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  He stunned me with the suddenness of it, but his kiss was so subtle that I was lulled into a false sense of security. He wasn’t even opening his mouth, just pressing light angel kisses on my lips and face. It was sweet and at the same time strangely sexy. I had to admit, he was playing me like a piano and hitting all the right notes.Who opened their mouth first, him or me? The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back with all six feet of fineness atop me. The kisses were wet and sloppy; I could hear us slurping like cats with bowls of milk. As to be expected, Gregory took control and kissed as he wanted to kiss. For once I let someone else drive while I rode eagerly in the passenger seat. His technique was, of course, flawless, managing to infuse passion, tenderness, and authority into every lick and nibble. He was quite good at this—too good.

  He untucked my shirt from my waistband and slid his hands slowly up my spine. Then he did this slithering thing where he brushed the entire front of his body up and down the entire front of mine. No lie, I damn near lost it. I would’ve lost it too, but right then he reached for the snap on my jeans.

  Warning! Danger dead ahead! Point of no return! Do NOT yield! My brain finally flashed signals through my passion-fogged senses. Damn, I wanted that boy! But I had to remember the game; I had to stay cool.

  “Greg.” I put my hand on his wrist and deliberately shortened his name.

  He instantly stilled and raised his eyes to my face. When had he taken off his glasses?

  “No?” he asked softly, making it oh so easy on me. Or was he?

  “No,” I answered just as softly.

  “Not yet, huh?” Damn. I really could love this boy. He made it sound more like a promise than a question.

  “Not yet.”

  He sighed, started to ease off me, and then paused for a minute. “Could I change your mind?” He should register that voice as a lethal weapon, really he should.

  “Probably.” I gulped. “But I wish you wouldn’t.” I hoped that sounded firm.

  “All right.” He got up, put on his glasses, and helped me up. We stood there holding hands and staring at each other for one of those minutes that felt like an hour before he dropped my hand and picked up his keys from the table.

  “Thanks for letting me come over so late—the movie and all. I had a nice evening.” His mama raised him well.

  I walked him to the door and opened it. “Thanks for coming over. It was nice.” Damn, we sounded like a chapter from an etiquette book: “How to Say Good Night to Your Date.”

  He leaned over and kissed me lightly. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be there.” If I had to walk across the burning plains of the Serengeti, I would not miss his game in the morning for any reason short of death. This was the man for me. Mine.

  “Later.” He turned and was gone.

  At the sound of the closing door, Peaches finally roused enough to bark once. I went over, and she climbed into my lap and looked up at me. “Woof?”

  I smiled down at her. “Yeah, I know. I’m in deep shit with this one.”

  My brilliant dog nodded, said, “Woof,” and settled back down.

  Gregory—Friday, May 18, 12:15 a.m.

  Climbing into my ride, I decided that I have changed and wondered if that was a good thing.

  Back in the day, I’d’ve been in there, no matter what. Hell, I guess I was getting mature or some shit, because two, three years ago, nothing could’ve gotten me to leave that apartment without getting the drawers.

  Renee had it going on. Wasn’t just that she was crazy fine, though heaven knew she truly was. Renee was that rare combination of feminine intrigue and masculine ambition wrapped up in a beautiful mahogany package.

  I first saw Renee about a month ago at this bullshit Young, Black, and Professional thing my boy Aaron dragged me to. She came in late and alone, wearing a long, tight, red silky thing. Baby knew how to make an entrance. Every guy in there had both eyes on her, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t know it.

  Anyway, after the meeting, I saw her talking to Rosaline. Rosaline was a pain-in-the-ass chick who worked at the bank. She had swiftly slept her way through all the execs at the bank, and I supposed I was to be next on her hit list. But I was never one to take a number and wait in line, you feel me? It took me all of one lunch to charm Renee’s name, number, and some pertinent info out of Rosaline.

  On the surface, Renee seemed real bourgeoisie and uptown. You’d never know she came up on the Southside just one generation out of the projects. She was putting her younger brother through college and paid half the rent on the condo where her mother and aunt live in Phoenix. She had a marketing degree from University of Texas and climbed into management in only four years. No doubt, she had a reason to walk around like respect was her due.

  After hearing all of this, I knew I had to roll up on Renee smooth. The Renees of the new millennium are used to brothers sweating ’em and sweating ’em hard. So I arranged a few casual meetings. Arranged a little coincidental sighting at the soup and salad spot where she ate at least two times a week. A waving drive-by as she strolled from her building to her parking garage. Things like that.

  I was building up to the ‘how-about-some-lunch’ call when she came to see me at the bank. Waltzed into my office looking good as hell and said, “Hi, I’m Renee Nightingale, and I was wondering if you’d like to take me out sometime?” WHOA!

  My kinda woman.

  Now, no need to trip. I did know Renee thought she had some sort of game running. That was fine; I did too. For every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. For every line she threw, I had a lure of my own in waiting. Player to playette—the game was on. For every step, a countermeasure. I saw this like a game of chess; strategy was everything, and once you captured the queen, the game was pretty much yours.

  Pulling up in front of my condo, I smiled. Now, wouldn’t it be great if we both won the game?

  3

  Meet-’n’-Greet

  Jewel—Saturday, May 19, noon

  “I got it already, okay!” I threw my hands up in frustration. “I’m not a child who needs to be tutored every step of the way. I think I know how to behave at a simple basketball game.” I was looking directly at Renee, because to be truthful, I didn’t wanna watch the road. Her driving scared the shit out of me. Acceleration, never braking. Swerving, never turning. Offense, no defense. Made me downright prayerful.

  Renee clucked her teeth and shot me a look out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t know—you don’t spend too much time in the hood.”

  “Because I choose not to,” I bit out, “not because I’m afraid of making some faux pas against ghetto etiquette.” We hit the off-ramp without slacking off of seventy. I wondered if I remembered to put Rolaids in my purse as I gripped the door handle.

  “See? That’s exactly what I’m talking ’bout. Don’t nobody know what the hell faux pas means over here, and if they do, they ain’t bragging about it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Now who’s stereotyping? I mean, what do you think—I’m going to stroll around and accidentally drop my Gold Card?” I laughed. “Who cares anyway? No one is going to pay any attention to me with you in that outfit.”

  She looked over quickly. “What’s wrong with my outfit?” She had on a clingy, green, camisole-style bodysuit with a short denim wrap skirt and strappy, green eelskin sandals. She’d switched to the green Dooney and put the green wristband on her Gucci watch, had on a perfect face of complimentary makeup, and, as expected, the hair was whipped. My girl looked good, as usual. I forgot that Renee, for all her showboating, was insecure about damn near everything.

  I patted her thigh. “Girl, you know you look good.” We shared a smile. “I guess I’ll get to meet the oh-so-wonderful Gregory?” I looked at her, and I swear I saw her blush. I couldn’t be sure, but she looked damned flustered. “Throwing you for a loop, is he?”

  Miraculously, she slowed for the last turn toward the MLK Recreational Center. “It’s hard for me to fath
om, girl, but the brother could have me straight feenin’. I was damn near off my game last night.”

  I sucked in a surprised breath. I had watched Renee run many a game, and even when the boy was a flat-out dog, she still came out with the winning game plan. Always walked away like she’d planned all the shit from the beginning. Personally, I never understood why she couldn’t just meet somebody, let things happen, and go from there. But, no, she always had a master plan, a scheme, a game. If this Gregory had her turned around this early in the match, I definitely wanted to meet him. But all I said was, “Hmmm.”

  “Actually, I can’t wait to get your impression of him; he’s really more your type than mine.”

  Here we went with this shit again. I rolled my eyes. Renee had no idea what my type was. Hell, if truth be told, I had no idea what my type was. She assumed that every brother from a professional family with a degree and a professional job was my type. So why was she the one dating and I was sitting at the house testing out new recipes for one? More of that typecasting, stereotyping shit. I actually never cared WHAT a man did as long as he DID something, you know? The title, the car, the trendy condo—that was her kick, not mine.

  I decided her comment was rhetorical as we pulled into a parking space. I took the opportunity to look around. “Isn’t that Roni Mae’s car?”

  Renee nodded. “I called her. And, Jewel, could you please remember to call that girl Veronique?”

  I opened the door and climbed out. “Shit, Veronica Mae Jackson is the girl’s name. Has been the girl’s name for as long as I’ve known her. Her mama calls her Roni Mae. Just because her voice is on the radio five nights a week don’t make her Veronique to me!”

  “Jewellen Rose!” she scolded.

  “Yes, Darnella Renee?” I returned, and laughed. “Fine, I’ll call the girl Veronique ... for now.” I never understood why people get a little paper in their wallet and tried to forget who they are. Roni Mae had been perfectly happy for thirty years being Roni Mae. Someone gave her a paycheck with a comma and some zeroes, and suddenly she morphed into Veronique.

  We walked inside the rec center and followed the sounds of screeching high-tops and booming Li’l Jon to the courts. We stepped through the gym door and over to the bleachers. I stopped dead in my tracks. A couple of games seemed to be going on at once. I counted at least twenty mighty fine specimens of manhood sweating and running in shorts and tank tops. I saw a lot of brothers, a few Hispanic-looking guys, and even a white boy or two. God bless America, home of the fine and free.

  “My, my, my,” was all I could manage. I did need to get out more often. For the scenery if nothing else.

  “What’d I tell ya?” Renee grinned. “High five for fine brothers playing basketball.”

  “Amen, sister.” We shared a high five.

  “There is quite the ho fest going on in here, though,” she mentioned as she tilted her head toward the bleachers.

  There was, indeed, your standard assortment of Lycra-wearing, lollipop-sucking, crimped and finger-waved, nose-ringed, blond-weave-wearing, round-the-way girls lounging about. “Why you gotta call ’em hos, Renee?” I said wearily. We’d had this argument before. “They’re just girls in trendy hip-hop, urban gear. How does that make ’em hos or hoochies or bitches? I just call ’em fly girls.”

  “I call a spade a spade and a ho a ho,” Renee persisted.

  “They could all be as pure as the driven snow for all we know.” I really hated broad-sweeping generalizations of an entire group of people we’d never met before. Then again, I was the one who thought everything south of downtown was nothing but a cauldron of crime. But I was working on that—after all, I was here, wasn’t I?

  Renee shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, and I’m the Virgin Mary.”

  “Jew-Ro, Nay-Nay!” a voice screamed at us. I looked over to see all 5’10” of Veronica Mae Jackson hopping up and down, waving at us from the first row.

  Renee and I looked at each other. “And I can’t call her Roni Mae?”

  “Shit, call her what you want.” Renee shot a look at the court. “I can’t believe she called me that here!”

  “Believe it,” I muttered as we headed over. “Which one is Greg?”

  “Gregory,” she corrected, “is the one in the navy Nike stuff.”

  Gregory, not Greg. He was THAT guy. Got it.

  We reached the bleachers. “Hey, Roni Mae.” I greeted her, sat down, and feasted my eyes on the sights before me. Gregory was indeed a sight to see. He was perfectly coordinated, I noticed, and I didn’t mean just his moves on the court. Brother was sporting navy Nike tank, navy Nike baggy shorts, navy and green biking Lycra shorts underneath with the Nike swish showing. White socks with a blue Nike swish and, of course, Air Jordan high-tops in white with a blue swish. Just swished all up one side and down the other. I’d lay odds that the navy Nike gym bag in the far corner with the navy and green sports bottle was his. He was intent on the game, aggressive but not pushy, vocal but not loud. He moved well, not really fast but with accuracy. He was an intelligent ball player—not a street player. All in all, he looked good.

  I decided to reserve judgment of him until after we met and I had a chance to hear him speak and look him in the eye. The eyes told a lot. I turned my attention back to my girls. “What’s been up, girl?” I asked Roni Mae. I hadn’t talked to her in a while and wanted to catch up. She was one of my oldest and closest friends, even if we didn’t hang as tight as we used to. People grew up and learned you didn’t have to live in each other’s back pockets morning, noon, and night to be friends.

  She answered in her patented voice. “Living for work and working for a living.” She had the best voice I’d ever heard, as smooth as whiskey and sweet as molasses. Took her a while to realize she could make money off that voice. Then she put her hand to her hair—or, rather, the hair atop her head—and asked, “You like?”

  I sighed. I’d been diplomatic in not mentioning it before, but it was my belief that black women should not be blond, for any reason. No, not even Beyoncé. Now, I spoke up when Roni Mae first got this weave. One day, she was sporting a microshort natural; the next thing I knew, she had long wavy hair halfway down her back. I asked her why she couldn’t have eased into the weave in stages. At least pretend to fool somebody. Now she was long, wavy, and blond. Well, at least it matched the purple (oh, I’m sorry, violet) contacts.

  Roni Mae looked a sight. She was a big woman, about a size 22 and damn near six feet tall. She had a beautiful face, but she kept it obscured with the hair and outrageously huge earrings, and for some reason, we couldn’t seem to make her let go of that Tropical Sunset (orange) lipstick. Roni Mae was not dark or light; she was kinda in between, with an olive tinge to her skin. Back before she became Veronique, night personality for one of the black radio stations here, she was starting to get it together. She went down to about a size 18, the hair was natural but she could wear that (not every sister can!), her eyes were the deep brown the Lord meant them to be, and she smiled a lot. She had a sweet man around, and she seemed real happy doing voice-overs and other commercial entertainment work. Then she became K-Soul’s “Mistress of the Dark”; the man left and she morphed into Veronique. Her 10:00 p.m.-to-2:00 a.m. segment was called “Midnight by Candlelight,” specializing in baby-come-to-bed songs mixed in with an on-air Love Connection-like game and talk show. Her show was consistently one of the highest rated in the state. Not to say success did not become her ... or maybe that was exactly the thing to say.

  “Well, Roni Mae, it’s blond.” I settled on that as the best answer I could give, because, after all—who was I to tell her how to look? One of her best friends, that’s who. But sometimes you had to pick your battles. I wasn’t about to start arguing over Roni Mae’s ghetto-ass do. I let it go.

  “Sho nuf iz.” She giggled. Behind me, I heard the loud thudding sounds of heavy feet pounding the ground and the distinct swishing sound of a ball sailing through the basket. Cheers rang out on both sides of t
he gym.

  “Roni, why?” Renee was not so subtle. “Why in the hell is your hair ass length and blond?” She had one eye on Roni and one eye on Gregory; he was traveling but there were no refs to call it.

  Veronica shrugged. “I wanted a change. I’m going to catch me a man with this hair, girl.”

  “And that outfit, too, I suppose?” Renee asked.

  Gregory missed the rebound.

  Roni Mae had on a catsuit (yes, a catsuit!) of bright purple with a crochet batwing overtunic in multicolors. She had on multicolored snakeskin pumps to match. She looked like a big round rainbow. “Well, do you like it? It’s part of my new look.”

  “It does go with the hair,” I answered. Always the diplomat when what I wanted to say was, “How did you put that shit on, look in the mirror, and still allow yourself to leave the house?” Or, “How did you BUY that mess and spend legal tender for it?” But I let it go. I was good at that ... letting shit go.

  “Girl, you look ridiculous. You do realize that just because it comes in your size, doesn’t mean you should buy it ... or wear it.” Renee came out with it, bluntly. She hasn’t mastered the whole let-it-go thing.

  Instead of looking hurt, Roni Mae looked amused. “You just don’t understand where I’m going with this whole new me.”

  I couldn’t help myself; I was curious all of a sudden and couldn’t let it go not one more minute. “Where are you going, Veronique? Where have you gone, Roni Mae?”

  Before she could answer, there was more screeching of shoes on rubber, and the sound was closing in. “Watch out!” I heard someone say, and I turned around in time to see a big mass of flesh flying toward me. I shrieked and tried to jump out of the way, but there was nowhere to go. I instinctively put my hands out and braced myself. So when the boy flew into me, I somehow caught him neatly in my arms, and we ended up flying off the edge of the bleachers, where we landed in a tangle on the ground. The hard, unyielding ground. We both grunted upon impact. It hurt.