Heaven Right Here Page 10

  “Now, don’t be too hard on hos,” Frieda said with a smile in her voice. “Some people could use that label on me.”

  Hope didn’t dare respond to that.

  “Besides, I feel more comfortable with the Giorgios and Shabachs. Your church friend is out of my league.”

  “Do you really believe that, Frieda? That you’re not good enough for a certain type of man?”

  A flicker of pain crossed Frieda’s face, but just as quickly disappeared.

  “I’ve already told Shabach I’d go to Darius’s party with him. You and Cy should come too.” Frieda resorted to her usual humor. “Maybe y’all could take some ecstasy and get your freak on.”

  “When it’s right, cousin,” Hope said softly, “love is the only ecstasy you need.”

  There was a slight hesitation before Frieda answered. “Whatever, Hope. I’m out.”

  Hope pushed her luck once more. “Will you be at church again tomorrow?”

  “I should have told you last Sunday that that wasn’t going to become a habit.”

  “Even if you and Shabach get serious?”

  “That’s not going to happen. He’s just a good time.”

  Again Hope was struck by the fact that Frieda refused to go out with an interested, potentially long-term mate in favor of a “good time.” What was that about?

  “All right then, girl. Be safe.”

  27

  LA’s Finest

  By nine PM, Bo, the caterers, and decorators had transformed the ten-thousand-square-foot Bel Air estate into a classy party central. Instrumental remixes of Darius’s music, interspersed with jazz and hip-hop beats, provided a fitting backdrop to the upwards of seventy-five people mingling in the place Bo and Darius called home. Groups gatheredin the theater room, den, and living room, and conversed in small groups in and around the pool and Jacuzzi. Darius strolled comfortably through the different sectors represented: celebrities,athletes, recording artists, a few gay members from KCCC, and many mutual friends from the gay community sprinkled among LA’s finest partygoers.Darius saw that one of his guests was gaining his share of attention from male and female alike: his bass player, Randall Smith. He slid open the patio door and stepped out to the pool area, where Randall lounged on a chaise, surrounded by admirers.

  But not everyone was in awe. Bo stood just to the right of the patio doors, able to take in the scene without being seen, nursing a Courvoisier and trying to calm the possessive tendencies toward Darius that even by his own standards had gotten out of hand. He attributed his heightened sensitivity to the custody battle with Stacy and hoped that what Darius believed was correct—that she was ready to cooperate with Darius regarding proper visitation rights with his son.

  One of the brothers from Kingdom Citizens sidled up next to him. “That’s a nice slab of bacon there,” he said, nodding toward Randall.

  “Yeah, and he can sizzle his Oscar Meyer ass right out of our house!” Bo hissed.

  “Calm down, wifey.” His eyes feasted on Randall. “That black is all that, but green does not become you.”

  Bo’s response was eyes rolled back in his head.

  “C’mon, girl, you need a shot of Alizé!”

  “Chile, I just need a shot of Darius alone. I’ll be all right.”

  Bo pushed his gay friend away in an annoyed manner, but truthfully the playful exchange had calmed his ire. I need to get a handle on my emotions and chill the bump out, he thought as he refreshed his straight-no-chaser glass of liquor. The truth was, Darius had done everything possible to make Bo feel secure. Just this morning they’d returned from a trip to Las Vegas to celebrate their wedding anniversary—a trip taken on a chartered jet, the night spent in a Caesars Palace penthouse, frontrow tickets to Céline’s latest show, and a private dinner catered by the renowned Wolfgang Puck. He had everything—and the man. And here he was, about to let jealousy get in the way.

  “Shiiiit,” he said, slamming back another shot of Courvoisier. “Why am I worrying…. I got this.”

  Frieda had something too—a hotshot gospel star on her arm—and she was loving every minute of it. From the time they had stepped through the door, glances had slid their way, the question of the identity of the lucky woman with Shabach no doubt on many of their minds. Frieda knew her dress was perfection: a skintight black mini with silver zippers by European designer DSquared. This was paired with a thigh-hugging pair of four-inch, shiny black boots, which, along with her Frederick’s of Hollywood push-up bra, revealed just enough toffee skin to send the men salivating. Her hair had been moussed to spike in places, and she’d applied her makeup in a dark, exotic fashion. Large silver hoops completed the ensemble … if you didn’t count her major accessory, Shabach.

  As for this accessory, Shabach did not disappoint. His appearance looked casual but had been carefully thought out: black Rocawear jeans with a dazzling white tank top, a perfect backdrop for the twenty-karat diamond S—similar to the Superman logo—that swung from a thick rope chain. He’d had his hair cut close to the scalp, a move that brought out his deep brown eyes and high, arching eyebrows. Ironically, from a distance, he and Darius bore a resemblance. But their close-cropped black naps, dark brown skin, and even, white teeth was where the similarities ended, unless one counted the streak of competitiveness that kept them both aiming higher and higher, when even the top wasn’t high enough.

  After greeting a few friends and even more fans, Shabach and Frieda took themselves on a selfguided tour through the estate. They walked through two living rooms, a great room, den, theater, library, dining room, and tea room, before reaching an atrium. Shabach said little as they passed room after luxuriously appointed room.

  “You know, this house is leased by the record company,” Frieda said casually.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Stacy told me.” Frieda sidled up to Shabach and put her head on his shoulder. “You know there’s no way he could have something better than you without help.”

  Shabach nodded. “True dat.”

  He pulled Frieda even closer to him, and she smiled. Stroking a man’s ego works every time, she thought, staving off Shabach’s bad mood she felt developing with every square inch of marble on which they walked. They continued in a maze of twists and turns, chatting easily before reaching a wing of the home that was locked.

  “This must be booty-bumpin’ headquarters,” Frieda whispered. “For D and his ‘girl.’”

  Shabach reached around and grabbed Frieda’s backside. “Yeah, and here’s a booty I want to bump right now.” He captured her mouth in a hungry kiss, even as his fingers ventured past the fabric to tear at the wispy thong underneath her short dress.

  “Ooh, baby, you know the right button to push,” Frieda panted. She pressed herself against his hardening erection as he pushed up the dress to expose her entire backside for his pleasure. He kneaded her cheeks and groaned.

  “I want you now,” Shabach demanded.

  “Come on,” Frieda prompted. “Let’s find a room so we can have our own private party!”

  They found a guest bedroom and closed the door. Meanwhile, the front door of the house opened, and in walked Hope and Stacy. The almost-never-sick Cy had caught a bug, so Hope had canceled their dinner plans with the Montgomerys. While Stacy would never wish illness on anybody, she was glad Hope was there. She just wished Bo wasn’t.

  “Maybe Tony’s here,” Hope said as she and Stacy walked farther inside the massive living quarters.

  “Maybe,” Stacy answered. She’d told Hope more than once that she and Tony were just friends. That didn’t stop the eternally matchmaking Mrs. Taylor from wishing for more.

  They’d dressed to impress, and while Hope’s chocolate-brown CK pantsuit was decidedly more conservative than Stacy’s electric-blue suede jumpsuit, both ladies turned heads as they entered. After accepting wine and sparkling water from the floating waiter, they headed toward the floor-to-ceiling glass panes and the pool beyond.

  “
This is stunning,” Hope said as they passed through the massive foyer and into the living room.

  “It’s okay,” Stacy said. “Stunning” would be when hers was the name on the letters coming in the mail.

  Hope cut her eyes at her downplaying friend. “Well, ‘okay’ looks like it could fit our penthouse inside three times.”

  They reached the sliding doors as Darius was walking in. “Ladies!” he said with sincere enthusiasm. He hugged them both, and before he could blink, Bo was standing beside him.

  “Hey, Hope. Hey, Spacey,” he cooed while placing a possessive arm around Darius.

  Stacy played it cool. “Hey, Little Bo Peep.”

  Darius let out the breath he’d been holding.

  “Can I take you ladies on the grand tour? Of course, Stacy’s been here before, but what about you, Hope?”

  “Oh, no, see to your other guests. Stacy and I will just make ourselves at home.”

  “So long as you don’t wear out your welcome,” Bo mumbled.

  “We can’t wear out what’s already worn out,” Stacy replied.

  Hope tugged on Stacy’s arm before World War III broke out. “Where’s the food?” she asked Darius.

  “There are waiters throughout. And if you follow the hallway to the other side of this wing, there’s a large spread in the dining room.” Darius smiled at Stacy. “If you don’t see what you like, find me. We can have Chef fix whatever you’d like.”

  Stacy’s smile lasted until they’d turned the corner. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” she said.

  “If you want to leave, we can,” Hope readily replied.

  Stacy was about to say yes, when two hundred and twenty pounds of “maybe not” walked toward them.

  “Hey, Tony!” Stacy said brightly.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” They hugged.

  “You remember Hope Taylor.”

  “Of course. How are you, Hope?”

  “Good. And I’ll be better with a little something in my stomach. Why don’t you two catch up while I find something to eat?”

  There was a moment of awkward silence as Stacy watched Hope’s retreating form while Tony watched Stacy.

  “You look very nice tonight,” he said to break the quiet.

  Stacy looked into dark brown eyes surrounded by tightly curled lashes. A well-groomed mustache framed cushy lips. “You do too,” she replied. While they’d talked on the phone, she hadn’t actually seen him since dinner at the Montgomerys’. Was he this fine before?

  “I’m sur—”

  “How do you—”

  They laughed at their obvious nervousness.

  Tony bowed his acquiesce. “Ladies first.”

  “I was asking how you knew Darius.”

  “I’ve seen him at a few parties. Backstage a couple times. Here and there. I’m kinda surprised to see you here, to tell you the truth.”

  “Why, because you think I’m still drooling over his receding back? Darius and I will always be bonded because of our child, Tony. But as I tried to explain to you, I’ve moved on.”

  The speech was so good that for the moment, both Stacy and Tony actually believed it.

  “What about you?” she continued. “That big, strong arm looks like it should be around a pair of soft shoulders. Where’s she at?”

  “I’m rolling solo tonight,” Tony countered smoothly, not fielding the obvious query as to his single-or-not status. “Are you hungry?”

  Stacy’s one-word answer had two meanings. “Yes.”

  28

  Marital Privileges

  The chicken wasn’t the only thing packing heat in the house. While Tony and Stacy went to assuage their appetites, there was another feast of love going on. On the other side of the house, down another hallway, and behind one closed door, two sweating bodies caused bedsprings to creak.

  Frieda grabbed the headboard as Shabach continued his rhythmic assault.

  “Who does this belong to, huh? Whose is this?” he asked.

  A prolonged moan was the only answer.

  Shabach delivered a final thrust. Frieda chirped like a parrot as an orgasm rocked her center. Shabach’s release quickly followed, punctuated by a hiss and a low growl.

  “Girl, you’re going to get me addicted to this,” Shabach teased once he’d caught his breath.

  Frieda said nothing, dealing with the dueling emotions she often felt after being with a man—happy she’d been able to turn a brothah out, and sad that afterward she felt so empty. Just like it had always been, from back in the day …

  Before her mind could roll back the clock to a time best forgotten, Frieda sat up and gazed at Shabach’s smooth, round cheeks backlit by the lamp on the nightstand. She reached out a finger to outline the symbol tattooed just above his buttocks.

  “What’s this?”

  “Huh?” Shabach moaned and barely stirred.

  “This.” Frieda’s fingers danced along the raised outline.

  “Girl, stop, that tickles.” Shabach rolled over. “It’s a combination of the Chinese signs for peace, prosperity, and power.”

  “You’ve got a tatoo promoting peace, yet you’re fighting with D? That’s jacked up, Shabach.”

  Shabach rolled over and walked toward the bathroom. “That’s over, girl. Now get in here and take a shower with me. It’s time for me to get back out there and meet my public.”

  Stacy sat in a corner of the plush ballroom, feeling rejected. After about ten minutes of pleasant conversation, a very attractive sistah with whom Tony was obviously friends had butted into their conversation and asked if she could steal him away and introduce him to someone. Instead of passing on the invite, he’d turned, held out his hand, and said, “Take it easy, Stacy.” Now all she wanted to do was take her butt home.

  So here she sat, watching Darius hold court as if he were royalty and Bo flit around as if he were Darius’s shadow. Throughout the night, she’d tried several times to talk to Darius. Their conversation had been pleasant but continually interrupted. Hope had met a junior partner in a real estate firm who’d done business with Cy. This mutual interest had paved the way for a conversation between them that had lasted until now. And after two hours in the home of the man she loved but seemed unable to have, Stacy was ready to go. She decided to use the restroom before wrangling Hope away from her new friend. After a few moments, she found a bathroom near her. As she reached for the handle, the door opened.

  “Frieda! Are you just getting here?” Stacy asked.

  Frieda would have blushed if she could. “No, I’ve been here a while. Have you been able to play footsie with Baby Daddy?”

  “Don’t I wish. I can barely get near him without Bo hovering like a mother hen.

  “It was crazy of me to think I could get some real alone time at a party Darius was hosting anyway. I’m not the only one Bo is fighting off. I saw him giving the evil eye to Randall a few times.”

  “Girl, stop! Don’t tell me that fine, tall drink of hot chocolate is gay?”

  “Okay, so I won’t tell you. Rumor has it, though, that he swings both ways.”

  “That is wrong on so many levels. He is too fine to be wasting that stick on another man.”

  “Don’t even get me started on that subject. Anyway, I’m getting ready to leave. Just decided to use the restroom before hitting the freeway.”

  Frieda looked at Stacy’s tired red eyes. “You’re not drinking and driving, are you?”

  “No, I’m here with Hope. You know she barely drinks. I think she made it through half a glass of bubbly before she switched to sparkling water.”

  “Cy’s here? Now, that’s a surprise. I don’t see Darius and company as his kind of crowd.”

  “Cy is home with the flu. Hope and I came all by our lonelies.”

  “Well, good for her. It’s about time she stopped acting like an old married woman.”

  Just then Shabach turned into the hallway. “There you are, woman. Come meet my manager.” He sidled up to Frieda and whispered
loudly. “Then I might be ready for an encore.”

  Before Stacy could form a hello, much less a question, Shabach had whisked Frieda down the hall and around the corner.

  That girl can get any man she wants, Stacy thought glumly as she closed the bathroom door behind her. While the one man I want is in love with another one.

  A little while later, Hope and Stacy said their good-byes. Stacy made it a point to find Darius, confirm their arrangements for little Darius tomorrow, and give him a hug—in front of Bo—to show that she was not intimidated by their wedding rings or Bo’s shriveled thing. She waved at a few others and chatted for a brief moment with one of the brothahs from KCCC. As she made these rounds, a pair of eyes followed her intently. He discovered that once she was gone, she wasn’t easily forgotten.

  Hope tiptoed into the master suite and walked directly to her large walk-in closet and dressing room. More than once she’d marveled that her old apartment’s living room could almost fit inside here. She shut the door, turned on the light, and undressed quickly. Naked, she exited the dressing room and turned into the master bath, which was right next door. Dreaming of sleep, she made quick work of her shower and then donned a thigh-length nightgown and slipped into bed.

  Once her head hit the pillow, however, it was quickly revealed that someone else had other plans.

  “Mmmm, you’re so soft,” Cy whispered as he cuddled up behind her, spoon style. “And you smell so good.”

  Hope responded by wiggling her booty against him, grabbing his arm to place it around her, and burrowing her head deeper into the pillow.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?” Cy persisted.

  “Mmmm-hmmm.”

  “Well, can I enjoy myself now?”

  Hope smiled and pulled his arm tighter. “I’m sleepy, Cy.”

  “Okay,” Cy said. “I understand.”

  He rolled over and got out of bed.

  Poor baby, Hope thought. Having to watch TV so he can fall asleep. Fighting off guilt from not giving her man what he wanted, she reasoned to make it up tomorrow night—give him a double dose of loving.

  Suddenly Hope felt a current of air on her lower leg as the comforter was lifted up from the foot of the bed. Seconds later, the feeling of air was replaced by that of Cy’s tongue slowly circling her big toe while his hands roamed her legs.