The Other Side Of the Game (2 page)

Read The Other Side Of the Game Online

Authors: Anita Doreen Diggs

BOOK: The Other Side Of the Game
6.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Chapter 2
SAUNDRA
D
etective Phillip Patterson is my daddy and the sweetest man in the world. Before he left for work this morning he made me a delicious breakfast of hash browns, wheat toast, and a fruit salad. I feel so blessed to have someone in my life who loves me so much, and I can't imagine what I would do without him.
Mama had a stroke and died when I was sixteen. She was only thirty-five years old. I still can't understand why it took the paramedics so long to arrive. I dialed 911 as soon as mama crumpled to the floor.
The social worker said I could not stay with Asha because I was still underage. By that time, though, Daddy had bought a house in Queens and was living alone. We had always been close, so he took me in. We've had a wonderful life together over the past six years.
Around the time I moved in, Daddy met Evelyn Blake at a police officer's ball. She's a forty-something detective and just what my father needed. An intelligent, classy, sophisticated woman with a heart of gold. She also happens to be extremely well-groomed and attractive. And Evelyn wasn't only a treasure-find for Dad. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be who I am today. She introduced me to yoga, meditation techniques, and Taoism.
What no one can figure out is why Dad doesn't propose to Evelyn. In fact, she doesn't even live with us. Every time I raise the issue, Daddy rattles off a string of ridiculous excuses. Lately, I've stopped bringing up the subject. One day she'll wake up and realize that she deserves someone who is really into her enough to go the distance.
Since Evelyn came into my life, I have become a faithful student of Asian and African philosophy with an extensive library of books on both subjects. But what is more rewarding than merely reading the literature is its application. When I think of who I was before, I wince. My sphere of awareness was almost mechanical and I worshipped the major gods of this society: excuses, materialism, selfishness, and linear thought. These are deities I no longer wish to serve. Now I'm free of crippling limitations and I can concentrate fully on my goals. I'm a student at the Fashion Institute of Technology and I'll be graduating in May with a bachelor's degree in Fashion Design.
Finally, after four long years of hard work, I'll be able to open my own boutique. My father promised that as a graduation present he would get the ball rolling on renting me a little shop to sell my Afro-centric clothing at cost to poor women who can't afford the high prices charged elsewhere.
Asha graduated from the same college but she got only her associate's degree in Fashion Buying and Merchandising. It is unbelievable that Asha is an accessories buyer at Macy's department store with only a two-year degree. But I guess anything is possible when you'll throw your legs in the air to get a promotion. I think it's such a shame when a person bases their self-worth on the size of their behind and the roundness of their breasts.
I often wonder what will become of her when she no longer has a youthful body to flash around and she's forced to face whatever demon terrorizes her. It is pitiful that she hides her lack of self-confidence behind an ego so big it seems to be an entity unto itself.
But besides all that, I'm concerned about her physical well-being. No one likes to be made a fool of, and nowadays she's playing Russian roulette. She has a taste for expensive clothes and shoes that she can't afford, and she uses men to get them. I'm afraid that one day I'll get a call in the middle of the night saying that Asha was beaten up or killed by one of her conquests who decided to seek revenge.
I tell her my feelings because I feel that is my duty as a sister, but if she doesn't want to listen, all I can do is sit back and watch the chips fall. Besides, I have no time to argue with grown folks who are going to do what they want, anyway.
 
After working all day in the knitting lab at school and what seemed like an endless subway ride to my house in Hollis, I couldn't wait to lie down and relax. On Saturdays, the express E train to Queens always takes so long to get to Parsons Boulevard and Archer Avenue because it makes local stops on weekends.
As I walked down the block, I noticed my fiancé's lime green Hyundai parked in front. Yero and I have been close ever since I moved to this neighborhood in the eleventh grade. He is two years older than me and still lives around the corner with his mother and brother. He is honest, caring, and helpful.
Asha looks down on Yero because he only has a high school diploma and works at the post office. But having a man who is loving, balanced, responsible, intellectual and morally strong is more important than having a man who has money.
When I went in the house, I walked up the stairs and knocked on my father's door to let him know I was home.
“Come in,” he answered loudly over his television.
“Hi, Dad, what's up?”
“Nothing much, just doing my afternoon workout. I guess you know your sidekick is here?”
“Yeah, I saw his car. Can I borrow twenty dollars? I need to go to Petland to get food for Blinky.”
“Borrow? You don't have a job to pay it back.” He laughed, getting up from his workout bench. I realized as he reached in his coat pocket for the money that his chest looked awfully pumped up.
“Dad, you're not on steroids, are you?”
“Of course not. I just been putting in some extra hours at the gym and, besides, even if I wanted to take steroids, it wouldn't be worth hearing your mouth.”
I stuck my tongue out at him, grabbed the twenty out of his hand and shut the door.
Walking back down the stairs towards my room, I smelled my cinnamon incense burning. I can't afford to burn it all the time. That costs way too much money. I went in and found Yero reclining on my wood futon watching the Cartoon Network with Blinky, my three-foot yellow python wrapped around him.
“It took you long enough to get here. Me and Blinky missed you,” he said with a fake pout.
I smiled and stepped over his long legs to extinguish the incense. “I missed you too, but before you get any more comfortable, we have to run over to Petland to get Blinky some nice juicy mice.”
“Ah, the highlight of the day.”
I walked over to my aquarium and sprinkled some chips into the water. Stooping down I watched my school of tropical fish swirl towards the surface and made sure everyone got a fair share. I looked at Yero and caught him staring at me. As he sat there, I noticed how wonderful he looked sitting in front of my black-and-white collage of tribesmen. His strong African features and thick locks had the same commanding majesty of the warriors, and his expression had the same pride and contentment as the sisters.
I sat down next to him and gave him a big hug.
“What was that for?”
“Just for being you.” I mushed him playfully and smiled. He looked at me with those deep sleepy eyes of his.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, putting my hand on my hip in a fake sistah-girl fashion.
He touched underneath my chin gently and pulled my face towards his. When he kissed me, it was light and tender, without a hint of pressure. Actually, it felt like an embrace from a supernatural being and I was in a trance. If it wasn't for Blinky slithering impatiently off his body, we probably would have never stopped.
After our lips separated and we sat there examining each other with love-filled eyes, I stroked his dark brown face and was unable to speak. But that was all right, the silence said what I could not.
Chapter 3
ASHA
I
slipped into a cobalt blue pencil skirt and a Rochas collarless floral brocade jacket in pale blue with aqua accents. It was a new outfit from a wonderful store called Bagutta. I slid my feet into a pair of silver Jimmy Choos as Brent frowned from his lounging position on the king-size bed that we had rocked and rolled on for most of the day. Brent was sitting up with his back against the plush headboard, in a beige Armani suit and matching shoes that were polished so hard, they seemed to gleam and reflect back every light in our luxurious hotel suite. His hands were folded neatly in his lap.
“It has taken you one full hour to bathe and get dressed. You still haven't done your hair or makeup.”
“You're a handsome, refined gentleman, Brent. Don't you care what the woman on your arm looks like?”
“Yes, but I don't want to grow old waiting for her to get it together.”
I ran my hands slowly up and down the sides of the skirt. “Why don't we forget about having a night on the town and just go back to bed?”
Brent sighed. “Asha, please stop fooling around. We're going to be late.”
What a priggish fucking fuddy-duddy! If I'd said that to Nick or Randall, my clothes would have been off my body and scattered all over the plush purple carpet within a matter of seconds. How on earth did this man's wife put up with him? What was her name? Amanda? She was probably glad that his boring ass wasn't home.
Time for makeup. I get such a kick out of staring at myself in a full-length mirror and admiring my knockout figure. My body is nothing short of perfection. The essence of womanhood itself. Flawless creamy skin with a slight red undertone gives it a warm subtle heat and a sexy glow that most women imitate with tacky bronzing powders. My Siamese-shaped eyes are hazel in color and sexy as all get out. And, although I'm only 5 feet 2 inches tall, I have the best pair of legs God ever created, and they look their best when they're freshly shaved and given the smooth sheen of sheer panty hose.
Once my makeup was on and my hair combed smoothly into a flip, I stood back to admire myself. Boy, I'm one great package and it is so no wonder that every man who isn't gay or retarded wants to be with me.
“Asha!”
I stopped preening. “Okay! Okay! Could you get my coat?”
We pulled away from the Parker Meridien hotel in his ivory pearl Infiniti G35 coupe.
“Where is this place?” he asked. Translation: Please tell me that you haven't picked a nightclub that Amanda might walk into.
“Relax, this place has been described as the temple of hip and it has the flash and brash to prove it.”
A woman married to Brent Washington probably preferred dinner and a movie over rump shaking.
“What's the name of it?”
“Pergola 289. It's on Eleventh Avenue.”
He turned west. “What do you like most about Pergola 289?”
“Stargazing.”
“What?”
“The last time I was there, Wesley Snipes, Snoop Dog, and Terrence Dashon Howard were all in the house.”
“Weren't there any female stars?” he asked dryly.
“I heard someone say that Vivica Fox was around.”
Brent once said that it was safer to drive with both hands on the steering wheel. So, while he drove like he was trying to earn a fucking Boy Scout medal, I just stared out the window knowing that he wouldn't risk an accident by putting an arm around my shoulder.
I daydreamed about Nick Seabrook while Brent chattered on about the day-to-day problems at his job, how annoying Amanda was becoming, and what a joy it was to spend two nights in my presence.
Brent is an executive at Tiffany's jewelry store. He is married to a white lawyer. They have plenty of money but no kids because his wife has a fertility problem and doesn't like the idea of adoption. I get the impression that he doesn't have much of a social life, because he is always telling me that I “really know how to have a good time.”
Whatever.
Nick, on the other hand, was a true romantic. He couldn't drive without leaning over for a kiss, touching my thigh, or drawing me closer to him. He couldn't watch a movie with me without making out or at least holding my hand and, above all, he always noticed what I wore and commented on how good it looked.
Nick was also a freak. He was in Houston on a business trip and I couldn't wait until he returned to New York.
“Asha, are you listening to me?”
I smiled sweetly at the man who paid my monthly rent, phone, cable and utility bills. “Of course, baby. It's just that I get a little jealous when you talk about Amanda.”
Brent took one hand off the steering wheel and patted me . . . on the shoulder like he was my brother or uncle. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
Whatever.
The club was located in an abandoned factory just a stone's throw from the Hudson River.
“Look at this place,” Brent complained as he searched for a parking space. “There is a meat packing plant on one side of it and a park full of whores and crackheads on the other. It is a mugger's delight. We'll be lucky to make it in and out in one piece.”
I soothed him with a peck on the cheek. “Would I bring my Main Man to a place where he could get injured?” Main Man was our pet name for Brent's dick.
He loosened his tie and grinned. “Let's get jiggy, sweetheart.”
Jiggy,
I thought as we crossed the threshold.
Real jiggy.
I planned to dance until the sweat poured down my back.
Pergola 289 was designed to look like a turn-of-the-century bordello. The walls were covered in red velvet and the floors were brick. The bases of its round tables were ornate iron grillwork. Faux Spanish moss dripped down the sides of the bar, which was shaped like a naked woman. A chandelier provided the only light, which left most of the place in shadows. There were many curvy sofas covered in a red brocade fabric around the walls; and to complete the atmosphere of decadence, four barely clad, busty women swung from red velvet swings suspended from the ceiling. The majority of the crowd was expensively dressed black folk but there were some young whites and a sprinkling of Asians. Those patrons who weren't dancing to the blasting rhythm & blues were tongue kissing on one of the sofas.
Brent whispered into my ear. “This is what I like about you, Asha. You're so adventurous.”
We grinned at each other and hit the bar. A cosmopolitan with Grey Goose vodka for me and a cappuccino martini for him. We drank without talking, just grooving to the excellent music that the DJ was spinning. After the second round of drinks, I put my arms around his waist and our lips met for a kiss. Then we moved in closer. Normally, Brent hated public displays of affection, but even his conservative ass understood that a nightclub didn't count.
I was pressed right up against him and his tongue was halfway down my throat when the bartender, a woman dressed as a whore to keep the bordello theme going, stopped us with a friendly tap on Brent's shoulder. “Take it to the sofas, honey. That's why we have them.”
Hell, we'd been in bed all day. It was time to dance.

Other books

Harlequin Rex by Owen Marshall
Project Pope by Clifford D. Simak
Ashes by Kathryn Lasky
Crazy for the Storm by Norman Ollestad
The Last Policeman by Ben H. Winters
Courted by the Vampire by Sandra Sookoo
Evil Spark by Al K. Line
The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri