A Hire Love (8 page)

F
rom the second I waltzed into my building after leaving him, I wanted to talk to Rashad, but I had to stay strong. If I start going back on my word too early, then he’ll think he can manipulate this situation. A day later, I sat alone in my living room; my irrational justification no longer made sense to me. I picked up the phone thirty-three hours and sixteen minutes after I told him I would see him in forty-eight hours. As I reprimanded my pride, he picked up and chuckled. “Teem.”

“Hi, Rashad.”

“You know it broke my heart not to talk to you.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I didn’t want to be a pest and I didn’t know if you decided to hire someone else.”

“Whatever. Give me more credit than that. If I’m going to fire you, I’ll let you know.”

“I bet you will. I forgot who I was dealing with.”

“You better recognize.”

“You crack me up. But for real, you balled up my heart and threw it in the middle of Fifth Avenue.”

“Well, I’m just trying to protect mine.”

“I want to protect it, too.”

His comment left me speechless. I couldn’t write his lines better. How does this stuff just flow so effortlessly? Does he have a magnifying glass over my heart?

“I’m sorry if your feelings were hurt, but I just—”

“Want to be safe. I understand.”

In less than three days, he finishes my sentences! Isn’t that supposed to take years? Oh yeah, I forgot. We’re on an expedited schedule. Still, something felt authentic about our connection. I prayed that his test checked out because I enjoyed his flirtation, his humor, his smile, his body. Hell! Just about everything about him was downright intriguing.

I asked, “So, what did you do today?”

“I had a few castings. What about you?”

“Work.”

“Do you like your job?”

“It’s okay.”

“How do you feel when you get there? Are you happy to be there?”

I laughed. “I mean I feel like most people feel when they go to work.”

“And how is that?”

“Never mind.”

“Why do you always say never mind? Do you think I won’t understand?”

“Do you think you’re a psychiatrist?”

“Why would you say that?”

“’Cause you ask a million questions.”

“Do questions make you uncomfortable?”

I huffed. “You’re stressing me out.”

“Fatima, I didn’t mean to stress you out. If it will help, can I offer you a massage as an apology?”

“Not if you’re going to ask a bunch of questions while you’re supposed to be helping me relax.”

“I promise. I won’t talk. I’ll just listen.”

“So when can I take you up on this offer?”

“When you open the door.”

“Just ring the bell when you get here.”

My buzzer startled me. Still holding the phone to my ear, I rushed to the door oblivious to what I was wearing. His phone was still pinned to his ear, as we talked face-to-face on the phone.

“How did you get here so fast?”

“I wasn’t too far away when you called.”

“So, what made you come over?”

I finally closed my phone and he followed. I glimpsed at my risqué attire. I had on black boy shorts with
Sexy
written in rhinestones across the booty and a black tank top. I folded my arms across my chest, while he explained. “When you called, I just started walking this way and hoped that you wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see you.”

“Don’t you think you should have warned me? At least, I could have been prepared.”

“You look prepared to me, sexy.”

“Don’t play. What’s in there?”

“Massage oil.”

“So, you already had this planned?”

He put his hand on my shoulder and laughed. “No, I thought I would give you a massage tomorrow. You know, when the test results come back.” Knowing that comment deserved a laugh, he paused. “But it just all fell into place tonight.”

I watched him make himself comfortable as he walked into the kitchen. He looked up over my cabinets, where I keep my overstocked bar. “What’s your favorite wine?”

My head hung, as I pointed to the Yellow Tail Merlot.

He climbed onto a chair to get the bottle. “I thought you liked to drink expensive wine.”

I waved my hand. “That’s just a front. I surely can’t ask for Yellow Tail when I’m out. Can I?”

He jumped down. “That’s cute, though.”

“What? That I like cheap wine?”

“No, that you know how to let your hair down when you’re home.”

He lifted two plastic cups from the top of the refrigerator. “So, these, or do you want glasses?”

“Hey, it’s Yellow Tail. It doesn’t seem right to drink out of Mikasa.”

While I revealed my Southern etiquette, he shook his head in admiration. He filled the cups and raised his twenty-ounce Solo Red. As our plasticware collided for a toast, we giggled. He said, “To being hood on Strivers’ Row.”

After I took a long sip, I said, “To taking Yellow Tail to the head.”

As if he was about to accept the challenge, he put the cup to his mouth. Then he shook his head. “Nah, some things just aren’t meant to be taken to the head.”

“It all depends.”

As we stood in the kitchen, sipping and searching for other things to talk about, he said, “I think I came here for a reason.”

“Okay, is anybody stopping you?”

He laughed and washed his hands. “It’ll probably be best if you lay on the chaise.” Before I sat down, he said, “Go get a towel or a sheet or something. You don’t want any oil to get on the chaise.”

When I returned with a large towel, the digital cable was tuned to the
Sounds of Nature
music channel. He had lit the oil burner. I raised my eyebrows. “Is that the scent that I had in there or—”

“It’s black coconut. Do you like it?” I nodded and he said, “Lay on your stomach.”

While he fumbled around in the small bag he came in with, I squirmed, and he asked, “Are you okay?”

He rubbed his hands to heat the massage oil and caressed my shoulderblades. As he began to knead the muscles, he said, “Teem, you’re stressed. We have to make sure you don’t get like this anymore.”

“I know.”

My stress disintegrated in the palms of his hands as he sedated my body. Waves crashed ashore and I drifted away.

He climbed on top of me and pushed my hair to the side. His tongue caressed my neck and I moaned. As he struggled to slip my tank top over my head, he whispered, “I’ve wanted you from the second I saw you.”

I turned to face him. “I wanted you, too.”

We kissed passionately. His hands touched my face and I stroked his head. I had succumbed to his seduction. We panted anxiously and our bodies grinded vigorously. As he pulled down my shorts, I grabbed his shirt and it ripped from the collar. He groaned like my aggression aroused him more. While he cupped the back of my head with one hand, he unbuckled his pants with the other. Captivated by the muscles bulging all over his body, I yanked his jeans down to his knees. My heart throbbed in my panties as I begged for him and he granted my request. I nibbled on his neck to muffle the sounds howling in me. While he gently loved me, I ran my hands over his smooth skin. As I whined in appreciation, cool air and chirping birds woke me from my dream. I lay alone on my chaise, fully dressed with my hands between my legs. My heart plummeted as I hopped up and looked around. How embarrassed would I be if he had witnessed my wet dream? Oh no. I took a deep breath, hung my head, and called out for him. When he didn’t answer, I tiptoed around. After I confirmed that he was gone, I still sat up rocking back and forth. At what point did he leave?

As I stood on the elevator to meet Rashad, I rubbed my hands together. I took a deep breath and stepped out of the building. He smiled. “Teem.”

My eyes shifted. A question mark covered my face when he said, “I had a good time last night.”

My eyes opened. He asked, “Did you?”

He grabbed my hand and said, “What’s wrong with you today?”

I shrugged my shoulders and pretended that I was preoccupied with work. “We just have to hurry ’cause I have to get back.”

During the jog to the clinic for our results, I decided not to stress the possibility that he witnessed my porno skit. As long as he didn’t mention it, I wouldn’t mention it.

I then began to wonder how I would react if he were positive. My stomach began to swirl. Thankfully, my jitters were unwarranted as we exchanged our results. He hugged me and sealed our agreement. He is my man and I am his lady until further notice. Out in the middle of the busy street, our emotions escaped and we kissed like we were distant lovers.

He jogged with me back to work. Since I planned to work late, I told him to come by in the morning to get his bonus check. Not to mention, I was nervous that my dream might come true now that I had his results in my hand.

F
ollowing the same routine as I did the first day, I stopped at Starbucks and was on Fatima’s doorstep by seven-fifteen. When she opened the door, she rolled her eyes. “Why are you always late?”

“I’m sorry. There was a backup at Starbucks. It must have been a new guy, because…”

“All right, you can save it.”

As she swished across the living room floor in her robe, I didn’t want to debate with her. She walked into the kitchen and my eyes followed. “So, what did you do yesterday?” I asked.

“Work.”

She didn’t ask me, so I offered, “Yeah, I went to the gym after I left you. Then, I went to Barnes & Noble for about four hours.”

She brushed passed me and made me feel an inch tall. “It must be nice to chill all day.”

The sting traveled through me and I fantasized pushing her down the stairs. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, I stumbled into a chair and struggled to swallow her disrespect.

My head pounded while I attempted to watch the “Today Show.” As the reality of this situation weighed heavily on my morality, I dozed off. Her heels trudging up the stairs woke me.

As I stood to walk her out of the house, she pulled a folded check from her suit jacket pocket and handed it to me. She opened her arms for a hug and I took it as her request for forgiveness and we left the house without much to say to each other.

As soon as she hopped into the taxi, I glanced at the fortune burning my hands:
Ten thousand dollars
. Until this moment, I thought I was a star on a special starving actors’ edition of “Punk’d.” Somebody pinch me!

My largest advance ever burned in my pocket, as I literally jogged to the bank. Who gives a damn what she says out of her mouth? It’s what comes out of her pocket that matters. If I manage this money correctly, I would be a prostitute for only six months tops.

As I sat in my bedroom with books and newspapers scattered around the floor, my agent called to ask if I’d be available at noon for an audition. I glanced at my clock and gasped, “So, in an hour.”

“Yeah, one of my other clients isn’t feeling well.”

Maybe my recent deposit was why I wasn’t inspired. Normally, I’d be jumping around the room with one leg in my jeans. As I reminded myself that my real character will probably not deal with the constant humiliation forever, I agreed and she faxed me the script. I was forced to study it and be on the train in thirty minutes.

When I rushed into the audition about ten minutes after twelve, I walked up to one of the screeners and introduced myself. He cleared his throat. “What time were you told to be here?”

“Uh. I just got the call at eleven because—”

“We were expecting you at twelve.”

“Look, man. Am I too late?” I looked at my watch. “Man, it’s only—”

He looked at his clipboard and pointed to the waiting area. “Have a seat, Mr. Watkins. I’ll see if the director still wants to see you.”

As I sat in a stiff leather chair, I wished I could turn back the hands of time. I’d already blown my chances. Why does it seem that my agent intentionally puts me at a disadvantage? I decided to review the last-minute script in my hands. At least I could have da bomb performance.

They finally called me in after two hours. When I entered the studio, I projected confidence as I smiled and gave eye contact to the panel of directors. My heart thumped as always. Finally, I was told to read a section in the script and was delighted to discover it was the portion that I’d thoroughly studied during my wait. Holding the script in my hand, I acted out the role of a disgruntled crackhead. Their comments slightly distracted me.
He’s much too muscular. He looks too polished. I don’t think he has what we’re looking for.

My performance gave me chill bumps, yet the decision-makers looked at me like I wasn’t good enough. When I was done, I was surprised when one of the directors asked me to read another part.

I anxiously flipped to the section. Again, with every nerve in my body, I read the script. Over and over again, they had me read different portions of that role. They even requested I read for a different role. Toward the end, I was convinced that maybe they liked me. That was before they told me that I was a great actor, but not exactly what they were looking for.

As I left the studio hanging my head because I’d yet to land an acting gig in six months, it dawned on me. Damn it! I
have
an acting gig that I am slipping on. I pulled out my cell phone and called Fatima.

Her assistant put me on hold for nearly fifteen minutes. Finally, Fatima got on the phone.

“How do you plan to fit your two daily phones calls into fifteen minutes? I get off at five.”

A bad taste formed in my mouth, but as I thought about the money I now had in the bank, I swallowed the irritation. “I was just calling to say I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

She didn’t laugh. So, I tried again. “Nah, I had an audition that lasted all day.”

My ideal woman would ask how it went, but Fatima said, “So, that’s your excuse?”

“Not an excuse, just an explanation. I’d like to meet you for dinner. Is that possible?”

“I guess.”

“I’ll meet you on Forty-second Street and Ninth. There’s a French restaurant I’d like to take you to.”

“Okay. What time?”

“Six?”

“That’s fine. I’ll see you then.”

By the time I arrived at the restaurant, Fatima called to say she was running a few minutes late. The hostess asked if I wanted to be seated while I waited for my date. Desperately needing to unwind, I agreed. It is no wonder I stopped dating because I felt like I was working three jobs.

When the waiter checked on me, I ordered a shot of Cuervo and a bottle of wine. Immediately after I downed my shot, I began to sip on the wine. When I looked up and saw a beautiful silhouette in the door, it seemed worth the stress. She was gorgeous even after a long day of work. She strutted over to the table. As I stood to pull out her chair, she smiled. “Hi, Rashad.”

When she sat down, she noticed the candy and card addressed to her. Her composure softened. “For me?”

I handed her a box of chocolates, her eyes filled. As I adored her appreciation, she blew a kiss at me.

“So, how was your day?”

“Stressful.”