Hold Me in Contempt (22 page)

The narrator documented a history of New York that many people both outside and inside the Big Apple didn't know. Apparently, for a long time, the Irish ran the city. They were the mob, the gang leaders, the businessmen and moguls. There were still dribs and drabs of that old Irish glory in New York, in finance and law enforcement and even in the Catholic Church, but most of the treasure that remained of the Golden Clans was seen in wealthy real estate deals where descendants locked up chunks of upper Manhattan soil along what came to be known as “the Irish Gold Coast.” The McDonnells were the wealthiest, most public clan of New York's old Irish.

While I knew plenty of people in New York had that name and there was little chance some guy I'd met at a bar in Brooklyn was the descendant of rich white folks the narrator claimed moved out to Rye, New York, and changed their names, King was fully a mystery to me. Not that we'd spent so much time together that I should know a lot about him, but Tamika was right—some things didn't add up. So when I heard his name and remembered about the New York McDonnells, my mind couldn't help but make fanciful conjectures.

My eyes darted about in search of anything holding a clue to who King was; then I gave in and decided a full-on snoop wouldn't hurt anybody. I was just being safe.

I tiptoed around the place, turning over this and that, going through the garbage cans in the kitchen and bathroom (Tamika taught me that), while listening for the elevator, talk, shoes scraping the floor . . .  ​any sign I was busted.

My little investigation led me in so many directions in the sprawling triplex, I felt like I was lost and that King would pop up at any moment. Then I imagined him watching me like a CIA agent on one of those hidden spy cameras and started looking for those, too.

My quick search resulted in no information and no cameras—​nothing. Not even a photo album or piece of mail. The place was clean.

My heart racing, I sat on the couch to catch my breath and consider what one of the detectives from downtown would do. Just as I leaned into the cream-colored leather, the cables hanging over the elevator started turning and twisting.

“Be cool,” I told myself, switching positions two or three times to try to appear as natural as possible. I tried to slow my breathing to stop my heart from pounding, but once the cables had pulled the cab into position in the all-glass elevator bay, I lost my total cool again.

There stood King, strong, legs apart, shoulders relaxed, and hands folded in the center of his pelvis. He wore a black suit and gray shirt that fit him so well, I knew quickly that no matter how cool I was, this night would be a repeat of the last time we were together.

He stood erect like a model used to the spotlight as the doors rolled open in enthralling slow motion.

He stepped out like he was going to say something subtle but memorable. And he did: “Welcome back, Queen.”

To that, I answered with a grin: “Not like I had a choice.”

“Not like
I
had a choice,” he remarked, climbing two steps to the platform where I was sitting on the couch and kissing me on the forehead like he was blessing me in a ritual. Even with inches between us, I could smell the hints of pepper in his cologne, strong and bold. It made me want to hike up my skirt and remind him of what had happened the last time I'd been here. But the shy girl in me made me do otherwise. As he walked to the kitchen, I crossed my legs and led us into conversation more natural to friendly strangers—the weather and recent changes in Brooklyn.

It was interesting to hear him talk about simple things like cloudy days and those annoying bike lanes taking over the streets in Brooklyn. As he took off his cuff links and excused himself to get out of his suit, walking in and out of his bedroom, I did my normal basic-knowledge test to size him up—see how informed he was, throwing in ideas and facts from a few articles I'd recently read in the
New York Times
or features I'd listened to on NPR. I could hear King chuckle like he knew exactly what I was doing, then he'd mention the journalist and give a little bit of information that wasn't included in the story. And of course he'd do it in his gruff King, Brooklyn accent, sounding like an educated mafioso.

“Wine?” King asked on his final exit from the bedroom, wearing jeans and a polo. He headed toward the kitchen. “I'd offer to make you a drink, but I don't know shit about mixing drinks and I think Terra's been getting me for all the good liquor anyway.”

“Terra?” I repeated, sure he'd slipped his lady's name by mistake.

“Yes. That's my cleaning lady.” He grinned. “I hate to call her that. Makes me sound like a bitch. Right? Maid and shit?”

We laughed, and King went on about how easily some men he knew carried on about their “maids” like they were old white women.

“So, what do you want?” he asked, standing beside the bar separating the kitchen from the living area, where I was still on the couch. Looking at those jeans sitting on his waist just right and the tattoos peeking out from beneath the polo, I thought of so many ways to answer that question. “Queen?” he called with a slight smirk. “What do you want . . .  ​to drink?”

“Nothing,” I said, shaking off the images from the bathroom in my head.

“Nothing to drink?”

“Yes. I'm kind of pulling back on the alcohol,” I pointed out nonchalantly. “Maybe just a little water.”

“Got it.” He headed toward the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water. “Think I'll have a little agua myself. Got to keep hydrated.” He brought the water over to me and sat down beside me on the couch.

We smiled at each other for a second like we were impressed and maybe surprised to be sitting so close again.

“Any reason for getting on the wagon?” he asked.

“Just getting a little chubby in the stomach area,” I lied.

“Chubby?” King looked at me like I was delusional. “Not to be too blunt, but I was holding on to your stomach for a long time the other night and I didn't feel anything out of place. Now, a sister has to have a little thickness on her, that's what I like, but ain't nothing chubby about you.”

King's declaration turned the water I was sipping on into wine. It went right to my head, where it exploded like eight shots of Golden Grain alcohol. I licked my lips really hard and gulped down some water.

“Good to see you feeling better,” King said, watching me drink.

“Feeling better?”

“Last time I saw you—every time I see you—you seem stressed. No?”

“It's nothing really—just family stuff. Work. Bullshit.”

“I feel you. We all get fed up with the bullshit sometimes,” he said.

“What bullshit do you get fed up with? Like, at your job?” I asked.

“At my job?” He looked surprised.

“Yes. Where you work . . .  ​Where
do
you work?”

“You said it before.”

“Damaged Goods? So you
do
work there?”

“From time to time.”

I laughed and looked right into his eyes. “Come on,” I said, switching to my Harlem accent. “Stop playing me like I'm from someplace in Arkansas. I know ain't no way someone who just works at a bar in Brooklyn can afford a place like this.”

“I feel you,” King offered aloofly.

“What?” I pushed after an elongated pause where he was supposed to explain himself but just kept sipping his water.

“What?”

“You can't stop there. You have to answer.”

“Look, my family owns some clinics, and I worked in the business for a while, but I'm getting out.” He rushed through this casually.

“Clinics? Your family owns
some
clinics?” I laughed, remembering that documentary. “Come on, you can't just throw that in there on me. How many?”

“It's not something I like talking about. My family—there's a lot of shit. You know how it is. A lot of good shit and a lot of bullshit. Like I said, right now I'm putting myself into position to start my own thing.”

“So that's why you're working at Damaged Goods?” I asked.

“Something like that . . .  ,” he said, his tone detached. “Something like that.”

I sat back knowing I'd pushed King as far as I could in that moment. I didn't know much about him, but the bit I knew about dealing with dudes like him was that pushing him for information for too long would shut him down. Then there was another side of me that listened to his story and hoped he wouldn't turn the tables on me. I wasn't exactly feeling like talking about what I did. It just seemed so regular, almost common and boring, sitting there with King. And that was interesting and even relieving. I'd gotten used to getting set up with guys who looked at me like I was some kind of unicorn because I was so successful in my career. They acted like I was Michelle Obama just because I had an assistant, benefits, and vacation days with pay. Sometimes it seemed like I was constantly paying for my success with the men I dated. One night Ronald had the nerve to suggest I quit my job at the DA's office and work as his legal secretary. I'd gotten in late and drunk after losing a case that had been kicking my ass for months, and he started complaining about what the job had been “doing” to me. He said something about not wanting to be married to a zombie and he didn't want to think about having that kind of example around his children. He went into a “leave your job or else” speech, where he claimed being his secretary could help launch me into something else at his firm. “Bull and shit!” I'd screamed when Kim 2 came over to let us know our hollering had the police at the door.

“So, what made you come see me tonight?” King asked, pulling my hand into his and turning it over to look at the web of lines in my palm. “I was surprised when Baboo called me.”

“Surprised? Really?” I laughed doubtfully as he traced the lines to my wrist and planted an abrupt kiss there. “I doubt that. I'm sure your little stalker sent you a full report of my every move.”

“Stalker?” King smirked. “I can't control where that man chooses to drive his car.”

“So you're claiming you didn't send him to find me?”

“Nope.” King smiled.

“Well, I know how to spot a liar when I see one. I only ask that if you send someone to stalk me, you send someone with a better cab. Like a Mercedes or something. Come on, son!”

King laughed and nodded in agreement.

“All right. I got it,” he said. “I wasn't trying to scare you. I just really, really wanted to see you again, and with you not answering my calls, I got a little desperate. I didn't mean anything by it. Please don't call Queen Latifah on me or anything. Again, I just wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?” I asked as he started moving his fingers up my arm so softly it felt like light tickles, sending playful pulses to my spine.

King pulled me to him, and facing me nose to nose, he looked into my eyes.

“Yes,” he said before kissing me so intensely, I regretted every day I'd been away and couldn't even remember why I had.

I still tried to push him away though, playing coy as we kept up the game of chatting about nothing I'd remember. I'd only take away from the moment his serious sea-colored eyes on me, working more dexterously than his hands. I could resist a touch, but there was no defense from those eyes; they tugged at me and soon had me lying on my back on the couch, missing my shirt. Caught in his gaze, I couldn't even say who removed the shirt or suggested the position. I was just looking into the sea and riding a wave that rolled with the sound of King whispering something about tasting me.

Then I realized he was on top of me, spreading my knees apart with his hands.

His eyes left me and I felt his tongue circling my nipple.

“You okay with that?” he asked between tender licks.

“What?”

“Me tasting you?”

I didn't respond. I loosened my legs and pushed my pelvis up to him like he was a doctor.

King slid down and raised my jean skirt up to bunch at my hips.

He didn't bother to remove my panties. He set his mouth on my vagina and plucked my erect clitoris with his tongue, making me wince and sigh in rotation until my panties were so loose with my wetness that he could move the crotch to the side with his tongue.

“Fuck!” I shouted as he slid his tongue into me. My legs were splayed so wide, I had to arch my back to keep from falling off the couch. “Fuck! Fuck!”

King put his hands on the small of my back to prop me up as I danced on his tongue and he flicked my clitoris up and down.

My body was melting into something weightless as I shuddered again and again, sending his tongue a torrent of evidence of my pleasure.

And then, right where King's hands anchored me in place, there was a snap that turned my “Ohhh-ooohhh” to “Ouch! Ouuuucccch!”

Something in my back had popped, and my body tensed up fast, leaving me petrified.

“What happened?” King jumped up from my crotch and looked at my face.

I could only reply through more pain: “Ouch! Ouuuucccch! Ouuuccchhh!”

I pushed him away and adjusted myself on the couch to relieve the pressure kicking at my lower spine.

“What's wrong?” King asked.

“My back! It's my back!” I said, trying to breathe through the sharp pangs.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Down here,” I replied, pointing to my lower back.

“Well, calm down and keep breathing,” King ordered confidently. “We need to get you to the bedroom.”

“For what?” I looked at him sideways.

“No—not for that.” He chuckled, trying to pull me off the couch. “If the pain is in your lower back, you may just have too much pressure on your lower discs. We should lessen the weight. Lying on your stomach helps.”