Hot Boyz
Authors: Marissa Monteilh
MARISSA
MONTEILH
HOT
BOYZ
An Imprint of
HarperCollins
Publishers
To my husband, Ron Allen Monteilh, Sr.—
R/I/P 5-31-91.
A HOT BOY back in high school.
“Through the Years,” you never let me down.
“Bang!”
One loud, thunderous sound rang from outside the house just before Thanksgiving dinner was served. The pulsating, resounding boom was followed by an immediate thud against the ten-foot-tall front door to Mason Wilson’s Ladera Heights home.
Claude, Mason’s younger brother, dashed from the dining room in a panic. He pulled the door open with startled strength. Just as everyone else’s panic level started to gear up, Mason yelled for the teenagers, Cameron, Rashaad and Star, to go into the back portion of the expansive house.
With his heart pounding, Claude fell to his knees. His tall, blood splattered woman, Fatima, lay on the front porch, flat on her back, with her flip-phone still in one hand. Fifty-two missed calls registered on the display.
She had a large gunshot wound to her chest. As a pool of warm, vivid red blood spewed from her body, Claude lifted Fatima just under her shoulders. Her body hung limp like a rag doll as he held her in his arms.
“Tima, no,” he cried out to the skies above as though God could come down and touch her with His healing hands. Tears rolled down Claude’s pained and helpless face.
His family members screamed in disbelief at the ghastly sight. Torino, the youngest brother, hugged his elderly mother, Mattie, holding her tight with a shielding embrace.
“Bang,”
another shot rang out. Mason’s wife, Mercedes, ran to
the phone and frantically dialed 9-1-1. Mason emerged from his study carrying a stainless steel Glock. He raced past Fatima’s body and onto the front lawn, only to find the seemingly lifeless body of a man slumped over the wheel of a burgundy Lincoln town car.
Fatima’s best friend and newfound lover, Venus, frozen and stunned, stood over Claude and Fatima with her hands covering her wide-opened mouth … in shock.
Barely breathing, Fatima gasped for air. With heavy eyelids, she struggled to give a half gaze, looking up at her friend Venus. She fought to swallow, forcing her own blood and saliva down her throat to make room for her words. Just barely, she managed to part pale lips, and said faintly, “If…” The remainder of her sentence never came. She closed her mouth and shifted her glassy-eyed glance toward her man one last time. A calm took over her face. Her eyes shut as her head fell to the side. Fatima lay dead in Claude’s arms, on his very own birthday.
The day before, the sun shined brightly. Claude Joseph Wilson, mindful of his appointment with his longtime lady, Fatima Clark, sped down La Cienega Boulevard in his graphite blue CLK55 Mercedes. He had a few stops to make before he made his way toward the beach community of Palos Verdes to meet the love of his life.
His first stop was Magic Johnson’s Starbucks in the Ladera Center for his usual cup of their Grenada blend. After all, what would a weekday morning be without kicking it with his neighborhood boyz? But today, it would only be a quickie.
The next stop was an even quicker run by his business, Wilson Realty, right around the corner on Centinela. He’d hired a new, top-selling realtor who he stole from Ladera Realty named Heidi Hamilton. Today was her first day. He wanted to welcome her aboard just before the start of the staff’s monthly open house caravan.
The suave, six-foot-four-inch stud’s last stop was Dominique’s Jewelers in the South Bay Galleria. He’d put a new, eighteen-carat yellow gold and diamond Presidential Rolex on hold over the phone. Today was the day to pick it up. It was, after all, the least he could do for himself on this, the eve of his thirty-seventh birthday.
Just before noon, the always independent Sagittarian stud pulled up to the luxury hotel along the beach. He spotted Fatima’s champagne Lexus GS4 parked near the front office.
“What room are you in, baby girl?” he asked, calling from his Motorola three-way as he parked. “I’ll be right up, kiddo. I love you,” he proclaimed.
Within twenty minutes of Claude’s arrival, Fatima’s best friend, Venus Ortiz pulled up. And that’s when the birthday celebration began.
Fatima’s excitement showed, whereas Venus seemed unsure. Toffee-colored Fatima checked out her rigid friend and giggled to herself. She knew her friend well enough to bet that she would soon loosen up.
“Happy birthday, Claude,” Venus said softly, with an embrace and a kiss on his cheek as he leaned his NBA frame down to hug her. She blushed and then smiled, looking down at her feet.
Claude noticed her shyness. He smiled back. He proceeded to insert a CD into the portable boom box and it began to play “Freak Me Baby” by Silk. Right away, he removed his clothes all the way down to his birthday suit and started to do a solo cha-cha while Fatima handed Venus a glass of chilled champagne. He watched Venus swallow it in one big gulp.
He danced his lengthy body around while Fatima sang, “It’s your birthday,” to his soulful but corny striptease act.
Fatima sat on one end of the bed. Venus sat on the other. Venus tried not to stare Claude down but couldn’t help but notice his wide, protracted member she’d heard so much about. He dove in between them, onto the bed, lying on his back in the middle of the mattress with his arms spread-eagle and his long penis pointing to the ceiling.
Fatima lay next to her man, kissing the side of his vanilla bald head and snuggling her way under his one-armed hug. She draped her never ending, slender leg over his muscular, hairy thighs as they both stared at Venus.
Feeling a mixture of the bubbly and the heat from the Latino half of her heritage, Venus slowly stood up to take off her hipster
blue jeans and then her tube top. She was braless. She stood in front of the couple in her bikini panties, hugging her upper body with her arms.
Fatima smiled and stood up. Venus smiled back. Claude sighed. Venus then dropped her arms and bared her honey-colored breasts. Both ladies removed their underwear in unison. Fatima laid her top heavy, foxy brown, toned butt down again. Venus poured herself another glass of the bubbly and gulped half before she laid down, too.
Fatima took the lead and leaned over on top of her friend, coming down within an inch of her brown, makeup-free skin.
Venus allowed the aroma of Fatima’s musk oil fragrance to consume her. Venus looked Fatima dead in the eyes. And they kissed. Crimson lips to crimson lips. Full tongue to full tongue. Face-to-face.
At full attention, Claude noticed them start to grind.
What a show they’re putting on
, he thought. But the sight was more than he could take. He pulled Fatima over on her back and went down on his woman’s center as though it was familiar territory.
Venus watched in silence. Chill bumps formed on her arms. She couldn’t tell if she was cold, scared or turned on. Her head was spinning. The room smelled of spellbinding black cherry. The soft serenade of the Silk CD echoed off the walls as though the group was personally whispering sweet nothings into her ear. She could not believe her senses, let alone her eyes.
All at once, Venus’s best friend turned from her back to her stomach, and began to position her mouth smack dab between Venus’s inner thighs to bring pleasure to her buddy.
Venus tensed up. Her hips rose slightly. She felt a combination of revolt and surrender. She forced herself to focus on the core of the stimulation. And she was swept away. Venus mumbled through her ecstasy, “It’s not my birthday.” Venus closed her eyes and her breathing intensified.
“That’s right, it’s mine,” Claude said loudly. He stood up and took a stance behind Fatima who was on her knees. He centered himself, bending down to an exact level for easy access and entered
her from behind. Fatima responded with a moan. As Claude pumped away, stimulated by the sight of his woman giving pleasure to Venus’s full-figured body, his blood rushed to increase his momentum just as Fatima hit a steady flow of sucking that caused Venus’s legs to quiver, pumping a blood-gushing release. Both Claude and Venus screamed together, “Tima.”
They sighed fast-paced breaths. Claude threw his sweaty body onto the bed. The three lay through the night, together.
Two years later
Mason Jeremiah Wilson’s experienced limousine driver had to fight to make his way through the thick crowd of fans that gathered in front of the luxury hotel in Hawaii. As the driver pulled to a stop, Mason’s many admirers waved paper and pen in his direction, hopeful of an autograph. His young, eager-to-please caddy, Winton Hill, and representative from Titleist, Natalie Glenn, did their best to part the seas. Mason stepped out of the long black Cadillac and hurried up to the front door. His caddy led the way through the lobby and up the private elevator to the executive penthouse.
“Are you hungry, Mr. Wilson?” Winton asked as they entered the swank, twelve-hundred-square-foot suite, setting down the luggage.
“Not yet. I just need some time alone,” Mason replied.
“No problem. I’ll see you in the morning,” said the young Creole man with a curly Afro sticking out from the sides of his black Titleist cap.
Mason patted him on the back as he prepared to exit. “Thanks, man. I really appreciate your help today.”
“Things will improve. Tomorrow is another day, Mr. Wilson.”
“I heard that, Winton. See you later.”
Mason closed the door and took off his custom snakeskin golf
shoes and then his Sean John golf shirt and pants. He strutted his ebony frame around in his underwear, pacing a trail along the carpet from the front door to the panoramic ocean view and back, over and over again. Mason pulled his titanium putter from his golf bag and grabbed a few balls from the side pocket. He turned one of his shoes on its side and putted the balls right inside, one after the other. Once again he repeated the putt, never missing a shot, never skipping a beat.
That’s what you should’ve been doing today, Mason. Get your mind right and focus. You made way too many errors out there to be at the level you’ve fought so long and hard to reach. Be yourself, let go and just get the job done.
Mental focus was crucial to Mason’s game, just as with any golfer. He loved the feeling of each game being different from the previous, each round being perfected, each hurdle being straddled and then stumbled upon. The unpredictable game of golf had him hooked.
He glanced at himself in the dresser mirror and thought he looked unusually tired. His dark brown skin shielded his age well, but today he noticed a slight, horizontal line along the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. He inspected it and tossed it away to his imagination. Then he stretched his top lip down over his upper teeth to better expose his recently trimmed mustache, which actually had a single strand of gray peeking through just to tease him. He rubbed his finger over the strand and then stepped back to further examine his image. He looked like his dad, a tad over six feet and slightly bowlegged. He was naturally muscular and semi-slender, with a strong, thick neck and a classic jawline. He was pleased with what stared back at him but thought,
I need to relax, just for a few hours or so.