Dream Girl Awakened (3 page)

Victoria hesitated when Winston suggested she take Jeremiah along with Nicolette to Mocha Moms outings. She rolled her eyes and refused sex for two months when he suggested she get Aruba's recipe for Aruba's by the Sea, a mean dish of baked tilapia, shrimp, rice, and a splash of other unknown but hearty flavors.
She drew the line when Winston offered the basement during the month Aruba anticipated divorcing James. “Winston, we have a home, not a hotel. That's the end of it.”

“But she's your friend, Tori.”

“We all have to live with the choices we make.”

Now, approaching Aruba's vehicle, umbrella in tow, Winston tapped on the window. As the window opened, he was pleasantly surprised by the music, the sight of her, her scent.

“What happened?”

“Winston, I wasn't sure it was you. I was headed to an insurance meet-and-greet on Keystone when I ran out of gas. I know I'm too late for the function now. May I get a ride down the street to the gas station?”

“Need you ask?”

Winston opened her door, allowing Aruba to join him under his umbrella. Maybe it was the lack of sex, the long hours, the arguments with Victoria, but he noticed Aruba's stunning beauty for the first time. He offered his suit jacket. As she slid it over her fitted black dress, he was amazed by the hourglass figure before him. He'd always seen her in sweats, her curly ringlets piled atop her head. He'd never seen her hair straightened and would remember to compliment her as they headed to the gas station.

“Oh, I forgot my gas can. Do you happen to have one?”

“Sure. We can go to BP.”

They jumped in his ride, Winston taking in the Flowerbomb perfume, trying to contain himself as they drove to BP.

“So what's this meet-and-greet you're headed to? Or should I ask
were
headed to?”

“Just trying to drum up new customers. You know the routine: champagne, finger foods, lies, laughs. I hate being late to functions.”

Winston chuckled at the thought of office parties for the sake
of the company. That was one of the reasons he had started his own cardiology practice. He believed in doing his own thing, calling his own shots.

“I remember those days.” Shifting the conversation, he asked, “What perfume are you wearing? You smell divine.”

“Oh, it's Flowerbomb. Victoria gave it to me. She said it makes her smell like something crawled up in her and died. You like it?”

“I do. It smells good on you.” He tried to hide his disappointment, but he never understood why Victoria was so unappreciative. He went out of his way to buy her trinkets and tokens of affection, but enough was never enough.

“I asked James to come along, but he didn't want to mingle tonight.”

“Too many Edomites,” they said in unison.

They laughed at that, their banter continuing as they headed to BP. He filled the gas can and they headed back to Aruba's car. Winston stood outside as Aruba returned to her vehicle. He noticed her nervous smile as he poured gas in her tank.
I bet James has taken every dime. She probably doesn't have gas money.

He tapped on the driver's side window. “Follow me back to BP. I'd like to fill your tank.”

“I can't ask you to do that.”

“You didn't ask me. I offered.”

“Okay. But you have to promise to let me pay you back.”

“You can pay me back with one of your great recipes.”

Aruba blushed. She followed him to BP, amazed at how smoothly things were going. She knew she had to take it slow, to approach the matter delicately. No slips. One day at a time.

She pulled alongside pump eight, waited for Winston to get out and fill her tank. She eyed him from her side mirror, admiring his chivalry, his drive. He was one of the most beautiful men she'd
ever seen next to James. Winston's boast of being from the City of Brotherly Love was always followed by Aruba muttering the phrase, “city of
sexy
, black brotherly love,” under her breath. Winston's rich dark skin, shaved head, muscular frame, and towering six-four stature underscored what really turned Aruba on about him: deep-set dimples. Whenever he smiled, she wanted to stick her tongue in the center of his dimples, kiss him there as a start, and work her way down. She often told jokes in his presence just to make him laugh. Now, as he pumped her gas, she thought of what it would be like to kiss him as a thank-you. She thought of how she'd maneuver that feat.

When he was done, he tapped her window again. “If I'm out of line, you can say so. I'll understand. Since you don't want to go to the function, would you like to join me for a cup of coffee at Starbucks?”

“Winston, I'd love to.”

“Y
eah, James, that's what I'm talking about. Fuck me harder, James. Damn, this shit is da bomb!”

James caressed Tawatha's breasts as she bounced up and down on him. She was a little noisier than he liked, but a good screw nonetheless. He'd met Tawatha Gipson, the secretary at Hinton and Conyers Construction, his first day on the site. She made a point of showcasing her double-D headlights as she pointed out the breakroom, showed him how to clock in and out of the automated time system, and where the steel-toed boots and goggles were located. She tried to present herself as the girl-next-door, but he knew what she was all about when she got up to make copies of his hiring documents and I-9 form, twisting her massive ass, giggling every five words about how handsome he was and how he looked like a pro baller. Even asked, “You ever played with the Pacers?”

He ignored her that first day, trying to keep his New Year's resolution of doing right by Aruba. His resolve waned the next day when Tawatha stepped into the office wearing a short, wraparound print skirt; a low-cut, V-neck blouse; and no bra. He figured she placed Band-Aids on her nipples as not to expose them. All the guys on the site made a bet as to which one would sleep with her first. They stood around the cooler or dangled from skyscrapers, chatting about “State Fair.” That was the name Marcus Fullerton
had given Tawatha while munching a double-decker ham and roast beef sandwich his wife had prepared for him. “Man, ass like that oughta have its own exhibit at the State Fair. Damn, I wanna get with her.”

Rodney Lansky added, “Man, I wouldn't tap that with somebody else's dick. I heard she got four kids.”

“Hell, that turns me on even more.” This from Abie Fortner. “I know women with just one child that don't look that good. Her stomach is as flat as an ironing board. State Fair is a bad bitch!”

Tawatha ignored their advances. She only had eyes for James. She took special care to greet him every day with a cup of coffee in hand, prepared for him just the way he said he liked it. He pretended he didn't notice the way her natural, shoulder-length fishbone braids, highlighted with auburn streaks, were twisted in intricate perfection. Or the way her cocoa brown skin always smelled of shea butter or lavender. Or the way her slanted eyes lit up when he was near. She wasn't as tall as Aruba, which made him fantasize all the more about having a shorter woman to tousle around in bed. She was forever running her fingers through his dreads, telling him she had a closet fantasy of learning to do hair. She honed in on his Samsonesque glory, slipping him a card with the name and number of her cousin who oiled locks at a shop on the eastside. James slid the card in his pocket, determined not to let yet another woman distract him from being a better husband.

Then Aruba started in on him again. Bitched about him finding and
keeping
a job. Asked when he'd help with the utility bill, the truck notes, the gas bill. After he'd quit H&C, he knew he had to be on his best behavior. He'd worn out his welcome from siblings Teresa and Marvin. James could only do one thing at that point: housecleaning. He kept things spotless when he was unemployed. He made sure dinner was ready when Aruba came home, the laundry
was fluffed and folded, and the smell of lavender and vanilla wafted throughout their home. It was during a laundry session he fished Tawatha's number from his pocket. Didn't realize Tawatha had scribbled her office line on the card until he'd dialed.

“I can't lose this job,” she said after they chatted a few minutes. “Hell, Mr. Hinton be listening to conversations like he the FBI and shit.”

They continued that way for a week. Got better acquainted via text messages, online chats through AOL, and during late-night cell calls when Aruba was asleep. Their first encounter at Motel Six on the Southside left James wanting more. It wasn't until Aruba told him about the insurance meeting that he decided he'd have a quickie in the house. He called Tawatha, found out where she lived, and picked her up at the Phoenix apartments as Jeremiah nursed hot milk and crackers and fell asleep. He tucked Jeremiah in bed upstairs when they returned and allowed her to do a lap dance before the festivities began.

Now, as she humped up and down on his Johnson on the sectional, screaming and grunting like this would be the last time she'd get some, he knew he'd made a mistake. He hoped she wouldn't awaken Jeremiah.

“Come on, damnit, don't stop now!!”

James looked past her flopping headlights at the wall clock, trying to time Aruba's arrival. He had to get Tawatha off of him and out of the house.

“Smack my ass, James. Smack me!”

Tawatha pulled James's dreadlocks, tightened her muscles around him. She quickened her pace, oblivious to his presence.

“Damn, I'm coming!”

Tawatha leaned forward, sweating over James's chest, the headlights heaving up and down now.

“Shit, you can fuck,” Tawatha shrieked, rolling off James and covering up with the sheet he'd given her earlier. She breathed heavily, exhausted from the workout. She surveyed her surroundings for the first time since she'd gotten there.

She checked out the flat-screen, the elegant family photos lining the mantel above the fireplace, the furniture appointed just-so, the five-star-hotel cleanliness of the home.
Me and my kids can rest real nice up in this place
. “I'ma go get some orange juice out the fridge before we start on round two.”

Wrapped in the sheet, Tawatha scooted to the refrigerator like a mermaid as James wiped himself down with a wet towel.

“James, I'ma wash up in the half-bath. You mind?”

“No, T. Go right ahead. I'ma take a quick shower.”

“Not without me!”

“You might try some more of your moves and wake up Jeremiah. Just stay put. I'll be back.”

James darted upstairs to the bathroom. He could kick himself for bringing Tawatha home. The only reason he'd planned the tryst at the house and not a hotel was because all bets were off when he picked Tawatha up at her place. No way was he having sex in her apartment. His first clue was the smell that slapped him when she cracked open the door. He wasn't sure what it was, but he told her he'd wait outside until she was ready. She insisted he come inside, and he tried, but the pile of shoes behind the front door made it difficult for him to squeeze through. He looked at the full and twin mattresses propped against the living room wall and wondered if she had beds for herself and her children. Ants marching in single file crawled atop piles of clothes on the floor and KFC, Home Depot, and Walmart circulars were strewn about the coffee table. The sight made him retreat to the bathroom. After tripping over towels, lingerie, and more clothes, he decided
to hold his urine 'til he got home. He wouldn't piss in that toilet for a reality TV series. It looked as if it hadn't been cleaned in two years.

The condition of Tawatha's apartment and his maxed-out Visa made it impossible to get a hotel room. He could strangle Aruba for not paying the bill for him. She claimed she couldn't do it because she had to take care of the “essentials,” but he knew she was lying. He'd grown sick of her poor-mouthing about how his sporadic employment was getting them further behind and deeper in debt. What really pissed him the fuck off was when she suggested stupid shit like getting rid of one car to save money, turning off lights to conserve energy, washing clothes in cold water, turning off water as he brushed his teeth or washed his face. The way she carried on you'd think
she
was an Edomite.

He showered, went back downstairs, and jumped when Tawatha snuck behind him and planted a kiss on his back. As she circled him and knelt to the floor, he pushed her head away from his penis.

“Come on, daddy, let me suck it right. You know you like this.”

“Look, Tawatha, I gotta take you back home.”

“James, my momma's keeping my kids all night. I thought I could stay with you. You got me all hot and bothered now. I gotta have some more of this dick. You know you got the magic stick, right? That's what I'ma name you. Magic.” Tawatha caressed his penis, baby-talked to it. “That's a good boy, Magic.” She planted light kisses on it.

James moved her hands. “Tawatha, I never said you could stay the night.”

Tawatha stood to face James, disappointment clouding her face. “Bullshit. You said you and your wife were separated. Sounds like an open invitation to me.”

Damn.
James sat down on the sectional, leaned back. He'd forgotten
he'd told her Aruba had stormed out a week ago, leaving him and Jeremiah to fend for themselves. He had to think of something, anything. Nine o'clock was fast approaching and he'd planned to have Tawatha fed, polished off, and back home by nine-forty-five. He expected Aruba home by at least ten-fifteen, and the last thing he needed was another round of ultimatums or a fistfight between his wife and his jump off.

“Look T, umm, my wife left. But she came back two days ago.”

“Thought you told me that bitch was old news. Good as you've been to her, providing for her and your kid, and she gon' leave like that. Why you let her come back?”