and those shoes are banging.” I grimaced when she called me by my government name and then she caught my glare and corrected herself. “My bad, I mean Honey.”

Surprisingly, Cheron and I had become the best of friends over the years. There was no way anyone could have guessed that she wouldn’t try to kill me on sight after Manny was killed over me, let alone that we could become more than fierce enemies. Life is unpredictable at best and when Manny had been killed, I’d realized that Cheron’s ticket out of jail had disappeared with his last breath. For reasons I couldn’t understand at that time I lost sleep thinking about her in a jail cell. A few days later I looked her up and when I found out where her mother lived, I went to
visit her. She cried when I told her that I wanted to give her the money that she needed for a lawyer. It wiped out the stash of money that I’d collected from both Tank and Manny, but it kept her from doing any time.

She was smart and didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth at the time, but the day we walked out of the district courthouse she asked me why I helped her. Before we climbed into our separate vehicles I admitted to her what I remembered. “Cheron, even though I always envied you, I respected you. Rorrie and I would sit outside and watch you as you left out the house dressed in the flyest gear.” I’d laughed, remembering. “We couldn’t wait to be grown so that we could be just like you. You were the closest thing we had to a hero. How could I let my hero go to jail if I could do something to stop it?”

Even now that she was nearly thirty-three and was the mother of a four-year-old daughter, Madison, she had managed to keep it together physically, usually looking the part of a model chick. We hit the gym together at least twice a week. Over the years I’d always been there for her when she needed my help, financial or otherwise, and in return she’d lend her wisdom.

Oddly, we never discussed Manny though. I’d formed my own code of honor and the disrespect that I’d shown her then would never happen again. I believe that she knew I’d learned from the past and that was obviously good enough for her to consider me a sister.

S
he set her small overnight bag on the table and I noticed that she’d changed her hair color. A few streaks, highlights, and a cut, and the chick was looking out-of-this-world. “I’m loving your hair, Cheron. When did you get it done?”

“Yesterday.”

“The bomb.”

“Thanks.”

Then I pointed over to the bed. “Look through those and see which one you want to wear. We need to move because Miles will be here soon and we don’t want to have him waiting.”

“No problem,” she said, approaching the bed where I had a few pieces laid out. Just as I suspected she went straight for the short white dress. “This is lovely,” she said.

“Versace,” I shot back. It was nice, but not nicer than the Salvatore Ferragamo number I was wearing. “You’re a four, right?”

Cheron nodded. “Unless I’m bloated.” Then she giggled.

“Well there you go.” We wore the same dress- and shoe-size. “There are some matching kicks over there.”

“You ain’t nothing but the truth.” Cheron stripped out of the khaki shorts and shirt she was wearing, in front of me. I quickly examined her panties and bra. They were nice enough.

“You’re not going to be able to wear a bra with that dress, love. And grab a pair of those undies out of the bag.” It was filled with nothing but La Perla. I looked at my watch. “Go on in there and freshen up. I’ll be waiting down at the bar. Ten minutes max,” I demanded.

“All right.” She grabbed the items and moved toward the bathroom.

As I rode the elevator down I began to think of all the money I’d make tonight. I’d promised Cheron fifteen hundred to spend the night with Miles and myself. The second he greeted me, he’d hand me a cashier’s check for twelve thousand dollars. And for that, he might not even want to have intercourse.

W
e cruised from the hotel just up M Street to Miles’s favorite restaurant, Michel Richard Citronelle. I watched Cheron’s body language, making sure that she didn’t seem too impressed even
though the food and the atmosphere lived up to the billing that it received worldwide. A mood wall that changed color every fifty-nine seconds, soft music, and the lure of a man made of money made it hard to resist actions that caused most women to appear foolish. This, however, was work for me and since Cheron was along for the ride and the commission, there were standards of decorum to be upheld.

The waiter treated Miles like an old friend and was at our beck and call. The world-famous chef even stopped by our table to ensure that everything was up to par and to make a wine suggestion to Miles.

The meal came quickly, allowing us to proceed with the evening. Custard-and-caviar-filled eggshells, a three-course meal, and two bottles later it was time to go.

Miles had long implored me to bring along another woman. I didn’t have to tell him, he knew that I wasn’t into women, and would never be, so any hopes of some girl-on-girl was out the window. He said he understood but still wanted me to bring a friend. So here we were.

W
e were headed down K Street when Miles’s phone rang. He’d ignored every call before this one, so I was surprised when he took the call. “Yes, I’m in the city now.”

I didn’t listen closely until he asked the driver to turn around. Five minutes later we pulled up in front of a club. “Ladies, if you don’t mind, I’d like to spend about thirty to forty minutes here. I have a client that I need to meet and it will only take a few moments.”

I nodded, not wanting to appear fazed one way or the other since he was spending so much money. We climbed out of the
Maybach and walked into the door of the posh gentlemen’s club.

We sat at a booth opposite one of the stages and within moments Miles had ten drinks delivered to our table. “Sip until you find what suits you,” he said. He then walked to a table where three other men were seated. I caught their gazes. I knew the drill. He was telling the men that he had two pieces of ass that he was about to enjoy. Men were so predictable. He talked to them for five minutes and then came back to join us. The men spoke as they left the club together. Miles wanted to enjoy a few drinks before leaving and he had me climb out of the booth so that he could sit between us.

I drank sparingly, as was my policy, and kept my eyes on Cheron. She had a weakness for fine alcohol. I sat back and watched the girls get their hustle on—singles, fives, or twenties at a time. I thanked my stars that I wasn’t one of them. They had to shake ass for a month or two in front of men who wanted to bang them, in order to make the kind of money that I did in one night.

A couple of them were really pretty and I thought about schooling them but logic prevailed. We are who we are and it took all kinds to make the world go round. They shook it on stages while I went all the way for a price. It was simply a matter of style.

“Cheron, go give her some money,” Miles barked. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of money. “Here take it to her,” he said, handing Cheron a twenty.

She looked at me and I winked and gave a slight nod. Whatever turned him on,
up to a point
, was my motto. Cheron looked out of place, as did I. We looked too classy to be handing out bills to dancers, even in a nice club like this one.

“That’s right. Make her work for it,” Miles yelled out. He was drunk, but that was cool. He’d been known to pass out from the liquor and rich food without so much as laying a finger on me. When that happened it was strictly his loss, as he paid for time, not sex, though the implication was always sex.

The white girl was gyrating slowly in front of Cheron. When she noticed the twenty she took her act to the next level, moving as if she were trying to entice Cheron.

Miles kept Cheron running back and forth, handing off twenty after twenty to every dancer who graced the stage. I reasoned that he must have been getting turned on, so I scooted closer to him and began to rub my hand on his thigh. I was shocked when he said, “I want her to do that.”

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“No, I mean I want you both doing it at the same time.”

I leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Here?”

“No, let’s go back to my place.”

He squared the tab and we prepared to leave.

Standing at the front of the club we were waiting for the car to pull up when I saw a group of men approaching the door. My heart almost sank when our eyes met.

It was Khalil.

“Honey?” Just then the car pulled up.

“Hey. I got to run, Khalil.” The driver opened the door and I watched Cheron climb in as Miles stood there. I wanted to tell him that he’d been on my mind. Secretly though, I’d been afraid to go through with my plan to crush Rorrie, because I actually felt something with him that I couldn’t yet comprehend. Instead I looked him in the eye and saw that there was so much that he wanted to say, yet all I gave him was, “I’ve got to run.”

When we hit the corner and I glanced back again, he was still standing there.

M
y mind was blank as I put in my work that evening. Not that I enjoyed sex with my clients, but I usually was present. I never wanted to go numb to what I was doing for fear of losing my humanity. But as I sat naked on the chaise in Miles’s bedroom my only thoughts were of Khalil.

I only responded when he asked.

It was strange but Cheron seemed to be enjoying herself. She had gotten caught up in the romance of the evening. The seven-hundred-dollar dinner, the ride in the Maybach, the endless string of Monopoly money that she tossed at the club, and now the three-million-dollar mansion had her believing that it was real. My session ended when I’d freaked out after the unthinkable happened. A broken condom. There had been a serious break in action as I made sure that he had not ejaculated anywhere near me.

I was completely through for the night but it was proven that one monkey didn’t stop the show. Ten minutes later and Miles was bouncing up and down on Cheron as if his life depended on it. All the while he’d been making requests. “Rub my back, spank my ass,” he screamed out. “Kiss her.”

Cheron was drunk and surprisingly game. It was as far as I’d been willing to go. I knew that I could always hit a man when he was at his peak. “You know I don’t do that, but if you really want to see it, it’ll cost you.”

“Okay, just kiss her. Kiss her while I nail her.”

I smiled as I leaned in and gave her a long and sensuous kiss. It meant nothing to me and I felt nothing, but it paid my
car note, twice. When I pulled away I noticed the look of unadulterated pleasure on Cheron’s face. In that instant, I knew that she’d been with women before. I moved away and let him finish up.

It was cool that I didn’t have to remind him of the extra money when it was time for the driver to take us back to the hotel. On the downside, I left his home feeling way too strange. The entire ride back to the hotel I thought about Khalil as I stared out the window.

“What’s wrong?” Cheron asked. “Did I do anything wrong?”

I shook my head no. “Not at all.”

“Are you sure?”

I laughed. “Nah, girl. It looked like you enjoyed yourself though,” I said, trying to change the subject from my blues.

“Hmmmph,” she exclaimed. “The easiest money I ever made. Homeboy was all right. But…I wouldn’t do it again.”

“Really?”

She seemed a bit offended by my tone and immediately responded with: “Why you asks like that? No.
Really
, I wouldn’t.” She raised her voice a little.

“Why not?”

Her answer not only sobered me, it shot through me like a bullet. “Hailey, I have a daughter to think of. How could I face her if she ever found out? I wouldn’t want this for her, so how could I expect different if it was something that I said was okay through my actions?”

“But you are saying it is okay. It’s good enough for you to do…”

Cutting me off, she said, “I didn’t do this for the money. I came along simply for the experience. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a single
mom and I can always use extra money, but I’m not hurting. I’m way past spending ridiculous sums of money on clothes and I’m not knocking you. It’s your money. It’s your choice. But for me, that’s just not where I am. I simply wanted to hang out with you and one of these clients that I’ve heard so much about.”