Two-Time Essence Magazine Best-Selling Author
Copyright © Winston Chapman
FIRST EBOOK EDITION
AYANNA ENTERTAINMENT GROUP LLC
Atlanta, Georgia
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Winston Chapman Novel
Copyright 2004 © Winston Chapman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without the prior written consent of the author/publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
Praise for “WILD THANGZ” (#6 Essence Magazine Best Seller)
“Wild Thangz by Winston Chapman is a page-turner from beginning to end! … Wild Thangz has it all: Drama, Suspense, Friendship, and Betrayal. The ending will leave you speechless … This book is HOT!! … one of the best urban dramas that I have read … 5 stars!!”
- PeopleWhoLoveGoodBooks.Com
Praise for “CAUGHT UP!” (#2 Essence Magazine Best Seller)
“Outstanding Debut … The book does get you ‘caught up’ in the plight of the main character from the beginning. If readers are looking for high drama mixed with a glimpse of street life, they can't go wrong by checking this book out.”
Review by Zane
NY Times Bestselling Author
Table of Contents
Chapter One
The loud clacking sound caused my shoulders to jerk out of pure nervousness, as I lifted my head and glanced over to three empty seats next to me -- seats that were supposed to have been filled.
I was dressed in the finest conservative business attire that I had in my closet and my hair was flawless.
Ordinarily, I’d be feeling good about the way I looked today and about having so many eyes on me. But, it was definitely not an ordinary day. Today’s reason for my special costuming had robbed it of its meaning. It was just plain necessary.
Though I’d been pre-warned that today wouldn’t be a long day, it didn’t diminish the fact that I hadn’t heard someone call me by my full name, Jazmyn Reneé Wallace, since high school home-room roll-call.
The next words out of my mouth would be the most important sentence that I’d ever utter. My shaking voice struggled and cracked as I vocalized a simple two-word response.
Less than two years ago I was basking in the warm sun of Negril, Jamaica with my girlfriends, Trina and Brea, on a College Spring-Break vacation.
We’d been a best-friends-trio since our freshman year at Spelman College in Atlanta. All of us were now sophomores.
“Look at Trina’s scandalous ass!” Brea smirked to me at the sight of Trina shamelessly walking up to us from the sandy beach.
Trina had a dynamite body and was never one to cover it up. Today was no exception as she paraded her thick-self up the sand, skirt-wrap in-hand, on her way to the grass-hut bar where Brea and I were seated, still dripping wet from her ocean swim.
Brea and I giggled while witnessing the domino-effect of every guy’s head turning as she swayed by them in her fluorescent yellow bikini that contrasted her jet-black skin.
“If this were a highway, you know she’da caused an accident!” I replied back to Brea, just before Trina made it to us.
“Ahhhhh! That felt good!” Trina referred to her impulsive ocean dip. “I told you, you guys should’ve come with me.”
“Umm, Trina. You do know that skirt-wraps are meant to go around your waist?” Brea humorously scolded Trina for bringing her bikini-only-covered booty back to us, along with the attention of the entire beach.
“Whatever,” Trina countered as she ordered a drink from the bar after showing identification that she was of legal drinking age, which was 18 in Jamaica.
Trina had always been a strange one. Though she looked every bit the part of the ultimate sistah-girl, we swore that there had to be some blonde hair somewhere in the roots of her braids, because at times, she had white-girl tendencies. None more evident than today’s impromptu swim. She was the only black person that I knew who would do that. It was like she’d been issued her black skin and didn’t know that as a black woman she was supposed to look good by the water, but not actually be in it.
I had always assumed the reason for Trina’s country-white-girl behavior was because she was from Savannah, Georgia, a small southern community about 250-miles southeast of Atlanta. Despite being born and raised in Georgia, her speech was absent of the usual southern twang. It was as proper as a news anchor, enunciating every word. Clear evidence of her, privileged, private school, up bringing.
Brea, on the other hand was from the hood – Brooklyn to be precise. Though her rougher edges had been smoothed a bit because of her year and a half at college, it wasn’t wise to let her model-like beauty fool you. She still had that fire that could come out at any moment, if provoked. Brea was sort of a mix of Alicia Keys and Lil Kim. I guess the best way to describe Brea is Sophisticated-Ghetto.
At 5’8 with legs for days and hair that could be worn curly or straight on a moments notice, Brea’s outer-appearance was statuesque and refined. Brea always dressed in the most stylish of garb, no matter what the occasion. At the same time, she wasn’t against smoking the occasional blunt or fighting some hoochie in the street outside of a house party. Most people knew of her only one-way, either as Sophisticated or Ghetto. As her friend, I knew both sides very well.
Our trip to Jamaica had been courtesy of Trina’s dad, who owned a car dealership in Savannah. As a gift to Trina for her 3rd-consecutive semester with a 4.0 grade point average, she could take two-friends with her to Jamaica.
Her dad was always giving her gifts like that. Sometimes Brea and I would be a little jealous, because our parents definitely didn’t have it like that.
My parents were former musicians that started a cleaning service late in life. Brea’s mom had just graduated from nursing school and her father was a night-shift security guard at a New Jersey rail yard.
Part of my envy was rooted in growing up working in the family business, cleaning houses that I wished that we lived in. I’m sure it was a similar situation for Brea. Of course, we weren’t quite as jealous when airplane tickets also had our names on them, or when we’d catch a ride with Trina in her Navigator to a UGA (University of Georgia) party in Athens.
The three of us were very different, and to outsiders, they might not see the reason for our friendship.
Back on Spelman’s campus, our group had several nicknames with classmates, the most common being the Black Charlie’s Angels or the Neapolitan Girlz. And in most cases, they didn’t mean it complimentary. Some people thought that we thought that we were better than everyone. But we didn’t care. We knew that most of the people calling us the Black Charlie’s Angels or the Neapolitan Girlz were just some ugly-ass jealous females who wished they looked as good as us. Now that might sound arrogant, but should we be blamed because we’re fine with bangin’ bodies? It’s not our fault.
The Neapolitan Girlz nickname was a direct reference to the ice cream and to our different skin tones. Trina was dark-skinned, I was brown-skinned and Brea was light-skinned. All of us looked good enough to be models.
Being from Georgia, Trina and I had the trademark Georgia-peach plump backsides, although Trina’s was the real attention-getter. But not to be out-done, Brea had a NYC Big-Apple bottom that she paraded in her AppleBottoms jeans.
All of us were around the same height and weight, about 5’8, 130-pounds. The only difference was how our weight was distributed. Trina was curvy in the hips. Brea had the biggest titties, D-cups, and I was somewhere in between.
After Trina had managed to bring the attention of just about every male eye on the beach to us at the bar that was facing the ocean, we decided to move to a table inside the beach-side restaurant.
“Good afternoon, my name is Donovan and I’m proud to be your server today. Is there something I can get for you right now?” asked the ultra-fine mid-20’s waiter.
“Ummm-hmmph!” Brea semi-coyly whispered under her breath with her mouth hidden by the menu.
Though she tried to be slick about it, her voice carried and I knew that Donovan heard her. I twisted a piece of her thigh under the table to get her to stop it.
“We’ll take water with lemons for now,” I said jumping in trying to prevent embarrassment that I felt was right around the corner.
As the waiter left, all three of our heads watched as his sexy butt in black pants made its way to the kitchen. Though he was wearing a white short sleeve dress shirt, there was no hiding that kind of physique. His chiseled chest protruded out like a Jamaican mountain cliff. We could tell that his stomach was flat and ripped by the way the shirt was tucked tightly in the front of his pants and his arms seemed to be flexing even when he was holding his little note pad.
“Dayuumm!” we all exhaled once he disappeared behind the swinging door of the kitchen.
“Why’d you pinch me, Jazmyn!” complained Brea to me.
“’Cause yo’ ass don’t ever know how to whisper!” I explained.
“He couldn’t hear me,” Brea attempted to convince us.
“Treee-nahh??” I said, calling her into our debate to cast the deciding vote.
Trina was already nodding that I was right.
“Yeah, I think he heard you,” she verbally confirmed.
“Yeah, well, what-evvah. I don’t care, I want me a piece of that!” Brea proclaimed.
“How you just gon’ call it? This ain’t saving seats on a bus. How do you know that we don’t want him?” I playfully started an on-purpose argument with Brea, just so that we’d be entertained by her response.
“Bitch please. You can go after him if you want to. We’ll just see who gets him,” she smiled back at me as she pulled her bikini top outward to show more cleavage.
Spreading the material of her top so far apart that Brea was nearing nipple territory, if she so much as sneezed.
She wasn’t serious at all about competing with us over Donovan. Brea would be one to say, let’s all fuck him. But that’s one of the things I liked about her, her sense of humor.
“Y’all know I got the advantage while we’re seated,” Brea added, referring to her better cleavage. “And Trina, don’t you even think about standing up, faking like you’re going to the bathroom when he comes back out”.
Brea had our stomachs hurting from laughter.
This reminded me of last year’s Spring Break in Miami, which was also courtesy of Trina’s dad. Just by being friends with Trina, unknowingly Brea and I were receiving Spring Break scholarships.
Like last year’s trip and for that matter, any party that we went to, Brea was always the first one to hook-up with a man. Sometimes, I wondered if it was totally coincidental.
When Donovan returned with our water, Brea turned on the sensuality big time.
“So what do you recommend, Donovan?” Brea asked with a glowing smile while flipping her almost mid-back length hair behind her shoulder.
Her newly displayed cleavage didn’t go unnoticed as Donovan stammered on his words and clearly was torn between looking at Brea’s face or her chest.
As Donovan struggled to describe the day’s special, Brea acted as though the noise in the restaurant made it difficult for her to hear him. Deliberately she turned her head sideways and leaned forward as to bring her ear closer. But it was really to entice him by showing him a better view of her breasts.
Brea was a master of this. It didn’t faze me at all. I’d seen her do it many times, as had Trina. However, Trina wasn’t as cool at playing it off as me. Her smile leaked out in the form of folded lips and turning her head away as she tried to regain composure.
As I watched her repeatedly lean forward and the material on her top slide, I heard a fire bell sounding siren go off in my head – beep, beep, beep – nipple alert!
I tried to kick her foot under the table to warn her, but I was a fraction of a second too late. Her little ass pink-tan nipple had already popped out. But she quickly recovered it in her top. The moment was so fast that the exposure lasted only as long as Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl mishap.
After that, Donovan’s lips were now folded-in like Trina’s, and I knew that Brea had him.
After all of the time Donovan spent explaining the special and trying to ignore Brea’s bosom, she had the nerve to order just a salad.
I ordered the jerk chicken and Trina had lobster.
The moment after he’d collected our menus and retreated back into the kitchen, we all giggled.
“Brea, you’re wild!” laughed Trina.
“I didn’t do it on purpose! I swear!” Brea said sincerely, as she scanned nearby tables to ascertain who else might’ve gotten a free show.
Though she remained cool throughout the awkward moment, I could see a little redness coming to Brea’s light-skinned face. I think she was truly embarrassed.
“I tried to warn you!” I said referring to my too late foot kick. “That’s what you get for playing around!”
“N-E-way. Well, that’s it. Now I’ma have to fuck him. Nobody gets a free look at me without me getting one back,” Brea tried to confidently respond.
“Gurll, you talk so much shit!” I laughed.
Trina and I could always tell when Brea was uncomfortable, nervous or embarrassed because she’d always respond more aggressively, trying to regain control of the situation.
“I don’t think he even saw it. Right, Jazmyn?” Trina lied about as poorly as she’d played cool.
Trina was good-hearted by nature. Sensing Brea’s embarrassment, she tried to ease her mind with a simple lie. But I knew Brea was far too sophisticated for that.
“Hell yeah he saw Brea’s little girl nipple,” I said, tackling the moment head-on with a pseudo insult. “I’on’t know how you got those giant ass titties with little girl nipples?” I continued to jab at her until my comments finally forced her to give me the finger and respond with an insult of her own.
“You just mad because your nipples are as big as a damn Nicotrol patch!” Brea fired back.
“Bitch”
“Hoe”
“Hey! Hey! C’mon we’re friends!” Trina jumped in because she thought we were being serious.
Trina always never seemed to get it. But I knew how to change situations or soften moments with Brea. And that way, was not the way Trina had tried with small town niceties.
We ate our late lunch without further incident. But before leaving, Brea managed to coax information out of Donovan about a swimsuit party that was happening later that evening at Club Ménage that was located just two miles up the road from our hotel.
Donovan wasn’t sure whether or not he’d be able to make the party because he had to work at his other job at Rick’s Café.
We were all shocked that Donovan worked there because we’d just gone to Rick’s Café yesterday and none of us would’ve forgotten seeing him.
Rick’s Café was unique for more than its great food. It was built on a cliff-side and from the terrace of the restaurant you could see the most amazing sunset. The sun appeared to be lowered by a string. Not to mention that you could watch courageous cliff divers doing acrobatic dives into the water below.
Back at the hotel, we congregated into Brea’s room. We all had separate rooms next to each other with adjoining doors. Brea’s room was the logical congregating spot because hers was between mine and Trina’s.
We took turns trying on different bikinis that we'd brought and used Brea’s room as the pseudo catwalk to get each others opinion before making our final selections.
For Trina, no matter what she selected she looked, beautifully bootyful. We convinced her into wearing a bright blue, green and yellow string two-piece flower-print bikini. Mainly because it was cut lower on the hips. We also added a shear skirt-wrap to her ensemble to tone down her bootyness.
The consensus for me was that I should wear a halter tankini that tied around the neck. The tankini was short, which allowed me to be subtle-sexy by showing a little skin on my stomach and back, without accentuating my lack of bust. I wasn’t super small, a 34-B, but not quite a full-B.
Brea’s options were limitless. She looked great in every outfit. The only thing we vetoed was a tube-top outfit because of her large breasts, reminding her of the nipple-incident earlier. With a tube-top, we knew she’d spend half the night pulling the top up, especially while dancing. She decided to mix two bikinis. A high-cut maroon bikini bottom with a maroon and gold string bikini top that we tied so securely that at the end of the night, I thought she would have to cut her way out of it with a knife.
After a brief touching up of our hair, we went down to the lobby and waited for a taxi.
Chapter Two
When we made it to Club Ménage, all of us were badly in need of a drink to calm our nerves.
The taxi rides in Jamaica were adventures in themselves. We thought it was bad when we took the minivan taxi from the Montego Bay Airport through the windy dirt roads on the way to our hotel in Negril. But that didn’t even come close to riding in the one tonight.
The two lane dirt roads were so narrow that when taxis traveling in opposite directions passed, it seemed like the distance that separated them was the width of a quarter. Not to mention, how fast the taxi drivers drove and the roads were extremely dark. Making it even worse was that they drove on the left side of the road, like in England. I had to close my eyes for most of the short ride and just hope that we’d make it.
The club was poppin’ that night. We were feelin’ the Hip-Hop American Music that was playing, but it had a Caribbean beat mixed in.
“Hey-aayy,” Brea danced through the entrance to the beat of a calypso-version of Notorious B.I.G.’s song, Big Poppa, with her hands in the air.
I ain’t gon’ lie, I’d never heard a version like that before so I was waving my hands in the air too.
“Let’s get something to drink,” Trina shouted over the loud music.
I tapped Brea on the shoulder to let her know and we began navigating through people towards the bar.
“What y’all want?” I asked Brea and Trina, after finally getting the attention of the bartender.
“I’on’t know? Something fruity,” Brea responded, still busy jammin’ to the B.I.G. song.
Trina was occupied as well checking out the scene of the club.
After getting suggestions from the bartender, I ordered three Jamaican Fizzes. I don’t really remember what was in it, but it was slushy, tangerine in color and flavor and potent from the very first sip.
Not two seconds after we’d touched glasses in a toast-like manner and taken the first sip, three fellas damn near knocked each other over as they approached.
“How you doin’ luv?” spoke the guy who emerged first from the collision to Brea.
“I’m alright,” Brea returned.
“C’mon,” he confidently stated with his mouth and his eyes as he reached for Brea’s hand to pull her to the dance floor.
The other two guys paused like they were waiting to see if the first guy failed. When he didn’t, they attempted to begin talking to Trina and I. But it was too late, they’d already proven that the race was for Brea, so Trina and I gave ‘em no game. We weren’t gonna be a consolation prize.
“Can you believe that?” Trina twisted her face at me referring to the weak-ass attempt of the two guys who just left.
“Don’t even trip about it,” I brushed it off.
“Jazmyn, I’m just sayin’, how are they gonna stand right here next to us and listen to the other guy shootin’ game at Brea, not say a word to us at all, until after Brea leaves?” Trina spewed intensely.
“Girl, don’t even let ‘em get your blood pressure up. They’re just weak. Drink your drink and forget about ‘em,” I urged.
Right on cue, and proving my point, two different men came up to us. One of the good aspects of tonight’s swimsuit theme at the club was that the men were shirt-less.
“How are you fine ladies doing this evening?” spoke one of the mid-20’s men to me in a subtle Jamaican accent.
“Fine,” we both sung back in unison.
Besides being fine, I liked their style. The way they’d walked confidently over to us without trying to play it off by looking away. They stared directly at us the entire time as they approached.
They were both tall, 6’2 or so. The one closest to me was dark chocolate, hair cut so close you could almost call it bald and had a body that had my nipples hardening. Plus, I loved his voice. It was deep-sounding, but not quite a bass-sound, yet a very full-resonant voice.
“My name is Simeon and this is my boy, Jamal,” he said extending his hand to me in a gentlemanly fashion.
I was thrown off as his friend Jamal said his hello because his voice was clearly American.
“I’m Jazmyn and this is my girl, Trina,” I returned, unable to contain a smile.
Part of the reason for my grin was that as I shook his large hand I couldn’t get out of my mind the myth of what large hands meant.
“Jazmyn, a pretty name for a pretty lady,” Simeon complimented.
“Thank you,” I blushed back.
“Jaz, we’re going to the dance floor. Watch my drink?” Trina informed me of her plans with Jamal who I assumed had been just as charming to her as Simeon was to me.
“Yeah, I’ll watch it,” I guaranteed as I placed a cocktail napkin over the top of Trina’s glass.
“Are you from Jamaica?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Why?”
“’Cause you have a Jamaican accent”
“Actually I’m from Houston.”
“Houston?” I jumped-in out of disbelief.
“Yes Houston. My parents grew-up in Jamaica and I still have some family here. But, I was born in Houston, after my family moved to the States.”
“I would’ve sworn you were from Jamaica”
“I get that a lot. I don’t really hear the accent myself. I suppose that I got it from my parents.”
“So what brings you to Jamaica?” Simeon questioned.
“Me and my girls are on Spring-Break. How ‘bout you?” I’d said without thinking about how revealing my age to him would impact me.
Momentarily, he did pause before responding, because I think that he thought I was older.
“A little business, but mostly a vacation. Jamal and I work together and he’d never been to Jamaica, so here we are,” he said coolly, but I still could tell that he was pondering something in his head.
Fortunately, he wasn’t immediately deterred by my age. It wasn’t like I could guarantee that Trina wasn’t giving our ages away to Jamal anyway. So there was no sense in lying.
“What university are you attending?” he asked as a prelude to the next question I knew would follow to ascertain my age.
“I’m a sophomore at Spelman College in Atlanta,” I responded, saving time by answering both questions, the one he’d asked and the one he was about to ask.
“Oh, Spelman, hmm, that’s a good school,” he said as though he was thinking about the academic program of the school. But, I knew the hmm in his sentence had more to do with the sophomore part.
There was a moment of silence, as I allowed him the opportunity to decide whether or not he was going to continue pursuing me, by turning my attention to the dance floor.
Brea was really startin’ to show-off her skillz on the dance floor, but the mysterious man that whisked her away was holding his own as well. Even people dancing next to them were admiring their flirtatious moves as Brea turned it around and backed it up on him. And he didn’t back away at all, playfully pretending to be spanking her ass with his hand. Brea smirked appreciation for his confidence with a smile looking over her shoulder back at him.
Trina wasn’t a bad dancer either, but not as good as Brea. Her dancing was less risky in style, mostly swaying of the hips with the occasional bounce. It was more suited for a Blue-Lights-In-The-Basement party.
“I’m sorry, Jazmyn, I should’ve asked you, did you want to dance?” Simeon resumed our conversation.
“Oh, that’s okay. No, I gotta watch Trina’s drink,” I said, relieved that he might still be interested.
“I can buy her another one if you wanted to dance,” he generously offered.
Damn, I like this brother!, I thought to myself.
“So, what do you do in Houston?” I innocently asked, but cringed my nose when I thought about the timing of my question.
He’d just offered to pay for a new drink just so that I could dance at my convenience. I feared my question about his occupation could be misconstrued, causing him to think that I was a gold-digger.
“I’m a Marketing Executive for Matthews, Winwood & Associates. We deal mostly with promotional campaigns in the entertainment industry,” he spoke with interest.
“Really? It sounds interesting,” I said intrigued, but really I didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about.
I think he could sense that I was faking, so he didn’t make me suffer and clarified.
“Basically, what we do is anything from promotion of music concerts, national television ads for sports, magazine advertising and handle entertainers and athletes career development. We help keep an entertainer or athlete in the lime-light by getting interviews and endorsement deals for them,” Simeon explained.
“Ohhh, I get it. So, you’re like an agent,” I simplified all that he’d just said.
“Yee-ah. Sort-of. But it’s not that clear-cut. Many of our clients have agents to negotiate their deals. What I do has more to do with the clients image. It’s kinda tough to explain.”
Though I still didn’t have a full grasp of his occupation, I chose to let it go because it was drawing more attention to our age difference again. It was as though he was my guidance counselor explaining career options.
“So, how long have you been a Marketing…um…Agent?” I said, stumbling to recall his job title.
“Marketing Executive,” he corrected my botching of it. “Four years. I was a Music-major with a minor in Marketing at the University of Houston. After I didn’t get drafted, I decided that I didn’t want to spend years toiling in the NBDL, National Basketball Developmental League, dreaming about playing in the NBA. So, I chose to begin my career.”
“Oh, you’re a basketball player?” I said with stars in my eyes.
“Was, a basketball player,” he stated.
“That’s cool.”
Being a former ball-player certainly explained his incredible physique and his confident demeanor when he first approached.
“Was Jamal a ball player, too?” I inquired.
“Yeah, we were college teammates. But now we’re going to team-up by opening our own firm next month,” he said proudly.
“That’s Wassup,” I cheered his entrepreneurial spirit.
“Are you sure, you don’t want to dance?” Simeon asked looking at his watch.
It was just a few minutes past mid-night.
“Maybe, later. I’m fine just talking,” I said with admiration.
“Well, I hate to say it, but Jamal and I have an early-morning meeting with one of our clients, Air Jamaica Airlines, so I’m going to have to get him and we’re going to have to leave. But I’d like to get together with you, if you’re going to be in Negril for a while?” he charmingly asked.
“That sounds nice. I’d like that,” I said with a slight tilt of my head.
I wrote down my cell phone number and the name of my hotel on a napkin, so that he could call me either way.
Before he left to retrieve Jamal and Trina from the dance floor, he gave me the warmest secure hug, as my hands casually rubbed the skin of his shirtless broad-shouldered back.
His hug wasn’t exactly a quick one, yet it didn’t exceed the level of our acquaintance. It was perfect, lasted about 6-seconds, his hands gently supported the small of my back and his body felt so good that I didn’t wanna let go. To say nothing of the cologne he was wearing that was seductively tickling my nose.
I was in a glowing mood as I watched his sexy ass walk to the edge of the dance floor to get Jamal’s attention by pointing at his watch.
Jamal got the message, made his apologies to Trina and guided her by the hand off the dance floor passing right by Brea who was now dancing with a different guy from the one that whisked her away earlier.
Brea was always the life of any party and one never to commit to the first guy that came up to her.
After Jamal gave Trina a good-bye hug that included a peck on her cheek, she was grinning the entire way back to the bar where I was standing.
I was smiling too, because she was walking differently than normal just in case Jamal was still watching her and he was.
When she got to me, I answered the question that was on the tip of her tongue.
“Yes, he’s watching,” I quickly said, with my glass to my mouth to shield my lips just in case Jamal and Simeon were long-distance lip readers.
Trina turned around in their direction and we both gave them our most elegant four-fingers-simultaneously-folding-down wave good-bye.
“Gurll, I’m digging them,” I confided, after I was sure they were gone.
“Me, too. Did you give Simeon your number?”
“Psst. Gurrl now you know…,” I said in a manner that indicated she should’ve known that I had.
“Do you know what they do?” Trina was excited to share.
“Simeon told me!” I returned, matching her enthusiasm.
“Now that’s the type of man I’m looking for… A real baller … You know what I’m saying?” she added, raising her hand to receive a gentle high-five.
I gave her dap, because it was true.
At Spelman, we had plenty of guys shooting game at us, but they were always broke. Some of them were college students, so that was understandable, but the movies still cost money.
Brea, Trina and I had stand-by men in our lives. They weren’t our real boyfriends. Usually they were older men in their late 20’s and had good jobs. They were able to afford things the college boys could not. They provided concert tickets, restaurant meals and shopping money.
I didn’t see anything wrong with that. It wasn’t like they weren’t going after us because they figured that we were easy because we were young college girls. As far as I was concerned, they got something and we got something.
“What’s poppin’?” Brea said, with an arm around each of our shoulders.
She’d scared the shit out of us because she’d snuck-up on us when our backs were turned.
“Don’t do that shit Brea!” I scolded her surprise appearance tactic.
“Quit trippin’,” she returned.
“Ain’t nothin’ poppin’ with us. What’s poppin’ with you, hoe!” I said, making reference to the multiple men she’d been flirting and dancing with.
“Now why I gotta be a hoe, bitch? Just because a sistah’s getting her groove on? I saw y’all shooting game at those niggas that just left,” she informed us.
I hated when she used the word niggas, even though I know she didn’t mean anything by it.
“Yes, we were getting better acquainted with some nice brothas,” I said extra-formal, just to playfully piss her off.
“Get yo’ groove on, getting acquainted, same shit! I just came back to tell you the party is about to get crunk. Them niggas are gone now, so it’s time to get crunk!” Brea declared.
“What have you been drinking?” Trina asked.
“I ain’t had shit but that one drink. I’m just saying, we’re in Jamaica…Jamaica!!...We’re young and sexy. We need to be doin’ our thing, nah-mean?” Brea tried to pump us up.
“Awight, awight. Let’s get us another drink,” I conceded to her let’s-get-wild plan.
Mid-way through our drink the DJ announced the sign-up of the Booty-Shaking Contest that had a $200 cash prize.
“Aw hell naw! Trina, you gotta do it!” Brea slurred encouragement.
“Why me?” Trina questioned.
I just laughed because her response was just reflex.
“Why you?? Have you looked at yo’ ass lately? Gurll, they giving away 2-bills!! That shit is yours! Can’t nobody in here touch you!” Brea spoke the truth.
“You’ll win easy!” I chimed in, curious to see if we could convince her to actually do it.
“That’s easy for y’all to say,” Trina said with some hesitation.
“What’dya worried about? You don’t know any of the niggas up in here. If it were a wet t-shirt contest, I would be all over that shit. I’d get my money!” Brea said with all seriousness.
“You gotta do it. Rep the A-T-L. Rep Spelman. Hell, Rep the whole damn USA, shit!” I said, increasing the urgency.
Brea laughed because I sounded like I was giving a campaign speech about patriotism and not a booty-shaking contest.
Because Trina didn’t respond, Brea felt that we’d made enough progress.
“Jaz, go sign Trina up before it’s too late. I’ll get her another drink,” Brea instructed.
Trina didn’t tell me not to, so I did.
Chapter Three
It was a little after 1 a.m. when the Booty-Shaking Contest was about to begin. We’d primed Trina’s courage with an additional Jamaican Fizz and she was on the stage with the other nine contestants.
Brea and I were busy sizing up Trina’s competition as the M.C. had them all turn around, to give the crowd of men that gathered at the edge of the stage, a preview.
There were a few girls with nice butts, however, only two of them, we thought, had a realistic chance of actually defeating Trina. The rest either didn’t have enough butt or had no business in a bikini, let alone a booty-shaking contest.
Before Trina got on the stage we made some last minute adjustments to her outfit.
The bikini we’d selected for her to wear to the party was cut lower on the hips to tone down her booty which was now a disadvantage in this contest. So, we had her pull the sides up higher to show a little more and remove the shear wrap from around her waist.
Trina was contestant, or as they called it, Booty #7, so she’d be one of the last to dance, which we thought was good for two reasons.
First, it gave Trina a chance to see what the other girls did. And second, going near the end made her more memorable in the judges’ mind.
Each contestant had 20-seconds to shake their money-maker to one of the medley of derriere-songs the DJ was playing for the contest.
The songs the contestants had to choose from included Mystikal’s “Shake Your Ass”, “Doin’ the Butt” by EU, Sir Mix-A-Lots’ “Baby Got Back” and the classic “Rump Shaker” by Wrecks-N-Effect, which is the one we chose.
Just as we suspected, the girls who went before Trina were a little more timid, but with each girl the level of intensity increased as they tried to out-do the one that’d gone before them.
When it was Trina’s turn and she walked to the front of the stage and turned her ass to the crowd, a roar went up at the sight of her luscious thang as she waited for the first beat of “Rump Shaker”.
“Check baby, check baby, one, two, three, four,” began blaring over the speaker and Trina had the fellas raising their hands, hoopin’, hollarin’ and high-five-ing, as she had her hands on her knees and popped her booty to each and every word of the song. She ended her routine with her knees and hands on the stage, simulating riding that thang.
Brea and I were jumping up and down, because we knew the only way she’d lose was if there was cheating.
While the reluctant remaining three contestants performed their routines that paled by comparison, we were busy looking at the souvenir Polaroid pictures we’d paid a club photographer to take of Trina during the contest.
As the DJ announced the 2nd Place Winner, we began celebrating early because the 2nd Place Winner was the girl that had the best shot at beating Trina.
Trina not only won the contest and the $200, but was also given a tiara and a sash that named her Ms. Jamaican Booty of the Year.
We couldn’t wait to celebrate with her and eagerly met Trina at the edge of the stage as she was exiting victoriously.
“I told you, gurll!! Can’t nobody handle you. I told you!!” Brea proudly proclaimed, giving her a hug.
“You did it, gurll!” I added, with my own hug.
Trina attempted to contain a smile, but we knew that she was proud of her accomplishment. And not just because she’d won the contest. Her pride had more to do with conquering her inhibitive-nature. She’d always wanted to be more out-going in public. We knew she had it in her, but tonight she let hesitation fly in the wind and just did it.
A line of brothas was forming around us as we escaped them by walking back to the bar.
Trina removed her sash and set her tiara on the bar as we ordered yet another round of Jamaican Fizzes that were given complimentarily by the bartender as an additional prize.
“I was nervous as hell!” Trina confided.
“Whaaat?? Who in the hell is this? And what have you done with Trina?” Brea playfully asked, referring to Trina’s surprising use of a curse word.
“Shut up!” Trina countered by pushing Brea on the shoulder.
“Nobody could tell that you were nervous. You just went up there and did yo’ thang! You put it down, gurll!” I said.
“Check these out!” Brea said, handing the souvenir Polaroid photos to Trina.
“Oohpp!” Trina said covering her mouth, as she critiqued herself in the photos. “My ass looks fat!”
“Yeah, P-H-A-T, not F-A-T,” Brea emphasized.
“Gurll, give me those!” I said, as I snatched the pictures from Trina.
Trina wasn’t gonna be satisfied until she turned a good moment into a bad one by putting herself down and I was determined to not let that happen.
“You are Ms. Jamaican Booty of the Year,” I said with laughter, “How you gon’ act like your butt don’t look good?!”
We spent the next 20-minutes shunning away opportunist-guys that kept approaching us only because our girl had won the booty-crown. We knew what was in their minds just by looking into their widened eyes as they advanced.
It was almost 2 a.m. and we’d just decided to leave the club and go back to the hotel, when Brea slyly nudged my side with her elbow and drew my attention to the entrance with a coy nod.
I looked over to see that Jamal was returning to the party and was scanning the crowd with his eyes.
Simeon apparently was not with him, as I surveyed the area around Jamal.
I tapped Trina, so that she’d not be surprised.
“There’s your boy,” I said, pointing him out from a waist-level point.
Jamal’s eyes smiled when they came across Trina and he immediately headed our direction.
“Heyyyy. There you are!” he said to Trina.
“Hi, Jamal,” Trina purred back.
“Hi--igh, Jamal,” I imitated Trina’s singing of his name.
“Hey, Jazmyn,” he said, impressing me by remembering my name.
“Mmmph-mmm-mmph,” Brea coughed at our failure to introduce her.
“Oh, Jamal, this is my other friend Brea,” Trina finished the formalities.
“Nice to meet you, Brea,” he said, shaking Brea’s hand.
“I thought you had a big meeting to get ready for tomorrow?” Trina bated the reason for his return.
“I do, but I never got your number, so I couldn’t go to sleep unless I tried to see if you were still here,” he charmed her, as Brea and I smiled at his willingness to share his feelings, even in front of us.
Trina hesitated to turn to the bar to get a napkin for her to write her number on because she feared being embarrassed by the crown and sash she thought was still on top of the bar.
Quick-thinking Brea had already taken them off the bar and had them safely hidden in her hand behind her leg.
Trina eye-communicated her appreciation to Brea, without detection by Jamal.
“Thanks,” Jamal said, apparently truly cherishing the digits he’d just gotten by folding the napkin with great care and putting it into his pocket. “As long as I’m here, did you want to dance?” he asked.
“Umm, you know, we were just about to leave,” Trina said looking to us to see if we’d stay awhile.
“Oh. That’s too bad. I’d liked to have talked to you some more, seeing as I’m not gonna get much sleep anyway.”
Brea and I were Jamaican Fizzed-out and offered no inkling to Trina that we’d stay.
“No, I think I’ma go,” Trina said pitifully like she was disappointed that we’d not volunteered to remain.
“Well, I could give you a ride back to your hotel if your friends have to go?” he offered.
Brea was staring hard at Trina and I was curious to hear her response.
Trina looked at us and then began to respond, “Okay, umm, that sounds…..”
“Excuse us for a moment, Jarel,” Brea jumped in by pulling Trina by the arm.
“It’s Jamal,” he corrected.
We moved a few paces away from him in a girlfriend huddle.
“Are you crazy? You don’t even know that nigga,” Brea warned Trina.
“I think he’s cool,” Trina countered.
“Think? Think?” Brea continued her rampage.
“I agree with Brea, Trina. I think he’s probably a nice guy, too. But, maybe you should just hook-up with him tomorrow,” I offered my opinion.
“Y’all so concerned? Why don’t y’all stay then?” Trina questioned our commitment.
“Shit! I’m tired. It’s two o’clock in the morning. I’m taking my ass back to the hotel!” Brea argued.
“Well, I’m staying. Y’all do what you want, but I’m staying!” Trina confirmed, ending our discussion by turning to walk back towards Jamal.
“This girl’s out of her mind!” Brea whined to me in disbelief.
I was prepared to leave because I figured Trina had put her foot down. So what else was there for us to say? She’s full-grown. But Brea wasn’t quite finished yet.
She walked back to where Trina and Jamal were standing and talking, leaned over the bar to ask for another souvenir cup that the club was giving away and a napkin. She wiped the sides of the cup with the napkin and proceeded to interrupt Trina and Jamal.
“I need you to hold this,” Brea demanded of Jamal, handing him the cup.
Jamal did it, but had a confused look on his face.
“Brea, what are you doing?” Trina attempted to protect Jamal.
“Now give it back to me,” she ordered to Jamal.
He did. Brea was careful to use the napkin to hold the cup.
“Trina has decided that she’s gonna stay, no matter what I say. I just want you to know that now I have your fingerprints on this cup, just in case anything happens to my girl,” Brea said trying to look tough to a man that’s 6-inches taller and 100-pounds heavier.
A huge grin came across the face of Jamal at the sight of Brea’s tough-acting appearance.
“That’s sweet. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of your girl,” he said, not insulted by Brea’s demeanor.
As I watched his poised interaction with Brea, I just realized how handsome he was. I guess I didn’t notice before because he’d left so fast earlier to go dance with Trina.
His caramel color skin made his ripped muscles stand out. He had dimples in his face whenever he smiled, hazel eyes and lips like L.L. Cool J.
“I’ll see you guys back at the hotel,” Trina said, giving us the signal it was time for us to depart.
“Call us when you leave,” Brea instructed Trina.
“Take care, Jazmyn,” Jamal surprised me with an unexpected hug. “It was nice to meet you too, Brea”
“Umm-hmm,” she skeptically returned.
It appeared as though he wanted to be fair and offer Brea a hug, but rightfully so thought better of it and just shook her hand.
Before we departed, Brea leaned over to Trina, “You’ve got money for a taxi, right?”
“Duh??” Trina said in white-girl fashion showing the $200 cash prize she’d won.
Finally, I pulled Brea away from Trina by the elbow and dragged her out the front door, waving good-bye to Trina and Jamal with my other hand.
The taxi ride back to the hotel seemed to last forever, especially because of the Jamaican Fizzes.
Brea and I stood in the hallway using our keys to enter our rooms.
“Call me if Trina calls you first?” Brea instructed.
“I will. You call me if she calls you,” I answered.
“Oh, for sure. No doubt,” Brea promised.
Though we both were exhausted, we knew that we wouldn’t completely be able to go to sleep until we knew that Trina had made it back safely.
Immediately, I slipped out of my swimsuit into a comfortable pair of cloth shorts and an old t-shirt, adjusted the air temperature in the room so that I wouldn’t be too hot and slid under the covers.
This year’s trip was especially important to me because it gave me an opportunity to ponder some choices that I wanted to make in my life.
All three of us were going through some things in our lives.
Trina had been a late-bloomer. It wasn’t until her senior year in high school that she’d finished cocooning from a nerdish academia to the diva status she now enjoyed. Though the outside had changed, she still harbored some of the old insecurities.
In addition, her parents were like the black Kennedys of Georgia. Her father, a magna cum laude graduate of Morehouse College, was a well-respected businessman and had many political alliances throughout the state. And her mother, a former Spelman Homecoming Queen, graduated in the top 2% of her class and was now an attorney and lobbyist.
Though Trina was very smart, I knew she felt the pressure of trying to live up to the expectations, not only from her parents, but from everyone on campus who was very familiar with the Whitfield last name.
I think more than completing her Pre-Med degree Trina yearned to feel ordinary, to be free to make mistakes, to just be herself.
That’s one of the reasons I think she enjoyed hangin’ with Brea and I. She sure didn’t get any special treatment from us. At the same time, we didn’t hold her to a higher standard. In fact, we were the ones to encourage her to loosen up and live a little.
For Brea, her situation was a financial one. At the end of this year she’d be losing a scholarship, not because it was her fault, she had 3.2 GPA. It was just due to the lack of donations to the Brooklyn Community Scholarship fund.
Sure, she had other scholarships, but without that one, she didn’t know if she’d be able to afford the private school tuition.
As far as she could tell, this was going to be her last year at Spelman.
Brea and I were alike because we would be the first in our families to graduate from college, a pressure that can’t be over exaggerated.
It was like our families couldn’t wait to have that as bragging material in our respective neighborhoods.
My problem was not one of financial strife like Brea, it was desire. My heart wasn’t in it since the very first day I stepped on campus.
I loved music. Loved to sing. And that’s what I wanted to do for a living.
My parents were former frustrated musicians that didn’t want any of their children to follow in their fruitless footsteps.
They achieved acclaim in the Mid-1980’s with a duet single that reached #17 on the Billboard charts and a Grammy Nomination. But, due to bad business contracts they never received the money they deserved and were tossed away like used shoes when the style of music changed.
My parents had a sound similar to Peaches and Herb. However, the only evidence of their careers was in photos and music magazine clippings locked safely in a trunk in the attic.
They never talked about it much. Most of the information, I’ve gotten from my aunts, uncles or their reminiscing friends at informal house parties or barbecue cookouts.
It was clear that they still loved music, though -- just not the music business.
My father was the organist and my mother, the choir director at Good Life Baptist Church. But that was as far as they were willing to go with music. And they certainly didn’t want a Wallace child pursuing that dream, especially not their oldest child, me.
I’d been contemplating telling them that I was planning to drop-out of college since the end of my freshman year. But I chickened-out each time.
My parents were working hard and struggled to pay for my tuition, books and room and board so that I could get the full experience of college by living on-campus.
Also, my parents were every bit as anxious as Brea’s family to announce to the world that the Wallace family had a college graduate.
It made me feel guilty sometimes for having my own dreams that were different than their dreams for me.
I’d already won several music competitions in the local area and had even been selected to advance in the Atlanta-area local American Idol competition. That is, until my dad vetoed my being distracted from college, by trying to continue to Los Angeles.
I would have had to make a commitment to take some time off from school before I even knew if I made it to the finalist level.
I was angry at first because I couldn’t understand why he’d step on my opportunity. But after none of the Atlanta-finalist made it to the national level, I wasn’t as mad. Yet, I still wondered, would I have been the one?
As I lied in bed, awaiting a call from Trina’s safe-return to the hotel, I prepared to totally relax myself from thoughts of informing my parents of my drop-out plans. Thoughts, which were more frequently creeping into my head. An inventive tactic I employed to ease my mind was with one of my newest hobbies, reading.
I turned on the night lamp next to my bed and grabbed my copy of a book called “Sex A Baller” by Mysterious Luva that I’d purchased in the airport. The only reason I bought it was because while thumbing through it I saw some interesting Karma-Sutra-like sexy photos in the back of it.
As I stared at the photos in my book and the sexy male model, I kept thinking about Simeon’s fine ass.
I was a little jealous of Trina because I wished Simeon had come back to Club Ménage as well.
After needlessly questioning the reason he’d not come back for me as Jamal had for Trina, I was satisfied that it was simply because I had given him my number and Trina had not to Jamal.
Ten minutes of studying the sexual positions in the book that had been given ghetto-fied names and thinking about Simeon had served to make me horny, so I had to put the book down.
I contemplated breaking out my Taiwanese artificial orgasm creator that I had secretly stored in my suitcase. Basically a dildo that was made in Taiwan.
I decided against it.
Instead, I turned off the light, slid a pillow between my legs and tried to think about something, anything non-sexual.
Chapter Four
It was 3:46 A.M. when I was awakened by the phone ringing in my hotel room.
“Umm, hello,” I strained to vocalize.
“Hey Jaz, it’s me Trina. I was just calling to let you know I’m in the hotel lobby. I just made it back,” Trina whispered, yet sounding wide awake.
“Okay. Thanks for calling,” I said, still groggy.
“Go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay,” I returned, surprised and feeling guilty that I had dosed off for over an hour.
I was about to go back to sleep when I remembered that I’d promised to call Brea when Trina called.
Grudgingly, I leaned over to dial Brea’s room number on the phone.
“Mmm..mmm…Hello?” Brea warmed up her voice while answering just as groggy as me.
“Hey Brea, Trina just called from the lobby. She’s back at the hotel,” I informed her.
“From the lobby?” Brea woke up more.
“That’s what she said,” I affirmed.
“Alright, bye,” Brea ended our mandatory phone conversation.
I hadn’t re-closed my eyes for more than twenty minutes, when my phone rang again.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Jaz, it’s Brea. Trina brought Jamal back to the hotel with her,” Brea whispered into the phone.
“So? How do you know that anyway?”
“I watched them walk by my door through the peep hole,” she shamelessly confessed.
“See. That’s why I shouldn’t tell you shit!” I said sitting up in the bed.
“Come over here! I wanna show you something!” Brea said very giddy.
“Gurll you trippin’! Mind your own business and go to sleep,” I defied.
“No, I’m serious. Come over here now. But make sure you’ve turned all the lights off in your room first before you come through the adjoining door,” she urged.
“Alright. I’ma be over,” I said.
I went to the adjoining door that connected my room and Brea’s room. I unlocked my side while I waited for her to do the same on her side.
When she opened her side, I was met with a shhhh signal because her index finger was pressed to her lips.
None of the lights were on in her room as she tip-toed in her red silk pajamas top and bottoms to the adjoining door that divided her room and Trina’s.
“Trina ain’t like you think!” she couldn’t wait to divulge, as she wrestled to contain a laugh.
Over her shoulder, I noticed that the adjoining door that led to Trina’s room was cracked.
I wanted to be upset that she’d bated me into spying with her, but curiosity got the best of me too.
Now I knew why she was so adamant about me turning the lights off in my room before coming over, concerned that she’d be busted if light seeped from my room into hers and alarmed Trina and Jamal that their door was open.
Brea knelt by the cracked door and I peered in from a standing position over Brea.
Immediately I saw what it was that had Brea so tickled.
Trina was kneeling on a couple of pillows in front of a standing Jamal sucking the shit out of his dick.
I covered my mouth to keep the giggle sound in, releasing it as air through my nose. Brea pinched my leg as a warning that I’d better be able to contain my noise.
I couldn’t believe what I was watching.
Trina had always bragged to us that she’d never sucked a dick. Like that was a bad thing or something. And here I was watching her sucking that thang like a damn professional street walker. Her head bobbed up and down with speed, even deep-throating it, as she held it in one hand and massaged his balls with the other.
Brea got my attention by tapping my foot and motioning to me with her finger asking me to bend down to her.
“She don’t suck dick, huh?” she said, rolling her eyes at me. “She didn’t just learn that shit tonight! Hell, I don’t even suck dick that good!”
I had to move away from the door quickly. Her last comment created an urge for laughter so great I knew my nostrils weren’t big enough of an exit for it.
I breathed the laughter out through an open mouth near the bed until I was composed enough to return to the door.