Dangerously In Love (7 page)

R
eed ate dinner at Champagne’s Restaurant on Chelten Avenue. The combination seafood platter, three beers, plus the tip he gave the waitress had depleted his cash. He swung by the Sunoco station to gas up and to tap the ATM machine inside. After jabbing in the secret code, the message on the screen asked if he wanted to withdraw funds from checking or savings. He and Dayna had joint accounts, but she paid the household bills from the checking account and kept a running tally of the funds in that account. Reed chose to dip into their savings account to get some fun money for the evening.

Fifty bucks would have been a sufficient amount to indulge his leisure pursuits for one night, but Reed withdrew the entire daily limit—six hundred dollars—just for spite. If his dinner had been ready, he reasoned, he wouldn’t have had to dig into his pocket for a damn meal. It was all Dayna’s fault; she only had herself to blame.

There was no official PBP meeting at the hall on Broad Street, but he stopped by anyway just to bust it up with his brothers.

“Yo, what’s up, Reed?” Chris Miller, a member of the PBP, greeted him. Reed didn’t like Chris; he hated the brother’s self-assured smile.

“Give any more thought to that business deal I told you about? Man, I’m telling you, you don’t want to miss out on this venture. Now, I’m trying to put you down with some serious money.” Smiling confidently, Chris shook his head like Reed was an imbecile for not writing a check on the spot.

“I’m on it, man. I just need a couple more weeks,” Reed said, stalling.

According to Chris Miller, the city of Chester, though just a small town, was brimming with financial possibilities. There was talk that casino gambling was coming to Chester in the next five years and Chris had already started buying dirt-cheap property. At only thirty-two years old, Chris had inherited twelve rental properties from his deceased parents and apparently had inherited their real estate acumen as well.

According to Chris, the deal he offered was not a get-rich-quick scheme. It was a well-planned, fail-
proof business maneuver with guaranteed mega bucks for those fortunate enough to get in on the ground floor. Chris envisioned Chester as the next Atlantic City and spoke with the confidence of Donald Trump. Chris’s next goal was to buy entire blocks of boarded-up and abandoned houses. It was a chance of a lifetime and Reed wanted in, even if it meant five more years of Dayna’s emasculating control. The problem was, Chris expected him to come up with twenty thousand dollars as soon as possible and Reed didn’t have access to that kind of cash.

Reed’s expensive car and the home he and Dayna were buying made him appear prosperous, but it agitated him to no end that it was all just a front. He’d thought about asking Dayna to dip into her retirement fund, but he knew she wouldn’t go for it.

His best bet was to try to hit Dayna’s father up for a loan. But then again, accepting her father’s money would give Dayna co-ownership; she’d start acting like she was Ivana Trump in the Chester casino venture and Reed was certain she’d attempt to reduce him to the role of an aspiring apprentice.

Reed suddenly felt uncomfortable and out of place. Most of the PBP members were flourishing in their chosen professions. It seemed as if every one except him had the magic formula to success. After being accepted into the group, he had expected an instant lifestyle change. So far, all he had gained was invitations to expensive events, membership fees, endless requests to perform civic duties, and now the impossible task of coming up with twenty grand just so he could feel like he was a true player in the game.

“Yeah, I’m going to sit down with my accountant in a couple of days; I’ll get back with you,” Reed told Chris, his voice filled with manufactured confidence and self-importance. Then, with a tremendous amount of resentment toward Chris and all his so-called brothers, Reed straightened his slumped shoulders and exited the suffocating atmosphere.

With music blasting and tires squealing, Reed roared down Broad Street. He felt powerful behind the wheel of his black Lexus SC430. So powerful, he felt like he deserved some female appreciation.

There was no point in looking for Buttercup; he knew she still had an attitude. He couldn’t blame her. He shook his head in remorse as he thought about his inexcusably bad behavior that night. Then, remembering the money in his pockets, his eyes lit up. Money was a powerful persuader that Buttercup wouldn’t be able to resist.

It was Tuesday. Where would she be on a Tuesday night? It was hard to keep up with Buttercup. She was a smoker, addicted to crack. She wasn’t disciplined enough to follow a schedule or stick to the rules and regulations of most strip clubs, so she just floated around, getting in wherever she could fit in. When there was nowhere to fit in, she worked the streets.

Not knowing where to begin, Reed decided to try Smitty’s Lounge, a small dive on Fortieth and Ludlow Streets that featured lap dancing in a small room upstairs on Tuesday nights.

Reed paid the five-dollar admittance fee at the door and rushed past the bar without even nodding to the bartender or any of the patrons. The excitement of knowing there would be a smorgasbord of bare-assed women milling about and competing with each other to ride his dick made his heart race as he bounded up the stairs.

There was an additional bar in the back of the darkened room upstairs. Reed went straight to the bartender and ordered an Old English. Taking a swig, he turned around and leaned against the bar as he scanned the small room looking for Buttercup. She wasn’t there, he quickly assessed. Disappointed, he guzzled the entire bottle and immediately ordered another.

Feeling dejected, Reed slumped against the bar, but instantly perked up when the MC introduced Aziza. A few feet above floor level were planks of wood that had been hammered together to form a makeshift stage. Carrying a cloth satchel, Aziza, fully covered in a long black satin and lace negligee, took center stage.

Aw, shit! Fuck Buttercup; it’s on now
, Reed thought to himself as he waited for Aziza’s set to begin. Aziza was a veteran; she’d been dancing for over twenty years and Reed had been thinking about getting with her for quite a while. He’d felt a little intimidated because she was an experienced pro, but fuck that. Tonight, he’d make a move.

A mature and big-boned woman, amazingly Aziza was still sexy as hell. She didn’t bullshit around on stage like the young dancers did. The young girls were impatient to get back on the floor to collect the ten dollars per lap dance and usually gave lackluster performances onstage.

Aziza wasn’t like that. She was a pro and gave a man his money’s worth on and off stage.

Reed could feel his member coming to life the moment Aziza swayed into action. Getting comfortable and trying to take some of the pressure off his swollen dick, he took a seat on the barstool.

Her routine began with gentle hip sways as her hands caressed her fleshy body, and her fingers ran against her large sagging breasts. She closed her eyes dreamily as if in a state of ecstasy created by her own touch.

“Dancin’?” A soft voice asked, distracting Reed from the show. With the word
no
already formed on his lips, he turned in the direction of the voice. To his surprise, a toffee-colored, slim cutie was trying to push up on him. Acknowledging her attractiveness, a slow smile played at the corners of his lips.

Taking the smile as consent, the dancer backed into Reed, gyrating as she quickly wedged herself between his legs.

“Yo, Shorty. I’m not dancing right now.”

“Why not?” The dancer asked as she reluctantly pulled away from his crotch.

“I’m watching the show.”

“Why you wanna look at her tired ass?” she asked, facing him now and blocking his view.

“Hey, Aziza’s well seasoned. She’s got it going on; you young girls need to take some lessons.”

“That fat old bitch can’t teach me shit. What she gonna do—show me how to make a coupla dollars by showin’ a worn-out coochie and a bunch of gray pussy hairs?”

Reed chuckled as he gently nudged the young dancer out of his line of vision. “Go ’head, shorty. Stop back by a little later. All right?”

“Whatever,” she muttered as she moved toward the next man seated at the bar.

Reed leaned forward anxiously, eyes fastened to the stage. At some point, while the young woman had been in his face, Aziza had lit a candle and placed it in the back corner of the stage.

In time with the music, she slowly raised her gown. Inch by inch, she displayed thick legs and well-cushioned thighs. When her gown climbed to her crotch, Reed noticed the shiny red fabric of her thong.

It was showtime! Reed and a throng of spectators moved in and began flinging one-dollar bills. They stood as close to the stage as Joe, the bouncer who also acted as MC, would allow.

With her gown hitched up and gathered around her waist, Aziza now revealed the entire thong. Like railroad tracks with a destination to the Promised Land, there was a black zipper running up the middle of the red thong.

Reed felt his nature rise and bulge against his pants. He took another generous swig from the bottle of malt liquor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Now using her chin to secure the black negligee, Aziza began to unzip. She pulled the head of the metal zipper, slowly splitting the red fabric by unzipping one track at a time. Beneath the paunch of her abdomen, which was streaked with stretch marks, wiry dark pubic hair came into view. The excess flesh on her body did not detract from her allure. Her imperfections enhanced the lewdness of the act and brought out the freakiness in all the men, prompting them to unclench their tight fists and to start tipping generously.

Aziza dropped the black negligee and then reached beneath the gown. She tugged, pulled down, and stepped out of the red zippered thong. Then she lifted the gown again and proudly presented her womanhood.

The crowd gasped in perverted fascination as Aziza revealed her extraordinary vagina. Her inner labia—dark and thick with deep wrinkles—jutted out at least four inches past her hairy mound. With long red fingernails, she tugged on her pussy lips; causing them to droop until they hung so low, they touched the top of her thighs.

She dropped the gown again and gave the men a look that promised more. Then, walking like a proud black goddess, she sashayed to the back of the stage. She stuck the thong inside her satchel and pulled out a beach-sized towel, strutted back, and spread it on the homemade stage.

The men crept closer as Aziza lay on the towel. In an unhurried manner, she pulled up the satin and lace and then slowly, teasingly spread her thighs.

The moment the crowd roared, the bartender, who’d seen Aziza perform at least a thousand times, rushed from behind the bar to catch the best part of the show.

She pinched the tips of her elongated pussy lips and pulled them apart—spreading them like the giant wings of a Monarch butterfly.

The look of Aziza’s well-fucked, well-sucked pussy made Reed’s dick so stiff, it throbbed with pain. If he didn’t get some type of relief, he was going to lose his mind.

Undeniably, Aziza had a pussy with a past. And Reed was confident that he had enough money to slide his dick up in that wonderfully worn historical landmark.

Joe brought Aziza the burning candle from the back of the stage. Without the slightest hesitation, she poured hot candle wax down each thigh, and then, as if in the throes of red-hot passion, she moaned loudly as she humped and bucked, thrusting upward as if she were being stud-fucked. Completing her act, she emitted orgasmic groans and shuddered until she appeared spent. Congealed in a stream running down her thighs, the wax resembled dried cum.

Joe picked up Aziza’s money from the floor as she collected herself and gathered her candle and towel.

Reed stepped forward and flashed a fifty-dollar bill. Aziza nodded and hurried to the restroom, which the dancers used as a dressing room.

There was no reason for Reed to prolong his stay and endure the endless harassment from the prowling shadowy figures of women who sought to give him a dry fuck at best. He tipped the bartender and brushed past the money-hungry, stupid little girls. His dick had an appointment with a pro.

Sitting in the Lexus blasting his sounds, Reed waited patiently for Aziza to take him to her place where he’d get a private showing of her beautiful black butterfly.

B
rowsing through the racks at City Blue in the Gallery Mall, Chanelle pondered the consequences of doing bodily harm to Mandy and Lexi. It wasn’t that she’d punked out or anything, but when she came to the realization that whipping their white asses would cause her more grief than satisfaction, she had to accept that her plan for revenge was nothing more than a malicious fantasy.

She meandered over to a table with neat colorful stacks of tops designed by Apple Bottom. Chanelle loved glittery garb and felt an instant rush when she picked up a bright pink top with a rhinestone apple in the center. Momentarily forgetting her troubles, she grabbed six tops of various colors and designs.

“You look very nice today,” said the gleaming-eyed Middle Eastern salesman. Knowing Chanelle always spent at least five hundred dollars whenever she set foot in the store, he stayed close to her, pointing out new arrivals and offering to knock ten percent off the price of anything she purchased.

Loaded down with three pairs of sneakers, jeans, and tops by Enyce, Baby Phat, Von Dutch, and Apple Bottoms, she finally left the store. She wanted to stop at the Sunglass Hut for a new pair of designer shades, but she was carrying too many bags to trudge all the way to the opposite end of the Gallery.

On the cab ride home, her thoughts turned back to the dilemma with her co-workers. There was no doubt in her mind that if she laid a hand on those two slimy bitches, they’d press charges and have her ass hauled off to jail. Just thinking about being handcuffed gave Chanelle the shivers; she wasn’t even going to pretend that she was built like that.

However, knowing that a snide comment or a sidelong glance from either of the two might set her off, Chanelle decided it was best to change her shift. But damn, she liked working from four-thirty to eight-thirty. Working those hours gave her the opportunity to shop during the day and party at night.

It was times like this that really made her wish she was married to someone wealthy. As thorough as she was, she shouldn’t have to deal with these types of issues. She should have a rich husband who had her back, making it possible for her to tell all parties involved to kiss her pretty black ass.

With her looks, it made no sense for her to be living in the ’hood. She should be in a phat-ass crib like they show on MTV’s
Cribs
. Just the other night, she’d seen Shaquille O’Neal and his family on the show. First of all, she didn’t even know Shaq was married, so she had to deal with the pain of the loss of him as a potential husband. Second, his wife was all right and everything—kind of cute—but she wasn’t all that. She wasn’t a thoroughbred like Chanelle. Some people thought it was a compliment to tell Chanelle that she looked just like Foxy Brown, but Chanelle was quick to retort: “Excuse me—I don’t think so. I look waaay better than Foxy Brown.” Chanelle did not consider herself conceited; she just believed in keeping it real.

The cab dropped Chanelle in front of her apartment at two o’ clock, two and a half hours before she was scheduled to start work, which gave her more than enough time to call her job and request a shift change.

Once inside her apartment, she tossed her bags on the sofa, called Lizzard’s, and asked to speak to Vic, the manager.

When Vic got on the phone, Chanelle started running down a bullshit story about needing to change her hours because her grandfather was terminally ill and the entire family was pitching in, taking turns to give him around-the-clock care. She amazed herself with the sincerity in her voice as she weaved her little fable.

“Uh, this wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Lexi, would it?”

Huh? Where the hell did that come from?
She hadn’t written that dialogue into the script. “What?” Her voice was deliberately tinged with both annoyance and confusion.

“Look, Sensation,” Vic said with a sigh. “Do us both a favor and cut the shit, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, wondering how the incident at the bachelor party had reached Vic, and what the hell did he care about stuff that had happened after work and outside of the work environment?

“You worked last Friday, right?”

“Yeah,” she said suspiciously.

“You were in the VIP lounge, right?”

“Yeah…and?” Chanelle said challengingly. She didn’t have a clue where the conversation was going.

“Lexi told me you spent about twenty minutes with Big Bernie.”

“So what!” Big Bernie was one of Chanelle’s best tippers; she always spent quality time with him. “Vic.” Chanelle was pissed, but managed to speak in a respectful tone. “I’m not sure where you’re coming from. What’s wrong with spending time with Big Bernie as long as he’s tipping?”

“Lexi accused you of going a lot further than an innocent little couch dance. She said when you finished the dance, she saw Big Bernie put his pecker back in his pants.”

“That’s a fucking lie.”

“Cut the shit, Sensation. I talked to Big Bernie and he confirmed it.”

“They’re both lying!” Chanelle couldn’t believe sweet Big Bernie would lie on her like that. This was some kind of conspiracy that Lexi and Mandy had created to ward off the ass-kicking they knew they had coming.

“He said he paid you extra to rub his cock against your ass. Now, he’s suspended from the club for a week. But you…well…I hate to do it, but I can’t risk getting the club shut down. Sorry, Sensation…you’re fired.”

Time stood still. Then her heart started thumping ten times its normal rate. She felt hot flashes followed by freezing cold chills. She wiped perspiration from her forehead while her teeth chattered uncontrollably as she listened to Vic’s parting words.

“Lexi cleaned out your locker; we’re only gonna hold your personal items for two days, so if you want your stuff you need to get it as soon as possible.”

Snapped back to reality, Chanelle yelled, “Fuck whatever’s in that locker and fuck you, too, Vic! Lexi set me up and I’m—” The blare of the dial tone cut off her words.

She was fucking FIRED. She couldn’t believe it. She had a love/hate relationship with Lizzard’s but it was her second home. She’d never worked at any of the other strip clubs and from the horror stories she’d heard, she didn’t want to.

Okay, okay. I have to calm down. What should I do?
All answers eluded her; her mind was blank. Her eyes darted around in thought, and landed on the City Blue bags. In one fell swoop, she knocked the bags off the sofa and then kicked them across the room.

I need a fucking husband; I’m only eighteen years old and I’m so fucking tired. I can’t do this shit by myself
. Her bottom lip began to quiver, and then she burst into tears.