Dangerously In Love (21 page)

T
he room was small and barren. No frills. There was just a massage table and a wicker shelf nailed to the wall, which was filled with numerous bottles of lotions and oils that emitted a pleasant citrus scent.

“Take off,” the girl said, then looked down.

“What?”
Speak English
, he wanted to implore.

With an unhappy upturned face, she repeated the two-word request.

Reed patted his shirt and then his pants. The girl nodded. “Right back,” she said sulkily, and promptly left the room.

In a flash, Reed was naked and lying on his back. He thought about the masseuse. The girl seemed so sad and unpleasant, he wondered if she was working there against her will. He’d read about the Asian mobsters who supplied a steady stream of women from China. They forced them to work for free in the network of Chinese brothels here in the States until they paid off the price of their airline ticket and the money spent for their room and board.

Yes, the girl was probably a sex slave, Reed thought, liking the idea. He reached down and stroked himself to hardness, wondering how much it cost to get his own personal Asian sex slave.

A few minutes later, the young woman returned with a towel folded across her arm. She took a look at Reed’s erect member and her face scrunched up into a frown. “Wrong way,” she said in a harsh voice, then gestured for him to turn over.

Reed reluctantly complied. “You got me lying on my kickstand,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m not comfortable lying on my stomach.” He sat up.

The masseuse didn’t understand a word he said. “Half-hour massage,” she replied. “Five dolla extra for hot oil,” she continued as if reading from a script.

“Massage this.” Reed pointed to his hardness. “No hot oil!”

The girl fled the room and returned with the matronly woman, who’d lost her twinkling smile. “What wrong?” she asked Reed, pretending not to notice his now semi-hard-on.

“How much extra for sex?”

“No sex!” the woman said sternly, and waved a finger for emphasis.

“What do you mean, no sex?” Reed asked in a calm but menacing voice. “You said if I tip the girl I could get something extra.”

“Hot oil massage…you tip girl. Warm towel rubdown…you tip girl, but no sex with girl,” she insisted, standing her ground.

“You said whatever happened in here was between me and the girl,” Reed said, beginning a slow seethe.

“Yes.” She nodded her head. “With experience girl. This new girl,” she pointed to the little waif. “We break her in.” The woman was now smiling but the young girl maintained a solemn expression with her head slightly bowed.

I’d like to break her in
, he thought maliciously. “Well, I don’t want her if she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Send in another girl—and make sure she can speak English.”

The woman began fussing at the girl in Chinese and pinched her arm for good measure before they exited the room. The girl yelped and Reed was satisfied that she’d been sufficiently punished for causing him such aggravation.

He was also aroused, wishing the woman had allowed him the pleasure of inflicting a fair amount of pain upon the girl. He had to admit he had developed some sadistic tendencies and was finding it increasingly difficult to limit himself to ordinary sex.

A few minutes later, the door opened and the tallest of the three young women entered. “I’m Nancy,” she said, smiling.

It was a strange name for a Chinese woman, probably fake like Amy, but Reed really didn’t give a damn.

“No massage?” Nancy wanted to know.

“No massage,” he confirmed. Then added, “No hot oil, just sex.”

“Awww!” She covered her mouth and fell out laughing like Reed had cracked a big joke. “No sex! Topless massage for extra.”

A topless damn massage!
“That’s all you’re offering?” he asked, still unconvinced that he couldn’t pay for sexual intercourse.

“Hot oil massage, five dolla. Topless massage, twenty dolla. You pay extra.” Nancy gave a weary smile.

Reed was tired, too. Tired of hearing the heavy accents, tired of arguing with women about sex. He jumped off the table. “I want a refund; go tell that woman to give me my money back.”

“No refund,” Nancy said sadly, shaking her head.

“Yes refund,” Reed said, clenching his fists menacingly.

“Okay, handjob fifty more dolla. How ’bout that?”

“Blowjob,” Reed suggested. “Now, how about that?”

“Too big!” She pointed at his penis and shook her head.

“You Chinese people with your broken English try to pretend like you’re so innocent. But I’m not stupid.” Reed paused, waiting for Nancy to protest. She didn’t, her expression was blank, and so he continued. “I realized something tonight. You people are nothing but bunch of scam artists, always trying to beat a brother out of his hard-earned cash,” Reed fumed as he went to his pants to extract an additional fifty dollars.

Nancy tucked the money away fast and quietly reached for one of the bottles on the wicker shelf. “Relax,” she told Reed as she shook a generous amount of oil into her cupped palm.

Lightly squeezing his member, she slowly moved her hand up and down his shaft. “Ah. This is very big; very nice,” she murmured. Her voice, no longer annoying, was now soothing. She increased the speed and the pressure, murmuring softly.

It was a real turn on—the foreign language and the squishy sounds made by the friction and oil. Reed’s sexual tension mounted as Nancy whispered to him in Chinese. Breathing hard, Reed pumped hard into her oil-lubricated fist.

Past the point of rational restraint, he clamped his hand around the back of her neck and held it in a powerful grip.

“Suck it!” Reed insisted, applying more pressure and tightening the stranglehold on her thin neck. Under his fingers, he could feel her pulse quicken; her fear and vulnerability inciting him to cross the line that separates man from beast.

He was motivated now by the single-minded quest to find a warm moist place to deposit his sperm. He dug his nails into the Asian woman’s neck and growled through clenched teeth, “Open your fuckin’ mouth!”

With her throat constricted, the poor woman was unable to scream. Her fear-filled eyes bulged and wept. Unwilling to completely submit, she fought silently, twisting and thrashing, arms flailing as she tried to claw her assailant.

But when Reed’s raging knuckles crashed against the side of her face, Nancy could no longer oppose the unrelenting force of the dark rigid flesh. She gagged and choked to no avail; the rock-hard shaft determinedly pushed past her lips and invaded her mouth, unstoppable until it pressed against a soft barricade of tonsils.

“Ahhh!” Reed groaned as he made his deposit—a gush of thick milky fluid that streamed down the Asian woman’s throat.

When he came to his senses, he expected the masseuse to run screaming from the room, accusing him of being a vile pillager, a rapist, scum! Reed’s frantic eyes searched the barren room for something he could use as a weapon to defend himself against the three women he expected to burst through the door at any moment. He had a horrible vision of the female battalion of three, hoodied up like ninja warriors—shrieking war cries, wielding nunchakus, and hurling poisonous ninja stars.

Astonishingly, an atmosphere of calm permeated the small room. Nancy wiped her mouth with a towel and then dabbed her teary eyes. “Hundred dolla extra,” she said, completely composed.

Reed gave her two hundred dollars. Hush money, just in case.

Back in his car, safe from harm, Reed started up the engine and thought about the massage parlor episode. He couldn’t control his savage behavior; he was a sexfiend—no doubt about it. But he was perplexed by Nancy’s willingness to keep it on the low. Shrugging, he supposed she was abiding by some Chinese code of honor, some antiquated need to save face. After all, how could she remain in her kinfolks’ good graces after swallowing a black man’s cum?

The session with Nancy was like an appetizer. His dick was still hard and he felt hornier than ever. He needed a depraved sex experience and the yearning scorched his loins. What he now required was a sex slave.

Reed wondered if he could find one on the Internet.
No, fuck that!
That kind of search could take days or even weeks. For the time being, he’d have to find a hooker from Philly. He needed someone he could connect with tonight.

Reed let out a loud guffaw. Finding a playmate should be easy enough; it was his world. His money could buy anything.

He pushed a button and music blared from the speakers. He turned a dial to put his music on blast. Feeling good, feeling powerful, Reed accelerated out of the lot.

“
S
pirit!” The beautiful forty-something yoga instructor dramatically spoke the word while moving with the grace of a dancer. “The word
spirit
means breath.” She paused, seeming to look Dayna in the eyes. “And together, spirit and breath create life.” The woman was convincing. She looked strong, lean, and healthy, as if she’d never ingested anything inorganic in her entire life.

“You cannot imagine the power of proper breathing,” she concluded. “Now, remember…breathe through your nose. Take a long, slow, deep breath, hold it, for ten seconds, then exhale.”

A collective intake of breath sounded in the large gymnasium. Sitting on her mat, her spine erect, Dayna took a deep breath, but couldn’t hold it longer than a few seconds. She wondered why a simple thing like breathing was suddenly so hard. She cut a curious eye at her mother, who sat next to her. With her eyes closed, wearing an expression of inner peace, her mom seemed to be doing just fine. Good. At least one of them was feeling peaceful.

“Maybe we should take a yoga class. We could both benefit from the relaxation,” Pamela Hinton had said the day before. Wanting to support her mother in anything that would distract her from pining for Dayna’s dad (who had recently confirmed that he and his wife were expecting a baby), Dayna had agreed to take the class in the gymnasium of a local high school.

Surprisingly, Dayna’s mother did not fall apart. The news that her ex-husband was starting a family seemed to give her closure and the strength to rebuild her life.

Dayna closed her eyes again. She tried to concentrate on breathing, but rapid eye-blinking became a problem. She gave up, opened her eyes, and peeked around. She noticed that everyone else in the class seemed to have the hang of it. The instructor smiled at Dayna, her eyes radiating patience and understanding.

Suddenly her cell phone squawked. Dayna was mortified; she’d thought the phone was on vibrate. Startled eyes popped open and stared at her—the peace-breaking culprit. Embarrassed, she fumbled through her bag to shut off the blasted thing, but unable to find it, she grabbed her bag and rushed out into the corridor.

“Hello,” she said in a breathy whisper after she retrieved and flipped open the phone.

“Gurrrl…” It was Cecily, sounding typically exuberant as if she had the most exciting news in the world to share.

“What’s up? I’m in a yoga class,” Dayna whispered with a tinge of annoyance that she hoped would encourage Cecily to quickly get to the point.

“A yoga class! Stretching into those painful positions?”

“Yes, I’m with my mom. We’re working on breathing right now. I’m out in the hallway, but I think I’m disturbing the class.”

“Can you go outside for a second?”

“Why?”

“Gotta run something by you.”

Dayna sighed, but started walking toward the exit sign. Actually, talking to Cecily was a better deal than the impossible task of deep breathing. “Okay, but make it fast. If I don’t hurry back; my mom is gonna have a conniption fit.”

“Okay, listen. Kendrick asked me to call you because your new friend…” Cecily paused and made the sound of a drum roll with her tongue, “Ammon Abdullah,” she said with a lilt in her voice, “has been anxiously awaiting your call.”

Dayna’s heart did a pleasant flip at the sound of Ammon’s name. His full name, Ammon Abdullah, which she was hearing for the first time, had a very nice ring to it.

“Ammon painted a mural on a wall somewhere in West Philly…”

“Uh-huh,” Dayna said, indicating Cecily should continue.

“On Haverford Avenue, or was it Parkside Avenue? I forget, but anyway, his mural won an award. He’s being honored by the mayor at a really glitzy affair downtown at the Bellevue Stratford. He wants to take you as his date.”

Suddenly incapable of breathing, Dayna inhaled deeply and held her breath until she felt her chest expanding. “Are you serious? He wants me to be his date?” She felt lightheaded and giddy.

“Yes! We’re all going together. Me, you, Kendrick, and Ammon! Isn’t that exciting?” Cecily began to scream like a teenager. Had her mother not been within earshot, trying to achieve a state of nirvana, Dayna would have broken into a happy dance and harmonized with Cecily’s joyful scream.

“Now hurry up and call him so we can go shopping to pick out something fabulous to wear.”

“I’m scared,” Dayna whispered. “I can’t remember the last time I called a man. Anyway, I gotta get back to the class.”

“Gurrrl…” This time there was the hint of a threat in the word. “If you don’t call that man right now.” Cecily paused and chuckled. “I’m gonna drive over to that class and twist your body up like a pretzel! And I guarantee you that yoga teacher you’re so eager to get back to won’t be able to undo the damage.”

“All right, Cecily. Tell Kendrick I’m gonna give Ammon a call in an hour.”

“An hour! Come on Dayna, call the man now!”

“The class doesn’t let out for another half-hour,” Dayna explained. “Cecily, I have to go. I’m gonna call him at two o’ clock. I promise.”

After the class, parched from all that inhaling and exhaling, Dayna and her mother bought tall Styrofoam cups of fresh carrot juice from a man who had set up a stand in the back of the gym. Sipping the juice, which was surprisingly tasty, Dayna stood in the background while her mother mingled with the other lingering participants.

Pretty and petite, Pamela Hinton had long, gray-streaked black hair. Dayna observed her mother as she interacted with people she’d just met. She felt satisfied in the knowledge that with or without the status of being the wife of prominent attorney Joshua Hinton, her mother would always be the quintessential social butterfly.

Dayna gave her mother a proud smile. She glanced down at her watch and was shocked that it was already one-forty-five. With only fifteen minutes to make the scheduled phone call, Dayna’s heart did a double flip
. Should I call at two o’clock sharp or wait until about two-fifteen?
Although she didn’t know the appropriateness of calling a man at the exact appointed time, she knew one thing with certainty…she wasn’t going to call Ammon until she was in a private place, preferably in her own bedroom or somewhere where she could close a door.

Dayna shot an impatient look at her mother, who was now chatting with the yoga instructor and appeared oblivious to her daughter’s anxious frame of mind.

Dayna finished the juice and then traipsed across the room to toss the empty Styrofoam cup. She caught her mother’s eye, gave her a long anguished look, and began to wring her hands in anxiety.

Mercifully, her mother bid her new yoga friends farewell and hurried to her daughter’s side. “What’s wrong, honey?”

Hmmm. She hadn’t prepared an excuse. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she blurted, sounding like a two-year-old.

“There’s a bathroom at the top of the stairs, Dayna.” Her mother sounded slightly annoyed.

“I know, Mom. But I
really
have to go,” she said, telling a little white lie.

“Oh!” her mother said, finally getting it. Dayna would
never
move her bowels in a public place. “Come on, Sweetie, let’s get you home. I don’t want you to get constipated.”

Sliding in her mother’s car; Dayna maintained a facial expression of extreme discomfort. To get her mother to really press down on the gas pedal, Dayna winced and rubbed her stomach. Admittedly, there were certain benefits to being the child instead of the parent.

She looked at Ammon’s business card.
Home phone, cell phone—which one should I call?
It was ten minutes after two and Dayna still hadn’t made the call. She decided to call Cecily instead.

“Help me out.”

“Out of what? Have you talked to Ammon?”

“No. I need you to call him for me.”

“Why?” Cecily balked. “You’re a grown woman, stop acting like a child.”

“Cecily, I can’t. Please do this for me. Just call him and make up some reason why I can’t call him. Give him my number and tell him to call me.”

“This is so pathetic. I’ll do it, but I’m only doing it because I want to get dressed up and go to the ball.”

“The ball! I thought we were going—”

“That’s just an expression. Calm down. I don’t even think there’s such a thing as a ball anymore. We’re invited to an event held in a hotel ballroom. Relax, Dayna. Jeez!”

Dayna exhaled and gave Cecily Ammon’s number.

Then the gnawing thought that she hadn’t disclosed her marital status began to bother her terribly.
He didn’t ask!
she reminded herself.

The deep breathing technique she’d practiced in yoga class came in handy while she was waiting for Ammon to call. The sudden ring of her cell phone jolted her, but she said, “Hello,” in a voice that was calm and clear.

“How are you, Dayna; this is Ammon.”

“Hi!” she said, sounding surprised and happy.

“This is kind of embarrassing, being that it’s so last minute and everything…” Ammon lapsed into silence and Dayna didn’t know what to say to fill the gap. “Your friend Cecily said she told you about the award ceremony…”

“Oh yes,” Dayna piped in.

“Uh, I don’t usually attend those types of events, but Kendrick thinks I could use the publicity to sell more of my paintings. You know what I mean?”

Dayna nodded as if Ammon could see her. “It can’t hurt,” she said, unable to come up with anything clever or profound.

“So, do you think you can make it? It’s next weekend, Saturday night at seven.”

“Sure, I’d love to,” she said sincerely. “Oh, by the way, where exactly is your mural?”

“Ah, the mural’s on the corner of Forty-Sixth and Haverford.” Ammon laughed self-consciously; Dayna found his modesty endearing. “It’s painted on the exposed side of a multi-story apartment building. You can’t miss it,” he said with a chuckle.

“I can’t wait to check it out.”

“Thanks. So…I guess I’ll see you next week.”

“All right, thanks again for inviting me.”

“Uh, thanks for accepting,” he stammered.

Aww. Ammon seems almost as shy as I am
, Dayna thought wistfully. She was surprised; he’d seemed so self-assured when they met.

“I guess I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay, bye.”

The day couldn’t have been more perfect. She and her mother were working through their pain together, supporting each other, becoming friends, and talking to Ammon was the icing on the cake. Dreamily, she recalled the sound of his voice, hearing him say.
I guess I’ll talk to you soon
.

Maybe this thing called life wasn’t so bad after all. Did she dare to hope for a happy ending? Dayna cast a glance in the mirror and smiled. For the first time in years she was truly satisfied with her reflected image.

Born and raised in Mount Airy, Dayna wasn’t too familiar with West Philly. Following directions she’d downloaded from Mapquest. She exited the Expressway at Thirtieth Street, then drove along Market until she reached Forty-Sixth Street, the heart of the inner city. She made a right, which would take her to Haverford Avenue.

Her breath caught the moment she made the turn. She experienced a small thrill at the sight of Ammon’s work—a larger-than-life-sized mural painted on a three-story building of a black man with strong arms embracing a woman and child. It was a beautiful but heart-wrenching reminder of Dayna’s most cherished dream.