Close Quarters: A Novel (Zane Presents) (2 page)

Ellis came and sat next to me on the bed. “You know how much you hate to be disturbed in the morning. You appeared so peaceful, I wasn’t sure if I should wake you.”

“Of course you should have. You know how much I loved your father.”

He kissed me on the cheek. “I’m sorry, Lina. I wasn’t thinking. Mother and I finalized our plans last night and my schedule was hectic this morning. I had a breakfast meeting, and then I had to pick up Daniella—”

“Great. So Daniella thinks I was a no-show, too.”

“I told my sister and my mother you’ve been out of town all week. They understand you arrived home in the wee hours of the morning. Forgive me?”

He was missing the point. I could not care less about being tired. I would have never missed such an important event.

“So how was the ceremony?”

He shrugged. “Kind words. Everyone touting the noble Dr. Ellison Harlow’s many accomplishments. A few requisite tears. Just what I expected.”

Since his father’s death, Ellis had been extremely cynical when talking about him. He always showed his father tremendous respect. I chalked his recent behavior up to grief and the anger that sometimes came along with a sudden loss.

“I would’ve really liked to have been there.”

“I’ll take you to see the new wing next weekend.” He walked toward the door. “Get dressed. Mother is having a small reception downstairs.”

“I don’t have anything appropriate to wear for one of your mother’s gatherings. I only packed jeans.”

“Just put your jeans on, Melina.”

“Right. I’ll stick out like a hooker in church. I’m going to head back to Brooklyn.”

“That’s ridiculous. Stay up here if you want. The guests will be downstairs for an hour at the most.”

“Spend the day with your mother. I know this is a hard time for her. I’ll call you later on.”

I didn’t appreciate that Ellis neglected to inform me about the dedication and then invited me to the reception as an after-thought. If the truth be told, I wasn’t interested in being around
Bebe
or her snobby friends, anyway.

I showered and dressed, then made a covert departure through the back door, walking around to the front of the estate. Daniella waved to me from the window as I put my bag in the trunk. I smiled and waved back. I had always liked Daniella—she was cool—it was her mother I could do without.

I drove away from Ellis’s mansion wondering how I’d possibly fit in there.

I
t took a while, but Cinnamon finally got the message and took her ass home. When she stopped by last night with her six-pack abs and a can of whipped cream, a brother could not resist. Cinnamon and cream—oh so tasty. But like most sweets, you pay the price later. I used to hook up with Cinnamon regularly, but she started to get attached. I had to cut her back. But every once in a while we’d get together because the sex was banging.

I broke out the mop and busted a move on the kitchen floor, then cleaned the bathroom and straightened up the living room. I knew Melina was going to be bitchin’ when she got back and I refused to give her the satisfaction of complaining about the house being a mess.

It was a good week. No nitpicking. I watched what
I
wanted to watch on the TV in the living room, and best of all, the honeys kept a brother company without Melina scaring them off with her dirty looks. She needed to go out of town every week. Melina could be wound a little too tight, but we got along all right. She was an only child and it showed. Everything had to be her way. Nothing out of place. When I moved in, she told me to make myself comfortable, this was my home now, too. I wouldn’t have known it. Shortly after moving in, I slightly repositioned the
angle of the couch and she almost evicted me. I knew then that although she said
mi casa es su casa
, what she really meant was—you may pay half the rent, but this is still
my
apartment.

My boys were ringing my phone off the hook, trying to convince me to come down to our favorite watering hole to watch the MLB playoffs. On any other Saturday evening I would have been down, but thanks to my unexpected visitor last night, I didn’t have a chance to work on my project that was due Monday at work.

I placed the package of sanitary napkins on the coffee table and gaped at them. How was I supposed to come up with a catchy ad for pads with designer scents? Did women really want the scent of Chanel No. 5 permeating from their panties? I opened my folder and read the product profile. Feminine products scented with essential oils, not designer perfume. Fragrant oils with therapeutic benefits designed to energize, relax or alleviate stress. The concept wasn’t as bad as I thought, but still not my ideal assignment.

The projects assigned to me lately had been tumbling downhill, but no matter how bad the product, I managed to outshine the fair-haired boys at the agency. Regardless of my performance, I got stuck with the crap no one else would touch—the bottom of the barrel. I called a meeting with my boss to discuss the prospect of getting a crack at some of our larger clients and he had the nerve to tell me that I had to prove I could handle the responsibility. I’d spent six years at the company and could honestly say I was the most talented, not to mention creative, account executive they had at Newport and Donner. My multi-concept campaigns had never failed to appease the client and, despite my portfolio of unusual products, I had the highest ad acceptance rate. Since my next step at the firm didn’t seem to be up, it would have to be out—the door.

My bank accounts were swelling, my investments were growing and I was entertaining the idea of starting my own agency. I’d hit the glass ceiling at Newport and Donner and starting over at another agency was not an option. I’d only shared my plans with one person, my father. He’d been helping me with my business plan and, if our projections were correct, I’d be opening my own agency within the next year.

Tupac’s classic, “I Get Around,” rang out from my cell phone. I checked the caller ID. Cinnamon. I let the call roll over to my voice mail. This would go on for the next couple of days until she realized nothing had changed between us. One night of good sex does not equal a relationship. No matter how upfront I was in the beginning, women always expected more than I was willing to give. I wasn’t ready to settle down. I thoroughly enjoyed variety and in the immortal words of R. Kelly, “I don’t see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind.”

The cell phone rang again. Melina.

“Meet me at Night of the Cookers,” she said.

“Bet.”

I
found Melina at the bar drinking her usual—a glass of Riesling. Annoyance flashed across her face when she saw me coming. I sat on the barstool next to her and signaled to the bartender.

“What’s up, Roomie? How was your trip?” I asked.

“You know I got a ticket while I was gone, right?” she asked tightly.

“Don’t sweat that. I’ll take care of it.”

“Damn right, you will.”

“Mel, let me get a drink before you rip me a new asshole.” I impatiently signaled to the bartender again. I ordered a Johnnie Walker Black and then told her to make it a double. It was going to be one of those nights. The bartender poured but not fast enough. I should have told her to give me the whole damn bottle. I took a healthy swig of my drink and then turned to Melina. “I know you asked me to move your car, but I didn’t come home Thursday night. I apologize.”

She nodded; her long reddish-brown ponytail bobbed up and down. Silence was never good when it came to Melina. It either meant she was pissed or extremely pissed. She raised her half-filled glass to her lips and polished off the wine. Extremely pissed.

“Malik, if you had a girlfriend—which we know is a ludicrous thought—but
if
you had a girlfriend, and she neglected to tell you
about an event that she knew would be important to you, what would you think?”

This wasn’t about me after all. The golden boy pissed her off. I eased back in my chair and took a more leisurely taste of my drink. “Well . . .it depends.”

“On what?” she questioned.

“Her explanation.”

She motioned for a refill. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

I went back to guzzling my scotch.

“All I’m saying is,” she abruptly continued, “if your girlfriend said ‘I thought I told you,’ wouldn’t you think it was a lame excuse?”

That time, I nodded. She apparently was talking to herself anyway and what I said probably wouldn’t matter much.

“Is it me?” she asked.

I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but I shook my head.

“Ellis knew I wanted to be at the dedication ceremony for his father. I think his mother had something to do with it.”

“What are you doing with that tight-ass anyway?” Five-foot-five with booty for days . . .she could have any man she wanted.

Melina swiveled her stool around and leaned toward me. That did it. I went too far.

“You know I was thinking the same thing as I bolted out of there today,” she said.

Now I genuinely wondered what had happened because Melina didn’t bite my head off like she usually did when I insulted her stuffed shirt of a man. “Mel, wassup? Talk to me.”

“I love him, Malik. That’s why I’m with him. It’s simple. He’s everything I want in a man and more.”

I yawned and peeked at my watch. Just that fast, my interest had waned. I should have met the fellas at the bar for the game
instead of sitting there listening to
The Young and the Restless
. “Then don’t read into anything. If the man said he thought he told you, take his word for it.”

I learned a long time ago, sometimes it’s easier to tell a woman what she wants to hear. She won’t listen to a word you say if it ain’t what she wants to hear.

Melina smiled. “You’re probably right.”

I knew it.

Her whole aura changed in less than a millisecond. The scowl dropped from her face and her body relaxed. “You want to have dinner?”

“All right. Let’s get a table.”

• • •

We were seated and the waitress left us with our menus. I opened mine and Melina placed hers on the table.

“So, who was the tart last night?”

“Why do you have to insult my company, Mel?”

“It’s not an insult, merely an observation.”

I wondered how she considered that an observation when she hadn’t seen my guest.

She must have read my mind. “Any woman who carries on as boisterously as she did, when she knows others can hear, doesn’t have much respect for herself.”

“It has nothing to do with respect. She was enjoying herself. I have that effect on women.”

“Malik, please.”

“You know, Mel, some of us actually like living on the wild side. Hot, freaky, uninhibited sex is something to be embraced. You’re so used to stuffy, mechanical, blue-blood sex that you can’t imagine how the other side lives.”

Melina rolled her eyes in disgust. “You know nothing about what goes on between Ellis and me . . .and I’m not about to tell you.”

“You don’t have to. I can tell it’s real neat and quiet and
tasteful
. You probably don’t break a sweat and I bet your hair never falls out of place.”

I laughed when she glared at me. I had struck a nerve. That would teach her about making assumptions.

She shook her head. “Do you have to be such a pig?”

“Oink oink, baby.”

“Grow up, Malik.”

“Loosen up, Mel.”

“There’s more to life than sex.”

“You’re right, there’s great sex. You should try it someday.”

“Let’s just order,” she said wearily.

I laughed again, knowing I’d won the day’s round. That’s how it was with Melina; daily debates and you had better be prepared for the challenge.

I
climbed into bed, wondering why I had let Malik get under my skin. He baited me and I fell for it time and again. Ellis and I had a wonderful relationship and my sex life was just fine.

I rolled over and reached for my cordless phone on the night-stand. I dialed Ellis’s number. He picked up on the first ring, sounding groggy.

“What are you wearing?” I whispered into the phone.

“What? Who is this?”

I repeated my question, the words dripping from my lips like warm honey. “What are you wearing, Ellis?”

“Lina, I was asleep. I have to get up early and I am wearing my blue pinstripe pajamas, if you must know.”

“Oh forget it, Ellis. Go back to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I slammed the phone down in the cradle—so much for kinky phone sex.

Ellis and I had been together for two years and Malik was right. Ellis wasn’t a free spirit, but that’s what I loved about him. He was driven, sophisticated, well- traveled and a highly respected businessman.

The day his assistant called my office to arrange a meeting between Ellis and me, I was ecstatic.
Black Enterprise
magazine had recently included my accounting firm on their list of “Rising
Stars” in the accounting industry and Ellis, having read the article, was interested in hiring my firm. Ellis owned a major research-based pharmaceutical company at the forefront of providing breakthrough medicines. An account like his could propel my company to the next level.

A week later, I was sitting in his spacious Park Avenue office discussing business. I thoroughly outlined the specialized accounting services my firm could provide Harlow Pharmaceuticals. My presentation was flawless and I realized Ellis was impressed when he invited me to lunch, under the guise of discussing the increased scrutiny of the S.E.C. on corporate accounting practices. While we were dining, I found myself getting lost in his penetrating gaze more than once, and though we were talking about corporate scandals and accounting fraud, he graced me with a charismatic smile throughout the entire meal. Ellis was six feet of fine. I forced myself to stay focused and
think
business, and when we finally ended lunch three hours later, I rated the meeting a raving success.

Over the next two weeks, I anxiously waited to hear if I had gotten the account. It was a Friday evening and I was in my office packing my briefcase for the day when I heard a tap on the glass. I had already locked the front door and was prepared to tell whoever knocked to come back on Monday morning—until I saw it was Ellison Harlow III. I quickly let him in from the brisk November air.