Naughty or Nice (4 page)

This brother in a black suit appeared down near the end of the bar. He smiled at me. I perked up and changed my body language, moved away from Nick, told him that I thought I saw my date. But when the black suit got closer, he tapped Nick on the shoulder. Both of them laughed then did that one-arm-man-hug thing that men do so people will know they're friends, but won't think they have sugar in their tanks, then they did a handshake, the kind that let you know they were fraternity brothers.

Nick introduced me to his homie, a guy named André. Told me he was a comedian. In Hollywood, actors, comedians, and singers came a dime a dozen, half-priced on Wednesday. Everybody was working on a screenplay or a one-person show in between waiting tables.

André said, “I was in the back chilling out at the bar. Lot of talent back there.”

I said, “Oh, really?”

Talent meant eye candy that was somewhere between an eight and a dime piece.

André said, “And you working that dress like a Jamaican with ten jobs. I saw your fine ass walking around here giving brothers whiplash. You got a walk that could put Viagra out of bid'ness.”

“Out of bid'ness?” I repeated, mocking him.

“Out of motherfucking bid'ness. I was about to slide you my damn number, fo' sheezy.”

We all laughed. And just like that, I thought André was the coolest of the cool.

Nick apologized. “I didn't know there was another room.”

André said, “That bar is hopping.”

“Oh, damn,” I said. “There's another bar?”

André pointed toward a narrow opening that I assumed was for employees only.

I should've rushed away and looked for my Denzel, but I couldn't leave. Something was anchoring me here with Nick. A strong current with an unbreakable undertow.

“Man, you missed it. This fat, gap-toothed motherfucker . . . looked like Yoko Ono with a jacked-up Afro . . .” André was on a roll, cracking up, “. . . like Professor Klump in a tight red suit . . . and a green polka-dot bow tie . . . motherfucker dressed like a Christmas present to a Muslim. I'm putting that shit in my script.”

André couldn't stop laughing. He fanned himself and told Nick he'd be right back, headed toward the bathroom, left me and my old potential A-list lover by ourselves.

Nick said, “We need to keep in touch.”

There was a moment between us, or maybe it was just me. Things we did together, the old pictures and birthday cards I still have in a shoebox, all those thoughts gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

My mouth opened to say we should keep in contact, that I missed him, stuff like that.

But I don't know what the hell happened; something went wrong . . . went south inside of me.

I said, “Well, I don't think I'd want my husband keeping in touch with women he used to sleep with. And, I'm here with somebody. So that would be disrespectful, don't you think?”

“As friends, that's all I was saying.”

There was another moment of silence. Something about the way he said that made me feel so small. Like what had happened between us . . . like it didn't happen.

“We fucked, Nick.” Those words came out of me so fast that I thought somebody was snapping out my thoughts. It jarred me as much as it did him. “Nick, keep it real, and we can walk away with a little respect. We were never friends. At least you were never mine.”

“What? We ran together, we read each other's work—”

“I would've had the decency to tell you I was getting married, or invited you to the wedding. You know how I found out? Was flipping through
Ebony,
and bam, an article about you—and your wife. Kinda whacked. Even if I didn't invite you, I would've told you.”

There it was. What was behind my smile. The resentment. I put it out there, very abrupt, very hard. There was bitterness, some I didn't really know about until now.

That hit him hard. But my own words had left me rattled.

The worst kind of ex was an ex who didn't know he was an ex.

He said, “So, if you saw the article in
Ebony
 . . . then you knew I didn't marry Nicole.”

Ooops.
And just like that, my little faux pas had risen, and here I was—straight busted. Yeah, I knew about him and the African wife. And yeah, I reminded him about the woman who rejected his ass. Maybe the part of me that was hurting wanted to open up the part of him that used to hurt. Damn. There I was, being a petty bitch in high heels. An abrupt numbness made me feel two inches tall. For the first time in a long time, I was speechless.

“It's cool.” He nodded. “Take care, Frankie.”

“Wait. Nick.” I opened my purse. “Here's my card. Keep in touch, if you like.”

Nick raised his palms; his smile wounded, his eyes vexed, told me that it was nice seeing me again, wished me much success and moonwalked away, left me standing like a statue of rejection and holding my damn card in my hand.

Damned penetration always changed everything.

Nobody wanted to be on someone's B- or C-list, especially if they were on your A-list.

 

The secondary bar was hidden like Bruce Wayne's bat-cave. A larger crowd was back there lounging and flirting. I circled the bar twice, began feeling kind of stupid for being stood up. Stupid for running into Nick and tripping like that. In my head
I was rewriting that last friggin' moment, not switching into PMS mode and letting any of that old animosity out. Damn, on top of that, I'd been stood up, and didn't want to do an about-face and go back out there right now, didn't want to pass by him.

Then there was a tap on my shoulder.

A smooth, baritone voice said, “Frankie?”

This gap-toothed, nappy headed, Buddha-belly brother in a fire-red suit and polka-dot bow tie was standing in my face holding a dozen yellow roses.

All I could say was, “Uh, yeah?”

“I was getting worried.” He chuckled with glee. “I was wondering if you got lost.”

“I . . . well . . . I was up front.” Everything inside my head started rocking like I was on the
Riverboat Queen
during a monsoon, no Dramamine in sight. Next thing I knew he had kissed my cheek and flowers were in my hand. “Wow. Thanks for the flowers.”

He said, “Just in time. Let's head upstairs before we lose our reservations.”

“Upstairs?”
Shit
. That meant I had to walk by everybody and be scrutinized by both the gold-diggers and the wankstas. Everybody including Mr. A-List. “Oh, yeah. Dinner. Right.”

“Follow me. My, my, you are looking lovely.”

Yellow roses in hand, I ghost walked through the main area, past all the glam. Nick and André were at the bar; too busy talking to see me. Irritation was in Nick's face, enough for that smile to be turned upside down, so I knew he was telling his homie what had happened between us. I had done that with my bitterness. Felt bad, but that was what I was feeling. I pretended that I didn't see them.

“Holy shit,” somebody mumbled, then chuckled. I looked over and it was André looking in my direction, his mouth wide open, laughter creeping up from his chest to his throat.

Nick saw me. Just as much surprise in his eyes. I couldn't look at him. Felt so damn foolish.

My date led me to the hostess; she took us upstairs to the area with dim lights and candles. All eyes were on us. I would've been more comfortable walking with a naked white man.

He pulled my chair out first, then squeezed into his seat and said, “You look stunning.”

No, I'm just stunned.

He said, “You can put the flowers down.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“After all of our late-night conversations and e-mails, I've looked forward to meeting you face-to-face. Nice to see the face that goes with all of those provocative conversations.”

I looked at him and remembered what I wanted to forget, thought, oh God, oh God. We had cybersex. And I had actually thought about him—well that picture he had sent me—last night while I was lying in my bed, my hand between my legs, double-clicking my mouse, moaning and squirming and letting out sweet curses, and imagining that me and the man in my mind were going at it like rabbits.

“Well, how was your day, Frankie?”

“What?” I cleared my throat. “Oh. Pretty good.”

“Outside of property, any good investments?”

We talked about technology stocks, then some blue chip names that weren't doing too bad, mentioned a few old-fashioned stocks, conversation about hot IPOs that were up four hundred percent.

I shook my head. “Keep away from old-fashioned stocks. I'd gamble on Tyco or Bank One.”

“Especially Bank One. Very cheap stock.”

That's one thing my choices of men and stock have always had in common. Their potential looked great—guess I've been buying low—but their value has always plummeted overnight.

The waiter came back with salads. That broke our discussion. We ate, sipped our wine, started talking about other things, moved to comfortable topics.

His chubby-cheeked smile was infinite. “Hard to believe that I met you on the Internet.”

“Thanks, but you don't have to say that so loud.”

He was trying to get his flirt on, but I had moved him from the list of romantic wishes over to the buddy-plan-friend list. Those are the brothers a sister calls when she needs help moving furniture. The men that women need to keep in contact with. Especially if the guy owns a truck.

Like I said, the list was short, but not that short.

He said, “Let me make a quick run to the bathroom.”

As he wobbled away, I saw the tofu- and wheat-grass-eating people stare at him, glance at me, then shake their heads. So many snickers and whispers.

And why was it when you were out with one guy, you saw all kinds of guys you'd want to share a drink with? If I had come down here by myself, it would've been a damn Urkel convention.

This sucked like a hooker on Sunset.

I wondered if it was like that when I was married, if that was what people did to my husband whenever I walked away from the table. I lowered my eyes, opened my flip phone, and a made a call.

Tommie answered, “You're calling. This is not good.”

“Remember the Fat Bastard in that Austin Powers movie?”

“Is he that fugly?”

“Fucking ugly like a mofo.”

“No! Frankie, run for the hills.”

I looked at the yellow roses, an arrangement that probably cost at least half a C-note. I told her that he was a nice guy, very intelligent, but he's just not the reflection of what I'm looking for in a man, as shallow as it might sound, not physically, not at this moment in my life. Watching him sort of reminded me of my own issues. It cut down to the bone. And I remember how people used to treat me, the jokes, the looks from the skinny people. I'm not that small, not as fit and firm and my sisters, never will be, so that's why I'm being real cool, very sensitive about how I handle this little fiasco.

“Oh, it gets worse,” I told her. “Guess who is in the restaurant.”

“Who?”

I ran down the whole thing, what Nick did, what I said, how I lost it. Well, my version.

She said, “The casual relationship between you and Nick has always caused you psychological stress. What you did was in response to your own grieving. You expected a particular response and—”

I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at it like Tommie had lost her mind, took a deep breath, toyed with the shells around my neck, and changed the subject. I asked, “Heard from Livvy?”

“Damn. Traffic is so bad.”

“Where are you?”

“On Rosecrans trying to get on the stupid 405.”

“Thought you had to work with the rest of the candle pushers.”

“Things slowed down. Just got off. Should've gone down Sepulveda.”

Tommie told me that she had talked to Livvy not too long ago. Told me that she was snowed in. Hard to believe it was that damn cold anywhere, being out on a cool night in Beverly Hills. She said Livvy broke down crying, but cheered up, cracked jokes, seemed to be holding it together.

I looked at my watch. It was almost nine. I asked, “You going in for the night?”

“Java Lounge at Club 'Bucks.”

“Ground is shaking. He must be on the way back.”

“Holla.”

We hung up.

My date came back, smiling like I was the best thing since unleaded gasoline. I swear to God, he was floating like he was in the Thanksgiving Day parade. So happy to be with me. Just to be with me. I wish more men—well, the ones that I was happy to be with—felt that way about me.

But that's the way it always was. The men who were interested in you, you had no desire for. The ones you wanted didn't
want you. And if you did hook up with them, they dumped you for a twenty-year-old, ended up fucking one of your so-called best friends, or chased lesbians.