“Don’t come with no ‘we’re your contractors’ bullshit either. That’s fuckin’ evil and is the same aristocratic label you’ve put on us all these years. I’ve been your friend, not just your hairstylist. Point, blank, period. We’ve respected your stance. We’re just asking can we let up on the ‘never speak of Ashton and Aivery rule’ for a minute now that you’ll be communicating with him yourself.”
It’s messed up that she’s taken my stance to mean that all these years. But again, I’m not about to argue over it while working.
Respectfully, I answer, “No. Rashad’s waiting on me for the next series.”
ShawnNicole rolls her eyes and Drea exhales harshly. Like the professionals they are, the two get back to work…mutedly, and I’m thankful. That’s until I see one of the Love is Action interns jog over to us with a pained expression.
“Jade had to go. She could hardly come out of the bathroom, saying her back pains were that bad!”
ShawnNicole gasps, “What?”
My heart drops to the floor. How did I miss that? Arguing with my team, obviously.
“Who’s with her?”
“Trent’s aunt,” Trevor, the intern, answers. “She’s been outside the studio, reading. Apparently, Trent didn’t want Jade driving alone today.”
I swivel my head to locate my assistant, Lidia. She’s approaching me with a cup of tea. “Call Trent and make sure he knows Jade isn’t okay.” I hope I’m not jumping the gun, but I also know how close those two are. After Jade got over my affiliation with Brielle, her husband’s ex, she and I have been solid. So in touch, I’m now worried about her and the baby she’s carrying. “Maybe wait twenty minutes or so. They could be on the phone with him now. Just ask that he texts me when things settle?”
“Of course.” Lidia nods before taking off.
“Can we get this done?” I ask my team. “It’s been a really long day already.” A much-needed cleansing breath enters my lungs. “And can we crank that up?”
The Carters’ “Heard About Us” is about to be my next mood. I damn sure need to escape this one.
-TWO WEEKS LATER-
“Shit!” She wheezes, rolling off of me.
Shit is right. My heart is pounding. The girl is possibly the most voracious woman I’ve had. One who appreciated pure fucking, that is. My hand went down to my shrinking dick to check the status of the condom.
Intact.
Perfect!
“I needed that,” she pants. “I’ve got this twelve-hour flight ahead of me. Shit!” She flips to her side of the bed, in search of her purse on the floor. “What time is it?” I hear the shifting of shit from her digging through her purse.
That has me reaching for my phone on the nightstand nearest my side of the bed. I have several notifications awaiting me. Tapping, I go straight to my text messages.
Sade is laying with me now…
Tammy from Sports Illustrated’s finance department…
Teea, whom I’ll block…
Luke Brown from BSU…
Jamal from my cleaners…
Maury…
Maggie…
Mom...
I chuckle quietly.
I’ll be home shortly!
“Damn!” she cries next to me, lifting from the pillows. “It’s almost six. I’ve got to go.”
I watch her five-foot, two-inch naked body leap from the bed and shoot straight into the bathroom. Her body’s firm and dewy. I’m reminded of the ever-beneficial decision I made a year ago to call up the cabin attendant on my commercial flight to coastal Greece. She wrote her name and number on a napkin, handing it to me as I left the plane. Such a bold, clandestine move considering I was with a woman. A woman she overheard telling me all the things she’d do to me if I stayed in her villa that night instead of mine as she served us the final snack of the flight. Nicole, the president of an arts foundation for Black women pursuing ballet. For me, it was a business trip. For Nicole, it was a twofer.
Sade, here, is on a layover from Hawaii to Croatia. She claimed the need of unwinding. I answered the call by meeting her at a hotel near JFK airport. I just flew down from a fundraiser in Martha’s Vineyard. Her text and needs came through with impeccable timing. Stretching, I exhale and think of a mind-numbing thing I can do to kill time. My car service won’t be here for another forty-five minutes. A horrible vice I have as a so-called journalist is following a Black gossip page on Instagram called Spilling That Hot Tea. They’re awful, but accurate about eighty-nine percent of the time.