All Up In My Business (2 page)

“Ma’am, what is your name? Ma’am, are you there? Please, calm down.”

“Calm down, hell!” Chardonnay yelled. “I just heard squealing tires. It might be the killer! Look, I gotta go! I got kids.”

1

Seven months earlier
…

“Y
ou’ve come up, my brothah! This place is off the charts!” Toussaint Livingston moved around the new “man cave” in his brother’s house.

“I was hoping to have it done last weekend and invite y’all over for Memorial Day.”

“That’s all right. The NBA championship game is coming up. I know where I’ll be watching.”

What had formerly been a seldom-used, garden-level family room now resembled a gentlemanly sports club: Dark-stained walls offset by white marble floors surrounded a pool table, a poker table, oversized chairs, and well-placed ottomans, and a wall-length, fully stocked bar anchored the room. Framed, autographed photos of some of Malcolm Livingston’s favorite athletes lined the walls, along with a few famous jerseys, footballs, basketballs, and a Hank Aaron-autographed baseball bat. Anyone seeing the man who now stood before a signed Michael Jordan basketball, which was encased in Plexiglas and sitting on a pedestal, may have mistaken him for a professional athlete. A tautly muscled six foot two and two hundred pounds, Toussaint looked ready to catch a pass and then run for fifty yards, or hit a baseball out of the park. “Man,
he said, continuing to scope the room. “You make me want to fix up my place.”

“What’s stopping you?” Thirty-four-year-old Malcolm Livingston, Toussaint’s older brother by eighteen months, proudly walked over to the bar that had been made to resemble the one in his favorite gentlemen’s club. Aside from stocking almost every liquor known to man, the bar housed four beer taps and the necessities for serious drink-making: shakers, strainers, muddlers, slicing boards, and glasses of every shape and size. A full-sized refrigerator, with the front made out of the same wood as that on the walls, blended seamlessly into the well-appointed space. Malcolm couldn’t wait until the next Super Bowl. “Huh? What’s stopping you?” he asked again, pouring him and his brother mugs of ice-cold beer.

“You have a wife to handle the details. I don’t have one of those or the time to do it myself.” He accepted the beer from his brother and took a swig. “Ah. This is on point!”

“First of all,” Malcolm said after he, too, had taken a long swallow, “you don’t have a wife because you don’t want one, and secondly, everything you’re looking at was my idea—well, mine and the designer’s. All Victoria did was let the woman in.”

Toussaint’s ears perked up.
Woman?

“Yeah, I thought that would get your attention. Unlike the past two months when I’ve tried to tell you about the renovation and you were too busy to listen.”

“I don’t remember you mentioning a female.”

“That’s because I was trying to tell you about the design, not the designer, brother. Uh-huh, you wished you’d listened now, don’t you? And she’s fine too ….”

“What’s her name?”

“Don’t matter,” Malcolm answered, purposely messing with his skirt-chasing sibling. “This one isn’t your type, Toussaint. You like ‘em tall and light, all polished and refined. Like Shyla. Alexis is a dark, bohemian-style chick.”

“C’mon now, Malcolm. You know I like dark meat. Alexis? That’s her name?”

Malcolm sighed and walked over to a rectangular coffee table. He reached down and pulled out a folder. “I know you won’t stop until you’ve satisfied your curiosity, so here you go. This is her marketing material. And I’ll tell you now—she’s good, but she don’t come cheap!”

“In designing or dating?”

“Ha! Definitely the designing but probably both.”

Toussaint took the folder and sat on the dark leather love seat.
DESIGNS BY ST. CLAIR
was emblazoned across the front of the pocketed folder. He sipped his beer as he opened it and was immediately drawn to the photo of a woman on the folder’s bottom left side. Toussaint’s eyes widened as he hurriedly set down his beer. “I know her!” he exclaimed.

There she was, looking just the way Toussaint remembered—like a bar of dark chocolate. And, he imagined, probably tasting as sweet.

“What do you mean, you know her?” Malcolm asked. Toussaint chuckled and sat back, his eyes still glued to her picture. “She got into a fight over me,” he began ….

“Wait, wait!” Long locs flew behind the compact, curvy woman as she ran up to the parking meter attendant. “I’ve got a quarter.” She hurriedly dug into her purse and pulled out a wallet.

The attendant, who’d just flipped open his pad, began punching in numbers.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to stand there and write up a ticket. I told you, I have the quarter.”

“Look, when I got here, the meter was expired.”

“We got here at the same time! Why are you going to charge a ridiculous fine when I’m standing here telling you that I’ve got it?”

“You should have thought about that before you came back late to your car.”

“This isn’t my car, but that’s not the point!”

“What? This isn’t your car? Then why are you yelling at me? You can’t pay for someone else’s meter time.”

“Are you kidding me? How do you know who’s paying for what?”

“I know that you aren’t paying for this. This vehicle is being ticketed.”

Alexis St. Clair knew she was being totally irrational, but she was livid. Recently, she’d received a citation for being parked in a nine-to-five no-parking zone. She’d been to a business meeting breakfast and had reached her car at 9:01. After finding out the amount of the fine—over one hundred dollars with court costs—Alexis had become incensed and decided to fight the charge. She showed up in court, but her very logical argument of why one minute should not equal one hundred dollars—with a timed and dated camera shot provided as evidence—was soundly shot down. She learned from a couple other citizens who were also fighting their tickets that a new company had taken over monitoring the streets of Atlanta. The number of tickets issued had gone through the roof. She’d been angry ever since, which is why when she saw yet another hapless Atlanta citizen about to get jacked (because in her mind it was straight-out robbery), she took matters into her own hands.

Hands on hips, the usually calm Alexis brushed aside the attendant and placed a quarter in the slot. “You cannot put a ticket on a car that is parked legally, and this car is now parked legally. So your ticket is null and void!” When she was really angry, a slight accent from summertimes spent with her St. Croix paternal grandparents surfaced. Now was one of those times. Her words were clipped and precise, her voice raised.

“Look, I’ve had just about enough of you,” the short,
slightly overweight officer said with a huff. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll have you arrested!”

Toussaint, who’d been observing this exchange in rapt amusement, hurried to the scene. He’d enjoyed seeing a complete stranger come to his, or rather his Mercedes’s, defense—had enjoyed watching her give attitude. Not to mention he’d appreciated watching her ample breasts heave with her movements, loved how her thick booty filled the back of her jeans. Yes, he’d enjoyed the show and the scenery but didn’t want to see the sistah get arrested.

“Officer, there’s no need for that. If you’ll give me the ticket, I’ll be on my way.” Toussaint’s comment was directed toward the officer, but his dazzling smile was on Alexis. “Thanks for defending me. That was impressive.”

“Toussaint?” For the first time since the encounter began, the officer stopped punching his pad.

Toussaint turned to look at the officer. “Greg?”

“Man, how are you doing?”

The two men did a soul brother’s handshake.

“I can’t complain.” Toussaint looked at the ticket machine. “At least not too much.”

The parking meter officer looked embarrassed. “Aw, man, I wish I’d known. I’ve already processed it so, you know … maybe call the office.”

“Oh, so if you’d known it was him”—Alexis whirled on Toussaint—”whoever you are”—and then back to the officer—”you wouldn’t have written the ticket? Is that how things work? Not what you know but who you know? So Mr. Mercedes gets off scott-free if he
knows
somebody, but Ms. Infiniti here has to pay?” Alexis was now as angry that the officer might
not
give the ticket as she was when he was determined to give it.

“My goodness, we’re feisty,” Toussaint said, his flirty eyes scanning Alexis’s body with admiration. “If it makes you feel
better, baby, I’ll pay the ticket. And I want to thank you for defending my honor by taking you to dinner.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Toussaint Livingston. And you are?”

“Out of here,” Alexis said as she turned to walk away. The man was obviously some muckety-muck who got life handed to him on a silver platter. People who got passes like that got on her nerves. His deep-set brown eyes, long curly eyelashes, wink of a dimple, and thick juicy lips had gotten on her nerves as well. She didn’t have time for … none of that.

“But wait.” Toussaint hurried after her. “What’s your name?”

“I’m not interested.”

“But it’s just dinner!”

“I’m not hungry.” With that, Alexis crossed the street and disappeared into downtown Atlanta’s morning rush crowd.

Malcolm laughed as Toussaint finished his story. “She left you hanging, just like that? Alexis is a smart, talented designer, but that feisty filly you described doesn’t sound like the woman I know.”

“You haven’t seen her fire, my married brother, but I have. And I want to fan that flame. This is the same woman. I’d know her anywhere.”

“You mean you
want
to know her. But it doesn’t sound like that feeling is mutual.” Malcolm laughed again at the thought of his Don Juan brother being rejected. That didn’t happen often. No wonder he was curious.

“Can I hang on to this?” Toussaint said, placing the folder under his arm as he stood and drained his glass. “I think it’s about time for me to redo my house.”

After Toussaint left, Malcolm poured himself another brewski and then settled himself into one of the room’s oversized recliners. He opened up the arm, revealing an array of buttons that operated every electronic feature in the room. Smiling, he pushed the first button. A smooth pulley system
began retracting a deep navy curtain along one wall, revealing a 125-inch screen. Malcolm popped the remote control out of its recessed cradle, also in the arm, and turned on the set. The television was set on ESPN2, and tennis was playing. It didn’t matter to Malcolm. Aside from polo and maybe swimming, he’d never met a sport he didn’t like.

Ah, yeah, that Nadal dude is bad
. He watched the tall, muscled Spaniard race across the baseline and backhand a volley across the net. The crowd went wild, and the player clenched his fence. Malcolm noted Nadal’s opponent was the equally talented Roger Federer. Malcolm reached for a bowl of salty pretzels, ready to enjoy a quiet Sunday afternoon watching the Wimbledon final. He turned up the volume, smiling.
This is going to be good
.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Brittany, Malcolm’s rambunctious six-year-old, came bounding down the stairs. On her heels were his three-year-old twins. “We want to go shopping, get some ice cream. Can you take us? Please!”

“Where’s your mama?” Malcolm asked, his eyes not leaving the screen. God knew that he loved his children, but he’d be lying if he said there weren’t times when he didn’t long for the good ole bachelor days. Like now, when he wanted to chill and watch TV—alone.

“She said she’s tired. She told us to ask you!”

Malcolm fought to not show his irritation. Britt saw everything. One hint of a frown and she’d turn into the
Enquirer
, asking why he was mad at her or her mother. He swore the child was psychic, because as quiet as he and Victoria tried to keep their ever-increasing disagreements, Britt always seemed to sense their discontent.

“Look, Daddy’s tired too. Let me rest awhile, finish watching this game, and then I’ll take y’all out somewhere.”

The twins begged to stay downstairs with him, but he bribed them into returning upstairs. Now he had to get ice cream
and
toys. Malcolm thought about his wife and this time
didn’t try to hide his frown.
What’s really going on with you, Victoria? You’ve been acting strange for the past couple months. Ever since
… Malcolm abruptly turned off the set, poured the almost-full mug of draft beer down the bar sink’s drain, and walked up the steps. Thinking about his marital situation had darkened his mood, especially as he thought of his footloose and fancy-free single brother. He imagined that even now Toussaint was making a date with the sexy interior designer at whom Malcolm could only look and not touch.

I love being married with children
, Malcolm concluded as Brittany, the twins, and the oldest son, Justin, piled into his SUV and they headed to Lenox Square.
But I don’t like it all of the time
.

2

A
dam Livingston loved the taste of her thighs. Tender on the inside and crispy on the outside, nobody could fry chicken better than Candace, his wife. Even now—after living and working together for more than three decades—his mouth still watered at the thought of this juicy, dark meat. Whether the succulent morsels on his dinner plate or those he hovered over when between the sheets, Candace knew how to please him. Unfortunately, the way she sexed him and handled a bird aside, Adam knew that Candace in the kitchen wasn’t necessarily a good thing. His wife rarely cooked these days, preferring instead to either eat at one of their restaurants or have their on-call personal chef whip up an intimate lunch or dinner with guests. Now, when Candace graced the kitchen with her presence, it usually meant a conversation was coming regarding something he’d rather not discuss with her—namely her extravagant spending sprees, plastic surgery, or the ongoing competition between their sons.

Technically, money wasn’t a problem. The restaurant his parents had opened in Atlanta fifty years ago had grown into a soul food empire, with ten highly successful restaurants in seven Southern states. Additionally, the barbeque sauce his
grandfather had created—which was slathered on their most popular menu item, baby back ribs—had been sold in grocery stores nationwide for the past five years. Still, Candace could spend money faster than Usain Bolt could run the hundred-yard dash. Just last year she’d renovated their kitchen to the tune of fifty thousand dollars, had their backyard relandscaped to resemble the scenic islands they’d visited on their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and had one of the guest bedrooms converted to a closet to handle her almost daily jaunts to Nordstrom, Bloomingdale’s, and Saks. These renovations had increased the value of their mansion and had made Candace happy. So Adam hadn’t complained … too much.