He's Just A Friend (2 page)

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Authors: Mary B. Morrison

BOOK: He's Just A Friend
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CHAPTER 2
F
ancy sat on the edge of her bed staring out her patio window at two Canadian geese flying over Lake Merritt. Her friends thought she was strange because she used her sunken living room as her bedroom. Fancy seldom cared about what other people thought. Both bedrooms combined were smaller than her living room and each bedroom had a morbid view of the Scottish Rite Temple's asphalt parking lot.
Mounted next to Fancy's bed was a silver pole wrapped in red velvet. Fancy had danced on that pole countless times. Sometimes for her male friends. At other times she practiced new moves or simply entertained herself. Fancy taught herself to dance and move like women in the music videos on BET's 106th and Park because rich men—the only kind she'd date—became bored a lot faster than the men who lived paycheck to paycheck.
Ruffling her down-feather comforter, Fancy scurried across her king-size bed in search of her ringing phone. One more ring and her voice mail would turn on. SaVoy's name registered on the display so Fancy quickly answered, “Hey, girl! What's up?”
“Just called to see what you're doing tonight.” SaVoy always sounded happy. Fancy could picture her best friend's bright smile.
“Going out. To a gala at the Ritz. With Desmond.”
“You really need to quit using Desmond. One of these days he's going to get tired of you playing with his emotions and God only knows what will happen. He's so nice to you, Fancy. And he's perfect marrying material—for somebody else—so you should quit before you ruin him. Besides,” SaVoy pleaded, “you've partied with the pagans three hundred and sixty-four days this year. Surely you can give one day to the Lord. Forget the gala. Come go with me to church tonight and praise God.”
Since Fancy didn't go to church any other time of year, New Year's Eve was definitely not the time to start. And as far as Desmond was concerned, the way Fancy saw it, she couldn't use anyone who didn't want to be used.
“Girlfriend, you know I love you but this is New Year's Eve. And from now on, remember this. You've only got one life to live. So stop wasting yours trying to live mine. Gotta go. Bye. Call me tomorrow. After three. Oh, yeah. Say a prayer for me.”
“I always do. By—”
Fancy hung up the phone and rubbed her growling stomach. There was still enough time to order delivery service on-line from
ezdineinn.com
so Fancy raced up seven steps—into the should-have-been bedroom that was her office—over to her laptop and charged one dozen oysters on the half shell from Spenger's to her boss's American Express card.
Fancy didn't cook or sew but her apartment was immaculate. Making her way to the adjacent bedroom that she'd converted into a closet, Fancy stood inside a space that resembled a miniature Saks store. Roll-away racks filled with expensive clothing were scattered about the room.
Name brand shoes were stacked high on shelves. Fancy removed the frequently used stepladder from behind the door, and scanned the photos stapled to the front of each shoe box. “Ah, there you are. Come to Mama,” she said, choosing her designer stilettos with the rhinestone-covered heels.
More shoes—jogging, hiking, aerobic, cross-country—and her Roller Blades, lined the floor, neatly flush against the baseboard, sorted by color. The two thousand dollars for her rent was paid. This month. Her hair weave and nails were freshly done, and her car was tuned up. Fancy's men paid for everything, including the new pearl-white headboard and footboard, lingerie dresser, armoire, pillow-top mattress set, and the new vanity that had been delivered on Christmas Eve.
Entering her master bathroom, smoke swirls hovered above a tub filled with hot water and her favorite black cherry bath salts. A homemade body scrub—one-half pound brown sugar stirred into milk and honey body wash—sat in a crystal bowl atop the white porcelain tub. “Ahhh,” Fancy exhaled as she nestled her head above the inflatable pillow and closed her eyes.
“Starting tonight, I, Fancy Taylor, proclaim next year as my year for finding the right man. I
am
going to get married and I
am
going to have a baby.”
Twenty minutes later, Fancy drew herself from the comfort of her bath and toweled off. Carefully she styled her hair, smoothing each layer of every track, then tossed the soft jet-black tresses behind her neck. The layered edges dangled below her shoulder blades. Sparkles shimmered in the silky platinum of a deep V-cut halter gown that delicately clung to the shapely curves of her breasts, hips, and thighs. Fancy turned around, admired herself in the full-length mirror, and smiled. “Now that's a fabulous ass if I must say so myself.” Adding the finishing touch, she brushed on her M.A.C. Chai lip gloss.
The cordless phone rang again. This time exactly at ten. The programmed number from the building's call box registered so Fancy buzzed Desmond in and grabbed her full-length white mink.
“Hey, you look great!” Desmond said, stepping inside.
Fancy closed her eyes and enjoyed Desmond's warm embrace. Careful not to snag her diamond earrings on her coat, she tilted her head and whispered in his ear, “Thanks, baby.” She meant thanks for being her friend. And thanks for taking her out again this New Year's Eve.
“You look extra handsome tonight, baby. I'mma hafta claw those desperate divas off my man.” Fancy placed her fingertips on Desmond's forehead. Slowly she traced over his temples, along his jawbone, down his neck, and tugged his tuxedo lapel. Fancy smiled, because in order to take her out, Desmond had canceled plans with his so-called girlfriend Carlita.
Fancy hated being alone on New Year's Eve and harbored no remorse that Carlita wasn't the one going out with Desmond. Fancy also hated blue. Blue jeans. Blue sherbet. Blue nail polish. Contacts. Robin eggs. Bubble-gum. She especially disliked dating blue-collar workers, which was the main reason why Desmond could never be more than just a friend.
“What's
your
boy Tyronne up to tonight?” Fancy asked, focusing on the beautiful holiday lights outlining the buildings along San Francisco's skyline. Tyronne was another man with big dreams and no money. As long as the cola company kept producing beverages, Tyronne would continue delivering sodas. Fancy's stomach growled, disrupting her thoughts. Damn, the oysters. Oh, well, she'd put them in the refrigerator so she could eat them for breakfast. It was probably best she hadn't eaten them because she definitely would've ended her platonic relationship with Desmond and fucked him real good after the gala if she had.
“You know Tyronne. Probably the life of the party at somebody's house,” Desmond said, holding Fancy's hand tighter while driving with his other hand on top of the steering wheel.
In a special way, Fancy admired Desmond. He was tall and good-looking. Desmond's innocent brown eyes shone under his long curly lashes. Whenever his thin mustache stretched across his face, Fancy saw the dimple in his right cheek. The seat belt was tailored to his flat stomach. Desmond was one of five men Fancy kept on her carry-over list for next year. She couldn't imagine life without Desmond yet she couldn't envision being his wife. Was money and prestige really that important? More significant than a man's character? Or his willingness to love?
Breaking the silence, Desmond asked, “What're SaVoy and Tanya doing tonight?”
“SaVoy, church. Tanya—she's going out with some guy she just met named William.” Fancy smiled at Desmond and reverted back to her thoughts.
The men who were fortunate to be on her regular dating schedule were now Fancy's sponsors. Adam sponsored her rent, Tony sponsored her Top Notch hair weaves, manicures, and pedicures, and Steven sponsored her wardrobe. That's how Fancy balanced her budget. She determined what needed to be paid, and then calculated which guy was wealthy and worthy enough to pay her bills. If she didn't insist that her men take care of her, they certainly wouldn't volunteer. And if they did volunteer, Fancy knew they'd assume a movie and a meal every once in a while was fair exchange for tasting her pussy.
Fancy also had disposable sponsors. Those were the ones she'd date only once knowing she'd never have sex with them, but she could usually persuade them to pay a bill or two before she blocked their numbers on her home phone. Taking care of herself had become such a full-time job, Fancy seriously considered quitting her nine-to-five. She was willing to trade in all of her sponsors but not until after she was married.
Easing her hand from Desmond's constant massage, Fancy asked, “Made any resolutions yet?”
“Yeah.” Desmond nodded as he exited the freeway at Embarcadero. “To go to law school. A brotha don't mind gettin' his hands dirty working on cars, but that's not my destiny. Johnnie Cochran, watch out! Desmond Brown, Esquire, is coming to your town!”
Every town was Johnnie's town. It might help if Desmond at least took the LSAT and submitted a few applications. “That's nice,” Fancy said, trying not to encourage his illusion. “At least you have a resolution. I haven't thought much about mine yet.”
Desmond drove up to the hotel entrance and valet parked. Fancy's neck whipped side-to-side as she scanned the men getting out of the nearby limousines. Several prospects stood out. Especially the tall, stunning clean-shaven gentleman. The top button of his wingtip shirt was unfastened. A black bow tie dangled about his neck. That was a good sign. A nonconformist with class, and judging from his Rolex watch, lots of cash.
“Isn't this wonderful!” Fancy sang, strolling inside the grand ballroom.
“Yeah, this is cool,” Desmond replied, bobbing his head while accepting two half-full champagne flutes. He handed one to Fancy and chugged a gulp from his.
Fancy slapped his hand. “Don't drink it all at once.”
“Are you kidding? As much money as I spent on these tickets I might take a bottle home.”
“Let's check out the silent auction,” Fancy said, maneuvering to get closer to the guy she'd seen outside and to see how much he had bid for the golfer's package.
“Desmond, look at all these arrangements.” Fancy pointed at each display. Football. Travel packages to different countries. Basketball. “Oh, my gosh! Can you believe this golfer's package is donated by Tiger Woods?” Gliding her finger underneath the last bid, Fancy looked at Desmond and thought,
Twenty-seven thousand dollars! No way. He must need to get a last minute tax write-off.
“Damn! I don't care how much money I make, I'd never throw it away like that. Some company, probably Nike, donated all this stuff in Tiger's name. Yeah, that's how the rich get richer. They don't pay for jack. That's exactly how I'mma be, watch. And you gon' be my lady. I'mma spoil you, girl. Buying you that six-hundred-dollar gown was nothing.”
That's true,
Fancy thought as Desmond reminded her for the fourth time. She rolled her eyes, then scanned the room. The man she wanted was standing on the opposite side of the ballroom with someone else.
“Let's see what's over there,” Fancy said, taking the shortcut across the hardwood dance floor.
The emcee announced, “Ten minutes to countdown! Make sure you've got your spirit, spirits, and credit cards.”
“Ha! That's a good one,” Fancy said, shaking her ass to wedge a deeper arch into her lower back. The woman hanging on to her future man was cute, but up close Fancy assessed the woman was clearly no competition.
Sounding like Lou Rawls, the emcee said, “Five minutes to countdown.”
The jazz quartet resumed playing Kenny G's “Songbird.” Desmond hugged Fancy so she pulled him closer and was grateful she'd worn her high heels because a real man was now facing her. Thick black eyebrows—with scattered hairs connecting his brows—were his only facial hair.
Fancy's eyes locked with the stranger's as she stared over Desmond's shoulder. Her admirer winked. Fancy batted her eyelids, then seductively smiled at him.
“One more minute folks!” The emcee interrupted the music once more.
The handsome man blew Fancy a kiss over his date's shoulder. Fancy's heart had throbbed when he'd gotten out of the stretch limo, but now her heart pounded. She gently puckered her lips as Desmond held her tighter. The stranger massaged the nakedness of his date's back—the same way Desmond was caressing hers. This man gazed into Fancy's eyes as if they were making love to one another. Fancy's body quivered. Desmond pressed his lips against her ear and inhaled.
“It's time to ring in the new year! Ten! Nine!” the emcee shouted along with the crowd. While the emcee counted, lovers locked into one another's arms, quietly swaying while the single people yelled along with the emcee.
“I can't believe I'm holding you in my arms again this year,” Desmond whispered in Fancy's ear. “You know we were meant to be together.”
“Six! Five!”
The stranger smiled again. This time he licked his lips as though he could taste her. Fancy's thong became moist and hot. Her breathing became heavier, so she looked away.

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