Between My Thighs: An Urban Erotic Tale (11 page)

• • •

I went to church for the first time in twelve years. I was overcome with joy when I entered the sanctuary, and my spirit instantly lifted. The pastor was teaching on the subject of faith. He said that faith works now, not tomorrow. Faith is the evidence of things not seen, substance of goals. The devil wants us to think it’s too late to meet our goals, the reverend preached.

The sermon continued, “God cannot be tempted with evil. Watch what you say because you will never rise above your confession.” The message was clear to me. I was going to start speaking things into existence, restore my faith, and act like a child who served a Father with many mansions. I prayed for the Father to deliver me from my afflictions, to renew my spirit, to heal Dorian, bless my family, and to conceal the wet spot that had formed as I reminisced about sexing Troy.

Chapter 11|

I need a vacation,
I kept thinking to myself. The last time I’d been on one was for business, so that didn’t count. I decided to book a trip to Hawaii. I had the money, the time, and was on the next flight out.

The plane ride was smooth, a plus for me since I was terrified of flying. Judging by the amount of time I spent in the air, you could never tell.

I checked in at the Grand Wailea Resort & Spa in Maui. It was the perfect destination for relaxation. I intended to have a fabulous time. The bell hop took my bags, and I headed to my room to shower and slip into something sexy. The room had an awesome view. It overlooked more than forty acres of meticulously landscaped courtyards. The mountains and endless shore was visible. Hawaii really was paradise on earth. Maui was beautiful. The waterfalls were majestic. Something about the water purified me. Instantly, I felt rejuvenated.

I put on my sarong, flip flops, and shades, and headed to the beach. I took my shot at surfing. That was unsuccessful. Instead, I rode the boogey boards and let the waves cleanse my spirit. The sunset was picturesque. I headed back to my room and rinsed the salt water from my hair and body before making my way to the spa for a little bit of indulgence.

Oh my goodness,
was the only thought that came to mind as I entered the spa, which set the trend for luxuriousness. My treat to myself was the lava-stone massage. My body quivered as six hands moved in sync over my entire frame. There were three experts with hot lava stones who used soothing oil to glide, rub, and knead out my rigidness. That particular therapy was known for reducing stress and increasing spiritual well-being. I concur. That was one of seven visits to the spa. I went each night while on the island.

After dining at the Bistro Molokini, it was time to check out the club scene, but not before inhaling the breathtaking views of the Pacific and neighboring islands. The club wasn’t blazing. I stripped out of my sarong, exposing my bikini, and headed to the pool. I didn’t believe in swimming in the ocean at night, so the pool would suffice.

I was at the swim-up bar when I met Nathan McBride. He was tall and athletic, just the way I liked them. His baldhead complemented his physique. It was smooth, like the rest of his skin. One thing that turned me off about brothers with bald heads were the ones who had those nasty bumps with shit oozing out of them.

“I’ll have a glass of sangria,” I said, treading in the water.

“Are you here with friends?” Nathan asked.

I wasn’t going to admit I was vacationing alone because we just met. “My friends are on the island somewhere. How about you?”

“I’m out here with my brother. We just wanted to get away and have a good time.”

“That’s nice. Where are you guys from?”

“Baton Rouge,” he said.

“I heard it’s a great place,” I replied.

“My brother, he lives in Detroit,” he volunteered.

“Oh, get out. That’s where I’m from.”

I couldn’t believe it. I always ran into people from my neck of the woods in far-away places.

“My brother plays for the football team out there,” he said.

Chances were I knew his brother. I knew all of the players. I was afraid to ask, but did anyway. “Who is your brother?”

Sure enough, his brother was a rookie strong safety. Nathan actually played ball a few years back for the Arizona Cardinals. I should have known Nathan played sports, he had that ball-player walk, the one where men look like something heavy is dangling between their legs. I hadn’t actually met his brother before but remembered seeing him at a couple parties my friend had thrown.

“So what are you doing when you leave here?” he asked me with an
inquiring mind wants to know
type look.

“That depends,” I said, returning the look.

“I would love to see you later.”

“Perhaps that can be arranged. Are you staying at this hotel?”

“Yes,” he said.

He lifted himself from the pool, revealing his black Speedo. His body was robust. I was indiscreetly checking out his dick. He didn’t have those tight-ass shorts on for nothing. All I hoped was it wasn’t all balls in there.

“Hey, Nate,” a young voice called out.

My gaydar immediately went off. I had never paid his brother too much attention, but he appeared to be extremely feminine. He attempted to man up when he saw his brother had company.

“This is um…I didn’t catch your name, sweetheart,” Nathan said.

“Denise,” I lied.

My name was unimportant. I didn’t plan on spending my life with this guy. Wasn’t even sure I was staying the night. We exchanged numbers and agreed to connect later if neither of us got into anything else.

I slipped from the pool, laughing to myself as the men checked my tight ass strutting back to the hotel. I pulled out my laptop and Googled Nathan. His story checked out like he said. I’d found some articles about when he played in the league and came across another story revealing four of his five brothers all played professional sports. He, too, like so many athletes, had been injured. He now worked as a sports broadcaster and part-time model.

I popped myself a quick e-mail saying,
I’m going out with Nathan McBride, and if all goes well, I’ll be getting some tonight
. That was my safety net in case that nigga turned out to be crazy; the police would have a trail of who last saw me alive.

Before Nathan and I got busy, I asked my four questions that always preceded sex with new partners: “Have you ever fucked another man?” I asked.

“Damn, girl, you make a nigga scared to fuck. We don’t know each other, so if you get pregnant, I imagine you wouldn’t want to keep the child,” he said.

Honesty. I could handle that. That was my first one-night stand, and I was right, the brother was hung like a horse. Better than a horse to be exact. He knew how to operate all that equipment too. Had me
oochin’
and
oowin’
silently to myself. He wanted to eat my pussy, but I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t have any dental dams and could get my pussy licked when I got home. I wasn’t sucking his dick either, wasn’t about to have me gagging up in his suite.

The next day, I tried my luck at snorkeling in the Molokini Crater. It was amazing. Not what I expected. The first hour was scary as hell. A group of us had been practicing in the shallow waters where it was clear and the sand was white, but out in the middle of the ocean, where you couldn’t see the ocean floor, it was a different story.

The remainder of my trip was spent whale watching, touring the island, observing the waterfalls, and dining like a celebrity. I’d stored Nathan’s number in my phone for future use, just in case we crossed paths in Detroit. My mother would have kicked my ass if she could see me out here getting buck wild, but fuck if I cared. Nathan had my pussy tingling, and it felt like he left some of that dick up in me each time the plane hit an air pocket on the way home.

• • •

Two months after I left Hawaii, my house sold for a nice piece of change. I left my things in storage and headed to New York, never looking back. I’d also made the decision to launch my own public relations firm. I’d studied communications in college, had a dual degree in the field, and wanted to take a break from other people’s problems. In addition, I could incorporate some of my freelance design work into the business. I wasn’t giving up clinical psych entirely—a few of my high-society clients retained my services, offering to fly out to New York for their appointments.

The online broker who’d shown me those nasty apartments before finally found me a nice place in Park Slope. It was inside a gorgeous brownstone. I had about fifteen hundred square feet with two bedrooms. I made one my home office. It truly was a blessing to make the move. Everything had fallen into place perfectly.

The first person I ran into while at the supermarket was Jason, Troy’s friend. He looked both stunned and delighted to see me. He approached, asking what I was doing in the store.

Laughing, I said, “I’m an official New Yorker, and I’m buying groceries.”

His reception startled me. I thought for sure he held a grudge or some level of animosity about my relationship with Troy. After all, he’d been chasing me for months before Troy told him we were fucking.

Jason was elated to see me. I’m not sure what sparked his excitement. I knew it would be a matter of time before he notified Dallas or Troy that I was living in Brooklyn.

I was at a crossroad in my life. I didn’t sleep that night, admiring the walls of my new corridor. The block was quiet, and I felt safe but discouraged, reminiscing on the moments I once shared with Troy. Part of me suffered being in New York without him.

The next morning, Troy left a message on my business line. I wasn’t even amazed. It was the only number that hadn’t changed and his only method for getting in touch with me. He was bullshitting on my voice mail as usual, talking about he needed some graphic design work done and was hoping I could help. He knew I dabbled in freelance design, but I wasn’t helping him and didn’t return his call.

One of my clients put me in touch with a media mogul in the city. I aimed to secure contracts for my public relations firm. I wasn’t advertising my psychiatric services and only accepted patients who were referred directly to me. I rented commercial space on Park Avenue South, close to Union Square. That location served as the primary operation for both of my businesses.

I spent a day in Manhattan, meeting with potential clients and arranging my office. At the end of the day, I had secured four major contracts, all seeking publicity, promotional, and design services. Proud of my accomplishments, I popped open a bottle of Asti Spumante and celebrated, pampering myself in smooth jazz, city lights, and aromatherapy.

It was just after nine o’clock when I packed up and headed for the subway. The station was across from my office. I had practiced the transit system, familiarizing myself with the surroundings. The subway car was scarce. Three men ran on just as the doors were closing, talking loud about bitches this and bitches that.

Shortly, chaos surrounded and hovered above me. For some reason, I inherently clutched my belongings, observing the thugs who appeared to either have just gotten out of the joint or were on the way for the crime they were about to commit.

One man had on a red T-shirt and never took his eyes off me. The others spoke loudly and violently about taking some pussy. I overheard one make reference to my Prada handbag. It was at that point when the conversation became unclear.

Another sister on the train witnessed the conspiracy and moved to the opposite end of the car, leaving me alone to fend for myself. The tension was thick as the thugs collaborated on whether to make a move on me now or later. In my mind, when the train stopped, I was going to jump off and back on into another car to get away from those clowns.

They had the interior door blocked to cross over into another car from inside the train, so when the train slowed, approaching Canal Street, I darted out and ran down the platform, never looking back to face the thugs.

I was moving so fast, everyone on the train focused in my direction as my feet pounded the floor from my quick strides. As I attempted to catch my breath and sit down, the thug in the red shirt bumped into me.

“Sorry,” he said as him and his boys walked to the other end of the train.

They had chased me. I’d run my ass off, leaving them in the other subway car, yet they were still behind me.

While the train sat on the Manhattan Bridge, the gangsters taunted me from the opposite end of the car. I searched for someone with whom to connect, having no intention of getting off at my stop, knowing I was being followed.

There was a statuesque brother sitting across from me. Maybe it was my paranoia, but he seemed to be watching me too. It didn’t matter. I approached him under the assumption it was easier to deal with one wacko than three. Something about him seemed gentle and reassuring.

“Hi, let me just say upfront that I’m not crazy. I don’t know if you noticed those three men following me onto the train. They’ve been on my trail since three stops back and actually chased me onto this car.”