The intel my IT guy sent over in reference to the shrewd blond sat expectantly in my inbox, waiting for me to open it. I hesitated for just a moment, trying to decide if I wanted to know more about her than I really needed to. There was still a slight chance that the honorable Marcus Mecken would try and fuck me at the last minute, as unlikely as it seemed, forcing me to end her life swiftly and cleanly. All things being equal, I’d rather she remained a stranger caught in the crossfire than someone I considered an acquaintance. Less chance of losing sleep that way, remaining detached in case I had to make an example out of her. Nobody fucked with my business and lived, and I wasn’t about to make an exception because the bitch turned me on.
I must’ve been inside my own head longer than I thought. Before long, there was a light tap on the adjoining door, signaling Otelia’s arrival. I slammed my laptop shut, giving her my full attention, standing to greet her as my father taught me to do when a woman entered a room. Otelia looked absolutely ravishing in her understated black slacks and Prada printed cotton T-shirt. My dick did a happy dance trapped behind my zipper, but I managed to tamp it down. I took her in from head to toe, stopping when I noticed she’d chosen her beat-up tennis shoes instead of the new Christian Louboutin’s available for her use. She noticed my perplexed expression and leveled me with her big blue eyes.
“Never buy a woman a pair of shoes, Mac.” She leaned into me. “They’ll use them to walk all over you if you’re not careful.”
“Old wives’ tale?” I mused.
“Nope, true facts, buddy. Look it up. My cousin had been dating this girl for, like, five years, popped the question and everything. Ring, down on one knee, the whole nine yards. Decided a week later they should take up jogging and bought her a pair of Nikes, then WAMMO…she ended the engagement, hooked up with his best friend, and dropped his ass like a hot potato. Poor thing never recovered, to this day.”
“Are you taking any psychotropic drugs I should be aware of, Otelia? You seem to be in serious need of your daily dose of medication.”
“Of course not, silly. I’ve never been to the tropics. I have been to Florida once, but I didn’t buy any drugs. Does that count?” She flopped down into an open chair completely unladylike without another word.
I retook my seat opposite her and poured myself a refill, her ridiculous fable too farfetched to garner a response and completely off base. I hadn’t bought her shit. If anything, I considered it a two-day rental. The items were scheduled for return after the duration of her stay. It made no difference to me what she wore on her fucking feet. Leaving the confines of this suite was out of the question. I decided, for my own sanity, that it was best to ignore her for the foreseeable future. Things had to remain strictly unemotional, and carrying on a conversation would only lead to misery or a serious case of heartburn. I could do without either.
The cook had outdone himself with this spread—everything from baguettes to eggs Benedict was laid out buffet style. She wasn’t shy about filling her plate to the hilt, a refreshing change from all those salad-eating women I was used to. A healthy appetite would account for her curvy hips and tight spankable ass that left a heart-shaped silhouette in the rear of her uniform. One shake, and I bet the tips would be rolling in by the handfuls.
“Aren’t you eating?” she asked as she shoveled a forkful of eggs in her mouth. “Mornings are the busiest hours at Nipsy’s, especially after a long weekend.” She paused just long enough to grab a pound of crispy bacon. “We make this special called the gut buster, but I usually call out the order to Nipsy as a nut buster. I think it sounds way better, don’t you? Anyway…it’s got eggs, cheese, sausage, bacon, chopped tomatoes, peppers, and whatever else we happen to have cut up at the time. The thing is massive, hanging off half the plate…” She waived the hand holding the bacon around, hitting me in the face with a wayward piece. “The customers never finish it. I usually end up throwing most of it away. I don’t know why we still have it on the menu.”
Otelia continued to stuff her mouth, not bothering one bit about the crumbs. The woman wore a three-thousand-dollar outfit that might as well have been a burlap bag by the time she was finished. I never heard a woman talk so fast and about a bunch of nothing in my entire life. The rambling, I realized, wasn’t part of an act or the byproduct of fear; it was inherently part of her nature. It goes without saying, the constant prattle made my head spin, forcing me to reconsider the whole bullet-to-the-brain scenario. Only difference being the barrel would be pointed towards my temple instead of hers.
“So… what’s your take on it, Mac?” Fuck. She asked me a question.
“I don’t have an opinion on the subject, Otelia,” I lied. Never heard a word she said.
“Ohmygod,” she shrieked, catching me off guard. “I had this same discussion with Marcus yesterday, and he said the exact same thing! I mean, come on, you have to wear socks when you go for your yearly pelvic exam. Sticking your bare feet in those stirrups is just gross. Could you imagine all that leftover toe jam between the cracks of those metal bars?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I seethed.
“Geez, big homie, grab a clue, would ya’? This stuff is important. Don’t try and blame me later when Mrs. Thug Felon comes home complaining about her awful pap smear. Men should be required to, like, take a class or something, on the challenges of having a clean vagina. You might learn a thing or two about the hardships of keeping that shit fresh and disease free.”
That was it.
That was fucking it.
I’d officially reached my breaking point.
Her plate was finished, and so was my patience. I grabbed Otelia by her upper arms and hoisted her from the table without missing a step. I dragged her from the room kicking and screaming and deposited her ass on the bed in the adjoining suite. I fished the keys from my pocket and locked the door between us, narrowly avoiding a flying tennis shoe she’d removed from her feet before chucking it in my direction. The little pain in my ass started screaming at the top of her goddamn lungs before I could retake my seat and finish my morning coffee. I wasn’t worried about anyone hearing the ruckus. I’d rented out the top three floors in the building, so I wouldn’t be disturbed. There was only one asshole who had to deal with this bullshit, and that asshole was me. What the fuck was I thinking taking this shit on?
CHAPTER 6
Otelia
OF ALL THE low down, macho, He-man, snake-in-the-grass bullshit to pull, this one took the cake. How dare he usher me away like a five-year-old in need of a time-out for throwing a tantrum? I grabbed the closest thing I could find, which happened to be my treacherous friend Mr. Lamp, and used the base to beat on the door until my hand ached. There was definitely something to be said about high-end furniture—that damn thing was better than a ball-peen hammer. The harsh kaboom echoed off the walls so loudly it sounded like I was trapped in the hull of a cruise liner capsized off the coast of the Atlantic Ocean. Dramatic, I know, but I had no intention of staying locked inside this dreary room for the next thirty plus hours or so.
I alternated between banging with the lamp in three quick successions while singing the lyrics to Party up, Up in Here by the rapper DMX. I’d barely made it to the chorus before the jingling of keys forced me to pull up short and hide the lamb behind my back so Mac wouldn’t see it.