Chapter One
Desiree Imani tends to be heavy on the vodka and light on the cranberry when she mixes cosmopolitans, and my mouth puckers when I take an oversized sip from the glass she hands me. By the second swallow, my taste buds have adjusted, and I settle into her plush plum-colored couch with my martini glass.
Once Imani assumes her position, seated against the opposite arm of the couch, we start our usual dishing. "So I'm walking here from the subway on 125th," I say, "and this dude practically breaks his neck to catch up with me."
Looking past me with a bored expression, she sets her drink on the coffee table, twists her long dreadlocks into a bun at the back of her head, and scans the room for something to fasten them in place. "What else is new, Desiree?"
"Just listen, smart ass," I tease, tossing her a discarded pencil from the floor. She catches it with one hand, still holding her dreads with the other, and sticks the pencil through the twisted mass, the slender yellow stick miraculously securing the makeshift ponytail. "The guy cuts me off and stands in my path, talkin' 'bout, 'Excuse me, miss. I just have to ask. Your hair is so pretty. Is you mixed?'"
Imani chokes a little bit on her cosmo and pounds her chest to guide the alcohol in the right direction. "He did not say, 'Is you mixed.'"
"Oh, but he did, girl."
"A bad pick-up line combined with bad grammar? I know you told him about himself."
"I let him off easy. I just told him that I am a mix-between totally turned off and amused by his ignorance."
"Classic Desiree," Imani chuckles. "Was the brotha at least good-looking?"
"Does it even matter? Like I would talk to some dude who's interested in me for my hair, and who thinks that black women are incapable of growing it!"
"Oh, please. Like you would talk to any dude, period."
I roll my eyes, because I know where this is going. "How long has it been, Des?" she asks right on cue.
I tilt the martini glass so that the stem points toward Imani's bright red ceiling, feeling the last few drops of warmth drizzle down my throat. Then I decide to let out a really loud sigh, to let her know how frustrated I get with this topic. Finally, I speak, making my voice as firm as possible without causing a fight. "I really don't want to talk about this today."
I don't know what I was thinking, trying to intimidate the only woman who can give more attitude than I can. "Well, too bad. It is not normal for a twenty-three-year-old woman to go five years without any male contact whatsoever."
I decide to try another angle. "You have a nerve to talk, seeing how you've gone twice that long without touching a man." I force a grin, hoping to receive one in return.
No such luck. "I have an excuse. I love women, and have a wonderful partner in Sheila. You, on the other hand, are actually attracted to men. Yet no boyfriend, no sex buddy, not even an occasional date with a kiss good night. All because you refuse to let go of the past and-"
I put both hands up to stop her right there. "Change the subject. I'm serious."
At the sound of the tension rising in my voice, her eyes soften. That's why we're such good friends. We're both testy, often bitchy, always aggressive people, but we know one another's limits. "Fine," she says soothingly. "I just worry about you, that's all."
Of course, she has to go making me feel guilty for snapping at her. Launching a second attempt at lightening the mood, I motion my head to a standing sculpture near the fireplace, of two women in an affectionate embrace. Unable to hide the smirk, I ask, "Think I should adopt your lifestyle?"
Imani howls in laughter. "Hell no! We don't want anyone as cold-blooded as you on our team. It gives our people a bad name."
I'm about to argue back that she's not the warmest of folks herself, but I hold my tongue. She rises from the couch and stretches her arms behind her, arching her back and moaning in pleasure. I try not to connect her body movement and consequent sound effects to what she probably does with Sheila behind closed doors, but it's difficult. I'm progressive and all, but the thought of my homegirl getting it on with another woman-it still kind of weirds me out. Her African printed shawl that she has wrapped around her ample hips has started to come loose, so she unties it completely, tossing the fabric on the couch. The fact that she has jeans on underneath doesn't take away from the image that has now popped in my mind of Imani disrobing in front of her lover. Desperately wanting to redirect my own course of thought, I pull my hair over my shoulder and examine the tips, searching for split ends.
Imani disappears into the kitchen with our empty glasses, and I hear ice cubes falling into the stainless-steel martini shaker. I finger comb my hair away from my face, satisfied that I can go another couple of weeks without a trim. I gaze around the room, searching for a new knickknack or piece of art that Imani has picked up since I've last visited. Instead, I notice a colorful set of sheets and a fluffy pillow neatly piled on an ottoman in the corner.
"Thanks for letting me stay at your place tonight." I project my voice into the next room. "I'd much rather get to Midtown in the morning from here than to drive in from Jersey."
Imani returns with the glasses, walking like it's a charm school contest, taking baby steps so as not to spill the pinkish liquid. "No problem. You nervous about the meeting?"
I'm tempted to tell her that she has brought up yet another subject that I don't want to discuss, but I don't think that's allowed twice in one night. "That's the understatement of the century."
"You just have to go in there tomorrow and say what you gotta say. Don't beat around the bush."
"Yeah, piece of cake," I answer sarcastically. Assuming the professional tone I reserve for work-related matters, I say, "Hi, Paula. Good to see you. Look, I know you worked your ass off to get me a two-book contract, but I've had writer's block for the past year and have decided to give up writing the second novel. Hope this isn't an inconvenience for you."
"Okay, okay, it's most likely that Paula is gonna flip. But, you never know. Maybe she'll be supportive. I know there have been times where I've had problems with my writing, and Paula really coached me through them. That's not even in an agent's job description, but she did it anyway."
I look around at the pencils and pads of yellow lined paper resting on flat surfaces all over the apartment. Each memo pad has at least a few lines scribbled on it. Imani's place is immaculate, except for these yellow squares. She says that she doesn't like to have to walk far when she gets a good idea for a character or a new story. I have never even heard her utter the words "writer's block," "stuck," or "uninspired." Unless, of course, we were talking about me. "Girl, don't act like you struggle with finishing your projects. You're the female E. Lynn Harris, remember?"
Imani sucks her teeth and swigs her drink. "I am so sick of that nickname. Paula wants to put it on the cover of my next book. I had to tell her that I'm interested in forging my own identity as an author."
"And what did she say to that?"
In a high-pitched, very girly voice, Imani recites, "Honey, it's about selling books. Put your ego in check." Not a bad impression of Paula, I must say.
"See, Paula's all about the bottom line. And I'm screwing us both outta some serious cash. She's gonna kill me." I know I'm whining, but I can't help it. Imani's being six years older than I am often results in her having to play the big sister role. Tonight is no exception.
"Maybe she'll get you an extension with your publisher." She peers into my face to see if her words have a cheering effect, but I can't even muster a hopeful look. We sit there in silence until a soulful saxophone slowly seeps into the apartment. A haunting ballad is being played live next door, and I can feel the vibrations in the tips of my fingers and toes.
"I love Harlem," I say wistfully. "Next-door neighbors sure don't sound this good in Weehawken."
Imani listens contentedly for a few more moments before responding. "That's Nicole. White chick. Real sweetheart. Her parents said they'd give her one year after high school to pursue a career in music. It's only been two months, and the girl's got gigs left and right."
I try to picture her, some pale-faced teenager with long hair and flushed cheeks, doing Charlie Parker proud at some darkened lounge. "Wow! Good for her." After a thoughtful pause, Imani says, "She kinda reminds me of you, the way you just busted onto the literary scene right outta college."
I dismiss the notion. "I was twenty-two. This girl is what, eighteen? I just hope she doesn't get a case of artist's block, like I did."
Imani looks as if she's seriously considering that idea, and I begin tracing the patterns on the cushion that I'd been propped against. She taps me, and I meet a mischievous expression on her face. "Hey Des, ever think that you might just need a fine-ass man to 'unblock' your behind?"
I don't know whether to giggle or to tell her off, so I settle for throwing my cushion at her. She storms to her bedroom for effect, but promptly returns to help me convert the couch. I toss and turn for quite a while once she says good night, trying to script my speech for Paula tomorrow. Finally, I let Nicole soothe me to sleep with a killer rendition of "My Funny Valentine," leaving the next day in fate's hands.
Chapter Two
Jason
Nothin' beats the twelve to eight. Sleep in, roll to work, put in a couple hours before a lunch break, close out the shift, and reward yourself with a late dinner. A big one.
Actually, I might switch it up this morning. I'm feeling the hunger pangs already, and an English muffin on the run ain't gonna do it. Lemme get my ass up early and catch some real breakfast. Or, even better ...
Nailah. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. It's like as soon as I sat up in bed just now, she was calling to me. Seeing her this morning would definitely start my day right. After holding her close to me for just a few minutes, I could work a twelve-hour shift, and it would feel like a walk through Central Park on a sunny afternoon.
I throw off the covers and walk to the bathroom. The sunlight pouring in my bedroom window made me hot, so the coolness of the hardwood floor and bathroom tiles feels good on my feet. On my way out of the bathroom, I glance at my exercise bike and wonder if I should have gotten on it before I took my shower. Never mind, I'll just get that done at work. Maybe I should call Nailah and let her know I'm coming by. But she should be home, and she'll love the surprise.
I walk out of the apartment and jog down the two flights of stairs, pausing on each landing and taking in the sounds of the other folks who live in my brownstone. On the second floor, cartoon noises emerge from the living room. I smile, knowing that little Ty is enjoying his morning routine. His parents are laughing in another room. The first floor makes me stop even longer, because there's a saxophone solo going on, and it sounds good as hell. I need to knock on Nicole's door later and find out where her next show will be.
As I turn around to face the street after locking the outer door, the first thing I notice is the green. That shiny dark emerald green with a hint of olive, mixed with a dash of army. Army green. That is a color, right? Anyhow, we'll name the blend after me since it's my favorite. So I see this Jason green Jaguar 2000 S-Type in front of my stoop. Then I see the girl.
Watching her standing there, with her hands on her hips, slightly crouched down to examine what looks to be her back tire, I'm not initially impressed. Too typical. Too Jay-Z video. That's not my steelo. But my line of work does inspire an appreciation for muscle tone, and this woman's body is practically reciting her entire workout out loud.
Clearly, a fan of the curl. No surprise there. She gives her triceps equal love, though, with some dumbbell kickbacks. Calves lookin' like she done raised 'em a thousand times. She's obviously in the gym on the reg, but it's that perfect balance-still slim, still feminine.
Shit. She felt my eyes on her. Now that she's facing me, she actually looks kind of familiar. Is she here to see me?
"I'm sorry. Do I know you?" Man, I meant for that to come out upbeat and curious. Instead, I sound like I'm about to start a turf war.
She takes her time assessing what my deal is. Scans the running pants and the wife-beater. Doesn't seem like she's as appreciative of my body as I am of hers. Turns away and walks to her trunk. "Nope." At last, she speaks. One word, cool as a cucumber. I'm about to just say "Fuck it," cuz she seems rude, and I was supposed to be all about Nailah this morning. But then I notice the source of her distraction.
Her beautiful J-green automobile is slightly tilted toward the sidewalk due to a flat-as-a-pancake rear tire on the driver's side. I try to give her a sympathetic look, but her head is buried in the trunk as she leans way in to ... get a jack? Who knows? But I know that thanks to the position she's in, her dress is that much shorter. Defined quads and hamstrings. Damn, does this chick do squats, too? Impressive. It's enough to try again.
"Need a hand?" Keep it short and casual.
She removes her head from the trunk and regards me once more. Am I looking all right this morning? The cornrows are only two days old. And I just got out of the shower, but it's not like she's close enough to smell me anyhow. Her mouth opens at last to deliver a snippy "Nope."
Now it's a warm July morning, but after that second one-word answer, I swear the temperature just got ten degrees hotter. It's like there's steam rising up off me. I don't care if she sees the pissed-off look on my face, either. But she ain't looking, anyhow. And that gets me even hotter.
I was about to get on the subway to see my baby, but now my attitude's not correct. Lemme go grab some food and cool off. I think I feel her eyes on me as I walk down 122nd, but it'll be a cold day in ... damn, what country sits right on the equator? Ecuador. It'll be a cold day there when I look back.
Starbucks and Mickey D's wave to greet me as I turn on to Lenox. I had been sleeping on Starbucks for a minute after it got large. I wasn't into all that expresso plus hazelnut divided by skim milk times three sugars. But Monique dragged me in there over a year ago, bought me some scones and one of those Frappuccinos with whipped cream, and I got hooked. Monique. It is too early in the morning to be going there. I need to replace those thoughts with a mental picture of that gorgeous girl of mine. Cool. I'm cool.
Today, I go with McDonald's, though. Gotta reaffirm my manhood with grease and biscuits after Flat Tire Trick tried to strip it from me. This place is packed at 10:45. Don't folks in Harlem have jobs? I love my people, but I know this dude behind me does not work the twelve-to-eight shift. He's probably worked twelve to eight days in his whole life. Lemme just order my Egg McMuffin and get out of here.
Damn, completely forgot that breakfast stops at ten. Krispy Kreme is two whole avenues over. I can definitely mess with a couple of their glazed donuts. Not too healthy, but I'll mix a protein shake back at the crib.
Tire Trick had actually been erased from my thoughts until I get back to my street, and she's sitting on the steps next door to my brownstone, reading a book. I don't break my stride as I stroll past, but as I pull my keys out of my pocket, there's that even-toned, emotionless voice again. "Do you have a wrench I can borrow?"
I'm a big fan of payback. So there's no way I'm not going to stare at her for a few seconds, look as bored as I possibly can, and say, "Nope." Ha.
Unfortunately, I don't get the injured look I was going for. She looks back down at her book and calmly turns a page. Revenge isn't sweet when it has no effect on your victim. So I decide to drop the cold front.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from No More Liesby RACHEL SKERRITT Copyright © 2007 by Rachel Skerritt. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.