A Wanted Woman Part 34

Her lips trembled and she wiped tears from her eyes. "You know how I feel sometimes?"

"Listening."

"Like leftovers. I feel like leftovers."

"Leftovers?"

"Leftovers are trashed. Everyone wants a new, hot meal. I used to be the hot meal. We're what has been come inside and left to drip dry. Don't you agree? They come inside of us and leave us to dry."

"I've never been come inside."

"You're a virgin?"

"Always used a condom. So, I'm still a virgin to bareback s.e.x."

"You're missing the best part of s.e.x."

"No. Never had a man come inside of me."

"I've never used a condom."

"Never?"

"Well, never asked a man to use one. Never wanted a man to use one."

"Why not?"

"The risk. Guess that gets me high in some ways."

"You're a daring version of me."

"You're a smarter version of me."

She blew more snot bubbles, then took a tissue from her bag and blew her nose.

I asked, "He has insurance?"

"Double-indemnity." She took a few deep breaths. "I'm really doing this."

"It's done, unless you call it off right now."

"I need it to look like an accident."

"I need you to leave, not look back, forget you ever met me."

She walked away, shoulders down, head down, hands in fists, tears falling in the off-white sand.

I called Black Jack again. Still no response.

I guessed that Bible study was still going on.

They should be halfway through the New Testament by now, deep into the part about avoiding s.e.xual immorality, learning to control one's own body in a way that was holy and honorable, and not falling into the flames of pa.s.sionate l.u.s.t like the heathen, the sweet, sweet way I had been in Florida.

It was cool.

My feelings weren't fragile, not the kind made to be hurt.

Black Jack was a man. The pattern of men remained the pattern of men.

I wasn't jealous.

I was too busy trying to stay alive to be jealous.

THIRTY-EIGHT.

I rode the Jet Ski to meet my depressed client's husband.

Dover Beach at Johnny Cool's Jazz & Blues Beach Bar. He was on a white beach chair, underneath a humongous umbrella that read STAG: A MAN'S BEER. He wore Speedos and pretended to read a James Patterson novel. I took in the crowd. Many sunbathed with their eyes closed while others read novels on their electronic devices. A scarf covered my faux dreadlocks, these top-shelf, thick locks that hung down to my waist, a few of them pink, a few marine blue, a few Rihanna red. I was a rebellious mulatto, a Jennifer Beals, a Lisa Bonet, which was good enough for him. I pulled up on the Jet Ski and he sat up, leaned forward, wondering if I was the mulatto he had ordered for his afternoon fun.

I waved at him. He waved. I paused to check my phones. Made sure no calls had come in from the Barbarians. There were no messages from Petrichor. Still nothing from Black Jack, either.

I powered down my phones and headed toward the target with a smile, a slow s.e.xy stroll across the hot sand, my feet bare, my grin wide, like I was trying to win the greeter-of-the-year at Cave Shepherd in Bridgetown. My bikini was a thong. My a.s.s exposed, my v.a.g.i.n.a barely covered, camel toe galore.

He said, "Shadiquah Yarde-Hyman from Kingston, Jamaica?"

In a soft, pleasant Jamaican accent I responded, "Bob Jones, the American?"

"How old are you? You look like you could be fifteen, but the body says different."

"Island girl, born that way. No worries. I legal. What about you?"

"Fifty-six and no gray hair until yesterday."

I handed Bob my suntan lotion. He rubbed from my back down to my b.u.t.t. He considered me his already. He touched me where I had shaved earlier, touched me as if he were ent.i.tled.

The behavior of men, of people, it fascinated me to no end.

He said, "How long have you been having s.e.x?"

"You pay for an hour, but I free all day if you want to pay for more time."

"No. I mean, how old when you started?"

"Fourteen. I good. Nothing to worry about. I real good. Love to f.u.c.k every day."

He traced his thick fingers across the material covering the lips of my v.a.g.i.n.a.

It aroused me. I was so sensitive that his strange hand aroused me.

He rubbed and rubbed and rubbed like he was wis.h.i.+ng the genie from the lamp. I grinned and patted my target's hand. My nipples were erect. What he did felt good. Made my eyes dreamy.

Slow and easy, I licked my lips and said, "Time we two leave the beach to have fun."

"Let me finish my beer. I don't want to rush my time with you."

I retied my top, first a knot, then made a tight bow, did that to keep the waves from ripping my top or bottom away from me and leaving onlookers with too much personal information.

He took out a blue pill. Popped it. Winked at me.

I said, "First ting first, Bob. You pop pill, but we have to take care of something first."

He slid me three hundred American dollars. I put it inside of my swimming top.

I said, "Now, where were we?"

He touched me again and I looked at trash cans. Thought about a garbage truck.

I smiled at my man-of-the-moment and said, "You okay over there?"

"My wife is on the island."

"You see she here now? Should I go?"

"No. We're fine. Me and you, we're fine. My soon-to-be-ex-wife and me, not fine."

"You have chirren with she?"

"She has two children."

"She has chirren but you don't?"

"I had a vasectomy two years before I met her and ended up with fraternal twins."

"Why you have a vasectomy?"

"That's the only birth control for men that works. I have a friend in L.A., guy named Jason Wolf, owns his own limo company, he used to tell me that if you can't afford to get a vasectomy reversed, chances are you can't afford to have a kid. When I was ready to have a kid, I was going to reverse it."

"And before you ready, she horn you and make two babies with another man?"

"She f.u.c.ked me over."

"You take care of chirren from another man like dey your own chirren, for true?"

"I paid for those ungrateful b.a.s.t.a.r.ds until I'd had enough."

"You know she here. She know you here. Why she here and you here at same time?"

"She saw where I had booked online, then followed me here to try to reconcile."

"When you see she last?"

"She called my hotel when I was at the Accra."

"Hotel here?"

"Yeah. I was there for two weeks, but I changed hotels when I found out she was there, found out she had checked into the same hotel and was in the lobby waiting for me to walk by."

"She crazy."

"She was on her knees begging. That dramatic liar. It was pathetic. I had to walk her back to her room and try to calm her down. She was all over me, begging me to make love to her."

"You give her wood."

"I finally put the wood in her to make her shut the f.u.c.k up and calm down."

I paused. This was why we rarely contacted the target, just sent a bullet to say h.e.l.lo.

Part of me wanted to tell him to beware of his ex, get up, walk the sand to the Jet Ski, and leave.

He said, "Sorry, didn't mean to go on and on about her."

"By the clear day I make you forget about she."

"'Clear day'?"

"By sunrise. By the new sun."

"Love your accent."

"I love you good all day and make you feel like new."

He looked at the knot between his legs and whispered, "Look at that."

"Later, I suck wood and make you come good and sleep away your stress."

"My wife never did that."

"Never?"

"Fifteen years and she never once did that."

He headed toward the Jet Ski rental, jogging like a former jock, his best days gone by, happier than he had been in a long time, belly bouncing like loose b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I had more empathy for him than I did his wife. But she was the client. Business was business. I needed money to handle my business.