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Chapter One

I Like the Way You Work It

"Check baby, check baby, one-two-three-four! Check baby, check baby, one-two-three!"

My heart was percolating like my grandma's raggedy old coffeepot as I chanted the words to Wreckx-N-Effect song "Rumpshaker." It was booming all around me, pouring from the speaker system.

The sound echoed throughout the empty theater, blending with the crazed patter of dancing feet moving with synchronized rhythm across the much-scuffed wood floor of the stage.

There weren't a lot of frills in the Nexus Theater. Nestled on West Twentieth Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, it was a tiny little thing that was a far cry from the glitz and glimmer I'd anticipated.

There were none of the dramatic red velvet curtains and elegant balconies I envisioned would serve as backdrops for my grand stage debut. The place was hollow and naked.

Strictly utilitarian. About as bottom-line as you could get.

Plain wooden seats, a stage, a no-nonsense curtain that was just a few threads shy of being deemed burlap, some random fixtures here and there, and the obligatory backstage area.

It was all prop and circumstance. If circumstances called for props, then that's when you got 'em. Otherwise, the place was as scaled-down and threadbare as they came. Just a few steps above the size and status of a high school auditorium.

(Okay, maybe it was a little bit bigger. But damn, not a whole lot.)

I glanced out in the direction of the empty audience seats as I made my moves. All I could see were the shadows of three men. Who were they, and what were they thinking?

I didn't care. My adrenaline was blowing up.

I boogied across the stage. Sweat trickled down my body, streaming over my teeny-weeny deep blue tank top and working its way down the small of my back. My spandex shorts clung to every curve of my perfectly tight booty, and I was waving it 'round for all the world to see. My clothes were discreetly, provocatively, sweaty in all the right places.

I couldn't have planned it any better.

I wanted to get the part in this production bad. Real bad. If I got it, it meant a whole new life change for me. I was going to try my hand at dancing for the stage, maybe even Broadway.

What was I talking about? Bump maybe . . . definitely Broadway!! Why would I stop at just a small-scale production? Hell, I'm Reesy. Everything I do is over-the-top.

And if I was going to try my hand at this, it was going to be over-the-top, or not at all.

Not that this was going to be a small-scale gig. I mean, if I got the part, it was going to be a pretty big deal.

But it wasn't Broadway. That was still a loooong ways away.

There were two parts up for grabs, and there were six other women dancing alongside me, all of us shaking our asses like our lives depended on it. But, as far as I was concerned, those heffahs weren't even there.

It was all about me. I was gonna get one of these roles, dammit, if it was the last thing I ever did.

Still singing in my head, I zooma-zoomed in the poon-poon.

I worked my hips and wiggled my butt as I gyrated across the stage, adding my own little flava (The Reesy Special, I like to call it) to the routine the choreographer had taught us to do to the music. I had this way of letting my body go, as flexible as an overcooked noodle, while I got into the groove. This shit was a workout, but I was getting a helluva rush out of it.

I had my back bent, leaning forward, slanging my braids all around my head. Right on cue, I spun around booty-forward, back still bent, and began to wiggle again.

Buttcheeks for dayz.

And from watching the body language of the shadowy male figures that sat in the audience grading our performances, I could see that it was working.

Considering the way one of them had been crossing and uncrossing his legs, something sure as hell had to be going on.

And yes, it was me causing the effect. I had no doubt about that. Sure, those other girls were bad, but wasn't nobody up there working it quite like me. I could feel it.

No telling what they had been scribbling on their lethal pads with those loaded pens. But whether they liked me or not, I was gonna make damn sure I got a rise out of their asses.

My endorphins doing the bump. I felt like I was about to spontaneously combust.

"That'll be it, number three."

I worked my shoulders downward, ass jiggling like Jell-O in the mold.

"Number three, thank you."

I zooma-zoomed on, singing away in my head.

"Number three, you can go now!"

The girl to my left elbowed me discreetly.

"They're talking to you," she smirked.

Sneaky heffah. She was just trying to distract me and make me mess up. I ignored her and kept dancing.

I did my thang, sliding to the side along to the music, my arms waving around over my head in a hula-like dance that had me adding way more hip than the choreographer had planned.

"NUMBER THREE!!"

I sang on under my breath, wiggling my behind.

I was still grooving when the music came to a sudden stop. I was dancing hard, in the zone. I didn't notice right away that I was the only one moving on stage. My body was racing ahead so fast, that it took all my brain could muster to send it the message to stop. I leaned forward, my hands on my thighs, panting heavily.

The girl who had elbowed me was standing there next to me, staring. She had her hand on her hip. Her mouth was now wide open in a mocking grin. Beside her, the other girls huddled, some of them shaking their heads. A couple of them were laughing.

"Number three?" a heavy voice boomed from the shadows of the theater seats.

I looked down at the piece of white paper stuck to my tank top. A big 3, scrawled in black Magic Marker, stared back up at me.

Oh shit! I thought. They want me!

"Yes?!" I panted excitedly.

"That's enough," the voice said dismissively. "Thank you for coming."

His words didn't register at first.

"Thank you," he repeated.

"That's it?" I gasped, barely able to breathe from the energy rush I had created. My heart was thumping like it was about to explode.

"We'll call you," he said, sounding as empty as I did when I told my random lies to used-up lovers on the phone.

Now ain't this some shit?!!?!! I thought.

Let me tell you something . . . I ain't nevah been dismissed from nothing. I was the one who did the dismissing.

Even when I left Burch Financial, my last job, where I worked as an administrative assistant for my best friend, Misty Fine, it was my decision. I wasn't fired.

But enough about that. We'll talk about that later.

Standing there on that stage, giving the audition of my life, hoping to find some new direction as a dancer in the theater, I was now mortified. How the hell were they gon' single me out from everybody else and tell me to get the hell out?

Those other bitches stood over there, smirks on their faces, just staring at me.

I started to cuss 'em out, but, lucky for them, I was so out of breath, I was barely able to speak.

I rushed over to the side of the stage, grabbed my duffel bag, and fled.

On my way out, I saw the guy who had asked me to come to the audition. He had invited me because he liked the way I danced at the audition for Bubbling Brown Sugar, the first audition I'd gone to after leaving the corporate world.

He was definitely the last person I wanted to see.

"Thanks for coming out," he said with a smile, his hand touching my back as I passed.

"Yeah," I replied shortly.

"Don't look so sad," he said. "It's all good."

"Whatever," I snapped, just trying to get past him and out of the place.

I shoved open the heavy steel back door that led out of the Nexus. In my hurry to get out, the strap of my duffel bag got caught on the outside door handle.

As I struggled to free it, my eyes gravitated upward to the white flyer taped to the door.

Black Barry's Pie Auditions.

I managed to get my bag free and hurried out onto Twentieth Street. I didn't even want to acknowledge what just went on in there.

I walked across Twentieth toward Sixth Avenue, barely aware of what was going on around me or the people that I passed.

Damn!! What made me even think I was good enough to be picked?

Misty was right. I was crazy for thinking I could jump my ass into a theatrical production, just like that. With no experience. Who the hell did I think I was, anyway?

Misty was the career girl. She was the one who got all the breaks. I must have been outta my mind to think that something like this was just going to happen for me.

I kept walking. I was humiliated, sweaty and stank. I could smell every orifice of my funky, sticky body.

I frantically waved for a cab, heading uptown on Sixth Avenue.

One slowed down and was about to pull up alongside the curb.

The man took one long look at me, standing there like a two-dollar hoe in my sweaty clothes, and kept on going.

Shit.

This was not my day.

• • •

Finally, one guy pulled over and picked my sorry ass up.

His cab reeked of curry, and his black turban was so wide and so tall that, once I got in the car, it blocked my entire view of the left side of the street ahead.

The turban was wrapped tightly, and just kind of teetered and tilted, as if, at any given moment, it was going to topple over and take his head right along with it.

"Wearrr-do?" he grumbled in an Indian accent, rolling his tongue thickly over his r's.

"West Seventy-fifth and Amsterdam," I sighed, sinking back into the torn-up seats of his funky cab. "The Milano building."

The cabbie zapped the meter and sped off from the curb.

His cab was so raggedy on the inside, it's a wonder I was even able to sit on the seats without getting a shredded ass from the cut-up leather.

He turned up the radio and began singing this wack-ass Hindu song. Loud. Like he was crazy. Like I wasn't eeemuch in the car.

He weaved and bobbed through the heavy traffic, working his head and the Tower-of-Pisa turban to the music.

I leaned forward and looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Around his neck, he wore a Star of David.

What the . . . ?!

Surprised, I quickly glanced at his ID, which was openly displayed on the visor of the passenger side of the front seat.

Mustafa Klein, it read.

"Damn!" I squealed, laughing out loud for the first time that day. "New York is sooooooo fucked up!!"

He continued to ignore me, happily singing and bobbing away.

I collapsed back on the seat again, a smile still lingering on my lips.

Not for long, though. As the cab raced its way uptown, I sat there trying to block out the details of my embarrassing audition. Most unsuccessfully.

I kept seeing the look on the face of the chick who tried to get me to stop dancing, skinning and grinning at me as I made a fool of myself on stage.

Dang!! A chill ran through me and my skin flushed.

Nothing . . . well, almost nothing . . . embarrassed me. But this was bad. I couldn't block it out.

I kept seeing that heffah's jeering expression.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" I muttered. "Damn! If Tyrene only knew how I messed this one up!"

Tyrene is my mom.

And, check this out: my dad's name is Tyrone.

I know, I know . . . that's about as goofy as it gets, but I don't even try to understand it. It's one of those situations where you figure two people were just made for each other, from their names on down.

They were two vulgarly rich, black-as-they-wanna-be attorneys who ruled the world (and the law firm their thrones sat at the helm of) with an iron fist.

Between their two names, they came up with mine . . . Teresa.

I know—the obvious, ghetto thang for them to have done was name me Tyreoné (with an accent . . . gots to have the accent at the end).

But my folks ain't never had no parts of the ghetto in 'em.

I was their only child. The one they tried to mold into their image. The one they threw money at with both hands, in the hopes that I would conform to their ways of thinking.

The one on whose shoulders they rested the fate of Western civilization as they knew it.

I called my parents by their first names to let them know they could not rule me or force me to carry the weight of the world on my back. Calling them Tyrone and Tyrene was a habit I established long ago, which they indulged at first.

They actually thought it was quite cute, coming from their outspoken little yellow-faced daughter, running around in her dashiki with her head full of braids. The two of them always smiled when I referred to them in my strong, but tiny, little voice, as Tyrone and Tyrene in front of company.

After a while, as I grew older (and more rebellious), they began to be annoyed by it, and that mess got old. But, by then, it was too late to make me change. We were officially on a first-name basis.

At this stage of their lives, and mine, I could truly say they hated me addressing them that way with a passion.

Yeah. If Tyrene knew about my attempt, and failure, to make my mark in the Big Apple, she would be right up here, giving me an earful. Handing me a check. Demanding that I come back home to Fort Lauderdale.

Telling me to stop being so foolish and do something meaningful with my life.

Damn!! Maybe she was right. Perhaps I did need to get a grip and move on to something normal.

I closed my eyes, taking deep breaths to try to relax myself and clear my head. That diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-ding-ding music piping through the car didn't help me at all. Neither did all the squawking coming from the kosher swami in front of me as he tried to sing along.

What I needed was some Maxwell.

I could just see him now, looking all sexy on the back of his first CD—my favorite, with that crazy head of tangled hair, turning me on with one of his sexy tunes.

It would be even better if I could actually throw down with Maxwell while he was crooning to me. Yeah. Wouldn't that just make everything all right?

So what, every hot-blooded sistah in America was probably jonesin' for him, just like me? A girl can dream, can't she?

Misty didn't feel it when I got into my Maxwell mode, but she was weird anyway.

She obsessed over Denzel.

Pleeeeez.

Denzel ain't have nuthin' on the Blackarican Lover.

Misty said Maxwell was too young for me (another giveaway that she was way too conservative for my tastes sometimes).

Too young? Please. Youth was insurance that the sex would be even more thorough. Besides, all the books said that men reached their sexual peak way earlier than women. The way I saw it, me and Maxwell (sexually speaking, that is) were perfectly matched.

Just thinking about Maxwell made the ol' Bermuda Triangle itch a little. Which, in turn, made me unconsciously rub my thighs together. Which, in turn, made me aware that my shorts were kinda sweaty in the front.

Which, of course, reminded me of that fiasco of an audition.

"Great," I mumbled, my eyes still closed. "There's just no escaping this."

The car hit something, a bump in the road, or the curb for all I knew, as it careened recklessly through traffic. My eyes popped open just as we were passing Forty-ninth Street and the neon red lights of Radio City Music Hall.

I thought about the Rockettes. As a kid, I'd always wanted to be a black Rockette. Have my fast ass up there on that stage, flashing my tight, toned gams at the world as I kicked 'em high for all to see.

Guess that dream was a long ways off.

I sighed, and leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes once more.

The simultaneous sound of smacking and the smell of something rank made me abruptly open them again.

Homie drove using one hand and ate furiously with the other. We weaved and bobbed, barely missing other cabs and cars struggling to get through traffic.

"Excuuuuuse me!" I shouted. "What is that you're eating?"

"Wdut?!"

"What are you eating?! Whatever it is, it's making me sick!"

"This?" he asked, waving his hand in the air.

"Get that out my face!"

"You ask. I show. Is gefilte fish. Is good. You want try?"

"No! Just get me the hell home!"

Swami Klein turned back around, tossing the piece of fish into his mouth.

I was thrilled as hell when we finally pulled up in front of my building.

"Five seventy-five," the Swami declared, announcing the total, not even turning around to look at me.

"I'm gonna need my change back," I said flatly, handing him a ten.

"Sure," Mustafa said happily, finally turning around. He smiled, taking the ten out of my hand with his gefilte fish fingers.

He grabbed another piece of fish and quickly tossed it into his mouth. Then he reached into a zippered bag he had on the seat beside him. The smile still plastered on his face, he offered me four one-dollar bills and a quarter. I looked down at the money.

The bills were wet with gefilte fish from his fingers, and so was the change.

That muthafucka. Ol' slick-ass Mustafa.

"Just keep it," I grumbled, wondering how my day could get any worse. Was the whole world determined to screw me?

I exited the cab in a digusted huff. I was barely out of the car before Mustafa sped off, in search of another fool.

Len, the doorman, was standing there in front of the apartment building, cheesing at me like a hungry rat.

"Having a good day so far, Miss Snowden?"

I was so annoyed, I didn't even bother to answer.

I swept past him, into the lobby, and rushed on to the elevators.

I pressed the Up button, hoping that it wouldn't be too long of a wait.

To my relief, the elevator doors opened immediately.

I quickly stepped inside.

The doors squeezed shut, and the elevator whisked me away.

I found myself wishing I could be like Charlie Puckett, in that scene from Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where he and Willie sped up in the elevator, bust through the glass roof, and shot off, clean out into the stratosphere.

As wack as my day had been, I wouldn't have minded being shot out into space. Not one little bit.

I knew Misty wasn't home, but I really needed to talk to her.

She was a corporate bigwig. Misty worked every day of the week, and half the night sometimes.

Or so she said. Of late, I'd been having my doubts about what she was doing with her nights. Something about the way she'd been behaving smacked of being a little bit more involved than just working late.

Tired and frustrated, I stepped off the elevator and trudged down the tiled art deco corridor, groping in my bag for my keys. By the time I reached the door to our apartment, I was mentally deflated and in desperate need of a place to just fold up and hide.

I fumbled with the lock for a second or two, then lazily pushed against the door with all my body weight.

I tossed my duffel bag to the side as I walked through the pale beige marble foyer. It was old marble in an old building, but it was elegant nonetheless.

I beat a path across the room. I knew exactly what I needed, and made a beeline for it straightaway.

Our living room was a series of warm browns and russets, rusts and golds. The floor was an endless, sprawling expanse of deep rich hardwood. And we had a view of Central Park, that was, baby, simply to die for.

The walls were the color of butter. It was such a welcoming tone that it immediately set your mood when you walked into the room.

There was a big cushy armchair made from a soft and velvety rust-colored material. It was Misty's personal favorite.

The matching sofa was my spot. Made from the same fabric, it was all pillows and comfort, and had served as a bed for me on many a night I was just too damn lazy to crawl to my room.

Our black art covered every possible square inch of wall space. It was like a gallery in there, with her Frank Fraziers and Art Bacons dominating the east wall, and my Varnette Honeywoods and Leroy Campbells dominating the west.

The works of Charles Bibbs, beautiful, colorful, engaging pieces of long-limbed people swathed in stunning regalia, populated the foyer. And the hall leading to the bedroom was a collage of African masks that were, at once, both magical and frightening.

Misty's treasured collection of Senegalese African villagers was showcased on a small round table in the southeasternmost corner of the room. The table was covered with kente cloth and the villagers were gathered proudly in a huddle on its surface.

In addition to the sofa and the armchair, we had found a couple of cute, eccentrically flavored chairs in the shapes of open hands. We'd gotten them from Ikea, a store I loved for its quirkiness and flair and, most of all, for the fact that you could get some really cool furniture there for really, really cheap.

On the squat, mahogany coffee table in front of the sofa was a funky blue vase made out of cracked glass. And in the middle of our living room was a massive fixture that housed the TV and all the other audiovisual equipment. If it hadn't been carved from such a beautiful pickled wood, we would have literally considered it the armoire from hell, and had the thing moved outta there on the day we moved in.

Instead, the armoire's beauty was its saving grace. But it was a lumbering thing that gave us much grief, with its popping panels and creaking shelves. Its doors often ricocheted open unexpectedly, damn near hitting you in the face when you passed. Sometimes, the TV shut off for no reason, right in the middle of the best part of a movie or a show. CDs often skipped at will.

Mind you, the same equipment was totally operational when we removed it from the armoire's housing. Bizarre stuff only happened when we put it back inside.

Misty thought the thing was possessed. Sometimes, I swear, I thought so, too.

I found the electric blue CD, sitting faceup on the middle shelf, on top of the audio equipment. I pressed the Eject button on the CD player, the tray slid out, and I very gingerly placed the disc inside.

I pressed the button again, and the tray retracted.

I pressed the Skip button, fast-forwarding to cut number two.

Home at last, I thought, as the soothing sounds of "Welcome" by Maxwell began to pour from the speakers.

Finally, I could relax and allow myself to forget about all the crazy shit that had happened to me.

The heavy beats of the music came thumping out of the speakers.

I stood there for a second, swaying to the beat, and then made my way over to the couch. I flopped down, lying back against its velvety cushions.

With the heel of my right foot, I pushed the sneaker off my left foot. When the shoe came off, I did the same with the other one.

I lay there, my left arm across my forehead, eyes closed, and breathed in and out, in and out. Trying to calm my frazzled nerves. The music was like medicine. It was slowly but surely taking me away.

". . . make yourself at home, 'cause you're welcome . . ."

By the time the song was halfway through, a physically exhausted and psychologically battered version of me had drifted off to sleep.

I found myself basking in the glow of a peaceful dream of me and Maxwell, him rubbing my sore muscles, making everything feel better.

As for me . . . in the dream, my fingers curled happily around one of his tangly locks, as I prepared to take his young and tender ass on the ride of his life.

I was awakened by the phone ringing.

I sat up on the couch, groggy, looking around.

There was no Maxwell, musically or otherwise.

How could he just dip on a sistah after that nice-nasty little session we just had?

Well . . . so much for that.

I rubbed my eyes and reached for the phone on the coffee table.

"Hello?"

"Well, hellooooo, Miss Reesy!"

I blinked a few times, trying to get myself to fully wake up.

"Uh-huh. Who's this?" I mumbled.

"It's Hudson," the deep, seductive voice went on.

"Hudson who?" I asked, not moved in the slightest.

"Reesy," he reprimanded, "it's me, Hudson Webb. We've got a lunch date today, in case you forgot. You didn't forget, did you?"

Lunch date? Hudson Webb? Who the hell was this . . .

Ohhhhhhhhh!!!!

Suddenly, I remembered.

"Hey, Hudson!" I chirped, trying to clear my throat. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, baby. You sound a little tired."

"No, I'm straight. I was just taking a quick nap. My morning was kinda busted."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Well yeah, you did. But I needed to get up anyway."

"Are we still on for lunch?"

"Yeah," I replied. "Lunch is still fine for me. Can we make it a late one, though? Maybe around one? I need to shower and change."

"One is fine. How about China Grill?"

"China Grill is good. Fifty-third and Sixth, right?"

"Exactly. The reservation will be under my name."

I stretched, drinking in his soothing voice. Perhaps Hudson had other things that were just as soothing. I could use some soothing right about now.

"All right. I'll be there at one."

"Okay, gorgeous. See you when I see you."

I hung up the phone.

I had forgotten all about Hudson Webb. How could I forget about him, and that lunch date we had planned well over a week ago?

Hudson was a tall, buff, cafe-au-lait brother with deep, deep dimples. Very handsome. He was a Wall Street broker, but he wasn't one of those tight asses, like so many of them were. He had flair and flash about him.

I actually met him in the Village, at a hip, retro clothing store called Antique Boutique. He was hunting down an eclectic jacket. Something that would make him stand out at the firm where he worked.

Well . . . that's what he said. He loved being different.

I was looking for a pair of funky shoes.

He asked my advice on a jacket, and I picked one out that I thought best matched his demeanor.

We swapped numbers and talked a few times on the phone. He wasn't exactly the type I usually went for, but brother was too fine to let go by.

Going to lunch with him would definitely be a good move.

Besides, I needed something to change my disposition. After that horrible audition, a nice meal in the presence of a good-looking man just might do the trick.

I ran my tongue around the insides of my mouth. It was very cottony, very dry.

And I stank. I still had on the same clothes I'd been in all morning.

"I needs to get my funky behind in the shower," I mumbled.

I got up from the couch and stretched again. A long, feline stretch.

Then, right there, in the middle of the living room, I very carefully took off my tank top, peeled out of my shorts, and stepped out of the thong I'd been wearing.

I didn't have on anything else. The windows were not covered. The view was wide open for all the world to see. But that was straight me and my exhibitionistic streak.

The way I saw it, if some freak was out there, desperate enough to be looking through a telescope, trolling through the views inside people's apartments, trying to get his peep on, then he deserved a look at my black ass.

Okay, yellow ass. You had to be determined like a mug to be able to catch somebody standing naked in their apartment, on one of the highest floors of a building, in the middle of a Monday morning. That was no small feat. That took talent.

I stooped down, gathered up my clothes, and walked into the kitchen. Butt-nekked.

I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Evian. I stood there in the doorway, the clothes now tucked under my arm, arctic bursts of air blasting over me and my naked funk, screwed the cap off the water bottle, and drank straight from the container. That water was delicious. I just let it course down my throat and cool my palate.

"Mmmmm. This tastes sooooo good. I really needed it."

(I talked to myself a lot. It was the way I blew a lot of my frustration off. That, and meditation.)

I took another long sip, then screwed the cap back on. I closed the refrigerator door and leaned back against the counter, stretching my legs.

"Let me get my butt in the shower." The smell of my own rank body was beginning to get to me.

On my way to the bathroom, I tossed the clothes I had been holding into the laundry basket. Misty will be proud of me for that, I thought to myself, smiling. I wasn't the neatest child on the planet, I knew. As she so often reminded me.

I stepped into the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain, and turned on the hot water.

I let it run for a little bit, while I stood in front of the mirror in the vanity area, studying my body.

I looked at my tight figure, thinking back to the audition that morning. I had been damn good. I knew it. I moved well, and I had the best presentation of all those heffahs out there.

The thought of it all still made me mad.

And made me feel a little sorry for myself.

I put both my hands up to my head and grabbed my braids. I stared at my reflection. I looked like Medusa, with all those snaky plaits stretched out like that. My yellow face had a slightly red flush. It seemed beat and tired, and my eyes had a curious slant, like what they needed most were a decent night of sleep. I looked pitiful.

My saving grace, thank goodness, was the fact that I looked a lot younger than most people thought I was. I was often confused for being anywhere from twenty-three to twenty-seven, when I was really thirty-two. That was mad cool, especially when it came to pulling cuties.

From the way I looked right now, though, I couldn't pull a cutie with a ten-ton truck.

"Uuuuuuuuugggghhhhhhh!!" I screamed, holding the braids in my hands tightly away from my head. "I have to shake this!! Things have to get better!! They just have to!"

I was determined to have a good time at lunch. That's just all there was to it.

I grabbed a couple of hairpins, wound my braids together into a ball, and pinned them up.

I pulled back the curtain, stood under the steamy water for a few seconds, then took a long, hot lingering shower. With each drop that pelted my body, I could feel the tension of the morning rinse away.

I oiled and perfumed my body, slipped on my robe, and dipped down the hall to my bedroom.

I grabbed a bone-colored crochet halter dress. It was always an attention-getter and even though it was only the end of March, we were in the midst of one of those "el Niño hot spells" so I figured I could get away with it. I picked out a pair of my favorite sandals, the brown leather Via Spigas, and snatched a black thong from my underwear dresser.

I was dressed in no time flat. I freed my braids from the pins and peeped the total results as I passed by the full-length mirror in the corner of my room. My legs were nice and golden, lean and muscular. The dress showed off the tight curves of my calves and fell over my booty just the way I liked.

"Not bad, not bad."

I scooped up my purse and headed out the door.

On my way out of the building, Len greeted me again.

"Doing better, Miss Snowden?" he asked.

"Much better, Len. Much better."

"Do you need a cab?" he asked. "I can hail you one."

"No thanks. I can do it myself."

I stepped out to the curb and stuck my finger up.

A cab pulled over immediately, and I jumped my butt in.

"China Grill. Corner of Fifty-third and Sixth."

The African brother nodded as he pulled away from the curb.

"And could you step on it? I'm running a little late."

As usual, the lunch crowd at China Grill was pretty thick.

Located in the bottom of the CBS building, it was a very popular spot.

A few heads turned my way. I was dressed pretty funky considering how most of the crowd was attired. It was mostly the midtown set, people coming from nearby offices to power lunch and flex.

The young woman at the front podium greeted me. "May I help you?"

"Yes. I'm meeting someone here. Hudson Webb."

"You must be Miss Snowden."

"Yes," I smiled, suddenly feeling a little important.

She spoke to one of the hostesses, who was standing beside her.

"Right this way," the hostess smiled, leading me past the bar and toward the back.

I followed her, feeling a number of eyes following me.

There was Hudson, fine as ever, sitting at a corner table, staring out the window. He had on the jacket he'd bought from Antique Boutique. It did make him stand out.

In a very good way.

He stood up when he saw me approaching.

"Damn," he whispered, kissing me on the cheek. "Mama, you look hot, hot hot!!!"

"Thank you," I beamed. "You're not looking too shabby, either."

"Well . . . um . . . you know," he joked, rubbing his chin in a pimpish manner, "I kinda had a li'l hep."

When he kissed me, he left a little moist spot on the side of my face.

Brother's got a wet mouth, I thought. Hmmmm.

That could be a good thing. Or a bad thing. Wet kisses walked a fine line between being real nice, or just plain nasty.

He held out my chair so that I could sit down.

I did, and he followed suit.

I picked up the menu and began to sift through it.

"You're looking pretty tasty there, mama," he said. "For someone who had a busted morning, you sure as hell clean up real good."

"Thank you," I smiled sweetly. "But do me a favor. Let's not talk about my morning. Let's just order some food, 'cause a sistah's a little hungry, ya know?"

"Whatever you want," he beamed. "Just say the word."

"I think I'll have some of their dumplings as an appetizer," I mused. "But no, wait . . . these lamb ribs sound real good, too."

"Why don't we get one of their sampler platters to start?" he said. "It has a bunch of different things on it that you can nibble from."

"Okay."

Hudson signaled to our waiter as he passed.

The man came and scribbled down our order. For my meal, I got the grilled chicken salad.

"What would you like to drink?" the waiter asked.

Hudson looked at me.

"A glass of merlot? A cocktail?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "It's too early in the day." I looked up at the waiter. "Just let me have a glass of Pellegrino."

"Fine, ma'am. I'll bring a whole bottle."

He took our menus and disappeared.

Hudson leaned back in his chair and sighed.

"So, mama! Let's talk. Play catch-up with me. It's good to finally see you again after our brief, chance encounter."

I leaned back in my chair and smiled.

Coming to lunch was definitely a good idea. Already, I was digging him.

Thoughts of my dreadful morning were fading far, far away.

• • •

The sampler platter arrived in a flash.

There were all types of assorted little goodies, but the lamb ribs caught my eye from jump.

I speared one and put it on my plate.

Then I tried to be cute and cut it with my knife.

Hudson laughed.

"Now, you know you want to pick that up and eat it with your fingers!!"

"Uh-huh," I chuckled.

"Then do it!"

I glanced furtively around the room.

"What you looking around for?" he quipped. "These crackers don't know you, do they?"

"No, they don't."

"And so what if they did!" he added.

I laughed again, and thought about Misty. She would balk if she saw me right now.

But that was the difference between me and her. Sometimes, I plain just didn't give a shit.

I picked up the lamb rib and began to get down.

It was delicious. It had a nice, subtle gamy taste, and the sauce was incredible.

There were three more left on the platter. I eyed them, hoping he didn't like lamb nearly as much as I did.

"You can have them," he answered, reading my mind. "I'll just nibble on this other stuff while you get your grub on."

"Thank you," I grinned.

The ribs were so good, I didn't have any conversation with him as I ate them. I just picked them up, one after the other, and gnawed my way around the bones.

I was feeling so relaxed, I could have just floated away.

My fingers were a mess.

I reached for the napkin on my lap.

"Uh-uh," Hudson said, and caught my hand.

He pulled it toward him, turning it over and looking at it.

I watched him, totally taken by surprise.

He pulled my hand toward his mouth.

My brow rose in confusion. I tried to pull my hand away.

But Hudson was determined (and pretty damn strong!). Apparently excited by my resistance, he tugged harder, and, once again, my hand continued its trajectory toward his mouth.

He parted his lips, and I watched in horror as, one by one, he began to suck the sauce right off my fingers. He pulled each one through his lips, long and slow.

It took me a second for it all to register.

I stared at my hand in his mouth.

My stomach lurched in horror as his sloppy spit was slathered all over my hand.

The people at the table next to us snapped their heads our way.

I was thoroughly appalled.

"What the fuck are you doing?!!" I shrieked, snatching my hand away. "Are you out of your fucking mind?!!"

Hudson was as surprised as I was.

"But, baby, I was just trying to help clean you up!"

"You nasty bastard!" I screamed, picking up the Pellegrino and flinging it in his face.

Gasps flew all around the room.

Hudson sat there, shocked and sputtering.

I pushed up from the table, wiping his nasty spit off my hand.

"What made you think you could suck my damn fingers?! Did I ask you to do that shit?! Spitting all over me like some kind of fool!"

Everyone was staring. All of China Grill, the back part anyway, was now my stage.

"Reesy, sit down!!" he pleaded, water dripping off his face. "What are you doing?"

"Getting away from your sick behind! What kind of shit is that? Sucking my fingers!! You don't even know me!!"

I snatched up my purse and rushed over to the bathroom. It was down a flight of stairs.

I burst inside and ran straight over to one of the sinks. I turned on the hot water and pumped out handful of soap, frantically washing my hands in an effort to remove his foul spit from my fingers.

I felt like I wanted to throw up.

I should have known Hudson's ass was too good to be true.

The bathroom attendant offered me a paper towel.

In my haste, I snatched it from her, rubbed my hands till the skin was raw, and flung it in the trash.

Hudson was standing at the top of the stairs when I came out of the bathroom.

"Reesy, I . . ."

"Get the fuck away from me, you freak!"

I rushed past him and all the staring diners, past the bar and out of the restaurant.

I raced across the concrete, up the stairs, and onto the curb.

"Taxi!" I screamed. "Taxiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!"

To my relief, the traffic light turned red, and a slew of taxis were trapped in front of me.

I hopped into the nearest one. I didn't even bother to check if it was empty or on duty.

"West Seventy-fifth Street," I snapped. "Just off Amsterdam."

The cabdriver didn't look too pleased to have me, but dammit, his ass was stuck.

I looked to my left.

Hudson was running out of the restaurant and up the stairs, toward me and the cab.

I looked at the light. It had changed to green.

"Hurry up!" I screamed at the cabdriver. "Go on! Get outta here!"

He glared at me through the rearview mirror.

"There are other cars ahead of me," he snarled.

"Just drive the cab, all right?!" I cried.

As Hudson reached for the door, the cabbie bolted away, leaving him standing there, looking like an idiot.

I slumped back in my seat, relieved. How could my day get any worse than this? I felt like that old Lenny Williams song. I wanted to just roll myself up in a big ol' ball and die.

I sat on the couch, miserable.

I knew I had to be miserable. You know why?

Because I wanted to call Tyrene.

I never wanted to call Tyrene.

I mean, I had already tried to call Misty, but I hadn't gotten a response.

First, I paged her, and got no answer.

Then I broke down and called her at Burch. And I hated calling Burch.

Ever since I had left my job there, I stayed away from the place like the plague.

So what, they discovered I used to be an exotic dancer? That wasn't necessarily the reason why I kept my distance.

It wasn't like I was embarrassed about that.

What was a little embarrassing for me, though, was the way I ended up leaving my job there.

Like I said, I used to be Misty's administrative assistant. In retrospect, it wasn't the smartest thing in the world for Misty and I to work together. Business and friendship don't always mix.

But we were doing just fine until this stupid ass, traitor-to-the-race piece-a negro (a sexy mutha, at that . . . that's what made it so bad) rolled up in the house and blew up my spot right in front of everybody, talkin' 'bout how he used to love to see me dance at the Magic City.

The Magic City was the strip club where I worked when Misty and I used to live in Atlanta. It was right before we came to New York.

In a three-year period, we had hopped from Fort Lauderdale (our hometown), to Atlanta, to here.

Running from men. Misty's men. Running to new jobs. Misty's jobs.

I was the official tag-along.

Misty was the new top gun at Burch, and, as a sistah, was already under a lot of scrutiny.

So, when brother blew my cover, it made her look bad as well as me.

I personally swore that if I ever saw his tired ass again, it was gon' be on.

Misty had already known about my stint as an exotic dancer. She found out about it in Atlanta. But she didn't care.

All right. Maybe she cared a little bit. But not enough to keep her from being my friend through thick and thin. It didn't stop her from giving me a job at Burch when I couldn't get one anywhere else on my own once we made the move to New York, after she got a promotion.

I had even done a little dancing at a spot in Times Square for a hot minute, but damn near got raped. I was hemmed up in a back alley with some greasy lout who roughed me up pretty good.

That scared me enough to make me bring that whole exotic dancing chapter of my life to a close.

But my exotic dancing was Misty's and my little secret, and she had been hoping like hell that nobody at Burch ever found out about it.

Wasn't shit I could say when it happened. I tried to play it off, but I was wide open. And even though things went down ugly, and the big boss, Rich Landey, came up from Atlanta to try to straighten everything out, I still got to decide whether I wanted to stay with the company or go.

It was my choice. Nobody else's. I was in total control.

I chose to leave. Who needed the hassle of all those white folks in my shit every day, making judgments about me? So it was my call, any way you looked at it.

But, because of all that stupid shit, I really didn't like going anywhere near Burch, and that included calling there. I only did it when it was absolutely necessary. And I always dialed Misty direct.

I usually hung up if I heard anyone's voice other than hers.

Like now. When I dialed her up, some perky white voice answered the phone.

Click.

I was not in the mood.

I tried my Grandma Tyler, but she wasn't at home.

So that left Tyrene.

Like I said, I had to be feeling mighty bad to go that route.

Right now, it would feel really good to hear my mother's strong, comforting voice taking control of the situation. She was good at taking control. It was her forte; she prided herself on her management skills, both on the job and in her—and everybody else's—personal life.

But, just as that would be a good thing, it would also be a bad thing, for the very same reason.

She would take complete control, say something crazy, like Bring your foolish behind back home where you belong, or she would offer me money and piss me slam off.

And, to me, that would be like pouring salt on an already gaping wound. I would end up madder than I had started out.

I blankly stared at the coffee table, trying to fix my attention on a dark spot on the wood until I could sink into it and forget all the shit of the day.

My hand still felt nasty. I couldn't get that image of Hudson sucking off that sauce outta my mind.

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuggggghhhhhh!!!!!!" I screamed, fighting against myself and my raging emotions.

When the tears began to fall, I knew I was losing the fight. I cleared my throat, hoping the tears would get the hint that they were not going to win.

Obviously, the tears didn't care. They dropped with renewed energy as I fell over sideways on the couch and grabbed hold of one of the pillows. I pushed my face into it, muting any sounds that were even considering escape.

I couldn't believe I was crying. It was just something I didn't do. No one ever saw me cry. My grandma had heard me do it on the phone, but those were rare moments that were few and far between.

I had to get this mess out of my system. The way I saw it, tears and Reesy Snowden were like oil and water. They just didn't mix.

I bit into the pillow, my eyes feeling puffier and wetter by the minute.

"I'm not gonna stay," I said, sobbing quietly into the fluffy cushion. "I gotta go back home. I'm gonna call Tyrene and tell her. I just need to get my butt outta here, 'cause New York is not for me."

I let myself consider that thought for a moment, resigning myself to it little by little.

By the time I reached for the phone, I was ready for whatever it was Tyrene had to say.

As long as she sent me a plane ticket home.

I could have used one of the stipends she and Tyrone sent me every quarter, but I just refused to go that route. Besides, no matter what anybody thought, the money was not sitting around somewhere, liquid, able to be accessed by me at will. I always invested it, immediately, and there were penalties and taxes that would come into play. So I couldn't do anything but leave it alone.

I sat on the couch, sniffling hard. I took a few deep breaths, and then I did it.

I picked up the phone.

I dialed Tyrene's number at work. Her direct line.

Within seconds, her keen voice pierced the airwaves, reminding me of the magnitude of what it was that I was doing.

"Tyrene," she piped, sounding like the black shark I knew her to be.

I paused a moment.

"Tyrene!" she snapped again.

"Hey, Tyrene," I finally surrendered.

"Well, hello, daughter!" she chimed. "A phone call from you in the middle of the day? There must be trouble, honey. Tell me what it is."

Boy, she didn't mess around. She cut right to the chase.

Just like I knew she would.

"There is trouble, isn't there."

She said this as a statement, not a question.

Before I could open my mouth to confess to her, the phone beeped.

"Hold on, Tyrene," I replied, relieved. "That's my other line."

I clicked over.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Yes. May I speak with Teresa Snowden, please?"

I instinctively frowned. It was probably some damn bill collector calling me up in the middle of the day. It wasn't like I was that late on my shit. Damn.

My natural instinct was to confront these jerks. I never pretended that I wasn't home. If you were bad enough to come after me for money, then I figured you had better be bad enough to put up with my shit when you asked me for it.

"Speaking!" I snarled with a mouthful of attitude.

"Great! Teresa, this is Gordon Stock. I'm calling about the audition this morning."

"Oh really?" I said flatly. "What do you want? No, let me guess. I didn't get the part. I knew that shit this morning."

"I see you speak like you dance," he chuckled.

"Look, muthafucka, I got the point. I didn't get the gig. But you don't call here telling me 'bout how I talk. I'll come right back down there and show you just how I do it."

"As a matter of fact, Teresa, that's just what we'd like you to do," he said, now laughing.

"What?! Come back down there for what?!"

"To claim the part," he chuckled. "You outdanced every woman in that room today. As you know, there were two spots open. One of them is definitely yours, if you'll take it."

I sat there, frustrated, eyes wet, confused, staring at the phone in disbelief.

"If I was so good, then how come y'all damn near threw me outta there this morning?"

"Because we knew you were right as soon as you started dancing," he said. "We wanted to let you go so we could concentrate on filling the other slot."

"Are you serious?" I asked.

"Oh, please!" he exclaimed. "You were making the other girls look sick! They couldn't hold a candle to you!"

A broad grin broke out across my face.

"Really?" I beamed.

"Really."

"Well, I'll be damned."

"As well you should be," he replied. "Could you be back down here by three this afternoon?"

"Sure, yeah, no problem!"

"All right, then. We'll see you at three."

"And I definitely got the part?"

My voice shook nervously as I asked this. It was just a little too freaking good to be true.

"The part's all yours," Gordon confirmed. "You just make sure you bring the same kind of energy this afternoon that you let loose on us this morning. Judging by the way you handled this phone call, I don't suppose that will be a problem."

"No, it won't!" I laughed.

"Good-bye, Teresa," he chuckled again, and hung up the phone.

I sat there, stupefied, the phone in my hands. I was grinning from ear to ear, braid to brow.

It took a minute for me to remember that I still had Tyrene on hold.

"Oh, snap!" I exclaimed, clicking over to the other line. "Ma?!"

"Ma?!" Tyrene exclaimed. "Oh, now I know something's wrong!! What are you doing, calling me Ma? And you know better than to leave a person on hold that long! We raised you better than that, Teresa Snowden! You won't get far in life handling your business like that!"

I sat there, the phone in my hand, just grinning, while Tyrene went on her tirade. I let her go off like that for a few more breaths.

"Tyrene, look, let me call you later."

"Later?!" she huffed. "What did you call me for in the first place? Something must be wrong!"

"Everything's great," I said happily. "See . . . look at you. Always expecting the worst. I was just calling to say hello."

"Teresa," she warned, "don't you lie to me."

I wasn't going to let her get to me.

"I'll call you back, all right? Tell Tyrone that I said hi."

Before she could gather up a comeback, I hung up the phone.

I leaned back on the couch, drawing up my knees and hugging them close to my chest.

Hot damn! I just got myself a bona fide dancing gig!

I squeezed my knees so hard, it made me laugh out loud. I rolled free, onto the couch, lying on my back. I closed my eyes and began to sing. Loud.

"Start . . . spreading . . . the . . . news . . ."

I kicked my feet in the air rhythmically, ? la Liza Minnelli.

". . . New York, New Yooooork!!"