Hittin' It Out the Park (9 page)

“Oh, yeah. It's real good,” Yusef whispered as Sexy unzipped him and withdrew his erection, stroking it up and down.

Yusef had his head back and his eyes closed when the server reappeared. “Is everything okay? Can I get you anything else?”

“We're good, aren't we, hon?” Sexy asked Yusef.

“Yeah, yeah. We're good,” he said in an impatient tone.

The server departed and Sexy sped up her hand stroke.

“Ohmigod, this is freaky. I can't believe you had my dick in your hand while the server was standing right there.”

“Shhh. Be quiet and enjoy it.”

Yusef was quiet for a few moments, but then he emitted a croaking groan that turned heads in the restaurant and triggered laughter from Sexy.

March 2014

“I thought we had a deal! What do you mean he wants seventy-five thousand dollars?”

Stephen threw his hands in front of his chest and backed away from Cheryl, who was slowly approaching him, nostrils flared, and fingers furled. “Sweetie, I'm sorry, I really am. Believe me, I called him every name but the child of God, but what else am I gonna do? Threaten to kill him or something? Let's be real.”

Cheryl's eyes narrowed as she backed Stephen into a corner and started jabbing him in the chest with her finger. “But we had a deal! Did you remind him we had a deal, Stephen? I paid him five thousand for that birth certificate, passport, and social security card eight years ago, and now he wants me to pay him seventy-five thousand?” She stopped and looked at Stephen, then took a deep breath, as if trying to compose herself, then suddenly shouted: “SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND?”

“Calm down, girl! Please, it's not my fault. I'm as shocked as you.” Stephen patted her on the back while leading her to the couch. “Let me get you something to drink. Iced tea. I'm not getting you any wine in the mood you're in.”

“So he simply called you out of the blue?” Cheryl yelled out to Stephen who disappeared into the kitchen. “How did he even get your number? You've changed it like three times in the last three years.”

“True.” Stephen came back with a tall glass of iced tea, and placed a coaster on the living room table. “But he got it from Raphael.”

“I never did like that bitch, Raphael.”

“Be nice, Cheryl.” Stephen sat down next to Cheryl, and put his arm around her. “It's not Raphael's fault. He didn't know what Jocko was going to do.”

“So, he calls you out of the blue, and says he wants seventy-five thousand dollars?”

Stephen let out a large sigh. “That's right. He saw the press conference, where Randy proposed to you, and the bastard obviously started seeing dollar signs floating in front of his eyes.”

“Damn.” Cheryl chewed her lip, while deep in thought. “But the press conference was in October. Five months ago. Why'd he take so long to get in touch with you?”

“He was in the joint.”

“He was in jail?”

“Yep. He was busted on federal fraud charges back in August. Got caught up in some kind of sting operation for some Mafia or so-called mafia gang or something,” Stephen explained. “He's been on Rikers Island for the last eight months. I suppose it took him this long to make bail.”

“Mafia? Gangs?” Cheryl looked up, and shook her head. “Damn, Jocko was that deep into organized crime?”

“Girl, that man ain't no joke. Never was,” Stephen said, shaking his head for emphasis. “When I told you I was going to give you the hook-up, I gave you the real hook-up, 'cause that's what I do. 'Cause that's how I roll.”

Cheryl was twenty-three, and had recently graduated from Lehman College with a bachelor's degree in psychology. She was applying for a job as a social worker at a group home when she first met Stephen. He was sitting in the waiting room filling out an application right along with her, but he was obviously peeking at her paper.

Light-skinned with curly hair, Stephen was dressed preppy-style from his cardigan and bow tie down to his loafers.

“Look,” Cheryl finally said, with much attitude, “Is there a problem?”

“I beg your pardon?” Stephen said in very proper tone.

“I'd like to know why you're busy eyeing my paper,” Cheryl snapped.

“Oh, please.” Stephen rolled his eyes. “It's not like this is some kind of chemistry test. I don't need to steal answers from you, Miss.”

“Then keep your eyes off my application.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Stephen snorted.

Cheryl's interview was over in less than ten minutes—it took that long for the resident manager to tell her that they were only hiring people with master's degrees at the moment, but he would keep her application on file. She wanted to tell him that he should have put that in the job listing, but held her tongue.

She hadn't spent all of the $35,000 she had received for giving up the baby eight years earlier—because she had received a full academic scholarship that included room and board, she didn't have to spend any for college—but she had put a good dent in it. Like her mother, she was a fashion fiend, and although she did a lot of her shopping at designer outlet stores, it still cost a lot of money to look as good as she did.

Regrettably, the first $3,000 worth of clothes went to waste; maybe it was having the baby that made her growth hormones kick in, but between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, she had shot up an amazing six inches. She was five feet five inches when she started high school. She was five eleven the day she entered college. And after living in the dorm for one semester, she couldn't bear to continue living with two other girls, one of which was bulimic, causing their dorm room to perpetually reek of vomit.

Cheryl couldn't bear her living situation, and so she decided it was worth the money to move into her own apartment. Moving into a safe and nicely maintained building wasn't cheap, and she'd spent a lot of money on rent and living expenses for the next four years of college. Then, when her mother died only three months before Cheryl's graduation, Cheryl spent another $5,000 on her funeral. Andrea Blanton was a full-fledged crack-addict and alcoholic by the time of her death, and her face was so ravaged by her lifestyle, Cheryl opted for a closed-coffin funeral. But it turned out it barely mattered since only Cheryl and the funeral director bothered to attend the services.

Depressed after getting turned down for the social worker job, Cheryl stopped at a nearby lounge and took a seat at the bar. She was drowning her sorrow with her second mojito when the guy who'd been stealing glances at her application entered. Upon spotting her, his eyes lit up and he smiled as if they were old friends.

He took the seat next to her and said, “From the looks of things, you didn't get asked back for a second interview either.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes at him and turned up her lips. She was in a bad mood, and there seemed to be no reason why she couldn't take it out on him. “Still trying to put your nose in my business, are you?” She turned her back on him.

The man snorted, then tapped her on the shoulder. She faced him, ready to tell him she was going to call the manager, but before she could say anything, he picked up her hand and shook it. “My name is Stephen Rogers.”

Cheryl was startled by his audacity, but also amused. “Well, since it seemed you were trying to memorize my job application, you already know my name.”

Stephen nodded, while simultaneously waving to get the bartender's attention.

“Nope, I didn't get asked back.” Cheryl shook her head woefully. “And I'm getting so low on cash, if something doesn't turn up soon, I'm gonna be living in a homeless shelter.” She was exaggerating, of course, but the mojitos were working on her, causing her not to care.

“Okay, well, here's the thing.” Stephen leaned in and lowered his voice. “I have a way for you to make some quick cash, if you're interested.”

Cheryl immediately stiffened as an image of her mother's last boyfriend flashed in front of her eyes. She was fifteen when he'd said almost the exact same words, and convinced her to sell her virginity to a stranger, and then bilked her out of the money.

“Could you do me a favor and get the fuck out of my face?” she said through clenched teeth.

Stephen's jaw dropped. “Hey, you know what? You could have simply said no. There's no reason for you to start getting ghetto. Damn.”

“Boy, you don't even know what ghetto is,” Cheryl snapped.

“Oh, you're putting on a pretty good display,” Stephen retorted.

“Shit, you should be glad this is all I'm doing.” Cheryl sneered. “You come sitting next to me—uninvited—and then you're going to proposition me? I shouldn't be going ghetto on your ass; I should be going homicidal on your—”

“Proposition you?” Stephen's eyes widened and his mouth dropped again. “Girl, ain't nobody in this bar propositioning your skinny ass.”

“Oh, no? So you don't want to fuck me, you just want to pimp me out, huh?” Cheryl smirked. “Sorry, been there, done that. Now, if you don't mind, please get the fuck out my face.”

Stephen sat up straight in his chair, and tapped his right index finger on the bar as he looked Cheryl directly in the eyes. “Oh, I'll get out your face, but not before I set your rude ass straight about a few things. I don't pay for pussy, and I sure as hell don't pander pussy.” He paused for a moment, and then pursed his lips together before adding stiffly, “I don't even like pussy.”

“Man, if you don't—” Cheryl's head jerked back slightly. “Wait. What?” She looked at him quizzically, and right at that moment, he raised his left eyebrow, a movement that—coupled with the last two minutes of conversation—Cheryl found outrageously amusing. So much so that the smile she didn't have time to hide turned into a giggle, and then full-out laughter.

Stephen gave her a disdainful glance and turned in his seat, but in less than a second Cheryl could see the beginning of a grin. “Okay, so I've outted myself,” he said, shrugging. “There're worse things than being gay.”

“Damn, the way you put that makes me think that you don't really believe there're worse things than being gay,” Cheryl said, a little surprised at his tone.

“Yeah, whatever.” Stephen shrugged his shoulders. “Let's not even get into that.”

“No problem.” Cheryl took a sip of her drink, and then looked at him suspiciously. “So, you're not after my luscious body. What is it that you want, then?”

“I'm tempted not to tell you,” Stephen said sullenly. “I think I've changed my mind.” He took out a ten-dollar bill to pay for the drink the bartender placed in front of him.

“You
think
you've changed your mind?” Cheryl gulped down the rest of her mojito.

“I'm not sure.” Stephen rolled his eyes. “You are really an obnoxious b— . . . witch, so I don't see why I should tell you about an opportunity for you to make two thousand dollars for two days' work.”

“Are we talking legal?” Cheryl's eyes widened. She could use the extra money. And maybe it wasn't a one-time shot. Was this an opportunity to make two thousand bucks every week?

“Yes, it's legal.” Stephen crossed his arms over his chest. “You're about, what, five feet eleven? Size four?”

Cheryl nodded.

“D cup? One hundred and fifteen pounds?”

“One hundred and twelve.” Cheryl's eyes narrowed. “Are you sure this has nothing to do with sex?”

Stephen uncrossed his arms and leaned his elbows on the table. “Honey, in a way, everything in life is about sex. But what I'm talking about is a modeling gig.”

“Modeling?” Cheryl chuckled. “You're kidding, right? What are you, a recruiter for one of those scam agencies that has you spend hundreds of dollars for head shots for a portfolio, and then they never find you any work?”

“Nooo.” Stephen pursed his lips again. “But I'm going to forgive you for asking since I know that does happen a lot.”

“Oh, gee, thanks.”

“A model friend of mine overbooked, but she really doesn't want to cancel either of the two bookings because it'll hurt her reputation in the industry. She's almost exactly your size, weight, and proportions,” Stephen explained.

Cheryl waved for a waitress and ordered another mojito. “What makes you think I know how to model? You've known me all of what . . . twenty minutes?”

Stephen waved his hand. “First of all, it's not rocket science. I've watched you walk; you have natural grace, and all. But the beauty of this particular gig is that it's fit modeling.”

Cheryl ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “Fit modeling, huh?”

“Yes. It's for two different local boutique lines. All you do is go in, and try on clothes—”

“I know what fit modeling is. A designer uses fit models to see how their garments look on an actual woman rather than a mannequin, to check for comfort, fit, and flow.”

Stephen looked surprised, but then nodded. “Good, then you know it's only three hours top, each day. And both gigs are paying fifteen hundred dollars.”

Cheryl raised an eyebrow. “So it's three thousand dollars, then, not two thousand, right?”

Stephen crossed his arms again. “Well, you'd have to give my friend something since she's the one who booked the gigs, and I think I deserve a little something-something.”

“So I'm supposed to give up thirty-something percent?” Cheryl snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“Is it that much?” Surprise was evident in Stephen's voice, making it obvious to Cheryl that he hadn't done the math. “But, yeah, whatever, it's only right,” Stephen argued. “You wouldn't be making anything at all if she didn't make the booking and I didn't tell you about it.”

Cheryl put her drink on the bar and propped her face on her arm. “Did she ask you to find someone?”