One Safe Place (4 page)

The two lovers had taught each other the rites of passage to their bodies over the years. The two satisfied souls knew how much, how fast, how slow, how long, and how much pain and pleasure each wanted, and could take; they trusted each other.

Tylowe drove his hardness to the brink of going too deep to the back of her throat, but didn't. She stayed relaxed knowing he knew the limit. This drove her hips to squirm; he reached back and slid two fingers into her slippery, morning tight pussy. She felt his finger go about an inch to the soft ridges of the top of her opening. She groaned and her body vibrated. He held still, absorbing the feeling of her hot, wet mouth.

Tylowe pulled his hardness out of her mouth, and she mockingly complained. “Ooooh, baby, let me suck it…please, come on, baby.”

He shook his head no, and backed away, but she didn't let him go far. She reached for his hardness and placed it between her breasts. She cupped her breasts tightly around to make his hardness a home. Meeah enjoyed the sight of his wide, mushroomed head peeking in and out between her breasts as he humped.

The sun had risen high enough to make the room glow and put heat on his back. The residences a mile across to the other side of Lake Washington had a view for anyone who had a telescope in his condo window. Tylowe's muscled ass and firm back could be seen sliding back and forth. He now had his thumb on her clit, circling as his fingers went in and out of her wetness.

“Come on, baby, ride my titties…ride 'em…I want to see the dick shoot, come on, baby… come on.” Tylowe smiled, and almost laughed as his wife had lost a lot of her Canadian-British accent, especially during sex. When handling business, her Sade looks and
her distinctive Canadian-British accent seemed connected, but not now in the heat of passion.

Tylowe removed his fingers and slid off of her. “Turn that ass over now,” he demanded.

She smiled and flipped quickly, raising her ass high and spread. The view made his hardness jerk and seep. He stroked his hardness a few times and grunted with each stroke.

Meeah buried the side of her face in a pillow, and gave Tylowe reason to stroke his dick a few more times; she reached back and dug her finger into her ass and pulled her cheeks apart. He got off on seeing all her wet nastiness. He stroked hard and almost released all he had in him all over her ass, but he stopped. He moved in closer and spanked her ass with his hardness. She felt his pre-cum on her ass and put her fingers in it. She painted her ass with it.

“Give me that dick, please, give it to me now. I need you inside.” The intensive feelings Meeah felt had her starting to drool on the pillow. As if she had a string pulling his hard-on directly in, Tylowe slid in and right down to the bottom. It hurt like she wanted it to. She wheezed as her fingers released her ass, and she grabbed and squeezed the pillow turning her face into it, and she cursed. He held his penetration, and she began to relax, taking in shallow breaths. She encouraged him to give it to her with full force by grinding her ass against his pelvis, and said, “Come on, baby…come on, daddy…ride my ass hard.”

Humping as if James Brown and D'Angelo played live in their bedroom, Tylowe started a hard-driving, funky, nasty rhythm, varying fast, slow and deep within the middle of her groove. She spread her legs wide, lowering her center of gravity, but her ass remained angled for his animalistic humping. It turned into a
long, repetitive military cadence. His hardness hit the same exact spot in her over and over. The intensity made her talk nasty and it inspired him to pound his hips against her ass.

His arm reached around and under her. His middle finger made it to her clit; she loved it as his finger and his driving hips worked at the same pace. Meeah started to get loud, and to scream, cuss, and breathe out of control.

“Oh damn, oooh damn, I'm ah, I'mmmm-ahhhhhhh, yeah.” Meeah's eyes rolled under her eyelids, her lips pressed tight, and she tried to breathe through her nose, but her mouth had to open to get enough air.

Across the lake, people might have been hard, or wet, or having orgasms while they watched.

Tylowe held his finger still on her sensitive clit. Pulsation came through her little round marble of sensation. Her heartbeat pounded hard through her back as he held his ear to her back. He felt her juices slowly dribbling along the thick vein under his dick and down to his balls.

He slowly pulled out of her, and his hardness pointed to the mirror above the bed. Meeah turned over. She was flush in the face and breathing deep, but slow. He had a look on his face that she could not understand. Normally she could read him well after all these years.

“Hey, baby, you felt so good.” She blew him a kiss. “Baby, lie on your back and let me ride you and get you off.”

“Meeah, just let me slide back into your pussy and let it hold my dick. I want to lie on top of you, and let you hold me, okay?”

She spread her legs and Tylowe slid back into her, and lay on top of her. She wrapped her arms around him, and she looked up in the mirror at the body of her husband. She was physically satisfied, but pondered things.

His hard-on slowly eased its tension and he rolled onto his side. He helped her to move onto her side, and spooned in behind her. A half hour passed before they both exited the bed and went about their day.

Meeah's mind raced to dead-end assumptions. Her husband's body made love to her that morning as she wanted, but his spirit might as well have been sinking in the middle of the lake. Were they changing winds? Unlike all couples known to her, or ones she'd read about, Meeah and Tylowe had that fairytale love. They never fought; they might disagree, but anger never determined what they did or didn't do.

The first three years of marriage were full of wonderfulness.
Is this real?
The fifth year was anniversary bliss and the kids they were raising from previous relationships were almost done with high school. The seven-year itch was simply a movie as the kids were doing college life, and Tylowe and Meeah's relationship set examples for their friends. After ten years, the kids were out of college and gone from home. Twelve years later—swells of uncertain emotions were causing rough waves.

A few times Meeah noticed Tylowe going into himself and not as open as he used to be. Her mind wondered and played with her good senses, and she hoped her mind wasn't creating regretful logic. She replayed the morning, and it felt like what plants in need of watering looked like. The two of them, far from dead, but maybe wilting, called for some soul searching to fertilize a normally regenerating love.

Tylowe's mind drifted in place all day like a wine bottle in a lake with no current or breeze.

“PB, you have four things you need to know how to handle, three for you and one for me.”

I'm listening to my administrative assistant, Velvet, as I'm walking in the sand along Alki Beach. I just finished working out, jogging, stretching, and shadow boxing against the Seattle skyline. At this moment, it may look as if I'm talking to the slow swells washing ashore. My Bluetooth cancels out most background noises except the wind blowing off Puget Sound, but I still talk low even though no one is near me. It's an old habit from my previous profession. I maintain a sense of where and what is near me . . .always. Everything is a tool or a weapon. Everyone is a potential person that can cause harm.

Velvet's voice comes through clear. “I did my research on Sasha Ivanov, and all who seem to be connected to her,” Velvet says. Some of Velvet's friends call her Skillet—an old nickname from something she did to a friend, she says. When she talks, her voice is pure sex kitten; it pours out of her mouth like low-lying fog, but her voice is hot steam. Velvet is professional, and she doesn't put it on: it's just her normal voice.

“Velvet, tell me about that after the other things, including what is it that you want me to do for you.” I turn and look at my property, both my little bungalow and the condo office building next to it.
Seattle's Alki Beach is a watered-down, smaller version of Venice Beach in L.A. Strollers and privileged-acting yuppies with cups filled with expensive coffee topped off with sweet-slick marketing compete for sidewalk space. Others drive by with their cup holders carrying swindle-priced, fancy-named brews.

Velvet is on the first-floor office; I know she sees me across the street. I live on the top floor of the condo, but I woke up in my little house next to Evita this morning. I let Evita live there; it is her choice. I have tried to give her a condo loft in my main building, but she wants to live in the old house. I feel as long as I know where she is, I can protect her from the world and maybe herself.

I originally bought the little bungalow along with the two next door, and two others a mile down the road. I built condos in each spot to replace the old bungalows. A neighborhood planning group originally challenged my plans. A part of me had to wonder if it was the color of my skin. I planted some folks inside who shared the same skin color of my detractors. They sipped their wine, listened in, and heard what I suspected.

“How dare he come in here with a lot of money, acting uppity? Where did he get his money? Is he a drug dealer?” I understood their code…Black man.

I look at my properties, the old house and a modern, state-of-the-art high-rise condo, and I know I have invested my money well.

I got my money the old-fashioned way. I was in the right place at the right time. All money comes when it is meant to be. I didn't threaten anyone. No gun was held to anyone's head. Money I never asked for, $50 million, became mine, and all I had to do for it was to go away. They have no fear of me ever coming back and wanting anything more, even though they have a net worth of billions.

“Are you coming into the office?”

“I'm headed to my condo.”

“Well, that is one of the things you need to know. Your honey is up there waiting for you.”

“Yep. I know.”

“Okay, the other thing, PB. You and Suzy Q need to sit down and set up security for the Mint Condition private concert video shoot at the Paramount. You two have gone past the green on my calendar and in to the yellow on that project. And, oh—don't forget I want twenty seats for that.”

“Next.”

“Sasha Ivanov, her father died a year ago. From what I can tell he married a woman from the island of Martinique by the name you gave me: Queen. I called the embassy and a Martinique library. It's a marvelous thing I speak French.” Velvet has stunning beauty and impressive confidence, despite being far from a small woman. Full-figured, full of life, and full of inner strength most of time, she was always dedicated to me, and what I'm about. I trust her to be behind and in front of my business. “Queen is the daughter of former President Jean-Pierre Frêche,” Velvet relays.

As my right-hand lady, Velvet has never surprised me with her intellect and capabilities. French, Spanish, and Japanese are the languages I know that she speaks. Velvet is a single mom who home-schools her son. I kind of do the uncle thing. Even though I don't think I'm good with kids, the little dude is so damn smart he makes it easy.

“So a Russian mob boss married a black woman from the Caribbean. Do we have any idea where this Queen is now?”

“PB, people all through the Caribbean can appear to be white, so maybe this Queen looks white. A mixture of indigenous people, Africans and Europeans, means some people have different
complexions. No different from you with your golden eyes and golden skin.

“People have a hard time making out what I am or what I'm not. I'm tall, big-boned, with a darker Caucasian complexion, but many say I have black features.” Velvet identifies herself as Brazilian and German. “Anyway, PB, I sent everything that I found to your tablet. I think you'll find some of it informative.”

“Now what is this thing I need to do for you?” I asked.

“PB, let me put you on hold, for ten seconds.”

“All right.”

While she has me on hold, I see a man who sleeps outside on the wooded hill behind my place, and spends his day on the beach reading books. He always has books by Aristotle, Socrates, Langston Hughes, Richard Wright, Ralph Wiley, Malcolm X, Zora Neale Hurston, and Iceberg Slim. He often recites passages from books by Gandhi, Bruce Lee, Bill Russell, Hannibal, and Shakespeare.

I walk over to him and hand him my business card. I do this almost daily or have Evita feed him. He knows to take my card down to the neighborhood store, and he can get free food—no beer or wine. He can eat free at Salty's Fish and Chips or any food or coffee joint along Alki. I pick up the tab. Food should be free to the hungry, no matter how they became that way.

I'm not a Bible thumper, but I am God-fearing, and His Son fed thousands with a fish and some bread. So the least I can do is to help a man who wants to eat.

I start to cross the street and I see Evita looking out the window. She knows I'm going next door to my condo. She knows and has always known about my other lover. I'm in love with two beautiful women. One has my soul, and the other one has my body and mind. Evita has made it clear that she loves me in a way
that makes no sense. She pushed me in the direction that I'm going now. This morning happened to be a rare morning that we spent together.

Velvet breaks my concentration. “Okay, I'm back. I have a friend—I believe you may have met her at Sterlin and Lois Mae's wedding, Darcelle. She has been the victim of poor choices in men. She may have been watching me all these years of slipping, tripping, and falling down with the wrong man.”

“Velvet, what are you asking me, and why are you telling me about a woman's misfortune with men? Is she in danger?” I look up and down the block, and back across the street. I've had my eye on three different SUVs: blue, black, and brown, all with tinted windows.