Zane's the Heat Seekers, Page 3

  “Sis, you have issues, but I love you just the same. Howard probably calls a different sistah collect every day of the week begging for something. Haven’t you ever seen those women on talk shows who make a bunch of sacrifices for brothas who are locked up, only to get dumped with a quickness the second they get released?”

  “Yeah, but you’re overlooking one vital element.”

  “What element?”

  “All those women on talk shows are old, white and lonely. They want a young stud, black or white, so bad that they are willing to make a fool of themselves like that.”

  “Hmph, if you say so. Let me ask you one more thing. Does Howard always call you on the same day of the week? If so, that’s a dead giveaway. Maybe you are Miss Monday or Miss Tuesday or whatever.”

  “Shaddup, Tempest!” Janessa was boiling mad, mostly because Tempest was making sense. Now that she thought about it, Howard did always call on Thursdays. He always called between eight and nine at night, when the Wayans Brothers or The Jamie Foxx Show was on. Was she really Miss Thursday?

  “I just hope you aren’t giving him any of your hard-earned money?” Tempest interrupted Janessa’s thought process.

  “Of course not!” Janessa snapped, feeling guilty about the two hundred dollars she’d sent him the week before. Howard said he needed it to pay off this three-hundred-pound brotha who wanted to make him his bitch. Little did Janessa know that Tempest was well aware of it—Janessa’s mother had called Tempest to throw a hissy fit about the money, which she felt could have been put to better use at the grocery store.

  “Good! I was about to say,” Tempest said, faking relief, “that’s money you should be saving to get your own place. You’re always complaining about Fred stinking up the house and all that. You need to plan your work and work your plan, sistahgurl.”

  “I know that’s right, gurl,” Janessa agreed, having flashbacks, or smellbacks rather, of Fred letting out gas on the couch earlier that night. “It is seriously time for me to make a move and get up out of there. I’ve outgrown the projects, if there is such a thing as outgrowing it. The only people I have to talk to around the way have given up on their dreams and aspirations. It’s down right depressing sometimes. That’s why I’m so glad I have you.”

  “You can always count on me, Janessa.”

  “I know gurl. Ditto over here, sis,” Janessa said, holding up her hand for Tempest to slap her a high five.

  They were silent for a few minutes, just listening to the jams on WPGC and looking at the lights as they headed downtown to DC Live.

  “How are things at the post office?” Tempest asked.

  “They’re okay,” Janessa replied. “Sometimes the supervisors rack on my nerves, though. They think they own me or some shit. I’m nobody’s chattel.”

  “Amen to that!”

  “Still, it feels damn good going to work every day and earning a living. For a while there, I was about to fall into that sitting-at-home-watching-soaps-all-day trap, but you pulled me back from the edge.” Janessa reached over and patted Tempest on the hand. “If I’ve never said it, thank you.”

  Tempest glared over at her, trying to see if Janessa was getting teary-eyed, but couldn’t tell because of the steady stream of streetlights flooding into the car. “No thanks necessary. You did it all by yourself, Janessa. I was just your cheering section, and I’m extremely proud of you.”

  “On the contrary, I didn’t do it all by myself,” Janessa objected. “If it weren’t for you pushing me to make something out of myself, I would probably have no future. Even though I’m still living at home, I do have goals. I have a purpose in life, and I know in time, everything will pan out for me. I owe it all to you. You know you’re my shero!”

  Tempest grinned, trying to hold back her own tears. “Aww, shut the hell up before you make my ass cry. We’re out here to go clubbin’, remember? Not that I even know what to do in a club anymore. This should prove to be interesting.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you. What exactly do you have against clubs?”

  “It’s not that I have anything against clubs. I’ve just outgrown them, like you’ve outgrown the projects. Clubs are nothing but meat markets. Always have been, always will be. I don’t even need to school you on that one.”

  “True! I’m looking for some grade A, prime, FDA-approved dang-a-lang myself.” They both fell out laughing. “And a big, juicy tongue to go with it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “You are too damn funny!” Tempest slowed the car down, glancing up and down the street. “Well, we’re here. Let’s start looking for a parking space.”

  Janessa pointed to their left. “There’s one over there, sis.”

  “Naw.” Tempest sighed disappointedly. “That’s in front of a hydrant.”

  “Gurl, no one is going to bother your ass over there. You better go ahead and grab that spot before someone else gets it.”

  “Uh-uh, no way. I’m not about to get towed trying to get up in a club. You know D.C. is on the brink of bankruptcy. Hell, they probably support half the city government employees by collecting parking ticket and towing money.”

  Janessa sucked her tongue, ready to go check out the men. “Aiight, let’s try the next street over then.”

  “Cool!” Tempest made a right at the corner, still looking for a spot. “By the way, whatever happened with that blind date Cynda hooked you up with?”

  “Tempest, I should slap you for even bringing that skank man up,” Janessa hissed.

  “Damn, was he that bad?”

  “Gurl, when I say skank, I do mean that shit literally,” Janessa turned up her nose, like something foul was trying to invade her nostrils. “He looked aiight but when we got to his place, I almost fell the fuck out.”

  “How come?”

  “First of all, I don’t believe the brotha had a habit of bathing on a regular basis. Now you know that’s pathetic, because a bar of soap is about the cheapest damn thing you can buy in the store.”

  “Eww, damn,” Tempest chuckled. “He had that au naturel thing going on, huh?”

  “Au naturel and then some.” Janessa giggled. “That brotha could make a skunk haul ass in fear.”

  “Dizammmm!”

  “Not only that. His place was so damn filthy, you could barely see his nasty-ass carpet. He told me to get comfortable and take off my shoes, but there was no freakin’ way. Even the cockroaches were sporting slippers up in that bitch.”

  Tempest fell out laughing and slapped Janessa on the knee. “You’re hilarious, gurl!”

  “I’m just telling you like it is!” Janessa straightened suddenly in her seat, pointing up ahead. “There’s someone about to pull out over there.”

  “Great! Let’s get this over with,” Tempest replied. “Let’s go in here and find you a man, so I can take my ass home and go to sleep.”

  “I have a feeling this is going to be your lucky night, Tempest!”

  “Hmph. I seriously doubt all that, but you never know!”

  CHAPTER 3

  let the games begin

  janessa and Tempest walked into the club. It was jam-packed. True to form, within a couple of minutes Janessa headed straight to the dance floor, while Tempest aimed for the bar. It wasn’t that she was an alcoholic or anything, far from it; she only drank an average of four or five times a year. She just wanted to bum-rush a stool so she would have somewhere to sit for the remainder of the night—she had absolutely no intention of dancing. Go out there, shake her ass and get all funktified for what? To pick up a man? She didn’t even think so!

  Tempest hopped on a stool at the end of the bar nearest to the dance floor as soon as some brotha in a purple suit jumped up to grab a passing hoochie by the elbow and ask her to dance. The girl in the skintight black dress glanced his way, laughed and said, “Hell naw, you must be kidding! Asking me to dance with that bama suit on!”

  Tempest felt sorry for him—being called a bama is enough to hurt any brotha—but she laughed at his B
arney-looking ass anyway. When he swung around to retrieve his seat, she turned away and ordered a gin and tonic with a twist of lime. Hmph, that’s what he gets! Coming up in here trying to get some ass! Move your feet, lose your seat!

  Once she got her drink, which was seriously weak, she positioned herself so she had an eagle’s-eye view of the entire room and started checking out the brothas. Just like she figured, they all had issues, and it was tooooooo damn obvious.

  First, she spotted a no-cash, no-ass brotha. Yes, she had developed names for all them bad boys. He had on a fly suit, but his face was messed da hell up. He had zits—no, make that craters—in his face, and his eyes were bloodshot. Not from drugs or alcohol—just one of those brothas who couldn’t benefit from eye drops if his life depended on it. She knew for a fact that a brotha like that either had to pay for pussy or jack off to an issue of Black Tail or Hustler, depending on whether or not he was suffering from jungle fever. Judging from his stance, he’d obviously studied pimpology, so she took him to be a switch hitter. He would probably fuck anything.

  Then, she spotted a momma’s boy, and not the kind you are probably thinking of. A momma’s boy is a man who has only been inside of one pussy in his entire life; his momma’s. In other words, a man who hasn’t had puddy since puddy had he. He appeared to be about twenty-five and was quivering in a dimly lit corner like he was afraid to approach a sistah. He was one of the brothas who comes to clubs to admire women from afar so he can go home and experience a wet dream about them later. Tempest figured he was probably cruising around D.C. in a 1972 Pinto with hydraulics, red stuffed dice hanging from the rearview mirror, and a kit.

  Of course, the club scene wouldn’t have been complete without a Mr. I Know I’m All That. There were plenty of those fools there that night—Tempest spotted at least a dozen in a matter of seconds, profiling throughout the club. Men who think they are the salt of the earth, the cream of the crop, the bomb-diggity but are scrounging to put some ends together to buy a drink for themselves, much less anyone else. Tempest’s Mr. I Know I’m All That category had various subdivisions. There were the JEEP brothas—Just Enough Education to Pass, the kind who make about twenty typos when they try to write a sistah a love letter. There were the I-had brothas, who always brag about the flashy cars and other material things they used to have that somehow evaporated into thin air. Then, there were the I-was-the-shit-back-in-high-school brothas, who still dwell on the fact they were sports stars back in 1978 but never went pro because of an injury, which really meant they were cut when it came to college ball. Let’s not forget the loan-me-a-dollar brothas who attempt to hit sistahs up for cash promising to pay them back when they get their check from Mickey D’s or, even worse, a generic burger joint. At least if a man works at Mickey D’s, he can bring you a decent junk meal home every now and then.

  Last but definitely not least, there were what Tempest affectionately called the questionable brothas representing. Ever since she caught her prize pussy eater Trent deep-throating a dick, she recognized a little feminity in quite a few brothas. She always had her homie-sexual radar in full effect. She might have left home without her American Express card, but she never left the radar at home. She tried to avoid them at all costs because to each his own, but no man was sticking his dick in her coochie after it had been in the dark hole of a 250-pound brotha nicknamed Precious who wore a pink tutu and size 16EEE ballet slippers to bed.

  Tempest took small sips of her drink, wishing she were anyplace else, even home alone, as much as she dreaded the scenario. She zoomed in on Janessa, who was having a helluva time dancing with some handsome brotha off “Loungin’” by LL Cool J—cute, but not Tempest’s type. She would always rate men, even if one of her gurls was talking to them, and especially when they were knocking boots; she liked to gauge whether her gurls were wasting their time or not. Just a habit of hers, albeit a bad one.

  Tempest firmly believed she could tell whether a man was a good lover at first sight, and she pegged the one Janessa was dancing with to be mediocre at best. He probably thought he was the second coming of Valentino. Ironically, she found out later, she was right—her intuition had never steered her wrong. All of her previous men had been good lovers, some of them damn good. It was just that they all had other nasty, raunchy, trifling shit going on in their lives.

  She contemplated making a mad dash for the bathroom to tinkle, but debated about leaving her jacket on the stool to save her spot. She had picked it up at Ross for Less for $9.99, so if it sprouted wings and flew away it was all good. However, she knew good and damn well her seat would be gone when she returned, anyway. Contrary to popular belief, she thought to herself, chivalry is definitely dead.

  She contemplated calling Barney-bama over and asking him to save it, but thought better of it. He was still standing there looking pitiful and getting turned down by fifty-eleven hoochies. He very well might have saved the seat, but Tempest knew he would try to get some play afterward, and she didn’t even want to be bothered.

  Tempest crossed her legs to hold it in, trying to get Janessa’s attention by waving her arms. Janessa knew the routine. Armwaving meant, Get your ass off the dance floor long enough for me to go tinkle.

  “Doing bar-stool aerobics?”

  Tempest glanced to her left to see what stupid-ass fool had made the statement. She was pleasantly surprised. The brotha was fine. Scratch that, he was F-I-O-N-E. Tall, dark and handsome with a navy Hugo Boss double-breasted suit on. Tempest could spot good taste a mile away. On top of that, he smelled downright lickable. She recognized the scent but couldn’t quite place its name. It was expensive, though.

  She managed to swallow the smart-aleck remark before it escaped her lips and blushed instead, finding it hard to believe she was still capable of blushing. “No, just trying to flag my girl down,” Tempest replied. “She’s on the dance floor.”

  “The sistah in the red dress, right?”

  Hmm, he had that Barry White voice going on also. An added bonus, Tempest thought to herself. She eyed him up and down, trying to find something, anything, retarded looking about the man, but simply put, he looked like the words F-U-C-K M-E spelled out to her. “Yes, the one in the red dress,” she replied cautiously, wondering how he knew that and if he was really playing a role to get to Janessa through her. She knew some men preferred hoochiness over the conservative type. “How do you know that we’re together?”

  “Because I’ve been watching you since you sashayed in here,” he said. “I witnessed the two of you make an entrance. Two beautifully stunning women are hard to miss. Especially in a place like this.”

  Tempest began to warm up to him a little. She could feel the icicles falling off her face and evaporating into thin air. That sashayed and stunningly beautiful kind of got to her. “A place like this? What do you mean by that?”

  He laughed again. Was he laughing at her? It was beginning to irritate her slightly, but not enough for her to get up and walk away from his fine ass.

  “No offense to the sistahs in here, but a lot of them have issues.”

  Tempest couldn’t help but break a grin. The brotha was stealing her word. “What do you know about issues?”

  “I know an issue is what an emotional defect becomes when it graduates from being a problem.”

  “That’s real deep,” Tempest replied, in awe of his wording again. She longed to hear more, wondering if it was possible to meet a decent man in a meat market. To think, he was standing beside her the whole time she was checking out the rest of the dog pound. Shame on it all! “So what’s your name? Darius?”

  “No,” he snapped, seemingly offended. “Why on earth would you suggest my name is Darius?”

  “I don’t know! You just look like a Darius to me. It’s not like I asked if your name was Doreen or Dorothy or something. Get a grip!”

  He smirked while Tempest tried to play it off by taking another sip of her drink. She didn’t mean to offend the brotha. It was just that she’d a
lways envisioned marrying a man named Darius, but she had yet to meet one. Janessa always said she had more of a chance of meeting a man named Rogaine than Darius, but you couldn’t tell Tempest anything once she was convinced. Maybe the fine specimen of a man standing beside her wasn’t the one after all.

  “Well, do you care to know my real name?”

  Tempest giggled, realizing she was being a bit too obvious about slightly losing interest since his name wasn’t Darius. “Umm sure, what’s your name?”

  He reached out to shake her hand. She gave it to him. What the hell? “My name is Geren, and yours?”

  “Tempest,” she answered, waiting for him to ask her a stupid question. Does that mean you have a temper? Does that mean you’re like a storm in the bedroom? If she had a dollar for every nucca that asked her one or the other, she would have been sitting on top of the world like Brandy and Mase. “It’s nice to meet you, Geren.”

  “Same here.” He didn’t ask her a stupid question. What a shock! His eyes darted toward the dance floor just as “I’ll Be Dat” by Redman came on. “Care to dance?”

  As much as Tempest wanted to, since that happened to be her cut of the month—well, at least one of her cuts—she was more concerned with needing a Depends. “I would love to dance, but can you give me a minute to run to the little girl’s room?”

  “No problem. I’ll be right here waiting when you return.”

  Tempest almost lost control of her bladder for real when he flashed his cinematic smile. Now she was battling two things—having to go potty and being horny. Since it was physically impossible to cum and pee at the same time, Tempest was hoping for the orgasm. Lawd knows she could have used one.

  “I’ll be right back!” Tempest leaned over and yelled in his ear, practically shouting. Damn, even his ears looked delicious! She could picture herself sucking on his earlobes all night. Maybe not all night, but a good fifteen minutes before heading farther south.

  Geren watched Tempest barge her way through the crowded club to the rest room. He had no idea why he even approached her. He had noticed her when she came in, though—that was no lie. She was so modestly dressed compared to the hot momma she came with. He appreciated a woman who didn’t feel she had to advertise her goods. From where he was sitting, she had a lot of goods to offer. Even in that homely black suit, he could tell she was hauling a lot of junk in her trunk. Nothing like a big booty and a smile. She had both, and he could hardly wait to see what she had in her mind.