All Up In My Business Read online

  Hands on hips, the usually calm Alexis brushed aside the attendant and placed a quarter in the slot. “You cannot put a ticket on a car that is parked legally, and this car is now parked legally. So your ticket is null and void!” When she was really angry, a slight accent from summertimes spent with her St. Croix paternal grandparents surfaced. Now was one of those times. Her words were clipped and precise, her voice raised.

  “Look, I’ve had just about enough of you,” the short, slightly overweight officer said with a huff. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll have you arrested!”

  Toussaint, who’d been observing this exchange in rapt amusement, hurried to the scene. He’d enjoyed seeing a complete stranger come to his, or rather his Mercedes’s, defense—had enjoyed watching her give attitude. Not to mention he’d appreciated watching her ample breasts heave with her movements, loved how her thick booty filled the back of her jeans. Yes, he’d enjoyed the show and the scenery but didn’t want to see the sistah get arrested.

  “Officer, there’s no need for that. If you’ll give me the ticket, I’ll be on my way.” Toussaint’s comment was directed toward the officer, but his dazzling smile was on Alexis. “Thanks for defending me. That was impressive.”

  “Toussaint?” For the first time since the encounter began, the officer stopped punching his pad.

  Toussaint turned to look at the officer. “Greg?”

  “Man, how are you doing?”

  The two men did a soul brother’s handshake.

  “I can’t complain.” Toussaint looked at the ticket machine. “At least not too much.”

  The parking meter officer looked embarrassed. “Aw, man, I wish I’d known. I’ve already processed it so, you know … maybe call the office.”

  “Oh, so if you’d known it was him”—Alexis whirled on Toussaint—”whoever you are”—and then back to the officer—”you wouldn’t have written the ticket? Is that how things work? Not what you know but who you know? So Mr. Mercedes gets off scott-free if he knows somebody, but Ms. Infiniti here has to pay?” Alexis was now as angry that the officer might not give the ticket as she was when he was determined to give it.

  “My goodness, we’re feisty,” Toussaint said, his flirty eyes scanning Alexis’s body with admiration. “If it makes you feel better, baby, I’ll pay the ticket. And I want to thank you for defending my honor by taking you to dinner.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Toussaint Livingston. And you are?”

  “Out of here,” Alexis said as she turned to walk away. The man was obviously some muckety-muck who got life handed to him on a silver platter. People who got passes like that got on her nerves. His deep-set brown eyes, long curly eyelashes, wink of a dimple, and thick juicy lips had gotten on her nerves as well. She didn’t have time for … none of that.

  “But wait.” Toussaint hurried after her. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “But it’s just dinner!”

  “I’m not hungry.” With that, Alexis crossed the street and disappeared into downtown Atlanta’s morning rush crowd.

  Malcolm laughed as Toussaint finished his story. “She left you hanging, just like that? Alexis is a smart, talented designer, but that feisty filly you described doesn’t sound like the woman I know.”

  “You haven’t seen her fire, my married brother, but I have. And I want to fan that flame. This is the same woman. I’d know her anywhere.”

  “You mean you want to know her. But it doesn’t sound like that feeling is mutual.” Malcolm laughed again at the thought of his Don Juan brother being rejected. That didn’t happen often. No wonder he was curious.

  “Can I hang on to this?” Toussaint said, placing the folder under his arm as he stood and drained his glass. “I think it’s about time for me to redo my house.”

  After Toussaint left, Malcolm poured himself another brewski and then settled himself into one of the room’s oversized recliners. He opened up the arm, revealing an array of buttons that operated every electronic feature in the room. Smiling, he pushed the first button. A smooth pulley system began retracting a deep navy curtain along one wall, revealing a 125-inch screen. Malcolm popped the remote control out of its recessed cradle, also in the arm, and turned on the set. The television was set on ESPN2, and tennis was playing. It didn’t matter to Malcolm. Aside from polo and maybe swimming, he’d never met a sport he didn’t like.

  Ah, yeah, that Nadal dude is bad. He watched the tall, muscled Spaniard race across the baseline and backhand a volley across the net. The crowd went wild, and the player clenched his fence. Malcolm noted Nadal’s opponent was the equally talented Roger Federer. Malcolm reached for a bowl of salty pretzels, ready to enjoy a quiet Sunday afternoon watching the Wimbledon final. He turned up the volume, smiling. This is going to be good.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” Brittany, Malcolm’s rambunctious six-year-old, came bounding down the stairs. On her heels were his three-year-old twins. “We want to go shopping, get some ice cream. Can you take us? Please!”

  “Where’s your mama?” Malcolm asked, his eyes not leaving the screen. God knew that he loved his children, but he’d be lying if he said there weren’t times when he didn’t long for the good ole bachelor days. Like now, when he wanted to chill and watch TV—alone.

  “She said she’s tired. She told us to ask you!”

  Malcolm fought to not show his irritation. Britt saw everything. One hint of a frown and she’d turn into the Enquirer, asking why he was mad at her or her mother. He swore the child was psychic, because as quiet as he and Victoria tried to keep their ever-increasing disagreements, Britt always seemed to sense their discontent.

  “Look, Daddy’s tired too. Let me rest awhile, finish watching this game, and then I’ll take y’all out somewhere.”

  The twins begged to stay downstairs with him, but he bribed them into returning upstairs. Now he had to get ice cream and toys. Malcolm thought about his wife and this time didn’t try to hide his frown. What’s really going on with you, Victoria? You’ve been acting strange for the past couple months. Ever since … Malcolm abruptly turned off the set, poured the almost-full mug of draft beer down the bar sink’s drain, and walked up the steps. Thinking about his marital situation had darkened his mood, especially as he thought of his footloose and fancy-free single brother. He imagined that even now Toussaint was making a date with the sexy interior designer at whom Malcolm could only look and not touch.

  I love being married with children, Malcolm concluded as Brittany, the twins, and the oldest son, Justin, piled into his SUV and they headed to Lenox Square. But I don’t like it all of the time.

  2

  Adam Livingston loved the taste of her thighs. Tender on the inside and crispy on the outside, nobody could fry chicken better than Candace, his wife. Even now—after living and working together for more than three decades—his mouth still watered at the thought of this juicy, dark meat. Whether the succulent morsels on his dinner plate or those he hovered over when between the sheets, Candace knew how to please him. Unfortunately, the way she sexed him and handled a bird aside, Adam knew that Candace in the kitchen wasn’t necessarily a good thing. His wife rarely cooked these days, preferring instead to either eat at one of their restaurants or have their on-call personal chef whip up an intimate lunch or dinner with guests. Now, when Candace graced the kitchen with her presence, it usually meant a conversation was coming regarding something he’d rather not discuss with her—namely her extravagant spending sprees, plastic surgery, or the ongoing competition between their sons.

  Technically, money wasn’t a problem. The restaurant his parents had opened in Atlanta fifty years ago had grown into a soul food empire, with ten highly successful restaurants in seven Southern states. Additionally, the barbeque sauce his grandfather had created—which was slathered on their most popular menu item, baby back ribs—had been sold in grocery stores nationwide for the past five years. Still, Candace could spend money faster than Usain Bolt could run the hun
dred-yard dash. Just last year she’d renovated their kitchen to the tune of fifty thousand dollars, had their backyard relandscaped to resemble the scenic islands they’d visited on their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and had one of the guest bedrooms converted to a closet to handle her almost daily jaunts to Nordstrom, Bloomingdale’s, and Saks. These renovations had increased the value of their mansion and had made Candace happy. So Adam hadn’t complained … too much.

  And when it came to plastic surgery, Adam thought his wife had had enough. She’d always been beautiful in his eyes, ever since he saw her walking across the Clark Atlanta campus back in the seventies. She’d looked like a Fashion Fair model to him that day, her dark caramel skin enhanced by the beige mini she wore along with similarly colored thigh-high boots. Her long, thick hair had matched the sway of her hips as she’d casually chatted with a friend. A couple days later, when he saw her in the cafeteria, he’d immediately gone over and introduced himself. She was even finer up close than she’d been from a distance, and after taking one look into the almond-shaped brown eyes that sat above a wide yet nicely shaped nose and luscious lips, Adam had gotten the distinct impression that he was looking at the mother of his children. This feeling proved prophetic—Candace became pregnant during her junior year, when Adam was a senior. They’d married that summer and welcomed their oldest, Malcolm LeMarcus, the following December.

  Even after having their second son, Toussaint Lamont, Candace stayed slim. When she hit her forties and finally gained thirty pounds that didn’t shed easily, Adam still thought she was fine. She was five foot seven, and to him, the extra weight hardly showed. Candace hadn’t seemed that bothered by it, either, until her sister-in-law, his twin brother’s wife, Diane, had commented on Candace being “fat” during a family get-together and had suggested liposuction as a quick way to take the weight off in time for their cruise to the Fiji Islands. Candace had been so pleased with the results that a tummy tuck soon followed, and breast implants followed that.

  Any brothah would be pleased to squeeze a set of firm titties, even if he’d had to pay for them, and Adam was no exception. But a couple weeks ago, when Candace started complaining about her wide nose, Adam had shut her down immediately. “You’re becoming addicted to this shit,” he’d warned. “If you don’t stop cutting on the body God gave you, you’re going to become as obsessed as Michael Jackson was, may he rest in peace. You look fine, Can. Give it a rest.” So he hoped she’d gotten the message, because he didn’t intend to pay the highly skilled and equally expensive cut-and-paste doctor another dime.

  That left the topic of his and Candace’s sons. The midyear company meeting was in two weeks, right after Juneteenth, so Candace probably wanted to butter him up regarding some plan in the works—probably another of Toussaint’s outlandish ideas. Adam loved his youngest son, but he swore that boy didn’t have a fear bone in his body. Where Malcolm was more like Adam, in looks and demeanor, Toussaint was definitely his mother’s child. Like her, he was brilliant, but he’d also inherited her impulsiveness and flamboyance. Toussaint had run an idea by him some months ago, an idea that Adam had nipped in the bud as quickly as he had Candace’s nose-job suggestion. “We’re trying not to have to sell the company, son,” he’d patiently explained. “And to not take on more debt.” Adam wasn’t sure how the other players would feel about constructing more Taste of Soul locations across the country, but he hoped that his and Candace’s vote would be the same—no f’ing way. The more Adam thought about it, however, the more he thought this might be exactly why he smelled chicken frying. Damn, I have too much on my mind to argue with Candace about this right now.

  One thing on his mind was the e-mail he’d just received on his smartphone from the woman who’d been trying to seduce him for the past two years. He’d met Joyce Witherspoon in the clubhouse after a golf outing. They had exchanged business cards, because she’d told Adam of her plans to start an event-planning business, and she wanted to contract with Taste of Soul as one of the catering partners. Her e-mails had slowly gone from strictly business to potential pleasure, even as she launched the successful, high-profile business that kept the Taste of Soul catering arm busy. Adam was flattered, and Joyce was attractive, but he had told her that he was happily married. Joyce’s response had been quick and witty. “You’re married, but are you flexible?” He assured her that there was no room in his bed for a third party, but she continued her erotic banter in various phone calls and e-mails. Adam reread Joyce’s detailed description of what she wanted to do to him with her mouth and then pushed DELETE. He had always been faithful but could no longer ignore the fact that Joyce’s constant flirtations and adoration was wearing him down.

  I’ve got to do something about this … and soon. Adam picked up the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and pulled out the sports section, determined to take his mind off of Joyce’s blatant suggestion. The only woman who’d be putting her mouth anywhere on him was cooking dinner in his kitchen.

  Candace Livingston poured melted butter into the baking pan and then sparsely coated each buttermilk biscuit with the warm liquid before spacing the dough out evenly in the bottom of the pan. She loved cooking, especially now that she didn’t do it often. It was a love she’d inherited from the grandmother who’d helped support a family of four by cooking for an affluent family in their hometown of Birmingham, Alabama. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Amanda Long would tell Candace as she whipped up a slap-your-mama pound cake or an oh-no-you-didn’t peach cobbler.

  Candace smiled at the memory of those kitchen counseling sessions. Adam may think it was her small waist and big booty that had captured his heart, but Candace knew it was those candied yams and collard greens she’d fixed while they were dating. But somewhere between the birth of their first son and the opening of their second restaurant, the thrill had gone. She’d worked long, arduous hours at the Buckhead location, in the same tony suburb where they lived, and while it had been a labor of love, her joy for fixing food had been replaced with repulsion. There’d been days when she’d thought that if she fried, smothered, or baked another thing, she’d lose her mind.

  Tonight she cooked with love, purpose … and just a little guilt. Love because when it came to cooking, she knew she could throw down. Adam loved food, and her fried chicken was his favorite. Purpose because she thought Toussaint’s latest idea was a stroke of genius, that the timing for said idea was perfect, that Adam would surely be against it, and that if anybody could change his mind she could, by using various types of thighs. And guilt because a married woman of respectable society, with grown sons and grandchildren, had no business thinking about the things she’d been thinking about the past two weeks. You have a good life, she chided herself while turning over a perfectly seasoned, perfectly crisp piece of chicken. Women would kill to be in your shoes. Then she thought of her options, the special project that had been placed before her, and couldn’t deny the excitement that thinking about it caused. As she set the table, lit the candles, and called her husband to a meal fit for a king, Candace knew she had some decisions to make. And she also knew that one wrong move, at any given moment, could turn her life upside down.

  3

  “Hey, Ace, how you livin’?” Malcolm poured himself a glass of cold lemon water as he sat next to his uncle. Adam’s twin brother was named Abram, but everybody called him Ace, including his nephews and his children.

  “Can’t complain,” Ace answered, looking around the room. There was a steady hum of voices as the players in the Taste of Soul restaurant empire conversed among themselves and waited for the midyear company planning meeting to begin. The bright and cheerful conference room décor, consisting of leather, mahogany, silk-covered walls, and freshly cut flowers, contrasted with the quiet atmosphere.

  Zoe Williams, Ace’s executive assistant and the taker of meeting minutes, entered the room and sat next to Ace’s daughter. “I love that suit,” she said, managing to set down a purse, folders, and an
iPad without spilling the cup of coffee also in her hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.” Zoe had commented on the suit just to make small talk and to keep from staring at the person who seemed to take all of the air whenever they were in the same room—Toussaint Livingston. While working to breathe normally, she tried to look sufficiently interested as her boss’s daughter, who was home on break from studying abroad, went on and on about clothes Zoe couldn’t afford. All Zoe wanted to do was stare at her boss’s nephew and figure out how to go from Ace’s assistant to Toussaint’s wifey. Among the other non-Livingstons present, however, was the marketing manager, the woman Zoe would have to crawl over to climb into Toussaint’s bed.

  “Sorry for the delay,” Adam said as he walked through the double doors of the large conference room. “That was an emergency call from our Dallas location. On top of the major challenges we’re already facing, one of the cooks suffered a severe burn and was transported to the hospital by ambulance.”

  A variety of responses were heard around the room.

  “Why couldn’t he have been driven to the hospital by one of the employees?” money-conscious Malcolm asked. “Did the brother burn his feet up?”

  A couple at the table snickered but quickly stopped when Adam cut them a sobering look. “This is serious,” he admonished Malcolm. “Somehow, one of the large pots of hot grease tipped over, and this young man suffered third-degree burns on more than thirty percent of his body. He’s got a long and painful road ahead, filled with surgery, skin grafting, and rehabilitation. Zoe, get me his information as soon as this meeting is over and book me a flight to Dallas for tomorrow afternoon. Oh, and send flowers,” Adam added. “As for the rest of you, please keep this young man in your prayers.”