On the Line (13 page)

“But—”

The blonde bunched her shoulders in a careless shrug. “If you want him, go back to him and get it straightened out.”

“He won't want to…” She released a loud gasp. The blonde was nowhere to be seen. Maybe it was all an apparition.

“Don't even think it,” the familiar voice said.

Dorothy Faye went home and telephoned Lance Hamilton. “This is Dorothy Faye Hodge. I need to talk with you, and I promise not to get out of line.”

“All right. Be at my office tomorrow morning at ten. See you then.”

Dorothy Faye dressed with care that morning. She wore the only dress she owned whose skirt reached her kneecaps, brushed her hair into a conservative style, put on a pair of two-inch heels, as much perfume as she dared, got into her car and headed for the Hamilton Real Estate Agency.

Lance Hamilton answered the door on the first ring, causing a sharp rise in both her temperature and her expectations. “Hi,” he said, so casually that she wondered if he was ready to acquiesce. “You're punctual. That has always appealed to me. Have a seat. What did you want to talk about?”

Her eyes widened. The man didn't give an inch. Well, she had a lot to gain by leveling with him. “Have you ever heard of the Wufferts?”

He leaned back in his chair and eyed her with such intensity that she felt as if she were transported out of herself. “Yes, I have.”

She took a deep breath. “I'm one of them.” His lack of a reaction added to her growing discomfort. “I said I'm one of them.”

“I know that,” he countered, and she nearly jumped from her chair. He continued. “So am I. Didn't you wonder why you couldn't master my will? A Wuffert can control a Wuffert, though no one else can. It's been that way for over six thousand years.” She was standing now. He said, “Don't let yourself become irritated.”

“But you toyed with me. You—”

“I taught you a good lesson. Treat others the way you want to be treated. You're not entitled to have every man you desire just because you want him. A man has a right to the privacy of his person, just as you have.”

“You were far more merciless with me. At least I satisfied the men I seduced. What about me? What about us? I'm still on fire for you.”

“So far you have used your talent only to bring men to heel, to make them your sex slave. That is not acceptable. You must learn self-discipline. And you must learn to use your powers for good, as I was once forced to do. Perhaps then, you and I can get together.”

 

That's the absolute truth, Joy. Dorothy Faye's too arrogant to lie. Besides, she's given me proof of her abilities. I don't know whether she'll get her act together enough to impress Lance Hamilton, but the poor sister sure wants him badly enough to mend her ways. At least, that's the way it seems to me. But, Joy, the whole story scared the willies out of me. I don't want anybody telling me I'm a Wuffert. I'm crazy enough about sex as it is. You keep up the good work, Joy.

Sincerely yours,

Grace L.

 

A Wuffert! WTF. For those of you who don't know, WTF stands for What the fuck! I toss the letter to the side and shake off a sudden chill that's shimmying along my spine. Quickly I take a look around like something might have slipped in while I wasn't looking. I dare to steal a glance at the letter that stares back at me accusingly from the corner.

See what I mean, crazy shit and crazier people day in and day out. I shudder and dart to the kitchen for another cup of coffee just as my phone rings and scares the crap out of me.

It's Macy. Thank God. I lean against the wall.

“Whatsup, girl?”

“Calling to check on you. Any more word about the attempted suicide?”

“Naw. And I hope not. I'm sure we'll be getting a ton of e-mails about it. But hey, we did what we could, the asshole didn't get a chance to off herself.” I laugh even though we both know it's not funny.

“I was wondering if you wanted to do lunch,” Macy asks in a bad upper-crust accent.

I laugh. “Yeah, I think getting out of the house would do me a world of good.”

“Why, did something happen?”

Macy could always read me even way the hell on the other end of the phone line. I tell her about the letter I just read.

“Dayum. You think that mess is true?”

“Who the hell knows?” I rub my hands up and down my arms and look around again. I knew I loved sex—a lot. But jeez, I almost felt like going to church or something. “Listen, you wanna come by here and pick me up? I want to get through a couple more letters, see if there is anything I want to use for tonight's show.”

“Cool. I'll come by about two. We can hang out and then go straight to the station. I need to do some shopping anyway.”

Shopping! Now that was something to take my mind off things. “Perfect. I saw a pair of Jimmy Choos that I must have.”

Macy chuckles. “Girl, you and your shoes.”

“Don't hate,” I tease. “I need a new pair for the awards banquet tomorrow night. See you at two.”

“Bring a couple of letters. We can go over them at lunch.”

“No problem. See ya.” I hang up, feeling better already.

Promptly at two my front doorbell rings, and me and Macy head off for our day of frivolity.

As we walk along Fifth Avenue, the Rodeo Drive of the East Coast, I ask Macy, “Did you ever think me and you would get this far?”

“Hell no. You kiddin' me.” She shakes her head and hooks her arm through mine. “We had it rough, girl.” She sighs softly. “Sometimes I still think it's all a dream.”

“Me, too.”

“But you did it, Joy. You made up your mind you were getting up and getting out.”

A flash of our life in the projects rushes through my head: the pissy hallways, the broken elevators, crack vials littering the concrete lawns, drive-bys and, oh yeah, the rapes. Can't forget those—in my house and out.

“You took me with you, though.” She tightens her arm around mine and pushes all the ugly away, even the ugly that Macy knew nothing about. I drape my arm around her shoulder and plant a kiss on the top of her head, and no I don't give a fuck if somebody thinks we're gay. Macy is my girl, remember. My one and only friend.

“Sisters till the end,” I say.

“Holla.”

We both laugh. Life actually ain't half-bad if you have a friend.

With our bellies full, loaded down with shopping bags and our spirits lifted, we head off to the studio for another night of fun and games.

W
hen we arrive at the station folks are still buzzing about the antics from the night before and giving me everything from high fives and thumbs-ups to disgusted shakes of the head (those are the haters). But all I want to see are the ratings, which my trusty intern hands to me on my way to my tiny-ass office. I toss my jacket and purse on what pretends to be a couch while I scan Arbitron. Hot damn! Still number uno. I do a little victory dance around my desk just as Macy pokes her head in.

“Still at the top, I take it.” She's grinning.

“You got that right, my sister,” I reply with a shake of my hips from side to side. “Highest ratings this season so far. The wilder the ride the higher the ratings.” I follow her out of the office and into the booth.

Me and Macy prepare for the show, getting all of our cues in sync. I have my letters lined up and I wait for my countdown. Like I said earlier, in order to make it onto my show the letters have to read like a soap opera and the letter I've chosen to kick the show off is called Torn.

Five, four, three, two…

“Hey out there, radio-land. I'm Joy Newhouse all up in
your
house and you're listening to the number-one late-night show
On the Line.
As always, we have an action-packed night in store for you, so put up your feet and get all those underaged crumb snatchers away from the sound of my voice! Holla.

“Our first letter tonight is from a sister who, for lack of a better word, is screwed up—and I mean that in the kindest sense. Anyhow, her letter is titled Torn and by the time I'm finished you'll understand why.

 

Dear Joy,

Let me start off by saying I'm a bit spoiled. A woman's value is often weighed by how she looks. People have told me that I'm fly for as long as I can remember. I can't deny my looks have made my life easy, at least as far as men are concerned. I'm a high-dollar girl in a high-dollar world and I always get paid.

I'm naturally petite, with smooth, light, honey-colored skin, small, regular features, big, long-lashed eyes and pouty lips. My hair is long, almost to my waist with a non-kinky, wavy grade, thanks to my unknown Mexican father.

Women have never liked me much, and I can't say I blame them. The Lord has blessed me in unfair quantities and quality.

Black men particularly dig me. They can't believe my hair isn't a weave. They always ask me what I'm mixed with. I've always had any brotha I wanted. My tastes in men are very specific.

Obviously, it's most important that they have money to spend on me. But other than that, I like dark-skinned, muscular men with big, hard bodies and big hard dicks. My men have to be hung. I don't have time for less than eight inches. I like them hot, wild and a little dangerous. I used to keep a thug with money by my side, but I've been burned in the cross fire.

I decided I needed to play it safe and went to the state college. A professor paid my tuition, including dorm room and board for the entire year. Yeah, I attended Cal State on a pussy scholarship.

The ballplayers were right up my alley. I got on the cheerleading squad. School was boring, so when senior Bobby Benson got the NFL draft, I decided that was my ticket. He was dark, big, bad and packed a full nine inches, plus the two-mil salary didn't hurt a bit.

We married the June after my freshman year. I never went back to school. We relocated to the Midwest. We bought a big-ass house, one of those Colonial-looking things in the suburbs. I drove the Mercedes convertible and Bobby drove the Ferrari.

Bobby got a good contract, but he's just starting out in the NFL. We were in hock, but I picked a star, and I knew the money was gonna be all uphill from there.

All these bitches were shaking their asses at my man, but I made sure he was hooked. See, most bitches don't understand that looking good is just part of the equation. A man wants a challenge. He doesn't want a bitch that is just going to roll over and stick her legs in the air, eternally in heat. He wants a woman all the other dogs are sniffing at, a woman he never quite knows, a woman he has to work to hold.

I know I'm fine, but I have an edge over all the other fine bitches that spread their legs without getting paid the way I've always been paid. Maintaining my mystery and self-confidence has always been crucial. It's a lot tougher than any game with a ball. But to play the game with a man and win, I can't afford weakness. I never let down my guard, never confide, and never expose myself without calculation.

I play Bobby like a testosterone-laden puppet. I give it to him good, freaky-deak if he wanted it that way, but never on his demand. I left him wanting and kept him begging for my pussy like those mice that press the lever incessantly when randomly awarded.

Bobby could almost come in his pants just looking at me, no mean feat after two years of marriage. The money got better, the debt got paid, and Bobby was on the road most of the time.

Life was good, but I was lonely out here in white suburbia. Bobby tells me my job is to stay beautiful for him. I pass the time shopping and in the spas and working out a couple hours a day. The white bitches bore the fuck out of me, and they want to put the drop on my man as much as any other bitch. I've always depended on men for companionship. For some reason women have never liked me much. Go figure.

Bobby also tells me I'll be busy enough when I start this huge family he wants. Six kids! He has to be kidding. He definitely married the wrong bitch, but as long as he doesn't realize that, it's cool. I took my birth control pills like they were my new religion.

Bobby was on the road when I met Yolanda in the gym. She was a personal trainer, not mine, but I'd been watching her small, trim, muscular body with admiration.

I was in the shower when she came in, buck naked. I watched her soap her cream-almond skin out of the corner of my eye. She looked even better without clothes, smooth white skin, and not a ripple on her that wasn't firm. Her breasts were full and high. Perfect. She wore her blond hair short and, according to what was in between her thighs, it was natural.

Her face had a fey, delicate look, belied by the strength of the muscles in her back when they flexed. She let the water sluice through her hair and over her face. Her eyes opened and she caught me staring. They were blue, clear, ice-blue.

“My name is Yolanda,” she said.

I stepped out from under the spray and grabbed a towel from the hook. “Stephanie.”

A flush heated my cheeks as she took her time assessing my body. “Pretty Stephanie,” she said, a slash of a dimple creasing her left cheek.

“You're not too bad yourself.” I felt the need for banter to alleviate the strange tension growing between us. “Have you been training here long?”

“Around six months.”

I knew. I'd been watching her ever since she'd arrived. “I've been in the neighborhood for about two years.”

She turned off the shower and approached, making no move to grab a towel or cover her body. Drops of water ran down her breasts, glistening on her pink-brown nipples for a moment before dropping to the floor.

“Nice to meet you, Stephanie. Do you have plans for lunch? I'm starving.” Her voice was husky, inviting.

My brows shot up. “We hardly know each other,” I said, only partly kidding.

“We don't know each other at all. But since we are going to get to know each other very well, why not do it comfortably over a good meal?” She smiled at me slow and lazy as she finally reached for a towel and rubbed it over her taut abdomen. Water trickled down her lower belly and disappeared into the hidden golden-bronze brush between her legs, only slightly trimmed.

My stomach tightened. “Lunch sounds great.”

 

She took me to one of the best restaurants in the area. I felt a little uncomfortable dressed as casually as I was, in warm-ups, even though they were designer duds. But the maître d' seemed to know her and led us to a good table.

Yolanda didn't glance at the menu, but told the waiter she wanted water with lemon, and the grilled-vegetable salad. I said I wanted the same and she smiled at me. “Vegetarian is the way to go. I used to be fifty pounds heavier than I am now.”

“I can't believe it. You look really great.”

“Thanks. This body is a product of sweat, tears and probably more than a little blood.”

The waiter set our lemon-scented water in front of us. Yolanda took a sip and settled back, her ice-blue gaze meeting mine. “So what's your story?”

“My story?”

“Yes. Tell me all about you.”

“I don't know if we have time for that.”

“We'll make the time.”

I chuckled, uncomfortable. I hadn't spent a lot of time with girlfriends, but this banter was feeling too familiar, like what happened between me and a man.

“I'm married to Bobbie Benson.”

“Congratulations.” Her teeth gleamed white. “I figured you weren't a working girl, given the amount of time you spend at the gym.”

“No. We've been married almost two years. He's on the road now.”

“Do you ever travel with him?”

I shifted. I used to travel with Bobby, right after we got married. But then he didn't really want me to and, to be frank, it was boring and inconvenient. I wasn't worried about the bitches he did on the road, because he was well aware of what he had waiting at home. We spend a lot of time apart, and I liked it like that.

Bobby came home to check up on me frequently. He didn't quite trust me and that was the way it should be. If a man completely trusts a beautiful woman, something is wrong. Bobby wanted me at home, sitting on the imaginary pedestal he had me on in his mind, tending to his pussy, keeping it on ice and ready whenever he wanted it. He was getting tiresome with the notion I was to start churning out babies like he didn't have skanks all across the country trying to get pregnant by him to get a shot at some paternity money.

At least without children, I could fool myself I was free.

“Stephanie?”

The waiter had slipped our dishes of grilled vegetables on the table with a variety of dips and sauces on the plate. It smelled delicious.

“I'm sorry, I was thinking about something,” I said.

Yolanda picked up a broccoli floret and dipped it into sauce. A drop of pink sauce fell from the broccoli and her tongue flicked out and caught it. I was mesmerized. My heart was pounding. I'd never felt this sort of excitement about a woman before.

“What is your story?” I asked her.

“But you haven't told me yours yet.”

“I'm boring.”

Her dimple flashed at me again. “I doubt that. I'm a personal trainer,” she said. “I have a lot of clients and do all right. I'm not married and I have no children. I live in the moment and at this moment my story is all about you.”

She was enchanting.

 

I ended up at her place. We talked about the stuff I imagine girls talk about—clothes, hair, everything but men. She poured us wine and put on a Jill Scott album. She danced. Her moves were slow and sensuous. I wasn't surprised when she kissed me, 'cause I knew that dance very well and where it leads.

I'd never been kissed by a woman before, but it wasn't unpleasant; it was soft, wet and sexy. Her body was clean and beautiful, both soft and hard. Her skin gleamed like a pearl in the stripes of afternoon sun through the blind slats.

I was curious, okay?

When I let her take me to bed, I thought it would just be another experience, no big deal. But, damn. She took me there, she really did. I'd never come like that in my life, nowhere near. Her tongue, her fingers, her fabulous body against mine worked a special magic I didn't quite recognize, but the taste was sweet. Too sweet. Soft and quaking, full of sighs and whispered screams. And I didn't mind touching her, either. In fact…I wanted to.

“I canceled three appointments for you,” she whispered in my ear afterwards.

“Was it worth it?”

“Oh, yes.”

We reached for each other. Oh yes, it was worth it.

 

Being with Yolanda was like having the girlfriend I never had, but talk about friends with benefits. I could trust her, tell her anything, and she also played my body with the skill of a virtuoso and I learned to play hers, too.

Something I thought I could only experience reliably alone with my vibrator became commonplace with her—shaking, quivering orgasms crashing through my body. I was becoming addicted to them, and worse, I was becoming addicted to her.

I'd spent my life alone, despite the men who always wanted inside me. But nobody really wanted to know the real me the way Yolanda did. Nobody ever wanted to see the warts, or any imperfection or weakness that's part of being a real woman. Yolanda and I were real with each other, best friends, sisters, lovers.

I understood my role with men: they wanted Barbie. Sure they said they wanted to know all about me during the initial infatuation, but nothing would burn that infatuation off quicker than if I complied and ruined their illusions. With Yolanda, my guard came down, my defenses breached. There was vulnerability, but there was also a rare feeling. Was it happiness? I didn't know because I wasn't sure how it felt.