Smooth Operator (10 page)

Payton stroked Quinton’s right cheek and cupped his chin. “Oh baby,” she nibbled small pecks against his lips, “I swear you always know,” she kissed him again, “the right moment to show how much of a hatin’-ass motherfucker you are.” She looked him over, “Do you think I have the time to care about your jealous ass-pissing contests with my husband! I’ma tell you one … more … fuckin’ … time, before I start looking at you sideways: play your designated position. Work that motherfucker, please. I need you on your game. I need you to be the man you were months ago, the man that I was undyingly attracted to. I need you confident and secure in who you are. I need you to be Quinton King, not Mr. I’m Folding.”

Quinton swallowed and his eyes narrowed into Payton’s. He couldn’t figure out what it was about her that kept him wanting to never leave her side, “Listen,” he said caringly, “why don’t we both calm down, and you tell me what happened up there.”

“What happened?” Payton said sounding as if she were on a crashing high. “I don’t even know where to start. All I know is that I’m always trying to appease Lyfe. But nothing is ever good enough for him. Nothing. You really wanna know what happened?” She looked at Quinton with her eyes full. “What happened is that I went upstairs and realized that it’s too hard loving this motherfucker.” She turned her head away and wiped the tears sneaking from the corners of her eyes. She hated that this marriage hadn’t turned out like she’d planned. Seemed her mother was right after all. Payton sniffed and checked her emotions. “So,” she turned back to him, “I think we need to regroup.”

“Sounds like we have a problem then?” Quinton said, as the driver pulled in front of the terminal.

“A big fuckin’ problem.” Payton popped two Extra Strength Tylenols into her mouth as she and Quinton stepped out of the car and headed into the airport.

T
he day’s sun set quickly and darkness crept over Lyfe, as he sat behind his desk with his office light off, his head held back, and worried eyes cast toward the ceiling. He hadn’t felt like this since he was in prison and every day felt like combat. Sitting here it was clear that he was on the front lines once again, albeit this time in the boardroom instead of behind bars. There was no way he could continue to live this way. He needed to get out, to be out, to wave a white flag and hope for a peaceful journey to freedom.

But he knew Payton. And she wasn’t the type to simply move aside and let him leave without a fight. She’d rather they both end up with nothing.

Yet, that was a chance he’d have to take because he was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the next time Payton hauled off like a grenade and went live in his face, he would have to kill her ass.

Lyfe rose from his desk and walked over to the window. He slid his hands into his pants pockets and his eyes traveled over the New York City skyline.

It was six o’clock in the evening, and he hoped that his staff was gone, because he couldn’t bear to face them, especially Arri. He knew she’d be full of questions, but how could he explain to her that he was obligated to his wife—the very woman he told her
last night that he “didn’t come to New York to fuck around on”—had shown her ass and turned their marriage into some shit straight out of
Snapped
.

Lyfe wiped invisible sweat from his brow; this was too much to process. He grabbed his coat, walked out of his office, passed the cleaning crew, and left the building.

Thick clouds of the world’s most expensive cigar smoke traveled through the air as Lyfe stepped into the exclusive Cigar Bar and Gentlemen’s Lounge in the heart of Midtown, where an elite crowd of businessmen watched erotic dancers make love to steel poles and clap their asses onstage to the sounds of Keri Hilson’s “Getcha Money Up.” Lyfe stopped at the bar and placed an order for a glass of Louis XIII cognac and a premiere cigar from His Majesty’s Reserve. He then took a seat in the last row of olive green recliners in the darkened corner of the room, sank into the deep and cushiony leather seat, and as a Brazilian dancer licked her nipples and pussy-popped onstage, Lyfe closed his eyes and drifted into his thoughts.

A few minutes later, “Is anyone sitting here?” forced Lyfe to open his eyes and look into the face of a white man with green eyes, who even in the dimmed yellow light glowed with the fakest goddamn tangerine tan he’d ever seen. Lyfe was instantly pissed.
Out of all the seats in the place, this Bruce Jenner motherfucker wants to sit next to me.
“Nah,” Lyfe said, pointing to the recliner next to him, “help yourself.”

“Here you are, Mr. Carrington,” the waiter said, as he handed Lyfe a lit cigar and his drink.

Lyfe sipped and then placed his drink on the cherrywood end table. He took a long, hard toke from his cigar, closed his eyes again, and turned his thoughts to Payton. He hated that he had to manhandle her and treat her in such a fucked-up way, but she didn’t give him much of a choice. Yeah, some of the shit she’d said stung, but putting his foot down was about more than a bruised ego. It was about laying down the laws and carving out
the boundaries of his manhood, and showing her that there was just some shit he wasn’t gon’ take from no-fuckin’-body.

Lyfe opened his eyes and looked at the stage; one of the dancers was wrapping herself around the pole like a ribbon. Arri seeped into his thoughts, and Lyfe closed his eyes once more. He couldn’t understand the unrelenting magnetism he felt when he was around her. Every time he saw her he found himself wanting to know what she dreamed of, what she thought about, what lay behind her beautiful chestnut eyes and cover-girl smile. And why there were times when she seemed so pressed and uneasy. He wanted to chill with her, laugh again, simply be in her company, and then after he’d done all of that, he wanted to bend her over and fuck her from the back until the walls cried out.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” the man sitting next to Lyfe said, barging into his thoughts. He pointed to Lyfe’s cigar and said, “Behike?”

“What?” Lyfe said, put off, his hard dick suddenly deflating.

“Your cigar. Is it Behike?”

“Nah, man,” Lyfe said curtly, “this is from a stock called His Majesty’s.”

“Ahhh, now that’s a real moneyman’s cigar,” the guy joked, taking a pull from the cigar he was smoking.

Lyfe looked at him, and his eyes clearly told this motherfucker to shut up, but the guy either didn’t care or didn’t pick up on the hint, as he continued on, “I’m a Padilla Dominus Churchill man, myself.” The man took a pull from his cigar and released the smoke. “You ever try—”

“You know what,” Lyfe said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I came here to clear my head and I’m just not in the mood—”

“Lyfe Carrington, is that you?” poured over Lyfe’s shoulder before he could finish his sentence.

Goddamn.
Lyfe looked up and saw two of his clients sitting at the table next to him, John Chin and Raymond Cunningham.
They walked over and Lyfe stood up and shook their hands, “How are you?” He smiled, praying that they would hurry and walk away.

“We’re fine.” Raymond gave Lyfe a sly smile. “Glad to see you’re out and enjoying yourself.”

“I’m trying.” Lyfe gave a fake laugh.

“Well, this is the place to get into it,” John said. “You know this place is a chain and has shares on the market. What do you think—a wise investment?”

“Hell no, would you tell ’im, Lyfe,” Raymond said. “I keep telling him that the bottom will fall out of this place in five minutes.”

“It’s possible,” Lyfe said, wishing they would all get the hell out of his face. “The market is funny right now.”

“Not for Anderson Global it isn’t, I have to tell you,” John carried on. “Signing on with your company is the best financial decision we could’ve ever made.”

“I knew you looked familiar,” the guy who was sitting next to Lyfe said, as he stood up and nodded at the other men. “I’m Galvin Smith.” He held his hand out and though Lyfe was still unable to place him he accepted Galvin’s gesture. “I met you at a party you all had last year in Los Angeles.”

“Oh, okay,” Lyfe said, struggling to sound sincere. “How are you? What are you doing in New York?”

“I moved here a few months back.”

“That’s great.” Lyfe forced himself to smile.

“Lyfe,” John said, patting Lyfe on the back, “what are you doing when you leave here this evening? Let us take you out to dinner.” He looked at Galvin. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“Oh noooo,” Lyfe said, waving his hand beneath his chin. “Four men making dinner plans in the dark is a li’l—” Lyfe stopped himself mid-sentence, figuring the remark he was about to make about their dinner plans being suspect wouldn’t be appropriate, so instead he said, “Listen, I appreciate the gesture,
really I do. But actually I need to get back to the office.” He handed his cigar to the passing waiter and said, “I need this wrapped to go.”

“Are you sure, Lyfe?” Raymond said. “It’s the least we can do for you all showing us such a great time in L.A.”

“It was my pleasure, really,” Lyfe said, as the waiter handed him his cigar in a gold cigar box, “but I have a big meeting on Monday I need to prepare for. Maybe next time.”

“All right,” John said, “if you insist. I guess you always being in the office is why everyone else is losing their shirt, but you all never have a losing quarter.”

Galvin laughed. “It’s because Anderson Global is the world’s best-kept secret.”

“That’s what they say.” Lyfe looked at his watch. “Listen gentlemen, have a good night.”

“Nice seeing you again,” Raymond said.

“Take care,” John added.

“Yeah.” Galvin nodded. “Hope to see you soon.”

Lyfe was aggravated as hell; not an ounce of his stress had dissolved. He sat in his Escalade wondering what he needed to do and where he needed to go. He knew that he didn’t want to go back to his hotel suite, because there was a chance he’d become enraged by his thoughts, catch a flight to California, and bust er’body’s ass. Deciding against that, Lyfe considered the office, but he really didn’t want to be there either. Then he thought that if he were at the office, at least he’d have something to do.

Hell with it.

“Late night?” the doorman said, tipping his hat and smiling as Lyfe entered into the lobby.

“Pretty much,” Lyfe threw over his shoulder, and headed toward the elevator bay.

Once upstairs he walked inside, stood in the middle of the dark floor, and looked around. This was purgatory. No two ways about it, but he’d have to find a way to sort through it, otherwise,
given the day he’d had, it was a clear indication that when all was said and done, he’d be headed for hell.

Lyfe hung up his coat and as he sat down at his desk his cell phone rang. He could tell by the ringtone that it wasn’t Payton calling this time. He slipped the phone from his pocket and checked the caller ID: Quinton. “Yeah, this is Lyfe.”

“Lyfe Carrington, wassup?” Quinton said, a little too goddamn jovial. The tone of his voice pissed Lyfe off.

“What is it?” Lyfe snapped.

“Damn,” Quinton said, taken aback, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’m just not in the mood for all of that smiling and shit you doing.”

“How did you know I was smiling?”

“ ’Cause I can hear it, motherfucker. Now, what is it? And by the way,” Lyfe said, not coming up for air, “where the fuck you been all week?”

“I been working, I been here in Cali—oh wait, I did skip to Vegas for an overnight. Why?”

“Because all of your clients are calling here and every time I tried to reach you, you were nowhere to be found.”

“What you want me to tell you, man? Hell, in between working and Vegas, I was bangin’ my wife and had my side jawn sucking my dick. Don’t be jealous ’cause you way out in New York hanging with your hands.”

Although Lyfe was pissed, he chuckled a bit.

“So wassup with you?” Quinton asked, “You out in one of the greatest cities in the world, no wife, no crying-ass kids, and you sounding mad as hell? Why?”

Lyfe hesitated, “Payton … flew out here and showed her fuckin’ ass.”

“What? She flew to New York? When?”

“Today.” Lyfe recapped for Quinton everything that went on, and then he said, “All behind an audit?”

“It’s not your department,” Quinton said seriously. “And maybe you need to listen to what she’s saying. It is her company.”

Lyfe was taken aback. “What the fuck are you saying to me? I’m heading an office and can’t even look at the records and make sure they are in order? That sounds right to you?” Lyfe snapped, “What the fuck is really going on, Q? And don’t give me no bullshit.”

“I don’t have no bullshit to give you. But you around here wondering why she’s flipping, well it’s because you’re being insubordinate.”

Lyfe laughed. “Have you lost your fucking mind? I’m her husband.”

“And she hired somebody else to handle what you’re trying to do. Who are you checking up on?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“You’re the one waging all of this shit. Leave it alone. Damn, why do you care so much? I told you a long time ago to use her ass for what she was worth and bounce. But naah, not you, you too upstanding for that shit.”

“It’s called morals, loving my wife, looking out for her company.”

“Well, how much do you love her ass right now?”

Silence.

“Exactly my point.”

“Listen,” Lyfe said, “I got other shit to do,” and he hung up, doing all he could to erase the conversation from his mind and get refocused. He turned on his computer and looked through the files Arri copied and scanned earlier this week. He remembered that he’d never given her the completed list of records that he needed, so he scribbled the remainder on a Post-it note and placed it on Arri’s computer.

Once Lyfe was back at his desk, he looked around the room and realized that being here at ten o’clock at night was a bunch of unequivocal and ridiculous bullshit. There was no way that he
wanted to be here, especially tonight, when he was stuck between wanting to fuck Arri and fuck
up
Payton.

Lyfe grabbed his coat and before the doorman could say a proper good night, he was gone.