Doin' Me (8 page)

Tyson switched on the hands-free Bluetooth device, then touched the icon on the touch-screen phone. The beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead and wet palms had nothing to do with the interior temperature of his home. A central heating and air-conditioning unit kept his home at a comfortable sixty-eight degrees. He hated making this weekly phone call. He gulped down nearly half the bottle of water, trying to lubricate his parched throat. He'd tried numerous cases before some of the most difficult and uncompromising judges, but only one judge caused him to second-guess sound decisions and doubt his ability. Repetitive vows of affirmation and declaring deliverance hadn't left him secure with the judge. On the third ring, the judge answered the phone.

“Good morning, Attorney Stokes,” the stoic voice greeted.

Just once Tyson wished the judge would drop the legal image and be Fredrick Stokes—his father. “Good morning, Father. How are you and Mother?”

“The trial is taking much longer than I anticipated. I can't believe the antics of these young lawyers. Their ambition gives leeway to sensationalism.” Judge Stokes was currently presiding over a case involving a local businessman accused of murdering his wife and then hiding the body. “I can look at that man and tell he's guilty as sin, and the evidence supports it. His money has bought him enough legal muscle to make him look like the victim. The media is having a field day.”

Tyson nodded in agreement, as if his father could see him. Listening to his father's complaints about the injustices in the criminal legal system, Tyson affirmed his decision to practice civil law. He'd announced the decision over dinner with his parents after passing the bar. Judge Stokes's disappointment was evident when he stood and walked out of the restaurant, leaving his wife and son behind. His father didn't speak to him for an entire month. According to Tyson's mother, Judge Stokes had been boasting to his colleagues that his son would one day follow him on the criminal bench. Tyson could still sit on the bench one day but presently didn't have the desire.

Tyson opened the refrigerator and removed a takeout carton from the previous night's dinner and placed it inside the microwave. “Father, you've been on the bench over twenty years. You know the press thrives on cases like this.”

“I'd bet the house the jury is not as slow as they look.” Judges Stokes chuckled at his own dry humor. “Once they convict the imbecile, I bet he'll try to cut a deal by offering to disclose where he hid the body.”

When the microwave beeped, Judge Stokes was still on his soapbox. Tyson twirled the chicken chow mein around the fork and savored the taste.

“Anything else interesting?” Tyson interjected after the last forkful. He'd grown tired of his father's work talk. Would they ever share simple father-son conversation? Normal topics, like the score of a basketball game or the NFL draft, were never discussed. New books came up on occasion, but the subjects pertained to the law.

“What else is there?” the judge asked.

Tyson opened his mouth to point out the obvious and then decided against it. For the Honorable Fredrick Stokes, there wasn't anything else. His life had revolved around the law since childhood. His father had helped organize the local Association of African American Lawyers in the early sixties. The law was in his blood.

Tyson changed the subject. “Brian Culbertson is coming to town. I have tickets. Would you like to attend with me?”

If the question caught the judge off guard, he didn't show it. Without missing a beat, he answered, “Maybe next time. Your mother has my free time booked solid with those charity events she loves so much.”

Tyson took measured swallows from the water bottle. He should be immune to his father's rejection, but it still hurt. He didn't give up. “What about dinner?”

The offer piqued the judge's interest. “You have a case you'd like to discuss with me? I'm a little rusty on the civil side, but I'm sure I could help you.”

“No, Father,” Tyson answered, defeated. “I thought we could just hang out.” During the long silence that followed, he prayed his father would finally hear the longing of his only son. Tyson needed more than bland weekly telephone conversations. He would give anything to gain some insight on his latest dilemma: Reyna.

“I'll get back to you on that,” Judge Stokes finally answered, his voice less brisk. “Hold on. Let me get your mother.” There was a pause. “Bev,” he called.

Tyson tossed the empty plastic bottle into the recycle bin. The Honorable Fredrick Stokes was a leopard who refused to change his spots.

“Hello, son,” Beverly Stokes sang into the phone.

“Hello, Mother,” Tyson replied dryly.

“Are you available on the twenty-first?” Beverly was never one for idle chitchat. Every conversation had a purpose, usually raising funds for an organization. “I'm chairing a benefit for the Autistic Children Fund. The president of the group, Mylan, is a delightful young lady. No children, single, and around your age.”

From the giddiness in his mother's voice, Tyson suspected she had already committed him to attending. “I'll have to check my calendar,” he answered, in anticipation of his mother's rebuttal. She didn't disappoint him.

“It's six o'clock in the evening on a Saturday. I'm sure there's nothing on your schedule. Unless”—she paused—“you're dating someone and working on some grandchildren before the judge and I are too old to enjoy them.”

Ever since his father's bench appointment twenty years ago, his mother had addressed his father by his judicial title. Before then Tyson couldn't recall his parents using endearing terms for each other. It was either Fred or Bev.
No wonder I'm so emotionally constipated
, he thought, but said, “No, Mother, I'm not dating anyone.”

“Good.” His mother sounded relieved. “Bring your checkbook, and I'll let Mylan know you can't wait to meet her.”

Tyson nodded rhythmically while his mother raved about how great and beautiful Mylan was, and then said good-bye.

Tyson disconnected the call and lamented that neither of his parents were interested in his life outside of the law and his checkbook. Being a glutton for punishment, Tyson phoned Reyna.

Reyna hadn't noticed there were exactly twelve tan panels covering the master bedroom ceiling until today. She'd been too busy in the mornings rushing to the shower to leisurely lie in bed and take note. This morning was different. It was Saturday, her day off, and a snoring mass of tanned flesh held her stationary.

After little contemplating, Reyna had invited Peyton inside last night. She had offered him a seat on the couch, but he'd helped himself to her bed without much resistance. A few kisses here and a stroke there, and Reyna had succumbed to his demands. “At least I know his last name,” she'd mumbled when it was all over.

While the experience had left her with many emotions, satisfaction wasn't one of them. Peyton had showered her with glorious words and promises but had failed to deliver on any of them. In many aspects the experience was similar to her first encounter—painful. The only difference was Peyton cared about her. She'd basically yielded and allowed Peyton to have his way with her. She'd never admit it to Jewel, but Reyna now understood why her mother rationed out physical activity to her father.

Reyna stretched and brushed Peyton's black waves from her chin, then attempted to squeeze out from underneath him. With her every motion, his grip tightened. Frustrated, Reyna gave up and wondered how she'd ended up in bed with a white man and in what direction their relationship was headed. Peyton hadn't expressed love but had repeatedly told her how beautiful she was. Reyna certainly wasn't in love. After all, she'd known the man only a week. Yet she trusted him enough to spend the night with him.

She frowned as drool from Peyton's mouth moistened her skin. “Ugh! Get up,” she shrilled and vigorously shook him.

Peyton braced his weight on his elbows and raised his head, shaking it as to clear it. Reyna watched as thick eyelashes gave way to those piercing blue eyes.

“Sorry. Was I too heavy for you?” he asked, at the same time using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.

Not the picture of sophistication from the night before,
Reyna observed. In fact, the second he'd stepped back into the town house, the word
class
vacated the premises. He acted more like a starved animal than a refined investment banker. He'd practically ripped off her clothes with more energy than the Energizer Bunny.

“You're not too heavy, but I need to use the bathroom,” she answered with her head turned away from him. Peyton took morning breath to a new dimension.

He rolled over onto his back and stretched, but before Reyna could gather the sheet around her, Peyton jumped from the bed and trotted into the bathroom.

“Selfish—” The ringing telephone cut off the choice adjectives she had for Peyton. She rolled her eyes at the closed bathroom door before answering the phone. “Hello.”

“Good morning, Reyna.”

Shock waves flowed through her at the sound of Tyson's voice. It took her a moment to gather her bearings.

“Reyna?” he said when she didn't respond.

“I'm here,” she said, recovering. “What do you want?”

He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to see how you're adjusting to the town house. Is everything in working order?”

How lame,
she thought but said, “Everything is fine. If it wasn't, you'd be the first to know, Mr. Landlord.” After an extended pause, she added, “Is there any more of my business you'd like to know?”

“No. Sorry to bother you. Good-bye.” The line went dead.

She felt a pang of guilt for being rude but didn't have time to dwell on it. Peyton exited the bathroom, wearing her robe.

“Hey, what's for breakfast?” he asked. “I'm starved.”

“Excuse me?” Reyna was stuck on the fact that he had the audacity to wear her clothing. They weren't that close, were they?

Peyton stepped over his clothing, which was heaped on the floor, and plopped down on the bed. “I know you have some food in the house. Go find me something to eat.”

“Why don't you get back into that limousine of yours and find your own food?” The words poured out before Reyna's feet hit the floor.

“You're kidding, right? The limo is long gone. I only rented it for last night.”

Her head snapped up.

He reached over and pulled Reyna toward him. “Come on now. After all, I gave you last night. Don't I deserve some pancakes and eggs or something?”

“I don't feel like cooking,” she stated, digesting the fact that he'd rented the limo and that it was now gone. Then she realized he'd planned all along to spend the night. That explained the pack of condoms in his pocket. Fighting a feeling of déjà vu, Reyna tightened the sheet around her. “How are you getting home?”

“I was hoping you could give me a ride,” he stated while scratching his forearm.

Reyna stepped back and planted a fist against her waist. “You live in the city, and I'm not fighting weekend bridge traffic to take you home. You better take a cab or catch BART.” Her neck rolled with every word. “You should have thought about that before you dismissed your driver.”

This time when Peyton reached for her, he pulled her to him and used his legs to hold her stationary. “Come on, sweetheart. Don't be mad at me for wanting to give you the best.”

“So it's my fault you don't have a ride home?” she snapped.

“It's not your fault.” His fingertips stroked her cheek. “You're a special woman, and I care about you. I wanted our first date to special. You deserve that and more.”

Peyton's deep sea–blue eyes transformed into a soft sky-blue shade and mesmerized Reyna. His gentle tone relieved her misguided agitation. She was irritated at Tyson for calling and disturbing her imagined peace. All night she'd been trying to convince her conscience that Peyton was the man for her, but hearing Tyson's voice had squashed her efforts. His voice across the phone wires had touched her in a place Peyton's physical presence hadn't. But she didn't want Tyson.

“I want to give you everything.” His arms opened and he gestured at the expansive master bedroom suite. “You have so much already, but I'm willing to work hard for you.”

Reyna's tense muscles relaxed, and imaginary music sounded in her ears. Peyton planned to stay around. “Okay,” she said, surrendering with a smile. “I'll feed you, but you can find your own ride home.” She gave him a quick peck, then skipped into the bathroom.

“I'm sure you have clients scheduled for today, but what do you have planned for tomorrow?” she heard him ask behind the closed door. “I was thinking, maybe you could show me around Oakland.”

She covered her mouth to keep from shouting. Peyton wanted to spend time with her. Without thinking, she let the words fly from her lips. “After church, I don't have anything planned.” Did I just stay that? she thought. She cleared her throat. “What I meant to say was, since I no longer attend church, I'm free.”

He opened the door and stepped inside. “Good. Let's spend the day together.”

“Close the door!” she yelled. Liberation for her had finally come, but some things would always remain private. Sitting on the commode was one of those things.

“Why? I've seen everything already,” he smirked, then walked over to the sunken tub.

“Get out!”

He ignored her and turned on the water. Then he searched the cabinet and pulled out scented bubble bath and bath salts.

Reyna watched, speechless, as the tub filled with water.

“Soak in this for a while,” he said, pointing at the tub. “It'll help with the soreness. Forget about breakfast. We can pick up something on the way. I don't want to make you late for any million-dollar deals,” he added on the way out.

Reyna's mouth hung open, but she couldn't form any words. His thoughtfulness warmed her, yet guilt caused her to shiver. Peyton's intentions were honest, but hers were built on false pretenses. Sooner or later she would disclose the truth about her job.

An hour later, when Peyton frowned first, then got into her five-year-old Camry, Reyna decided the sooner the better.