Читать книгу Visible Lives: - Terrance Dean - Страница 8

I really want the noise to stop.

I mean, must the construction workers start so early in the morning?

Sheesh!

New York, love it or hate it, they don’t give a fuck about your space and your sleep. This is the city that never sleeps.

And, they refuse to let me get any while I enjoy getting my dick sucked.

Slurp.

Slurp.

Lick.

Eric’s head is slowly moving up and down the shaft, swallowing every inch of my dick.

There is a steady stream of pounding on the thick hard walls.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

Wait a minute.

Those sounds are really close.

Nearby.

As if someone is actually drumming on the door, doing an African tribal war call.

It grows louder.

Louder.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

A brief pause.

Then BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

“I know your ass is in there! Your car is outside. Open up this motherfucking door!” a woman yells.

I push Eric’s moist lips off my dick.

I sit up in shock.

We stare at one another.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

I jump out of the bed naked.

Crust in my eyes.

My semi-erect dick swinging in the air.

I frantically rush around the bed scooping up my shirt and pants.

Shit!

I can’t find my underwear.

I toss the comforter off the bed.

Damn!

Where are my drawers!?!

Fuck it!

I struggle and wrestle putting on my Antik jeans.

Come on.

Come on.

One leg at a time.

I swing my arms into my white linen oxford button-down shirt.

I skip buttons.

No time for perfection.

I drop to the floor and hunt for my underwear under the bed.

I do a quick scan and sweep with my hand.

There they are.

Next to my Nike Air Jordans.

I snatch my Sean John boxer briefs and stuff them into my back pocket.

“Chase! Shush! Be quiet,” Eric says, bug-eyed, with his finger to his mouth. “Just calm down, she doesn’t know I’m really here and she can’t get in.”

“Calm down! Calm down!” I’m jamming my feet into my sneakers. “There is a woman banging on the door and you’re telling me to calm down.” I grab my Apple iPhone off the nightstand.

Eric pushes me and I fall back onto the bed.

“Just stay here in the bedroom. If we keep quiet she will go away,” Eric says. He’s in his blue and gray plaid boxers. His six-foot-four, two-hundred-thirty-five-pound, pure muscle body is standing sheepishly hunched over, peering out the doorway.

His olive brown skin is rich and silky.

His thighs are massive and muscular.

His enormous biceps are like ripe cantaloupes.

Chest broad and solid.

His body has me going.

Okay, focus.

Regroup.

“What!?! Man, you’re bugging.” I push past Eric and storm toward the living room.

“Please, don’t go out there.” Eric rushes after me and tries to grab my arm, but I slip out of his reach.

As soon as I get to the door there is a loud BANG!

It sounds like a gunshot.

Frightened, I dive to the floor.

Eric runs and cowers next to me. “Come on!” He grabs me by the arm.

We both run back to the bedroom with our arms over our heads.

“Yo, get in the closet,” Eric says.

“What?” I look at him like he is crazy. “What the hell I look like, cowering in a closet?”

“Chase, please, get in the closet,” Eric says, his hazel eyes pleading as they always do when he wants to suck my dick.

Eat my ass.

Fuck.

And, I give in.

“Man, this is some fucked-up shit,” I say and hurry into the closet.

“I’ll handle it.”

“You better handle this shit.”

I crouch in the closet and crack the door open.

I see Eric easing out the bedroom on his tiptoes.

“I’m calling the police!” he yells with his phone in his hands.

I see him pushing the buttons.

“I don’t give a fuck! Call the motherfucking police,” the woman screams.

BANG!

BANG!

“Hello! Hello! Yes, this is Eric Sanderfield. I play for the New York Giants. There is a woman trying to break down my door. Please get the cops here fast!”

There is a pause.

“I am at Twenty-seven East Seventy-seventh Street. The penthouse apartment.”

Another pause.

A long pause.

Then BAM!

BAM!

“Please hurry!” he yells.

“I know you got another woman in there. Does she know you got a wife and three kids?”

I know she didn’t say wife and three kids. He told me he was divorced, I say to myself.

I crack the door wider and peek around Eric’s massive bedroom for any signs or pictures of a family.

There is nothing.

No pictures on the maroon-colored walls.

The nightstand.

The long cherry oak wood dresser.

The windowsill of the ten-foot windows.

No pictures anywhere.

The only thing prominently displayed is the team autographed brown pigskin football in the center of the dresser.

Encased.

When I met Eric four months ago he presented himself as a recent divorcé trying to get custody of his three kids from an angry and drug-addicted baby momma.

“It’s been a long battle in the courts. The system doesn’t look out for men. I just want to take care of my children,” Eric told me with sadness in his eyes.

Commendable.

Upstanding.

He had his shit together.

I fell for it.

Why would he lie? He had nothing to prove to me.

Besides, he was a tight end for the New York Giants.

Whatever that is.

I am not a football fan.

I only know the basics about the sport, and if given the choice I’d rather watch the Cartoon Network on Monday nights.

Family Guy.

American Dad.

Hell, even King of the Hill.

But, it was his dazzling smile.

Thick succulent lips.

Beautiful perfect white teeth.

And charming personality that won me over.

We were at the New York Urban League’s annual dinner. He asked one of his down-low friends, Omar, to introduce him to someone.

Someone nice.

Cool.

Easy-going.

Omar called me.

Me and Omar have been friends for a little over three years. I met him when I used to date the reality television star Dexter Holmur. He was a contestant on the show Survivor. He almost won, too, but in the end it came down to him and the beautiful blonde from Oklahoma. America, and the other Survivor contestants, decided to give the bubbly, breast-enhanced blonde the million dollars.

“Okay, Omar. I trust you. I hope this is not some favor you’re doing for a lonely, depressed, and bitter gay man. I can’t do it anymore. I am not at that place in my life.”

“No, trust me, you will like him.”

Omar refused to give me any details about Eric.

I begged.

Pleaded.

“Just show up. I guarantee you’ll thank me,” Omar said.

Yes, oh yes, oh yes.

When Eric walked in.

No, he strolled.

That black man confident walk.

Slight pep in his step with a pimp.

Hands controlled.

Dipping slightly behind his back.

I felt my body shiver.

Every reactive hormonal cell in my body cheered.

Standing ovation.

Eric was everything I’d been praying for in a man ever since I knew I was gay.

Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

His tailored black Armani suit hugged his body.

Clinging to each of his muscles.

His eyes pierced me from across the room.

Calling my name, “Chase, Chase, Chase.”

Omar had done well.

Very well.

I knew Eric was the one for me.

I could tell.

It’s like you know what you know that you know.

And, I knowed.

Eric made his way over and introduced himself.

“Hello. Eric Sanderfield. Nice to meet you.” His thick burly hands gripped mine.

“Chase Kennedy,” I replied. “It’s nice to meet you as well.” My insides flipped outside.

Oozing with lust.

I smiled cordially. Trying to conceal my sexual thoughts.

Eric smiled with his eyes.

I noticed the glint as he winked.

The entire night we talked.

In his car.

On the way to his penthouse apartment.

In his living room.

In his bed.

In my ear.

His hard rough voice reverberated inside me just as I pumped inside him.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

Easily.

I took my time.

“I just want you to stay in me,” Eric whispered.

And I wanted to.

I was caught up in Eric. So fucking caught up I am now crawling on top of a pile of football cleats and running shoes.

Hiding in a closet hoping this ordeal will be over soon.

I can’t believe this shit! What the fuck am I doing? This has nothing to do with me. He fucked up. She is mad at him, not me.

I then quickly assess the situation over my loud, rapidly beating heart.

Okay, so maybe I’d rather be in the closet than going toe-to-toe with an angry, neglected, dejected and hostile black woman.

With my back against the wall I pull out my Apple iPhone.

Palms sweaty.

Fingers shaking.

I push the speed dial button of the only person I can call in a crisis like this.

My best friend, Ashley Colby.

“Come on, Ashley, pick up, pick up.”

“Hey boy,” Ashley sings in the phone.

“Ashley, you’re not going to believe this. I’m trapped in the closet,” I whisper.

“What!?! What’s going on?”

“I’m at Eric’s and his wife is trying to break down the door to get in.”

“Oh no, Chase. You are R. Kelly right now!” she laughs.

“Ha, ha, very funny. What should I do?”

“Boy, get out of there.”

“I can’t. She is screaming at the top of her lungs and won’t leave. She thinks he’s in here with another woman. I doubt very seriously things are going to go well if she sees me.”

“Wait a minute. Did you say his wife? I thought he was divorced.”

“I know. That’s what he told me.”

“Hold up. Let me turn off The View. This is much better than the drama between these bitches.”

“Shit. I need to come up with something quick.”

“Well, I suggest you get out of the closet, introduce yourself, and tell her the beef she has is not with you, but with him. And then you get the hell out of there.”

“I don’t think she is the reasoning type.”

“Where’s Eric?” Ashley asks.

“I don’t know,” I say and peek my head out of the door. “I can’t see him. I am so sick of this shit.”

“You need to pull yourself together.”

“Why do I keep getting the fucked-up types? Just when I think everything is going well it all goes downhill. What did I do to piss off God?”

“Well, right now is not the time to…”

“Shhh,” I cut Ashley off. “I hear someone coming into the room.” I inch further into the closet.

Cleats in my ass.

Pants and shirts blocking my view.

The door flings open. I scream and drop my phone.

“Chase! Chase! What’s going on?” I hear Ashley yelling.

A black shiny shoe steps inside.

I notice a navy blue pant leg.

I hear some voices coming from a walkie.

I sigh as the policeman reaches out his hand and pulls me to my feet.

I reach down and pick up my Apple iPhone. “Ashley, I’ll call you back. The police are here.”