Sexual Healing (23 page)

Her breath hitched.

Cruze.

Yes, yes. Cruze Fontaine.
Mmm
—God, yes.

“You need to stop playin' with me, Arabia, and let me dig in this shit on a regular basis.”

She shook her head.

Had he meant that? No, of course not. Men were notorious for saying shit they didn't mean in the heat of the moment. So there was absolutely no way that self-serving bastard—with his fine, chocolaty self—meant . . .

“If you'd stop putting up walls,” Maya continued, snatching her from her reverie, “you might be pleasantly surprised at how good it can feel to be in a relationship with a man of
your
own.”

Arabia blinked.

Hmm. A man of her own? That concept was foreign to her. A man of her own hadn't ever figured into Arabia's life plan, or her goals. She'd been too preoccupied with her career and fucking other women's men to entertain thoughts of a relationship—particularly a
monogamous
one with anyone.

“No thank you,” Arabia said. “I have no time for that.”

Maya frowned on the other end of the phone. “Well, then make time. I'm sure there are a ton of good-looking, single men out there who would love to date you, Arabia. In fact, now that I'm thinking of it, I have someone I know would be a perfect match for you. And he's—”

“Um, hold up, boo. Let me stop you right there,” Arabia warned. “I am not some lonely charity case who needs you to play matchmaker for her.”

“No one said you were. All I'm saying is, maybe it's time you broadened your horizons some. And I have just the man to help
you do that. He's a corporate attorney, making six-figures. He's single. No kids. Owns several homes. And . . .”

“Does he have a big dick?”
Arabia heard herself asking. But settled for, “What's wrong with him? Why is he still single if he's such a good catch? What, is he a paraplegic?”

Maya laughed. “Girl, no. That man is fine. And I do mean
fine
, in every sense of the word, with all of his limbs.”

Arabia grunted.
“Mmph.
He sounds too good to be true if you ask me.”

“Girl, stop. And you don't think you're deserving of something good? You could be a great catch too if you weren't so damn obsessed with married men.”

Arabia finally stopped pacing, and crawled up on her chaise lounge. “I beg your pardon? I'm not
obsessed
with them. I simply find them convenient.”

Maya chortled. “Ha! Girl. Lies. You find them as an
excuse
to not allow yourself the chance at real love. Tell me, Arabia. What are you really afraid of?”

Arabia blinked at the question, stunned.

“I don't know,” she whispered.
Myself.

“Bullshit, Arabia,” Maya blurted. “I know why you do it. And so do you. So say it.”

Arabia sighed. God she hated her sister for being the only one to pull her secrets out of her with such ease. “Okay, Maya. Damn. Maybe I'm scared that if I opened myself up to someone and fell for them, that I'd fall apart and wouldn't know how to pick myself up, or put myself back together again. Maybe I don't know how to let myself be vulnerable.”

She nearly choked on those words. She hated to admit it. Hated putting it out there like that. But it was her truth.

Arabia was afraid of love.

Twenty-Four

T
he drive to New Jersey before the sun had come up was oddly comforting. At four-fifteen in the morning, there were hardly any motorists on the road and Cruze felt like he owned the highway. The dark sky was beginning to streak with reddish-yellow colors, and it was eerily beautiful.

Like Arabia.

She was weird as fuck with her freaky self, but so eerily beautiful with that luscious mouth that seldom smiled, and her dark-brown eyes that were filled with mystery. When Cruze had looked deeply into those illuminous orbs of hers, he'd felt like he was sinking into an ocean of pain and despair. In her eyes, he'd seen his own tortured spirit revealed. He sensed that like him, Arabia was engaged in an inner war and was terrified of showing even a hint of vulnerability.

He didn't know her story, but was certain that she had one. Everyone did. As far as he could tell, no one made it through this life without experiencing their fair share of unbearable grief. Cruze swallowed, thinking about the loss of his mother. She'd been so young. So brave, trying to raise him on her own. She'd never told him who his father was and had always dodged the question by saying it didn't matter as long as he had her.

But it turned out that he didn't have her. He ended up trying to make it in the world, all alone. As twisted as it was, he now realized
that he'd been looking for something that resembled a mother's love in Ramona. What a laugh. Ramona had exploited his naiveté and had abused the pure love he had for her in the cruelest way. He didn't need a shrink to tell him that he was damaged goods.

And so was Arabia. He could feel it. Maybe that was why he was so attracted to her. Couldn't get her off his mind. He thought back to their bathroom encounter and his dick thumped and enlivened, but it instantly went limp when he recalled grabbing her thong and sniffing it like some kind of sick-o.
What the fuck was that shit about?
He had surprised himself with that blatant show of perversion. It made him cringe to even imagine what Arabia must have thought of him.

With her repeated warped behavior, she had a lot of nerve thinking that Cruze had issues. Sniffing a thong was mild compared to the way she liked to get down. Grabbing the first nigga with a swinging dick and serving him up juicy pussy in the midst of a huge crowd was straight bananas. Although bathroom sex was freaky, too, at least it was somewhat private. The way Arabia had lured him into the freak zone at Club Seduction was proof that she had a loose screw or two.

But he had to admit that he liked her kind of crazy.

He had fucked more bitches than he could ever count, and in every position of the Kama Sutra, yet he couldn't stop thinking about Arabia's tight pussy and the way she'd spread her legs for him with her high-heeled shoe planted on the toilet seat. Both times they'd smashed had been the most erotic adventures of his life. If he'd had the foresight to pick her thong off the floor and stick it in his pocket, he'd be sniffing that hot pussy fragrance right now while he was driving.

With a sigh of regret, he exited the interstate highway and followed the GPS directions to the dock.

Dressed in bummy sweats, hoodie, and dogged boots, Cruze joined two middle-aged white dudes and one Asian who were prepping for a long day of fishing, tinkering with tackle boxes and busily setting up their rods. He glanced at the hats they wore, taking notice of the colors: tan, brown, and a dingy off-white.

Cruze held a duffle bag in one hand and the other hand was stuffed in his pocket as he discreetly tried to determine if one of their caps was possibly a dull yellow.

The guy he'd contacted over the phone had said he could be identified by his yellow cap, but none of the fishermen's hats were any shade of yellow.

The men returned Cruze's curious glance with cold, unwelcoming looks. Carrying no fishing equipment, Cruze stood out. It must have been unnerving to have a tall black guy hanging around on the dock in the pitch-black darkness. They probably thought he was planning to rob them.

Cruze let out a snort of disgust. Their old, broke asses didn't have shit he wanted. To put their minds at ease, he took down his hood and moved several yards away from them, meandering in the direction of the darkened bait shop.

He looked around impatiently. Where the hell was the guy in the yellow cap? Trying to occupy his time, Cruze pulled out his phone and was pleased to see a message from his real estate broker, informing him that one of his properties had sold. Flipping houses was so much easier than flipping kilos, but a part of him missed the danger.

He studied the screen on the phone, reading the details of the sale. After he returned the phone to his pocket, he resumed craning his neck, checking out a new group of retirees that moseyed onto the pier. No yellow hats. He was beginning to grow antsy and wished there was a number he could call to find out when the dude
was planning on getting there, but the guy used burner phones that he changed regularly.

Cruze checked the time. Thirty minutes had elapsed since his arrival. That was a lot of time considering the nature of the business he was there to conduct.

Maybe he was on the wrong pier.

The lights inside the darkened bait shop suddenly flickered on and all the fishermen began moving toward the dinky little shack like it was Mecca. Cruze slowly maneuvered toward the shop, as well, but not because he wanted to buy bait. Through the window, he could see that the guy behind the counter had on a bright yellow hat.

Up close, Cruze could tell by dude's complexion and features that he was Italian. But he'd been expecting a much younger guy.

Nah, this dude couldn't have been the dude Cruze had spoken with—not with those bent shoulders, worn, leathery face, full set of clicking false teeth, and a wide gratuitous smile that he bestowed upon each customer.

Cruze's guy would have to have a steady hand and be quick on his feet. Cruze had expected to meet up with a terrifyingly malicious contract killer, not some smiley-faced senior citizen who made a living selling worms and fish guts and shit. He should have known better than to take someone seriously who advertised on Craigslist. Disgusted, he whirled around, prepared to drive back to Philly.

“Is anyone looking for snake bait?” asked the gravelly-voiced man behind the counter.

Recognizing the voice, Cruze stopped in his tracks and glanced over his shoulder. The customers standing in line shook their heads. None were looking for snake bait. The old guy settled his gaze on Cruze and Cruze detected a glint in his eyes.

If you want to kill a snake, you chop it off at the head,
the killer had
said over the phone when Cruze confided the dilemma he was in with an unforgiving drug gang. He'd learned that the top dog, Big Crockett, had been recently locked up, but would most likely get out in thirty days or less. Cruze was prepared to pay someone to go after the second-in-command and the rest of the organization while Big Crockett was incarcerated. He wanted the whole crew dead so he could stop looking over his shoulder and start living his life to the fullest. He'd take care of Big Crockett personally when he was back out on the streets, disoriented and hastily trying to reorganize.

Over the phone, the hit man had suggested that Cruze take down Crockett first, and he'd seemed confident that he could accomplish it while Crockett was behind bars. He'd demanded a hefty fee for his services, and Cruze was willing to pay it—to someone who could get the job done. Judging by the old man's slow movements, it seemed like his arthritis was killing him. With his gnarled, crooked fingers, he could barely bag up the worms without winching. There was no way such a feeble person could orchestrate a prison killing of a high-profile drug kingpin. The guy's glory days were long over.

After the customers thinned out, the man in the yellow hat asked, “Did you bring the money?”

“Man, who da fuck you kidding? How you gon' get to Crockett when it takes you forever to press the buttons on the damn cash register?”

“Don't worry about my capabilities. I get the job done,” the man replied knowingly. “Been running this joint for over forty years and none of my customers have ever asked for a refund.” He winked again and Cruze read between the lines. The bait shop was a front for a more sinister business.

“Okay, look, old man, I'ma give you half down like you requested,
but don't try to fuck me over or you'll find this little shack you running, burnt down to the ground.”

“Be careful with the threats,
moulinyan,”
the old man said with his mouth twisted viciously. Then he quickly displayed a huge smile.

The old dude had called Cruze a nigger in Italian and had followed the insult with a ready smile. But the menace that lurked beneath his broad grin hadn't gone undetected by Cruze. He was dealing with an old-school mobster, the kind of man who killed without flinching and never lost any sleep.

And though Cruze had his share of bodies, unlike the Italian, he didn't sleep well at night.

Still . . . fuck the old bastard's credentials. He was gon' be introduced to some new-school learning if he called Cruze a moolie, again. Moolie,
moulinyan
, whatever. They meant the same thing. Moolie was the short version of
moulinyan
, the slur Italians used for black people.

Begrudgingly, Cruze handed over the duffle bag that was stuffed with crisp bills and sauntered out of the bait shop.

• • •

The team took up three tables at Red Lobster. The boys were excitedly looking over the menu when Tanji and the woman Cruze recognized from one of Tanji's sex tapes slinked in, uninvited. Both were dressed inappropriately for a kiddie event, showing cleavage and midriff and looking whorish. Earlier that night at the game, Cruze had noticed them both jumping out of their seats and twerking in celebration every time one of the boys scored a point.

Just ratchet!

Now they were ogling Cruze while pretending to peruse the menu. Licking their glossy red lips, they sent him salacious promises of double-dick-sucking pleasure. Tanji was determined to give
Cruze some head and he was just as adamant that he wasn't going to give her the chance. She had caught him during a weak moment in his office and it bothered him immensely that he'd disappointed Bret.

“Y'all boys were on fire tonight!” Tanji exclaimed and then passed her phone around showing the footage she'd filmed. Her friend passed her phone around, too, and the boys excitedly watched the highlights of the game.

Cameras had been flashing all night, and having the moms there snapping pictures and handling the filming hadn't thrown Cruze off his mark the way the media cameras had done at previous games. It was a relief to coach without the pressure of Bret and Marquan scrutinizing his coaching methods. Those two icons always felt the need to give Cruze pointers and took it upon themselves to give pep talks to the boys. Cruze felt he'd never be a good coach if he didn't learn by his own mistakes.

After winning with a fourteen-point lead, Cruze felt the boys deserved to be indulged, and he allowed them to order anything they wanted, including all the dessert they could handle. After they filed out of the restaurant and were lined up to get back on the bus, Tanji's son complained of a tummy ache, and Cruze pulled him out of line. He told Tanji it was best if she drove her son straight home instead of driving behind the bus as she'd intended.

Cruze figured Tanji was going to try to pawn her kid off on one of the other moms who were waiting at the center for the boys to return from Red Lobster. After her son was out of her hair, Tanji and her girlfriend would try to worm their way to his office for a threesome that Tanji would no doubt try to sneak and film.

Outmaneuvered by Cruze, Tanji took her frustration out on her kid, yanking him by the arm and fussing at him for being greedy and eating too much dessert.

Despite being presented with the opportunity to penetrate two hot mouths, Cruze's dick was oddly uninterested. It didn't respond to Tanji's or her friend's plump tits and fat ass. There was only one ass on his mind . . . Arabia's. And he had no idea when their paths would cross again.

• • •

“Congrats on the win Friday night,” Bret said, sitting at his desk. “That Barack is starting to look more and more like he has Kobe Bryant potential.”

“Yeah, and Breon did a helluva job, too. All the boys pulled their weight,” Cruze responded. He still didn't consider himself one of Bret's peers, and he found it difficult to kick it with him casually. Being in his office was like being in the principal's office, and he shifted in his seat, waiting for Bret to get to the reason he'd asked to speak with him.

“Cruze, I realize you have good intentions, but don't you think the luxury bus you rented for Friday's game was a bit excessive?”

I knew it. Here we go . . .

“That raggedy yellow school bus you got us riding around in is an embarrassment and an inconvenience. Personally, I couldn't go to another game in that cramped-up rat trap. That bus was a necessity—it's a quality of life issue for me.”

Bret chuckled. “Having a bus equipped with Wi-Fi, video screens, and leather seats is a necessity?”

“Damn right, man. I need those roomy, reclining seats to stretch out my long legs. I'm getting sick of arriving at games with my legs cramped and hurting. I don't like being in pain while I'm coaching. And the boys need the video screens for recreational purposes during the ride. I bet you won't see white kids in the suburbs riding to their games in outdated school buses with no perks, so why should my boys?”

“My only concern about your extravagances toward the youth league is the message you're sending the teenage players. The older kids are being outshined by a group of little knuckleheads and they're starting to feel some kind of way about it.”

“I'm not the teen coach and they're not my problem, man,” Cruze retorted, leaning forward.