the call and marched towards the ladies’ room. ‘Rejoice in Love’ by Bacon Popper blasted through the speakers as he found his target crouching down low in the distance. He pulled a chair out of the way, nearly toppling it over to expose her. He bent down and wrapped his ringed hand around Charlotte’s long neck. By the look in her eyes, she was completely blindsided and hadn’t noticed him approach. He yanked her up from the floor towards him like a yo-yo. Depositing a hard kiss on her cheek, he released her then looked into her eyes.
“Hey, honey, I know we were gonna hang out tonight, but I can’t.”
“Noooo!” She pouted.
“It’s been fun, but I have to go.” He grabbed his wallet from his jacket pocket, pulled out a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill, and gave it to her as he kissed her this time on the lips. “Keep this anyway. You did a damn good job. Have fun tonight, okay? Tell the guys I had to head out, but I’ll catch up with them soon.” He began to walk backwards. “Enjoy your night.”
“Aww, don’t do this to us, Nix! We haven’t seen you in months!” She tossed up her hands, angst scribbled across her lovely face.
“I know, baby, I know.” He shrugged, then dug in his pants pockets and retrieved his car keys. “I miss you all, too. I’ll make it up to ya, I promise.”
“You suck!” She smirked and rocked back and forth on her heels, clearly tipsy. “Where are you going, Nixon?” Her voice was softer now… longing. Her eyes grew sad.
“That’s my business, baby,” he said with a smile and a wink, then turned on his heels and walked out the bar, heading towards his limited-edition black Lotus Esprit. Nixon got into the car and lit a joint. “Turn on, ‘Driving Home Mix’.” The stereo instantly belted out ‘Brown,’ by Kyle Dion. He bobbed his head to the sultry, funky retro beat as he weaved through downtown Chicago traffic, on a mission to show an unplucked, never-been-dicked-downed or fucked, fresh flower a damn good time…
CHAPTER TWO
You Thought About Me.
I Thought About You.
Mahalia’s ‘Grateful’ played through the speakers on low within the gray and teal bedroom of Yasmine’s downtown Chicago condo on South Sangamon Street. The music streamed like tiny fingers plucking the keys of her mind, coaxing her to sway to the beat and sing the lyrics. The sweet smell of mixed berry incense filled the space, merging with the scent of the waffles she’d made earlier that morning, and drenched in maple syrup.
She made herself comfortable at her long silver coffee table, sitting on the freshly vacuumed floor, cross-legged. She had her paperwork spread out before her, the table cluttered with colorful sticky notes, documents, her notebook, and laptop. Reaching out for her coffee cup, she took a sip and grimaced.
“Ugh!” She gasped, fighting laughter and disgust simultaneously. “Damn, that was foul.” She stuck out her tongue and placed the cup back down. “I really messed this pot up this morning. Goodness. Maybe that coffee is just no good? I hadn’t made any of it for a while. Can coffee expire? I imagine it can. Geesh.”
She shook her head and refocused. She had to look over her newest client’s case. Cheng Lim was an Asian drug dealer who hailed from Singapore. As a criminal attorney, she’d had all sorts of people walk through her office door in need of assistance. Some were innocent, some were guilty. It didn’t matter; she was hired to defend them either way.
As she scanned the report, his criminal history and the like, she kept coming back to the name of Nixon…
One of the witnesses had that surname, and they’d stated they had seen her client engaging in a drug transaction in Lincoln Park. She paused and closed her eyes then, her entire body tingling, from her scalp down to the bottoms of her freshly pedicured feet, when the memories assaulted her senses.
Nixon. Yeah, that was his name…
It had been a couple of months since she’d filled out that survey online, obtained her special invitation and visited The Cage. The experience at that clandestine nightclub had left her shaken and stirred. Despite all she had conjured up with her own inventiveness over her thirty-seven years, The Cage was nothing like she’d ever imagined.
The place was massive, not quite secluded, enigmatic – a secret world in plain view. It was decorated like something out of a pulsating, wet dream. Decorated in seductive shades