Part 11 (1/2)
”Then you won't mind me going to the press and telling them that the great Jordan Gatewood isn't who the world thinks he is?”
”You run and tell the press any d.a.m.n thing you want, Frank. You are a gnat on an elephant's a.s.s, son. And you might as well be invisible,” Jordan said, glaring at him. ”I've gone up against governments, Frank Ross, corporations, and men who would just as soon run over your a.s.s with their golf carts if they didn't think your black a.s.s would dirty their wheels,” Jordan said, casually adjusting the cuffs of his s.h.i.+rt and standing up to leave. ”If I can give you anything, it's a word of advice.” He turned to look at him. ”You run. Run as fast and as far away from this mess that Lonnie's pulled you into, and you keep on running and forget that you ever laid eyes on that b.i.t.c.h and me. Because you don't have what it takes to play this game.” Frank met his gaze, and he looked as insulted as Jordan had intended. ”She's using you to get back at me.”
”You think I don't know that?” Frank retorted.
”So you're just doing your part to try and help a sista out. Is that it?”
Frank shrugged. ”If it works out that way then fine, and if I can get something out of it too, even better.”
Jordan laughed. ”I must admit, I haven't been this amused in a long time.”
”Probably not since the night you beat and raped a woman,” Frank blurted out.
”I'm almost impressed, Frank,” Jordan said unemotionally. ”That was definitely below the belt.”
”Thank you.”
”If you truly care about Lonnie, tell her that eventually my patience will run out, and remind her that getting even with me is not worth her time or effort. I can't turn back the hands of time, and I can't take back what I did to her. Believe me. I understand where she's coming from, but she doesn't give a d.a.m.n about you. If she did, she wouldn't have given you my number, and she wouldn't have encouraged you to leave that closet of an office you have out there in Paris-f.u.c.kin'-Texas to come here and to f.u.c.k with me.”
”If these kids weren't here right now, man, I'd put my big-a.s.s foot up your fancy, princess a.s.s,” Frank threatened. ”That three-thousand-dollar suit ain't armor, Jordan. And that stuck-up att.i.tude you got is all for show, and maybe it works for some people, but that s.h.i.+t don't faze me. Yeah, I had issues with getting involved in this mess, because I'm not that kind of brotha. I work for what I get. Always have. I ain't never held out my hand to another man and said, give me your f.u.c.kin' money.”
”But now all of a sudden, you've decided to try something new?” Jordan asked sarcastically. ”See, Frank, the thing is this. A man in my position understands and accepts that the world is filled with people who resent what he has, and will do whatever they can to try and f.u.c.k with his success. I've given you some sound advice, and if you're a smart man, you'll take it and you'll stay the h.e.l.l away from me.” Jordan stood up and adjusted his suit jacket. ”But if you decide that you want to challenge me, you go ahead and have your little press conference. Because for every doc.u.ment you can dig up, I've got half a dozen attorneys sitting back waiting to discredit your s.h.i.+t. I've got people waiting to discredit you. You can try and bring up my demons if you want to, son, but we all have them. I'm sure you've got your share. And believe me, if you do, I will find them and hang your black a.s.s from the highest tree and show the whole world what they look like.” He slipped on his sungla.s.ses and slid his hands into his pants pockets. ”You came to play,” Jordan said with a shrug. ”So, let's get it on.” He began to leave, stopped, and looked over his shoulder. ”And tell that b.i.t.c.h to call me.”
He walked away from that fool, leaving him with something to chew on. The Frank Rosses of the world were incidentals. Most of the time, Jordan barely knew they existed. But this one had gotten up in his face. He'd called Jordan to the center of the ring, and thrown the first punch. Either Lonnie had given him one h.e.l.l of a pep talk or a big bite of that delicious a.s.s of hers, because he was definitely not thinking with the head on his shoulders.
Just a Hustler in Spite of Myself Edgar was old enough to be her grandfather, and Bridgette, his wife, was a c.o.kehead, slave to his money and his will. He sipped on brandy, and sat at the foot of their bed, with his s.h.i.+rt unb.u.t.toned, and the soft puddle of what used to be his c.o.c.k lying limp in his lap as he watched another man f.u.c.k his young wife.
”You watching, Daddy?” she purred, bracing herself on all fours while the other man drove a d.i.c.k as long as Edgar's arm into the pink, soft, sweet folds of what he knew was the best p.u.s.s.y in the whole state of Texas.
Her eyes rolled in the back of her head, Bridgette raked her moist tongue across her pretty pink lips, and she moaned.
”I'm watching, sugar,” he said enviously. ”Make it good.”
He loved them young, not jail-bait young, but Edgar had a thing for firm, ripe t.i.ts, a plump, springy a.s.s, tight enough that you could bounce a quarter off of it. But as much as he loved these things, the best he could do was to taste them, to kiss them. He couldn't get hard anymore. And on those rare times that he did, Edgar's meager erection would fall apart as soon as the thought of putting it inside a woman threatened to become real.
He didn't even know this man's name. He was a valet. A d.a.m.n valet, and she decided that she wanted him. So, Edgar let her bring him home, but only if he could watch. The tall, slender man was even younger than she was, with an athletic build, smooth, dark skin, and enviable skills. As he pushed into her from behind, he leaned over her, cupped the two teardrop-shaped orbs hanging from her chest, and rolled pink nipples between his thumb and index finger until they sprung to life and grew right in front of Edgar's eyes, like magic.
Bridgette's tousled blond hair cascaded over her face, but she still managed to peek through the strands and gaze deep into Edgar's eyes with hypnotic brown eyes. The other man reached up and slipped a long finger in between her beautiful lips, which she eagerly wrapped around it, and made love to it with her tongue.
”Yesssss,” she hissed, as he drove into her, with long, slow, even strokes.
Edgar sipped on his brandy, and savored the kissing sounds that their bodies made together. Her moans were like music to his ears, and before long, Bridgette forgot all about her husband watching her. Her lover's moans mixed with hers, and there were times when Edgar was so caught up in the moment that he heard the sound of his own voice erupting from deep in the back of his throat, escaping into the air and mixing with theirs.
This was the price he paid for loving young women. Age wasn't kind and didn't give a d.a.m.n how much money he had. But she gave a d.a.m.n. Edgar let her spend his money like there was no end to it, and in return, she would be another man's p.o.r.n star, another man's wh.o.r.e and s.l.u.t. But Edgar-he could watch. Neither of the young people noticed when he exited the room. Edgar quietly left them to their pleasures, and took his brandy with him downstairs to the living room. An hour later, he heard the front door open and close. Bridgette had no doubt been f.u.c.ked into a stupor and was fast asleep and reeking of the smell of that sonofab.i.t.c.h who'd just left.
Lonnie Adebayo knew who he was. Every fiber in his body screamed that to him the moment their eyes met in that restaurant earlier that day. It wasn't just a casual glance across the room. The expression on her face, the way she held that look of hers to his, had said it all. But how did she know him? And what was it that she thought she knew about him? Of course, he'd felt silly for getting so shaken by this. After all, who was Edgar Beckman except an impotent old man and retired lawyer? He was no one, and Miss Adebayo had better figure that out, rather than waste any of her precious talents for fact-finding on him.
The ringing of his phone annoyed him. Whoever was calling was calling so late that it was disrespectful. He glanced at the number, and rolled his eyes. ”Yes, Jordan.”
Edgar didn't bother trying to hide the irritability in his voice, but Jordan glossed over it. ”Frank Ross asked me to meet him today.”
Edgar rubbed sleep burning his eyes. ”And did you?” he asked, unconcerned.
”I did.”
”And?”
”And it's just like I thought. He's a n.o.body, trying to get something to make him somebody.”
”So, there you have it,” Edger said with a sigh.
”I warned him to walk away.”
”Do you think that he will?”
”I don't think he's bright enough to.”
”And you're calling me this late because...?”
”Oh, I'm sorry, Edgar. Were you busy f.u.c.king the brains out of that young wife of yours?” he asked sarcastically.
”Little p.r.i.c.ks grow into big p.r.i.c.ks, I see,” Edgar said coldly.
”Frank Ross mentioned something about going to the press.”
”Let him go,” he said hoa.r.s.ely. It was late, and Edgar was tired, and nursing a decent buzz and wounded ego.
”The last thing I need right now is any kind of controversy in the middle of this Anton takeover. Maybe he won't make a ripple in the media, but then again, what if he does?”
”You said yourself that he's a n.o.body, Jordan. Mr. n.o.body comes out of nowhere and claims to have the same sperm donor as you, who happens to be someone else besides Gatewood, so what? They'll think he's a crackpot.”
”But it'll still be news, crackpot or not.”
”So, what are you asking, son?” he asked irritably.
Jordan was getting a little too used to asking for favors from Edgar. He was a big boy now, old enough to handle his own s.h.i.+t. Jordan was taking liberties where favors had once been the norm, and Edgar was beginning to tire from it.
”I need you to find me something that'll shut him up.”
”Why do you need me for that? Can't you find something on him yourself?”
Jordan was silent on the other end of the phone for several beats before finally responding. ”You make it sound like I'm overstepping my bounds, taking advantage of a friends.h.i.+p.”
”Yes. I'd say so.”
”But isn't that what this friends.h.i.+p is built on, Edgar? You scratch my back, and...”
There it was. Edgar had made mistakes with Jordan. He'd gotten too close, shared too much, let his guard down, thinking that that boy would always be beholden to a sense of loyalty and respect to Edgar by virtue of the friends.h.i.+p he'd had with his father, and because Edgar had been there for all of them, after Julian's death.