Smooth Operator (8 page)

It was spellbinding, watching him walk before the overhead projection screen, point to a graph, and speak about millions of dollars in investments, buying stocks, selling them, Roth IRAs, 401Ks, deferred compensation, and a zillion other financial textbook terms that turned Arri’s panties into a wet cloth.

She could tell by his ability to mix “you feel me and you see what I’m saying” in with proper English that he was the best of both worlds: smooth and mellow, but if pushed far enough, his street sense would come out, and he would go the fuck off.

Arri placed her hand onto the side of her hair and looked him over. She loved the way his tailored Armani pants swayed over his wing tips as he walked toward her. And the way his platinum TAG Heuer watch slid down his wrist as he stood over her, pointed to her pad, and said, “Tomorrow, I want you to pull the last three years’ financial reports.”

This was simply too damn much, and if Arri had ever wanted to leave so she could go home and masturbate via her Webcam, it was now, because then she could pretend that he was her client and bust this pinned-up nut for him.

I have lost my damn mind
, Arri thought.
I’ma mess around and get fired … and I need my job. Besides, he’s not that fine … or that smart … and my pussy isn’t that wet …
She sighed.
I need to shut the fuck up, ’cause I’m lying to myself.

“Arri,” Lyfe called out to her, “did you get that?”

Arri blinked. “What’s that? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Chinese food?”

“What?” she said, put off. “Chinese food?”

“Would you like Chinese?” he asked her, his eyes pulling weights not to roam all over her. “I figured it’s the least I can do for having you all work so late.”

“Sure.” She rose from her chair. “If everyone tells me what they want, I’ll place the order.” Everyone passed around a menu, selecting what they wanted to eat, and as they resumed the
meeting Arri placed the order. Once the food was delivered everyone dug in and between the orders of lo mein and fried rice, they continued their conversation and preparation for the audit.

Before long it was ten o’clock and Lyfe was concluding, “All right, good people, let’s wrap this up and resume in the morning.”

As the accountants said their good-byes and hurried to leave, Arri stood up and looked down at the conference table, which was littered with paper.

Lyfe moved his hand toward his beard, but before he could reach it, Arri said, “Don’t worry, I’ll stack the paper for you.”

“Are you sure?” Lyfe arched his eyebrows. “I mean, it’s late and I wouldn’t wanna make your man upset by staying any longer. Feel me?”

“Don’t ask me shit about feeling you,” Arri mumbled.

“I didn’t catch that,” Lyfe said. “What did you say?”

Arri paused. She knew, if nothing else, he heard everything. “I said,” Arri paused, “that you’re right … it is late.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” His eyes drifted to her breasts.

“Do I have something on me?” she said, lifting his chin again, wanting desperately to kiss him.

“Nah,” he said as the phone started to ring. “You’re perfect.”

“I’ll ummm …” Arri said, “get that.” She walked toward the double doors.

“Where are you going? There’s a phone right here.” He pointed to the center of the conference table.

“It’s a little cooler out here.” She walked quickly out the doors and picked up the phone at her cubicle, “Anderson Global, Arri Askew speaking.”

“Oh … this is Payton Carrington,” the caller said, taken aback. “I was trying to reach my husband. He hasn’t been answering his cell phone … is he still there?”

“Yes, Mr. Carrington is still here, we were just finishing up a meeting for the internal audit. Would you mind holding so that I can get him for you?”

No response.

“Hello … Mrs. Carrington?” Arri said, and then realized the line was dead. She placed the phone back on the cradle and returned to the conference room.

“Who was it?” Lyfe asked.

“Your wife.”

“My wife?” he said, as if for some reason he’d forgotten he had one.

“Yes, your wife. She was surprised that we were still here. I told her we were finishing up a meeting for the internal audit and she hung up.”

“Shit,” Lyfe hissed and Arri could tell he was slightly annoyed.

“I’m sorry, did … I … do something?”

“No,” he said, his smile reemerging, “I’ll handle it.” He flicked off the light switch. “Are you going to be okay getting home?” They grabbed their coats. “I could get a car for you.”

“No, it’s fine,” Arri said, walking backward out of the room. “I could use a nice train ride.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.” She smiled.

“All right. Well, good night,” Lyfe said. “I drove in today, so I’m out back.” He pointed to the elevator bay farther down the hall.

“Okay, see you in the morning.” Arri slid on her coat, placed her bag on her arm, and left. Once she stepped into the all-glass lobby she watched as buckets of rain fell from the sky. “Stay dry,” the doorman said as she walked out of the building, and stood under the overhang, wondering how wet she would be by the time she ran the two blocks to the subway station. “Get in” interrupted her thoughts as she looked up and saw Lyfe in a Black
Escalade in front of the building. “Get in,” he repeated. “It’s late and it’s raining. I won’t kidnap you; I need you at work tomorrow. I promise.”

Arri looked up and down the block and rain washed over everything in sight. “All right,” she said, sliding into his truck, “I live in Brooklyn, on Church Avenue.”

“That’s no problem, I’m staying right off the West Side Highway,” Lyfe said as they pulled off.

“Really?” Arri said, taken aback. “Where at?” She playfully twisted her lips. “Because I know you’re not in Harlem.”

Lyfe laughed. “What is that supposed to mean? I can’t be in Harlem?”

“Of course,”—she fought like hell not to give him the world’s biggest smile—“but I just expected you to be in … I don’t know … the presidential suite at some five-star hotel on the Upper East Side.”

“Well, for your information,” Lyfe said as he blew the horn at a cab that cut in front of them, “I’m not in Times Square.”

“So where are you staying?”

Lyfe paused. “Downtown … the W Hotel … but still.”

Arri snickered, “It’s okay to be a yuppie.”

“I am far from that.”

“Okay, honey, if you say so.”

“Don’t try and patronize me, it’s after five o’clock.”

“Ha-ha,” Arri said sarcastically, “is that so?”

“You think I’m an asshole of a boss, don’t you?”

“You? Oh no, honey.” Arri did her best to keep the lie she’d just told from burning her mouth.

“Why you playin’ me?” he said, feeling relaxed and allowing his sexy and street Compton accent to sneak into his words. “When I’m at work I don’t mean to be hard-nosed, but I have to be about my business.”

“I understand.”

“But I’m off now.”

Silence.

“What? You don’t have anything to say?” Lyfe quickly looked at Arri and then back to the street. “Don’t be shuttin’ down on me.”

“I don’t shut down.”

“Yo’, you do and you know it.”

“Look at you tryna be hood.”

“Now you wanna change the subject, it’s cool.”

“What you want me to say?” Arri joked, throwing up the West Side symbol, “West Side.” Arri laughed and once she looked into his face she was caught between a blush and a flush of embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to be so silly,” she said, feeling self-conscious.

“A woman who can handle her business in the day and let herself go at night is sexy as hell.”

Silence.

“Plus,” Lyfe said, breaking the troubling monotony, “you’re a li’l hood yourself.”

“Umm-hmm, whatever.” Arri waved dismissively. “Now, where exactly in California are you from?”

They stopped at a red light and Lyfe said, “Compton, baby. Crenshaw, to be exact.”

“What the—?” She whipped her neck toward him. “Your ass is hood as hell. Don’t go doing no drive-bys while I’m in the car, Dough Boy. And what are you doing with an Escalade; where’s your seventy-six psychedelic-blue Impala?”

The light turned green. “Oh, you got jokes,” Lyfe chuckled, “and it wasn’t an Impala. It was a hunter green and black ragtop deuce and a quarter with spinners on it. And the sound system”—Lyfe’s smile lit up the night—“was knockin’.”

Arri laughed so hard that tears filled her eyes. “And what did you have, Snoop, a perm? Oh wait, Ice Cube, a curl?”

“None of the above, pretty girl. I had the same Caesar that I have now.”

Arri paused; hearing him call her pretty girl made the butterflies in her stomach jump. “You are so corny.” She tried like hell not to blush. Arri pointed to the building she lived in and Lyfe pulled over.

“Me, corny?” Lyfe went on, “Ai’ight, well then … show me how not to be corny.”

Arri was silent. She looked at the dim and damp Brooklyn street that was ironically named Church Avenue, lit only by streetlamps and the headlights of never-ending traffic. She could see people walking up and down the block and some congregating on corners.

She wondered why she’d sat here this long, entertaining something that she knew was bullshit. Not only was Lyfe her boss but he was her married boss. She’d been through enough bullshit with married men, but then … honestly, him being married really didn’t slice her. No, what fucked with her was the fact that she was comfortable around him, and though she was sitting on the other side of the SUV from him, she really wanted to slide next to him and sit with her head on his chest, or in his lap …

And she wanted to tell him her wildest dreams and her fucked-up memories. She wanted to explain to him that she one day wanted to love again but that she was scared as hell, because the one time she let herself go there, he was shot dead. And she wanted to share with him that the prostitute pacing the corner up ahead wasn’t just a fiending crackhead, but was her sister.

She felt protected sitting here with him and she’d never expected to feel anything like this ever again, which is exactly why she was going to get her heart, her horniness, and her common sense in check and get the fuck out of here, go inside, get Zion, put him in bed, and perform for a client or two. She needed to get back to her life and sitting here feeling giddy with some random motherfucker wasn’t cuttin’ it.

“What’s the silence about?” Lyfe interjected into her thoughts.

“It’s just …” Arri voice trailed off and her words became dead in her mouth before they could reach the air.

Lyfe gently turned Arri’s face toward him and said, “True story, no game, and no politics. I’m enjoying being myself around you, and not having to hear about what we made last quarter. I promise you I haven’t laughed and shit like this in a minute. But if you feel funny, or awkward, or maybe you have a man peeking out the window, it’s cool and I’ll see you in the morning, no harm, no foul.”

After a moment of deciding to toss caution to the wind, Arri said, “I hope you like to dance.”

Sounds of live singing and steel-pan playing eased onto the street as Arri and Lyfe parked in front of Dextra, a small club on Flatbush Avenue, surrounded by twenty-four-hour West Indian restaurants and apartment buildings. Though Dextra sat in the heart of the hood, people from all walks of life loved the atmosphere and frequented the club like it was a tourist spot.

Dextra was nothing fancy; it was a simple storefront with a hand-painted Trinidadian flag on the front door. A banana tree sat by the entrance and people poured shots of rum punch onto it for good luck. The walls were covered in electric-teal paint and decorated with only two pictures: one of a bowl of fruit and the other, a large map of Trinidad. The map provided the backdrop of Dextra’s makeshift stage, where the world-renowned Wild Head, a reggae and soca band, performed every night. Small card tables and folding chairs littered the room, and most people were either drinking, eating, or working the dance floor.

“Let me know,” Arri said sarcastically, “if this is too much for you. If so we can leave and five-star dine at Mr. Chow’s.”

Lyfe smiled, “Too much for me? Whatta gurl like you know ’bout dis?” He put on a fake and extremely unbelievable West Indian accent.

Arri chuckled, and released an authentic Trinidadian accent.
“But what de bumbeclot dis yankee boy call heself doin’?” She sucked her teeth long and hard. “Leave de Trini to me and you just be ye self.”

“And who’s that?” he looked into her eyes.

“A rude boy.”

“You like rude boys?”

“A little too much.” She relaxed her Trinidadian accent and returned to her natural flowing American one.

Before Lyfe could comment the bartender asked what they were drinking. Lyfe looked at the bartender and said, “Give the lady—”

“A Shandy,” Arri said.

“And I’ll have a Guinness.”

The bartender handed them their drinks and as Lyfe slid backward onto the bar stool, Arri eased between Lyfe’s legs and he placed his left arm around her waist. “Ah”—he smiled as the stroll lights hanging above their head illuminated the shape of her ass—“an Island girl. No wonder.”

“No wonder what?” Arri said as Lyfe took a swig from his beer.

“No wonder you’re so beautiful.”

“Plenty of all-American girls are beautiful too.”

“I never said they weren’t. And stop that,” he said seriously.

“Stop what?”

“Stop tossing back my compliments,” he said, as he completed his hold on her waist, placing his right arm on the other side of her hip.

Arri became silent and Lyfe said, “And stop that too. Think tomorrow at the morning meeting, not tonight.”

“You’re right.” Arri placed her Shandy on the counter and grabbed Lyfe by the hand. “Let’s dance.”

Arri and Lyfe moved to the center of the dance floor and started to groove. They melted into each other as Arri fit her ass perfectly against Lyfe’s shaft as she wined, making it all too easy
for him to imagine her screaming while he tossed it up doggy-style.

Lyfe moved to the West Indian beat, but he was no match for Arri’s movement—and he didn’t really want to be. He wanted to watch her throw her voluptuous hips with a gracefulness he’d never seen.