Kismet (Beyond the Bedroom Series) Read online

  Keisha messed up, though. She told me she was sorry and I quote, “You can fuck any of my niggas you want; that way, we can be even.” That was consent in my eyes to have sex with Tyrone, her baby’s daddy, later in life.

  She never put any restrictions on him. When she gave me permission to “fuck one of her niggas,” she was sure none of them would ever pick me over her. Look how the tables have turned.

  Being cool with Keisha is what really lead me to accepting a scholarship to whatever university was furthest away from California. I vowed never to come back to this hell hole until I could sit on my high horse and look down on them like ants; and that is just what I have done.

  I accepted an academic scholarship to Georgia Tech, in the heart of Atlanta, and graduated with a BA in Business. I later received my Master’s in business with a minor in accounting at Tennessee State University.

  Say what you must about Nashville, but if it was good enough for Oprah, it was good enough for Savannah. It made me feel like I was close to my mother living in Georgia and Tennessee, her two favorite places. I loved, and still love, both of these cities. Guess the apple didn’t fall that far from the tree.

  I was able to become someone new. No one knew me, so I didn’t have to hide what I was doing. For eight years, I managed to be in relationships with men and women without anyone knowing.

  I had become top accountant at Williams and Williamson Accounting Firm in Atlanta and grossed 90k a year before my personal life started to catch up with me.

  I had become a high class hoe. No one knew I was hoeing but me, and I’m my own best friend. Who would I tell?

  I started sleeping with old college professors, local police men, city councilmen, business associates, and even clients from the Interstate 75 to the 24 and back.

  I rented an apartment in Bellevue, Tennessee, right outside of Nashville and owned a condo in Alpharetta, Georgia, which was 20 minutes from downtown Atlanta.

  I never invited anyone back to my house or to live with me. Even when my grandmother passed away, instead of moving my daddy, who was the only person still living in that house to the south; I paid the house off, renovated it, and gave it to him.

  That’s another rule; never play where you lay. If you can’t afford a hotel, then do it in the car. Never bring a sex partner back to your comfort zone. You have to have peace and privacy in your home.

  If you live by that rule, you’ll never have to worry about losing a night of sleep worrying about someone popping up uninvited or driving to your house to put your tires on flat.

  Everyone you meet is not going to be THE ONE, so stop giving access to your kingdom to a court jester. They are in your life for entertainment purposes only. Let them perform for you onstage, not where you wear your crown!

  Bringing a sexual partner back to my house was out of the question; I had never done it before and never thought I ever would. I messed up and broke my own rule when I met Dre, which led to the reason why I moved back to Cali.

  Chapter 3: Southern Hospitality

  Just because you start making money doesn’t mean bad habits stop. They are just easier to cover up with the money that is made. I was then and am still addicted to the smoke which comes from beautiful Mary Jane leaves.

  In Atlanta, it was always easy to get weed. I had a coworker who had a connect that supplied me bi-monthly. We met every other Friday for lunch at Houston’s and exchanged cash for a two ounce package in the parking lot. It wasn’t the same for me in Nashville.

  Nashville experienced a lot of droughts. That is where your supplier’s supplier has run out of product and you’re waiting on them to get more or re-up, like they call it. I met Dre during one of these droughts.

  It was Friday and my Nashville connect told me he was out and wouldn’t re-up until Monday. With a name like Dro, he should have been ashamed of himself for not keeping weed on deck 24-7.

  I was fed up with him and had decided that I was going to find some weed even if that meant driving the streets of Nashville.

  I threw on a pair of Apple Bottom jeans, a white and gold Apple Bottom blouse with gold pumps to try to blend in with the locals.

  I jumped on Briley Parkway and got off on Dickerson Road which was out east. One thing that I have learned while living on this earth is that the East and South sides of major cities always seem to be the ‘hood.

  I pulled up to the gas station at the intersection where Broadmoor meets Ewing drive to get some gas.

  As I was walking out the door, the aroma of marijuana hit me. It was like Grannie’s Sunday dinners the way it hit my nose.

  Allowing my nose to lead the way, I ended up at a Grand Prix parked on the side of the gas station next to a pay phone.

  Not wanting to walk to my car and take the chance of him driving off, I approached him. “Where can I get some of that at?”

  He looked me up and down, checking me out completely. “My boy got some across the street; what you trying to get, sexy?”

  Oh, my God! He had a mouth full of gold with a dollar sign on his front tooth. I almost forgot I needed his Mississippi pimp looking ass, but I caught myself.

  “How much for an ounce?” He grabbed his phone and talked to someone in what sounded like a foreign language which must have been Tennessee trap or drug dealer Morse code because it wasn’t English.

  “Baby girl, is that your silver 300?” I nodded yes. “Go across the street and park at the nail shop next to the chicken spot and my boy is going to pull up on you.”

  This is the part I hate about using a new drug dealer. What if he was an undercover police officer? I made myself find comfort in the dollar sign on his tooth and the fact he kept smoking his blunt in public like it was a Newport cigarette.

  I drove across the street and parked. Like clockwork, a bright yellow Monte Carlo pulled up next to me. How do you sell drugs in a car the color of a banana on a hot summer day and expect not to get caught or be noticed? Either he kept his hustling tight or was flat out dumb!

  I lowered my windows; the driver rolled up his, got out of the car and then looked in my direction. He didn’t look directly at me; it was more like he was checking out his surroundings. He must have thought I could be the police, too. I was glad the feeling was mutual.

  “Unlock the door, ma.” I must have been fiending for this high because I did exactly as I was told. “Start your car up and let’s hit a block.”

  I turned to look him in the eye to tell him I didn’t know the area, but the words got stuck in my throat. He was absolutely breath taking. Caramel skin tone, thick, full lips, dark brown eyes with shoulder length dreads.

  He had a cut under his left eye that he tried to cover up with a tattoo. That rough shit turns me on. He was wearing Curve cologne, one of my all-time favorite scents, Ralph Lauren Polo from head to toe that he must have just purchased because the XXL sticker was still on it, and a cell phone on his lap.

  “I’m not from around here, left or right?” Digging in his pocket, he said, “Just go around the block once, baby, I'm a weigh it out while you driving.”

  He tested the scale with a nickel, reset it, and poured some weed on it. I peeked to make sure I wasn’t being cheated. The scales read 31.3 grams.

  “That’s all you, baby; slide me a hundred and we g ood, and trust me, I got you right. You and your man are going to thank me later for this here.”

  It was like a reflex the way it came from my mouth. “I don’t have a man,” I replied, not wanting to sound desperate. I finished my statement with, “But, I got weed now, so I am good.” Then I licked my lips. That’s when he finally looked at me, but briefly and only at my lips.

  “Here goes my number, baby; if you ever need to get right, give me a call. I’m Dre. I deliver, but I’m charging a fee like Pizza Hut.”

  I pulled up at his car and thought of seven nasty things I would do to him if he ever knocked on my door with a delivery before he even cranked up his engine.

  I drove all the way to Bellev
ue wondering what sex with him would be like. I could tell by his demeanor he liked rough sex. His walk was priceless. I loved a man who was on his shit and knew it!

  Dre had proved himself to be honest, too, because the high I got that night was as close to a California high as I was going to get in the south.

  The weed was so good, I felt like I needed to be freshly bathed to keep smoking. I put it out at the half way point, went to draw a bath, and started a load of laundry.

  I took an hour long bubble bath while listening to Baby Face sing me song after song on his greatest hits CD.

  He had just finished telling me how he would buy my clothes, cook me dinner, and pay my rent soon as he got home from work when I got out of the tub.

  I ended my bath before my body shriveled up like a raisin and lotioned down with the 100% shea butter I purchased from an African sister in Atlantic Station . It works wonders on ashy elbows and blending my skin tone.

  “Damn, girl you looking good.”

  I had caught a glimpse of my naked body in the mirror through the candle light and bathroom mist. I loved what I saw. Not a fat roll or dent anywhere and no ink in my skin with anybody’s name or design.

  My body is my temple and I wouldn’t ruin it to advertise or endorse anything or anyone. I did have my clit and belly button pierced, but only to compliment my flat mid-section and the beautiful, neatly shaved area below my stomach. Piercing are removable; ink under the skin is not.

  Clearing up the foggy mirror, I turned in a half circle to look at my butt. I have to admit that Amir, my Jamaican fling for the last six months, was right.

  Anal sex does have my booty looking right. My butt has never sat up this high, nor was it ever this round. That bright yellow, donkey dick he was giving me worked like a charm.

  I wonder if it got that big from not wearing drawers . Whatever the cause of his enormous girth, I’m thankful he shared it with me.

  One night, while he was hitting me from the back, he slid his thumb in my butt.

  “Let me juke that booty, mi gal.” I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about and he was still stroking in and out of me, so my concentration was on handling every deep stroke he was giving me.

  I would have answered “yes” to anything he wanted at that time and he knew it. Amir bent me over the bed further and got me off my knees.

  He started slapping his tongue down my spine in an exotic way that made my breathing speed up. He spread my cheeks so he could continue licking downward in a straight line.

  Beginning to lick faster and making my butt even wetter with his tongue, which was long and fat, just the way I like my dicks. I could feel it twisting in and out my butt hole in a way that would eventually make me cum.

  I had never been a fan of getting my salad tossed. It was a mental thing for me. I just couldn’t picture anyone wanting to taste what I had eaten after it was digested and on the verge of coming back out. Amir made me change my mind. I loved it.

  His tongue had my hole so wet I could feel it drip past my vaginal entrance, land on my stomach and then hit the bed.

  He slowly put his girth back in me with another minute or two of stroking it. He sucked on his index and middle fingers making them wet so he could slide them in my rear entrance.

  In an open and close scissors move, he pulled his fingers in and out and then eased his way to the closed opening of my butt and inserted the head of his hardened girth.

  I screamed out in horror. No one would have heard me over the loud maracas from the reggae music he had playing but, if they could have heard my scream, they would have thought I was being raped.

  “Relax, baby; breathe slowly. It will start feeling good in a minute.”

  How in the hell can something that caused so much pain eventually feel so damn good? Once the head was in completely, the shaft brought me so much pleasure. I felt alive in a manner I never knew existed.

  I buried my face deep into the mattress and took every stroke. When I released, I released from both holes and Amir released, too.

  I could feel the heat from his nut all over my back; he kissed my right butt cheek and passed out next to me on the bed. Anal sex is a love/hate relationship but, trust me, it hurts so good.

  Throwing on my pink, lace boy shorts with matching bra, I curled up on my couch to continue smoking the other half of my blunt while I watched whatever movie I could catch the beginning of on cable.

  Lucky for me, Love Jones had just come on. I watched that movie every day while I was in college. I even drove around Atlanta playing the soundtrack with Rush Over and Hopeless on repeat. Damn, this was going to bring back memories.

  I reached for the ounce of weed on my coffee table to roll up one more blunt so I wouldn’t have to get back up and miss the movie when I noticed it wasn’t there.

  This is when I wished my legs were long enough to kick myself in the ass. I threw all the clothes I had on in the washing machine. Right about now, my weed should be in the rinse cycle awaiting the final spin.

  Just like I predicted, wet weed was spinning around the machine loosely, like freshly cut grass. “Damn! ” I couldn’t spend the rest of this weekend in this house without weed, so I grabbed the phone and called Dre.

  His delivery fee was $10 to Bellevue since I was buying another ounce. It should have been free. It was going on 11 PM now; the movie was going off and he still wasn’t here. I thought it was 30 minutes or less or your delivery was free. I talked to him two hours ago and he said, “I got two bites to catch first, then I’m headed your way.” Those must have been some big bites.

  By the time he called me from the security gate, I had forgotten he was coming. “Who is it?” Then I heard that raspy voice again.

  “It’s Dre; buzz me in.”

  I buzzed the gate and then ran to my bedroom, threw on some shorts and a baby doll t-shirt, and went to the window to watch him pull in.

  If he was by himself, I would let him come up. Otherwise, I was headed downstairs. He jumped out of his car before I even told him I was letting him in. Men, they always assume your next move will best suit them. If I didn’t need that weed, I would have told him a thing or two.

  I was peeping out the hole in my door when I heard him say, “Are you going to open this door or keep peeking out your peephole at me?”

  I didn’t even see him standing there, to be honest. What’s the point in having a non-working peephole? I’ll have to speak with maintenance about this in the morning. I opened the door, but blocked the entrance with my body.

  “Look, if you think I’m going to rob you, you shouldn’t have invited me out here.”

  I scooted over slowly, tried to think of something smart to say in return but couldn’t. It was like he had the mute button for my smart ass mouth.

  Moving me out of the way in my own apartment, he sat down on my couch, pulled out his scales again, and began his weighting routine.

  “Damn, girl, you smoked that ounce already?”

  I still seemed to be on mute. “And this is a nice ass spot you got here. I just might change my mind and rob you after all; I want that TV.”

  I explained my laundry accident to him and told him he could steal anything else in my house but my 62-inch TV; I’d kill over it.

  “Still, baby, you spent $200 with me in one day. I feel like I owe you something; wanna match a blunt?” Dre must think I’m stupid since I’ve been on mute.

  “Naw, I’m going to hold on to mines, but we can smoke one of yours.” I joined him on the couch.

  “So, you know my name; what’s yours?” Still no eye contact, he hasn’t looked me in my eyes since we met. That was a good thing because my anger over the lack of eye contact took me off of mute.

  “Don’t try to pretend like this is personal, Dre, or whatever you go by; you haven’t made eye contact with me since we met. You’re here for the money, not to make a new friend, and my name is Savannah or you can call me the weed head you just made $200 off of.”

 
Now that seemed to get his attention. He stopped breaking down his weed and sat back eyeing me. I finally got some eye contact.

  “Girl, you hell; where are you from? That ain't a real southern accent.”

  The smile that graced his lips gave me a flashback of all seven of those nasty things I thought about doing to him earlier.

  “I speak English properly and smoke a lot of weed. You tell me where I’m from.”

  Looking into my eyes again, he said, “What part of California? And what are you doing down here?”

  Not wanting to go into a history lesson or give a full background check on myself, I answered, “Los Angeles and college, what about you? Are you from Nashville?”