Читать книгу Getting sexy - Kayla Perrin - Страница 8

I am not in the mood for this.

I pop the lid on my bottle of Motrin and drop two capsules into my mouth. I down the pills with water, then lean forward on my desk and groan.

Believe me, I’ve had a stressful enough day at the television station. I certainly didn’t need a call from him.

Him being my ex-husband. I have just gotten off the phone with the jerk, and I swear, he must be on a mission to make my life miserable. There’s a reason I divorced him, although he doesn’t seem to get it. And he should, considering his girlfriend showed up on our doorstep two and a half years ago carrying their child.

Do you believe that my ex actually wants a second chance with me?

But then, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. David literally believes he’s God’s gift to women. I’m sure he’s deluded himself into thinking that without him, I’ve been utterly unhappy. Which is so far from reality, let me make that perfectly clear. There was the obvious sadness when we split, but mostly, I felt free.

You see, I always sensed something was wrong in our relationship, even if I wasn’t sure what. And when I learned that he was screwing around on me, everything suddenly made sense. If he was ever faithful to me after our wedding, it was probably for about three minutes. It’s amazing the stuff people are willing to tell you once the divorce papers have been signed. I only wish these friends and family members had seen it wise to give me this information before I married the man.

Somewhere along the way, though, it seems I’ve gotten some poetic justice. As I always knew he would, David has come to his senses and realized that I am the best thing that ever happened to him. Though the divorce became final over a year ago, he wants me back in a bad way.

I can’t tell you how much pleasure it gives me to be able to reject him.

That thought makes me smile, and I sit up straight. I eye my phone warily though, hoping it won’t ring again. I am getting tired of David’s phone calls. I’ve changed my home number and my cell number, but the bad thing is he knows where I work. I can’t quite escape that one. I’m a prominent newscaster at Channel Four news.

In the last couple years, I’ve advanced from field reporter to news anchor. I can’t help but wonder if this is why David wants me back. I have a more prestigious role at the news station, one that’s giving me fame and more money. Funny that this might interest David now, because he never liked me pursuing my dream before. In fact, he once told me that he was tired of hearing his police colleagues tell him they had seen me on the news.

Karen—the woman he’d cheated with—is a teacher. Nice and safe for David; i.e., noncompetitive in terms of his job.

I have to give Karen credit, though. Apparently even she has a limit to what she will put up with. Guess she finally realized that my ex is a worthless cheater and worthless cheaters aren’t even faithful to their mistresses. Bet she now wishes she’d found an unattached man to get involved with. I do take some pleasure in this. And why shouldn’t I? I’ve never understood how some women get off on being home wreckers.

David will never admit it, but I heard through the grapevine that Karen left with their child while he was at work. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall when David returned home.

Anyway, enough about my ex. Despite my long-winded rant, I really don’t think about him. He called to say that he has changed, that if I give him another chance I will see, but I am so not going there again. He thinks it’s because there’s someone else in my life. This time, I let him believe that.

The truth is, there’s no one special in my life. I hate to say it, but the men I meet these days are losers with a capital L. If they’re not starstruck because of who I am, then they’re just plain weirdos. For the most part, if the man is someone a self-respecting woman wouldn’t be caught dead with, then you can bet he’ll hit on me. Trust me, it never fails.

There’s something about being on television that makes people think they know you. And when guys think they know you, they’re much more forward. For example, a few weeks ago at a fund-raising event, a well-dressed black man approached me and passed me a note. It read, “You and me, outside in the gazebo in five minutes.”

Needless to say, I didn’t make that date.

I have such shitty luck with men that I have sworn off dating. I really have. What’s the point? There’s not one decent single guy out there.

But Rhonda, a camerawoman at the station, tells me I’m wrong. She swears that she’s got the perfect man for me—her cousin.

I’m not particularly interested in seeing this guy, but Rhonda has been on my case about it for months. So, despite my obvious bad luck with men, I have decided I am a glutton for punishment and have accepted a date with Rhonda’s cousin for this evening. I put off meeting Trevor for months—until I realized that Rhonda wasn’t going to drop the issue.

There is a knock on my dressing-room door. “Come in,” I call.

Rhonda pokes her head through the door. “Hey, Lishelle.”

“Hey.”

“I love your hair like that.”

I tuck some locks behind my ear. I’m still a bit self-conscious about it. When it comes to hair, I’m pretty conservative. I keep it nape length, and never color it anything other than black. At least I hadn’t. All that changed last weekend when my stylist urged me to do something different. I caved under pressure and allowed her to add some auburn highlights. Believe me, I started having a panic attack once I’d passed the point of no return. But Jenny, my stylist, promised me it would complement my skin tone. And she was right.

“Thanks,” I say to Rhonda.

“Trevor will be impressed.” She winks.

But will I be impressed with Trevor? For Rhonda’s sake, I hope so. She’s been trying for so long to get us together.

“What time are you meeting him?” she asks.

“Eight o’clock.” That will give me a little time to freshen up after the newscast is over. I plan to meet Trevor at a restaurant downtown. He offered to pick me up, but I politely declined. If I have my own car and things don’t go well, I can leave.

I’m jaded, can you tell?

“You’ll have a good time,” Rhonda assures me. “Trevor really is a sweetheart.”

“I hope so.”

Rhonda gives me a smile then disappears. Knowing I have work to do, I force myself out of my chair. I still have to get my hair and makeup done, and after that, it’s showtime.

Two hours later, my head is still pounding. I’m at the restaurant now, sitting in my car in the parking lot, dreading the thought of going inside. I just don’t know if I should do this. Knowing my luck, this date will cap off a stressful day with even more stress. I should probably just go home and go to bed.

But I am here already, resigned to my fate. I may as well try to enjoy myself. There are worse ways to spend a Thursday night than meeting a potential new boyfriend.

I apply more lipstick before getting out of the car. Then, as I walk up to the restaurant door, my stomach flutters with nerves. I hope I’m not making a mistake. Really, it’s not like I need a man, although I admit that having one might be nice.

“Hello,” I say to the male host once I’m inside. “I’m meeting someone. Crenshaw. Trevor.”

The host peruses his open schedule book. “Ah, yes. Right this way.”

My hands sweat on my Louis Vuitton clutch as I follow the host through the Macaroni Grill. This was Trevor’s choice, and a good one. It’s casual but upscale and has great food.

“Here you go.”

“Thank—” The rest of the word dies on my lips as I see a man rise. For a moment, I am stunned. Pleasantly stunned.

So this is Trevor. Wow. He is tall, very well groomed. A gorgeous dark-skinned brother. I am definitely impressed.

“Lishelle, hello.”

God, that smile must have broken countless hearts.

“You found the place okay?”

I force myself to speak. “Yes, yes, I did.” I smile awkwardly. “Hi.”

I extend my hand, but Trevor steps toward me and gives me a hug instead. “It’s so good to meet you. Believe me, I’m a fan.”

I smile bashfully and wave off his compliment. (I really did smile bashfully. Sheesh, what’s come over me?)

Without missing a beat, Trevor pulls out my chair for me. As I sit, I can’t help thinking that his mama must have raised him right.

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering some wine,” he tells me, and gestures to the chilled carafe. “It’s white, Riesling.”

“Lovely,” I practically sing. Lovely? Lord, when was the last time I used that word? Really, I need to tamp down on my overexcitement. Trevor is going to think I’ve been dating men from Mars.

Which isn’t exactly a stretch.

Trevor pours me a glass, then lifts his own glass in a toast. He touches it to mine and says, “To new friendships.”

“To new friendships,” I echo, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I have finally hit pay dirt.

Two glasses of wine later, I’m feeling very relaxed. And headache free. Accepting this date with Trevor is probably the best thing I’ve done in a long, long time. I’m even thinking of inviting him home, depending on how things progress. This isn’t like me, but you have to understand, I haven’t had sex in ages, and the fact that I’m sitting across from an eligible man has sent my libido into overdrive.

Trevor has been telling me about what it’s like to work as a lawyer. (Did I tell you I’m intrigued by the legal profession? Especially when it comes to fine-looking brothers who do their best to keep creeps off the streets?) I’m sipping wine and grinning like a fool, hanging on to his every word.

“I couldn’t believe this guy. It was like, every single one of his neighbors testified to the fact that they saw him chasing the guy with a knife, heard him uttering death threats, and he totally denied it. No defense, just a straight denial. And when he fired his lawyer and proceeded to defend himself…Even the jury could hardly keep their laughter under control.”

Trevor laughs, and I do, too. It might be interesting to see Trevor in action—in court. And I’m definitely thinking that it would be very interesting to see him in action in the bedroom.

“Ah, well.” Trevor’s laughter subsides. “Enough about me. I want to hear all about you.”

“Me?” I point to myself, as if there’s any question as to whom he’s referring. “Oh, there’s not much to tell. Certainly nothing as interesting as what you’ve told me.”

Trevor tilts his head ever so slightly and says, “I seriously doubt that.”

I draw in a deep breath to keep my erratic heart under control. “I…I guess I do have some interesting stories. Mostly from earlier in my career, when I was a field reporter.” The truth is, I have a lot of interesting stories. But I’d rather talk about me and Trevor and whether he’s doing anything later. It’s not exactly the time to bring up this suggestion, though. “What do you want to hear about? The streakers or the death threats?”

“Death threats?”

“Oh, yeah. I was covering a story about a feud between two business owners. One guy had a cleaning business in town for twenty years. The new guy set up shop and was stealing his customers. When I asked the new guy about his business practices, he shoved my cameraman to the ground and vowed to slit my throat.”

“Whoa.”

“Nothing came of it. But there have been other instances like that, and I’ve been worried more than a few times. There are some crazy people out there.”

“What else?”

“More stories?”

Trevor shakes his head. “No, tell me about you. Your life.”

My heart flutters. Okay, so he likes me. That’s good to know, because I really like him. “Well,” I begin, “I’m from Idaho.”

“Idaho?” Trevor looks at me like I’m nuts.

“Yep.”

“Wow,” he says. “I didn’t know there were black folks in Idaho.” There are laugh lines around his eyes as he smiles.

“That’s the first thing people always say, but yes, there definitely are.”

“Atlanta’s a far way from Idaho. Why’d you move here?”

“Because I always knew there was something bigger and better out there. Not to knock Boise, but I craved bigcity life. I also wanted to go to a black college, and there aren’t any there. I applied to Spelman, got accepted, and the rest is history.”

“Any regrets?”

I wonder if he’s talking about my moving to Atlanta or about us. “No. No regrets.”

“Good,” Trevor says.

Maybe it’s the wine, but my tongue is suddenly feeling loose. I lean across the table and say, “You know, I’m really glad that Rhonda matched us up. Before this, I was pretty jaded about dating. Seems I kept meeting the same type of man—the wrong one.”

“Same here,” Trevor says. “The wrong woman, I mean.”

Trevor and I share a chuckle. As our laughter dies, I glance away, wondering if I should invite him home now. No, not yet. There’s no need to rush.

So instead I ask, “When was your last relationship?” Depending on what he says, I’ll get an idea of where his head is at. If he’s hung up on someone else. As much as I want to have sex, I don’t want a one-night stand.

“It’s been a while for me,” he answers. “Four months.”

“That’s not so long,” I comment. I hope he’s over this woman. “Were you in love?”

Trevor shrugs. “I thought I was, but in the end I realized I wasn’t.”

He’s being a bit evasive. I wonder if I should be concerned. Then again, he might not want to talk about it because it was a bad breakup.

“Ever been married?” I ask.

“Nope. What about you?”

“Oh yeah. But thankfully, I came to my senses.” I force a grin. I don’t want him thinking I’m bitter. “He was the wrong man, but hey, it happens.”

I notice that Trevor’s eyes have shifted to beyond my shoulder. He seems to have tuned me out. Oh, shit. I sounded like a moron and now he’s turned off.

But his eyes linger, and I realize he’s not avoiding me but looking at something else. Or someone else.

I quickly glance over my shoulder and peruse the restaurant. I see a family of four, two young couples, a table with two men.

Damn, I’m obviously being paranoid, but it’s easy to be paranoid when you’ve dated the men I have.

When I turn back to Trevor, he is grinning at me. I have his undivided attention again.

He reaches for the bottle of wine and pours the dregs into my glass. “I don’t know you very well, but I feel confident in saying that it’s your husband’s loss.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” I agree.

I see the waitress coming toward us and I finish off my wine. The evening is going better than planned and I’m not ready for it to end. I’m thinking that maybe I’ll throw caution to the wind and have a specialty coffee. I can always stay at Trevor’s place, or he at mine, and get my car in the morning.

“Have you had a chance to check out the dessert menu?” the waitress asks.

“I’ll have a Baileys coffee,” I tell her.

“Nothing for me,” Trevor says, but he’s not looking at the waitress. He’s looking past her.

Now I know I’m missing something. Trevor is definitely preoccupied. Either he’s suddenly not digging me, or there’s someone here that he knows.

“Trevor,” I begin slowly. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure,” he answers quickly, but his body language says he is lying. His jawline is tense, and he suddenly looks irritated.

I’m confused. “Trevor, did I say something wrong?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“You seem…upset.”

Trevor shakes his head, but his eyes wander. This time, I follow his line of sight. It lands on a well-dressed white man sitting at a table with an Asian man. The white man is staring at Trevor.

I turn back to Trevor. “Do you know that guy? Oh, God. Don’t tell me you prosecuted him in court.”

“I think we should go.” Trevor is already rising and reaching into his jacket pocket. “Where’s that waitress?”

My stomach tightens painfully. God help me, I’m in a restaurant with a madman who was charming enough to convince a jury to acquit him. I can see why—the guy who is eyeing Trevor doesn’t look as if he could hurt a fly.

But I know better than that. There is no specific look for the criminal. If only they boasted fangs and bulging eyes.

Trevor drags a hand over his face, and as I watch him, I’m really starting to freak out. Just what is this madman going to do? I envision the broadcast on the eleven o’clock news. Local prosecutor gunned down in revenge killing.

There is relief on Trevor’s face when he spots the waitress. Without waiting a second, he marches toward her. As he does so, I slowly stand. I don’t know if this matters to killers, but I’m guessing that no sudden movement is a good plan of action.

The seconds that pass seem like hours. I want to take off, but I can’t just leave Trevor. If the situation were reversed, I wouldn’t want him leaving me.

When Trevor returns to me, I’m ready to hustle. We start for the door, heading to safety. But God help us, it’s too late. The madman jumps to his feet as we near his table. My entire body freezes as I’m seized with fright.

I do the first thing I can think of—take cover behind Trevor. What can I say? He’s not my man. I’m not ready to die for him.

“Trevor,” the white man says.

“Not now,” Trevor replies, moving past the other man.

The guy grabs Trevor’s arm, stopping him. “Look, I know what I said. But I’ve had time to think—”

“I said not now,” Trevor hisses.

Trevor starts walking again, and I’m right beside him.

“Please don’t walk away from me.”

Those words make me halt. The guy almost sounds…I shake my head, dismissing the thought. Clearly, this man is not some deranged criminal. He obviously knows Trevor, but I have no clue how.

Trevor breezes into the lobby. The white man follows him. I lag behind a little, observing this confusing situation.

The man reaches for Trevor’s hand. Trevor hesitates a moment before yanking his hand away.

Whoa, wait a minute. Did that just happen?

Oh, shit. Shit!

“We’ll talk later, Brian,” Trevor says.

“When?” Brian demands. “You’ve already been avoiding me.”

Trevor meets my eyes, and I can tell he’s mortified that I’m witnessing this. Brian looks at me, too. But it’s not so much a look as it is a leer, the kind another woman gives you when she’s possessive over her man.

I snort my disgust and make my way around them.

“Lishelle, wait,” Trevor says.

“I don’t think so,” I reply.

And then I all but run out of the restaurant.

By the time I get to Claudia’s place, I’m exhausted. Winded, like I’ve run a friggin’ marathon. My heart hasn’t stopped beating since I hightailed it out of the restaurant.

I’m about to knock on her door, but it opens before I can. Although Claudia shares a place in Buckhead with Adam, she’s living with her parents until her wedding. (Don’t ask why. Something about appearances.) She has her own apartment within their mammoth house, where she used to live before things got serious with Adam. Thank God that apartment has a separate entrance. I don’t want anyone else witnessing me in my frazzled state.

Claudia swings the door open and eyes me with concern. “Sweetie, what is it?”

I feel a little foolish for having called her in such a panic, but damn, I needed someone to talk to after what happened.

I walk past her into the house. “Do me a favor. If you ever hear me say that I’m going on another date, shoot me.”

“That bad?”

I drop my clutch onto the hall table. “Fuck, yeah.”

The reality of tonight hits me anew and I want to scream. Instead, I growl a little and move farther into the house. I stop short when I see Annelise sitting on the couch. “Oh. Hi.”

“Annelise was here when you called,” Claudia explains. “She decided to stay, figuring you might need both of us.”

Despite my shaky nerves, my spirits lift a little. These two women ground me. I love them to death, and I know that they love me. They’d drop everything for me if I needed them to.

“I appreciate it,” I say.

Annelise makes her way toward me and snakes an arm around my waist. “What happened?”

“Let’s just say, I thought my date was going to make the eleven o’clock news.”

“Whoa.” This from Claudia. “Why?”

We all sit on the sofa and I spend the next few minutes telling them everything, and by the time I’m done, Annelise is snickering and Claudia is roaring with laughter.

“It’s not funny,” I tell them. “You don’t know how afraid I was.”

“Oh, shit.” Claudia’s eyes are tearing. “Too much drama for me.”

“For you? I’m the one who was caught in the middle of this guy’s sexual identity drama. Hell, the brother didn’t even know if he was straight or not. I should have known. He was much too pretty. And the Kenneth Cole shoes. They should have been a dead giveaway.”

“God, how scary,” Annelise says. “Dating a guy who goes both ways.” She shudders.

“Thank God I didn’t sleep with him.” Now I shudder. “This had to be a sign. Obviously, I’m supposed to stop dating.”

“Don’t say that,” Annelise tells me. “There’s a great guy out there for you. I know you’ll find him.”

“Ha!” Both Claudia and Annelise shoot me looks of concern. “Don’t look at me like that. You both don’t know what it’s like. You have men. Trying to find the right one—my God, it’s so hard.”

“I know,” Annelise says. “But you can’t give up.”

“Why not? Dating these days is like Russian roulette. I think I’d rather put a gun to my head and be done with it.”

“I think you need a glass of wine.” Annelise dashes off in the direction of the kitchen.

“Make it a scotch, honey.”

With Annelise out of view, I turn to Claudia. I’m feeling much better and want to think about something positive. “So. Saturday night? You sure you’ve made a decision about the dresses this time?”

“No, but I can’t straddle the fence much longer. The wedding is only five weeks away.”

“For what it’s worth, I love the pastel mauve fabric you showed me. I think it’s much better than the yellow.”

“Really?” Claudia’s eyes light up.

“Of course. I look better in the mauve.”

Now her smile fizzles. She absolutely hates the idea that if she commits to one color, it will be the wrong one.

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. “Relax. The mauve is the right color. It’ll look great on everyone.”

“You’re sure?”

God, she is such a typical Gemini. Unable to make a decision. I still can’t believe she planned a wedding for two days after her thirtieth birthday. But according to her, it’s the best way to celebrate this milestone.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I tell her. I don’t bother to mention that I liked the first color as much, or that will send her world into a tizzy.

“What I want to know,” I continue, “is if you’re ready for this wedding? You left me a message saying you wanted to talk about Adam.”

Claudia motions for me to drop the subject as Annelise reappears. I eye her suspiciously, but she’s now reaching for her drink from the coffee table. Her demeanor gives nothing away.

“Here you go.” Annelise passes me the scotch. For herself, she has a glass full of wine.

“What do you say that for tonight we forget about men and concentrate on us?” Annelise suggests.

“Sounds like a plan,” Claudia agrees.

“I’ll drink to that,” I say. And then I down my scotch.