Power of the Pen (2 page)

Zach:

“Bitch,” I exclaimed, wiping the salty Martini from my face.

Footsteps started to retreat, as I tried to wipe my stinging eyes of the girly drink I would never conceive of ordering, yet alone consuming. Women drank what I ordered them. Period.

Nobody must have seen the showdown because the music was still playing, people were still laughing and the bartender’s machines were still running. The Ember Lounge, known as ‘The Em,’ was a bar/lounge that usually held lawyers, doctors, businessmen, and women. And that was probably because they were the only people who lived in Bowie, Maryland, often referred to as ‘Bougie’, Maryland. Most African-American professionals lived out here. It’s about forty minutes from Washington, D.C. and ten or more minutes from downtown Bowie. That still does not explain why I'm here since I'm white, or as my colleagues would say, ‘Caucasian.’

A wet napkin was placed in my hand which had been covered with the girly drink. The softness of the cloth-like napkin soothed my eyes tremendously. Once I was able to open them, I saw Yasmine looking at me with a smirk on her face. She was dressed in a tight, black A-line skirt and a tight, dark red blouse that contrasted her milky skin nicely. True to form, Yasmine had on her five-inch stilettos and stockings with the line going up the sides, teasing the viewer of what was held under that tight skirt.

“Someone you know, I gather,” Yasmine asked, showing her hand at the game women play:
Jealousy
.

“Actually,” I raised an eyebrow at her, “I have no idea who that woman was.” 

It was evident that Yasmine was attempting to play it cool because she and I were just fucking. However, I could perceive there was something off about her at that moment. My hand raised to get the bartenders attention.

“Closing out, boss?” He asked.

“Yes,” I replied as I slide my card to him.

“Be right back.”

Yasmine looked away from me as if she was embarrassed. Shit, I’m the one who should be embarrassed since I smelled like olives, lemon, and liquor. This is why we would only be ‘just fucking’. Her attitude killed the mood.

The bartender returned my card, and as I put it back in my wallet, I said, “I’m headed home, alone.”

Yasmine blinked at me. “Why? I thought we were hooking up tonight,” she replied with a small voice.

“Not in the mood.”

“Awe, come on Z,” she whined. “It’s just a drink and the bonus is, I can lick it off of you.”

While the thought of her using that naughty tongue intrigued the lower region, the top part of my neck would not let that happen. A random woman that I have never seen before, just came up to me and threw her Martini in my face. There was no words exchanged, no fighting or nothing. When I finally open my eyes, the woman I am here with is smirking at me. Not that I want a woman fighting over me, I do not go for childish, petty women, but do something instead of looking at me like it served me right.  

Stuffing my wallet in my pants pocket, I headed towards the door without another word. Her footsteps were behind me, so I guess she thought that I was not serious.

The cold wind swept across my face as fall made its exit and winter entered in with a bang. My jacket was in the truck on the other side of the parking lot. Not that
The Em
was crowded at seven in the evening, but because I did not want anyone that had too much to drink to throw up on or near it, try to have sex in the bed of my truck, or scrape it on the way out of the lot. All of these things have happened before, so I learned my lesson.

My Chevy Silverado was only a year old, but my last truck had seen plenty of things, and I was not even a participant in most of the events. I had that truck for 14 years. My sweet Olivia was her name and while, my current baby, Lola, is new and shiny, she has nothing on my Liv. Well, besides heated seats, automatic locks, doors, keyless entry, sunroof, electronic everything, navigation system, Bluetooth and a bunch of other shit the dealer tried to sell me. As a non-tech savvy individual, the ride felt nice, so that is why I bought the truck. Standing at six feet, six inches, it was big enough for me to drive and not look like a clown car, yet small enough that I didn’t look like I did not belong in it. Just some insight on why men buy cars.

“Wait up,” Yasmine called after me because I was half-way across the parking lot.

“Not in the mood,” I repeated through my teeth.

She caught up to me, grabbing my arm, which I jerked away from her. 

“What did I do?” her pace slowed, as the clit-clot of her high heels were not as frequent.

“Nothing, is what you did,” I noted with purposeful indifference in my voice.

Lola was a few feet away now, I turned with my hands in the air as if I was surrendering and backed up towards my car.

“Zeeee,” she moaned, “I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

What was her deal? We had only been together for a month and a half now. She approached me at my table, where I was signing autographs. Yasmine, however, did not give me a book to sign, but her exposed cleavage to sign. She bent down with her blouse and bra undone, with the girls on full display and whispered to ‘sign these instead.' Then she handed me her book and instructed me to put my phone and room number in the front. I am a single male, in a city that I know not of; she was a willing participant of what would help me de-stress, so I was fine with putting my number and room number in her book.

Her lips pouted when she moaned her nickname for me again. “Zeee,” she sashayed over to me as I leaned on the truck.

“Yasmine,” I forcefully bit out. “I’m not in the fucking mood.”

“Not according to my friend,” she pointed to the bulge in my pants.

Damn
.

When she reached me, her body leaned into mine, slowly sliding herself down so that her knees were bent, her ass was resting on her ankles and hands were unzipping my pants. Yes, we were in the parking lot. The woman was fearless and I would not stop her because I did need a release.

“Let Yassy make it all better,” Yasmine purred to my dick.

She pulled down my tailored pants, slipping her hands into my black briefs. My fists clenched at the sides of my body because I knew what I was about to get. The woman had a talented mouth. Looking down, her ass bounced around, while she balanced her weight on her heels. Fucking genius. She pulled me out, to lick around the head.

Oh
.

Yasmine did not wait long to take me, as I did not wait long to wrap her hair around my head to guide her willing mouth. She kept trying to deep throat me, every chance she got, which showed initiative, but I just wanted her to suck right now. Her moan spurred me on as I bent to see exactly how much of her mouth I filled. Size was never a problem because if anything I was too big, but Yasmine had a big mouth, and she knew how to use it. Her whole mouth was full of me. She looked up with a ‘seeking approval look’ in her eyes, but she would not get any of that from me. She was warned that I was not in the mood. Therefore, me holding her head down, so she could take more of me was all she’d get tonight.

My haze was broken, when I saw movement in a car. A woman’s head emerged from somewhere in the car and she was looking directly at Yasmine and me. She was in the driver’s seat with her hands on the steering wheel, as if she was ready to leave. Her mouth was open, her cheeks were flushed and she looked like she belonged on the cover of Ebony Magazine with her exotic, medium-sized afro.

Her car was one row over and three cars down, facing our direction. We were in her direct line of sight. Sitting in a fairly new Land Rover, she was high enough to see everything. Yet, she made no faces, no move to leave, just watched with her lips slightly open. It was turning me on and I was close so there would be no stopping.

Yasmine could feel my excitement because she started bobbing her head vigorously while bouncing her ass. My eyes were on the brown beauty in the car, but I could feel her movement. The woman must have realized I was staring at her because her eyes locked with mine.

“That’s right,” I whispered.

Yasmine moaned, causing all sorts of vibrations to go through my body.

“Yes, yes,” my mouth hissed.

Her eyes were still locked on mine. I took control of Yasmine bobbing, by pulling her hair until she stopped. My cock stroked into her mouth until I hit the back of her throat; all while watching the woman watch me. She knew I was getting off to her watching me because her mouth dropped open further. She was not scandalized or appalled. I would have bet my advance money that her pussy was wet, her nipples hard, and her body was on fire, just from watching.

I kept at Yasmine until I felt close enough to come down her throat. “Take it all honey,” growling it to the woman in front of me, but talking to the woman in the SUV.

Miss Watcher lips moved like she was saying something back to me, then she licked her lips.

Goddamn, that was my ending. My hips began to rock into Yasmine until I came hard down her throat. She swallowed each and every drop. When she rose, I pulled up my pants, and said, “Thanks.”

“So, that was the beginning, now for the rest,” Yasmine tried to lean on me, but I moved to open the door.

“Good night, Yasmine,” I said.

“What?!” she exclaimed.

“You heard me, good night.”

“I…I thought…” Yasmine stammered.

“You thought wrong.” I retorted.

Her eyes turned glacial, “You fucking bastard. If I had a drink, I’d throw it in your damn face,” she snapped, then turned on her heels to leave.

“Get in line,” I called back to her.

Her hand went high in the air, as she flipped me the bird. I shook my head, still leaning on my truck when my eyes caught the woman still staring at me. A smile spread across my face as I made the quick decision to not get in but close the door. Slightly leaning against the body of the truck, I crossed one leg over my ankle, in an attempt to get comfortable, but also as an invite for Ms. Watcher to come and get it. The way my dick was feeling even after just releasing myself, I could be in the mood for her tonight. The corner of her mouth went up like she could read my thoughts, then her engine turned as she peeled out of the parking lot.

Damn
.

Oh well.

Back to the living quarters.

Lauren
:

Beep.

“Girl, where are you? We are all in the lounge waiting for you. Come on, call me back or text because it’s loud in here as usual.”

Beep.

That was the third message Gab left me when I never showed up to the lounge. I was not in the mood today. It marked the second anniversary of my father’s death, so like last year, I stayed home and focused on not losing my mind. Alcohol was involved, but the fact that my friend of three years now, had not picked up on the day or even the season, was beyond me. This year, I actually made an attempt to be around other people. However, when I was about to get out of the car, I was disrupted by some lady giving this guy head in the parking lot and not even the car. What a jerk! Forget at least trying to hide the act, but treating her like some hoe, which she might have been with the way she was dressed, but I doubt it. Nobody brought hoes back to Bowie. We were a little too sophisticated for that. Most guys go to the city and stay there for those services. She probably wasn’t a hoe because she stomped away and flipped him the bird. Yet, she was squatting down to suck him off. Okay, maybe I was just hating, but they both were wrong. Equally so, I sat there and watched the whole damn thing. Just to make matters worse, the guy saw me and knew I was watching. Shit, I think he might have enjoyed it, the way he was staring at me.

In an attempt to record them and send it to Gab and Sheree, I dropped my phone somewhere under the seat. After I had found it, I was too mesmerized to hit the button. My nipples were hard and panties soaked, which led me to believe it was time to go home. There was nobody at
The Em
who could satisfy what I wanted. Those guys were executives, probably married and frankly did not know how to handle a woman like me. Everybody expected me to be on all the time. I was the life of the party, the bold one, the woman who people flocked to, but once in a while, I just wanted to chill. Today, especially.

After I had arrived home, I logged onto my blog and saw that I had two hundred and thirty-five responses to my recent post about the insufferable author Z. Hays. Most of these people were cheering me on and some of them told me that I should get my knickers out of a twist because Z. Hays was a god among men.
Oh really
.

Under the guise of writing BDSM, the man took our country back decades with his books about women knowing their places. All of the male characters in his books were called “alpha men”, and all of the women were “submissive.” I understand the world of BDSM, but Mr. Hays always takes his characters to another level of pure servitude.

After reading one of his books for my Master’s Thesis class, I wrote a twenty-page paper on how Z. Hays was the reason feminism had not actually evolved, in part because of his so-called novels. The man became a star overnight, it seemed. Nobody appeared to know who he was unless they went to a book signing, and even then, no phones were allowed. He was such an asshole. To make sure my blog posts about him were accurate, I had to read his work. I always felt dirty and disgusted afterward, but such was the life of a journalist.

Sorting through which responses to answer and which ones to ignore, I ran across a simple comment that said, ‘Don’t read the bks.’ A comment like this would usually be overlooked if the username did not say
real_zhays
. It could not be him. Why would he read my blog? I received national recognition, but authors and actors pay me no mind. Well, usually. Except that one actor who played alongside Taraji in
Baby Boy
, who said I should get a real job and stop writing about other people. Well, his panties were in a twist because
Baby Boy
was his last significant role and he was not even in the lead. Therefore, my job was to air that little tidbit out, thus making him mad, since he had nothing else better to do than read my blog. Oh, did I mention, that was my full-time job?

Yes, I told him all of that, and somebody must have let him know it would be ridiculous to engage with me because I’d show him what a relentless writer and researcher I truly was. Same with real_zhays. I was not sure it was him, but I was responding just in case it was.

‘real_zhays, I am a journalist. So to your point of whether I like Mr. Hays’ novels or not, in order for me to adequately interpret the news, I need to have read the materials. I would do a second, third and fourth, but it is not necessary since the first one sums it up pretty nicely. Hays’ work is demeaning, degrading, and a ruse for sending women back into the 50’s and the gullible one’s going along with that nonsense. BDSM is about and empowerment between a couple and there is nothing empowering about dragging a woman or anyone around on a leash because she didn’t call you sir. Carry on.’

Hitting the send button, I checked to see when real_zhays sent his message, as it was caught up with others. His was sent at 9:37 PM. It was now 10:17 PM, so I may or may not receive a message. Either way, I would stay up for at least ten minutes and wait. I looked around my apartment and noticed how everything was scattered all over the place. Papers were on the floor, on the desk, on the counter and even on the dining room table. Clothes and shoes were thrown all over the place, and I had not dusted a thing in over a year. Never would I receive an award for the best housekeeper. I ate here, slept here, and was always doing the walk of shame out of another man’s place. They would never see my lair, as it wasn’t fit to be seen, but it also was mine and I did not like people in my space.

*ding*

That meant real_zhays posted something new since I set an alert for his username.

MzJames, I know ten-year-old boys that have a blog, and that does not make them a journalist. Just as you are no journalist. It isn’t that you could not be with your Master’s degree in Women’s History and Literature and Bachelor’s in Fine Arts. You have indeed proven that women have come a long way, but still want to be dominated. Why do you continue to meddle around with your little blog, when you could do so much more? You claim it’s your own independence, but I say it is because you are fearful of really going after what you want. Transferring your issues in an attempt to demonize my novels. You have read every single one and given me horrible ratings for every single one. Yet, I have made courageous leaps to write about something that I feel passionately about, and you hide behind wanting to be dominated, giving in to your fear. PM if you ever want the chance.

Uhhh.

No, he did not.

I could not think, could not breathe. What in heaven’s name was that? Where did he get off…?

Mr. Hays, if that is really you! You speak about fear, but besides your loyal following or people that go to your book signings do not know what you look like. If I am not a journalist, you by God, are not a writer. According to the literary world, you independent types have cherry-picked your way into the industry and using the British term, mucked it up for everyone. My little blog has been recognized nationally for Fairness and Diversity in Literature. Not once, but twice. You knew that already since you know what degrees I have. My independence to work when I want, how I want, wherever I want, is my own right, but of course you don’t think women should have rights, so you have no understanding of this concept. Wanting the chance to smack the hell out of you sounds tempting Mr. Hays, but I would probably be the real dominant one and spank your ass, so be careful what you ask for.

In my research, I found out that Z. Hays started writing five years ago and after his first book, ‘
Yes, Sir
,' he was put on the map and he remained an independent author. That was noble of him because most writers sign with a major label once they reach that level of success. All of his books were New York Times bestsellers, and he had won numerous literary awards, including All Romance eBooks (aRE) for bestselling author. My issue was not that he was not a good writer. He was phenomenal, but the content just got under my skin so bad. This could probably add to the way he wrote, which made you feel the pain or the joy he wanted to portray at the stroke of a pen. The man was good, but I swear his writing was that of an entitled ‘master’ in the rulership of women. I wondered what his mother thought about his writing. If he persisted any further, I planned to ask him.

*ding*

My private message button flashed twice with the words:

PM me.

That was his only response.
PM Me
? I think not. That reply took the wind right out of my sails. Here I was, ready to go for the mama insult. So, I messaged him back.

Have a good evening, sir. Oops, I meant Z. Guess, I won’t get my hair pulled and dragged around on the floor like a dog tonight.

Shutting down the computer, I stretched, moved my clothes to one side of the bed, and lay down. Tears formed in my eyes as I thought about the day, what it represented, and how Mr. Hays called me out, yet did not know me from a can of paint.

Called me a coward.

Said I was afraid.

He was right. 

*****

Suddenly, my body jerked me from sleep, what could be assumed as the end of the world. Horns and trumpets were blasting loudly in my ear and I could not get in the right frame of mind to ask God for forgiveness at the end of my journey. Then, I realized it was only my ringtone for Gab because she stole my phone and put that mess in there.

“What!” I yelled.

“Well, dammmn girl,” Gab exclaimed. “You still in bed?”

“It is early in the goddamn morning, Gabrielle, and it's Saturday. What in the hell do you want?”

“Hon, it's 11:30 in the morning,” Gab reasoned. “That’s the only reason I called.”

“Shit,” I muttered.

“Uh yeah,” Gab seemed at a loss for words. “Rough night? You didn’t come to
The
Em.
You hook up with a guy?”

“Naw, just wasn’t my night.” I groaned.

“Girl, you are always down to hang out,” she laughed. “We didn’t know what to do without you, so we went home early.”

“Right,” exhaling loudly in the phone. “Well, I gotta run, I’ll catch up with y’all later.”

“Hon, you alright, you don’t seem like yourself,” concern etched in her voice.

“I’m fine, just dealing with some things, right now. Thanks for the concern.”

“I’m here if you need me.”

“Alright, bye.”

We disconnected, so I could flop back in my bed. The skin around my eyes was tight and probably swollen from crying myself to sleep last night. My hair was probably matted from the combination of my tears and lying on it with no scarf. Today was not going so well and I was not even hung over.

After cleaning myself off and putting on some face cream to take away the puffiness around my eyes, I walked in the living room so I could check my messages from my blog. One of the issues with it being so successful was I tended to receive hundreds of messages in a few days. Gab kept insisting that I hire an assistant, but I managed to keep things close to the vest, when it came to my personal affairs, like my blog. My laptop lit up and I saw not only did I have hundreds of messages, but I had three alerts from real_zhays.

In essence, all he said was PM him. Some of my fans defended me by starting in on him about his earlier comments. I liked a couple of their remarks because they were letting him have it. His last message said, “See what you started.” That comment got a chuckle. So, I did the unthinkable and private messaged him.

MzJames:
What?

His online light was green, so I assumed he was online at that moment.

A few seconds later,

Real_zhays
:
Good morning to you too, sunshine
.

MzJames
:
is that all you wanted?

Real_zhays
:
No, I wondered if you and I knew each other.

MzJames
:
No, we certainly do not.

Real_zhays
:
Then why are your attacks so personal? I’ve done nothing to you, yet you make it a point to go out of your way and constantly give me bad reviews. If you do not like my work, then do not read it, was all I had to say.

Well
.

MzJames
:
As a journalist, and in your case, a critic, my fans request that I share my opinion, whether I like your work or not. I’m not one of your submissive women or characters that heed to your instruction or warning. My attacks are not personal, and I doubt Mr. aRE award of the year, that my reviews or opinion about your work are impacting your success. So, stop this.

Real_zhays
:
Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.

MzJames
:
Who says that I haven’t?

Real_zhays
:
if you did by the right person, you would be one of my fans.

MzJames
:
*sigh* Have a good day

Real_zhays
:
Let’s meet up

What was this man getting at? I do not even know if this was the real Z. Hays. It could seriously be an imposter.