Authors: Risqué
“What?” Lyfe blinked. “Wait a minute.” He pulled out his cell phone, dialed Payton’s number, and his call went directly to her voice mail. “Shit!”
“Mr. Carrington,” poured tearfully from behind him. He turned around and it was his mail clerk, Terell. “I got, I got,” he stuttered, “I ga-ga-ga-got six-six-six-kids and a set of ghetto twins on the way. And I ja-ja-ja-just got straight with child support—”
“Six!” Anna, one of the secretaries from accounting screamed, storming across the room. “Motherfucker, you told me that you had only two children when you moved in with me. And who the hell are those twins by? And when the hell you start stuttering?”
“He said ghetto twins, honey. That means two pregnant mamas,” Khris said. “I told y’all last week at the copy machine that he was on the creep with Donna.”
The floor became silent for a brief moment and suddenly Anna charged toward Donna, but was halted by one of the guards. “You messing with my man, trick! You silly bitch, I’ma kick yo’ ass!”
“You won’t be doing shit to me!” Donna started screaming, and then turned toward Terell. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Terell! You told me my baby was the only one!”
“You just been creeping your ass all through the office, huh?” Anna spat, reaching over the guard’s shoulder for Terell. “It’s okay, ’cause I’ma bust yo’ ass up. Fucked-up, no credit, having no money, moochin’ ass, dick like a nine-year-old-li’l-boy-ma’fucker! I tell you what, you better get some of these fuckin’ boxes and one of these guards to come move your ass from my crib, ’cause it’s about to be a deadly-ass situation, motherfucker.”
“Oh my Jesus,” Mare-Hellen said. “Well, I’ll just have to clutch my pearls, an office full of freaks living in sin. That’s why the wrath is upon us. All y’all going to hell.”
“And where you going, Mare-Hellen?” Khris spat, “’cause word is, he was tappin’ your wrinkled-ass pussy too!”
“That was before I was saved. And my pussy ain’t wrinkled. Don’t make me lose my religion”—she took her tambourine from her box and shook it—“ ’cause I will.”
“Whatever.” Khris waved her off. “I don’t have the time to deal with this bullshit. We don’t have a job.” She turned to Lyfe, who was steadily dialing Payton’s number, only to receive her voice mail.
“Mr. Carrington,” Khris said, “with all due respect, you should’ve thrown her ass out the goddamn window if this shit was going to happen.”
“We need our jobs,” one of the accountants said, “and in this economy, where are we going to find another one?”
Lyfe looked into Arri’s eyes and said, “I’ma take care of this.”
“You talking to me?” She paused. “Hmph.” She started packing her things again; a picture of Zion being the last thing she tossed into her box.
“Wait a minute,” Lyfe said tight-lipped. “What the fuck does that mean?”
She ignored him and he said, “Can I see you in my office for a minute?”
“Hell, yes, you can,” Khris interrupted, and Arri gave her the evil eye. “Take your ass in there.” Khris curled her lips, “And get our goddamn jobs back.”
“No.” Arri said, looking at Lyfe and then to Khris. “Fuck it.”
“Arri,” Lyfe called.
“It’s cool,” she said to him. “You don’t owe me shit, not even a good-bye.”
“Can you give me five minutes?” he pleaded.
“I can,” Terell said. “What you need, somebody to book you a flight to the main office? What? Somebody to drive you?”
Lyfe stared at Arri for a moment longer than he should’ve, then turned to everyone and said, “Leave your boxes on your desk and go home. I will take care of this.”
“Somebody better take care of this,” Mare-Hellen said, as everyone started to walk out single file, “or this motherfucker will be going up in flames!”
P
ayton sat behind her mahogany desk, tapping the center of her Chanel-covered lips with the rim of her half-empty wineglass. She crossed her right thigh over the left one, and swung the tip of her money-green ostrich stiletto beneath her desk. She batted her extended lashes while looking intently at Quinton, wondering what the fuck had possessed him to barge into her office and slam the door.
Payton watched beads of sweat curl into the anxious creases running across Quinton’s forehead, as she pointed to the door and said, “You wanna try that motherfucker again? And knock this time.”
“Listen,” he said sternly, “not now.”
“So what, are you planning to come back in a few days? Because you will be stepping back into the hallway and exercising some respect when you come into my domain. I haven’t forgotten that I’m still pissed with you.”
“Would you listen? Damn.” He sighed. “Be pissed later when you want some dick.”
“Awwl, that was cute, Quinton, you’re trying to put me in my place again.” She sipped her wine. “I like that.” She sipped again and then pointed her drink toward him, causing some of the white wine to slosh around the sides of the glass, “but don’t push me. Now, what do you want?”
“We have a problem here.” He pointed to one of the files on her desk. “Six months ago, one hundred people liquidated.” He pointed to another file, “And last month a thousand people liquidated. And you’re so busy playing games with this motherfuckin’ Lyfe, that all your money’s running out the door.”
“Quinton,” she frowned at the sweat rolling along the side of his face, “would you do something about that?” She handed him a Kleenex. “And stop being so damn nervous, jumpy, and concerned when it comes to my husband. I’m fucking you. And quite well, might I add, so you need to stop running around here like some li’l baby-dick niggah scared of getting flushed out by a grown man’s hard-on. Geezuz, it’s so unattractive. And as far as
my
money, and people liquidating, we’ve seen this before and with time it resolved itself.”
“Resolved itself? How?”
“Quinton, we’re not Fanny Mae, this is doable.” She refreshed her drink.
“Are you turning some profit to pay these motherfuckers?” Quinton looked confused. “Did I miss the memo on people having faith in the economy? Motherfuckin’ Bear Stearns is crumbling again and ING … don’t even get me started. And I know your ass ain’t waiting on no government bailout money. ’Cause if the white boys are getting denied, our black asses are headed back to sharecroppin’. And as far as your husband, who I can’t believe you’re still claiming, I don’t give a rat’s pussy about his ass—”
“Oh, Quinton, that was gross.” She handed him another Kleenex.
“You get my goddamn point!” He snatched it from her hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. “He’s around here sticking his nose in everybody else’s department. I told you, we should’ve given his ass a grant to play with for repeat offenders or some other bullshit. Why is he so hell-bent on knowing the ins and outs of the accounting department? What the fuck is his ass hiding?”
Payton didn’t answer; instead she sipped her drink.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Quinton carried on, “because I know you get my point. Which is exactly why when you fired the whole crew in New York, you should’ve put that motherfucker on the soup line with their asses!”
“You may have a point, Quinton. But what I don’t understand is why the hell are you so hyped about the shit?”
“Because you’re not handling his ass. He’s handling you.”
Payton paused.
Was it that obvious?
“Everybody’s liquidating!” Quinton snapped. “And you’re off in La-La Land trying to appease this ex-felon.”
“Don’t call names, Quinton, because your ass is from Oakland. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were once throwing up gang signs.”
“All I’m saying,” Quinton stressed, “is that you need to do something about him.”
“And what do you suggest?” Payton batted her eyes.
“Kill his ass,” he said coldly.
Payton nodded. “Wow, Quinton,”—she sipped more of her wine—“I say if you got the balls, swing ’em.”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought,” Payton carried on. “So if you’re done, what you can do is take your mad ass back to your office,” she pointed toward the door, “and locate a reputable employment agency to assist with staffing in New York.”
“That won’t be needed,” Lyfe said, opening the door and stepping across the threshold.
A smile bloomed on Payton’s face and her eyes lit up. “Checkmate.” She grinned, while nodding at Lyfe. “Mr. Carrington.” She clapped her hands together. “Welcome home.”
Quinton did his best to hide his pissed-off surprise. “Lyfe, wassup?”
“You got it,” Lyfe said to Quinton but never taking his eyes from Payton. “I need to speak to my wife. Alone.”
“No problem.” Quinton shot Payton a loaded eye before turning on his heels. “Later, Lyfe.”
“Yeah,” Lyfe paused, “later.” He closed and locked the door behind Quinton and spat at Payton, “You can’t answer the fuckin’ phone now?” He sat in one of the twin, black leather wing chairs facing Payton’s desk. “What the fuck is your problem?”
Payton’s eyes danced in delight as she sipped her wine. Her nipples hardened at the sight of her fine-ass husband and cream thickened between her thighs as she watched him struggle like hell to remain cool, but she could tell by the veins jumping on the side of his forehead that he was due to explode at any moment. “Mr. Carrington,” Payton said smoothly, “I see you’ve finally found your way home.”
“Why haven’t you been answering the phone?” Lyfe said abruptly.
“Did you call me?” She looked at her cell phone, which sat on the edge of her desk. “Hmmm, seems you did.”
Lyfe stroked his beard. “What the fuck is on your mind that you would fire an office full of goddamn people? Those people have families, lives, children, and other shit they have to take care of!”
“Did you go to New York and become a community activist or some shit? Or do you still have some community service to complete, because I know,” she said calmly, “that you didn’t walk your ass up in here, being a one-man union, rallying for some other motherfuckers that I don’t give a damn about. Because seriously,” she held her hand up and fanned her fingers, “they can all suck my dick—”
“What the—”
“I’m talking,” she spat, yet never raising her voice, only inching her eyebrows upward. “And don’t interrupt me again. Now, either you’re getting high, you have lost your damn mind, or you simply have me fucked up.” She wagged her index finger, and then pointed to her chest. “I reign supreme in this motherfucker.
This is my queendom, and I’m not going to remind you again,” she stabbed her finger into her desk, “because the next time I’ma fire yo’ ass, homie. So the way I see it,” she rose from her desk and walked over to Lyfe, “you owe me an apology.” She ran the tip of her index finger around his collar, and along the side of his face.
Lyfe loosened his tie and stared long and hard at Payton. His eyes could never deny how beautiful she was: butter-smooth skin, legs that went on forever, and an ass that popped out perfectly. He looked her over and said, “I’m not sucking your dick.” He stood up, never unlocking eyes with her. “So, you’re right, fuck it.”
“Then why are you here?” She stood before him and removed her silk blouse from the waist of her skirt and unbuttoned it. “Because it seems to me that if you want your office back, then you need to show me how bad you want it.” She placed her hands on her hips and arched her back, her nude bra completely revealing her full caramel breasts and peaked nipples. “Because I’m not playing with your ass. And I know,”—she slid back on her desk and her skirt inched up her toned thighs—“that you didn’t think you were going to come up in here and flex on me again. Is that it? Did you really think that I was such a weak bitch that you could control me?” She laughed. “Oh hell no. Let me explain this to you.” Payton opened her legs wide and between her sheer black thigh-highs was a fat and dripping-wet shaved middle. “You owe this pussy.” She patted her hands against it. “And I’m sick of you thinking you can walk around here as if you’ve done something for me, when the truth of the matter is, this pussy saved your life.”
“You’re reaching.”
“
This pussy
,” she stressed, “made you what you are today, and I don’t think that you quite understand that.” She squinted. “This hot pink flesh,” she opened the lips and ran her fingers between, “got you out of a fuckin’ UPS truck, stuck in a federal
felons’ program, and gave you a life that slingin’ rocks on the corner would’ve never afforded you.” She stirred in her juices.
“I gotta go.” Lyfe stood up, yet his hard dick let Payton know that he didn’t really want to leave.
She arched her brow. “Yo’ ass will stand there and fuckin’ listen.” She paused. “Because the truth of the matter is, you didn’t start hangin’ with the big boys until you kissed this creamy punanny.” She slipped her fingers into her slit, and pulled them out to roll the wetness over her lips. “You know how to run this investment banking machine because of this pussy.” She palmed her middle. “And you have the audacity to tell me you’re not going to suck my dick? You have the balls to disrespect it, Mr. Compton? When underneath that tailor-made Versace suit, those crocs, and blingin’-ass platinum and diamond cuff links, and even that well-groomed box beard, is a broke-ass, rap-sheet-havin’, South Central motherfucker. Now, the way I see it, you can appease this pussy—aka, suck my dick—or you can leave, run back to New York, and tell the field hands that they are no longer needed. Oh, and make sure you tell that bitch—you know, that pretty-ass secretary of yours—that she’s the first one who must go—”
“Secretary—?”
“Don’t,” Payton waved her finger, “don’t try and lie to me, because I saw how she looked at you and I am far from stupid. Besides, I know your sex habits and you can’t go two fuckin’ days without jerkin’ off. And you think I’ma believe that you haven’t tapped nothing and you’ve been gone for over a month? I’m not that naïve, just keep the li’l tramp in her place.”
“What are you talking about?” Lyfe frowned.
“You know what I’m talking about. Did you really think that out of all of my employees out there, not even one of them was loyal to me? Please. I’ve heard the whispers, and I don’t know if you’ve fucked her or are getting ready to, but don’t let some outside, broke-down pussy mess up what you got over here, Tiger
Woods.” She rubbed her finger in a circular motion over her clit, “Now, how are we going to handle this?” She looked down at his hard dick. “Are we going to keep playing chess or you got other ideas?”