The Ex Files (27 page)

A
SIA

“There’s no way I can reach Ms. Thomas?” Asia pressed the receptionist. “I can’t believe she doesn’t have a cell phone.”

“I’m sorry; all I can do is take a message.”

Asia slammed the telephone onto the receiver. She didn’t care what that receptionist thought. She didn’t need those people at Child Protective Services anyway. When Ms. Thomas arrived, she’d just send the woman on her way.

Asia flopped onto the bed. Now she’d have to wait almost an hour. A total waste of time when she needed to be at the gym. But there was no one to blame except herself.

She still couldn’t believe the plan she’d put together. It would have been a mad mess, especially once the media got hold of the story. “Bobby Johnson, Child Molester,” would have been the lead for every entertainment show, every newspaper, every tabloid. Even the radio personalities would have joined in the scandal. Especially that Wendy Williams; she would have put Bobby on serious blast.

Just that thought made Asia moan, “What was I thinking?”

She was glad—not about Vanessa’s dying—but about how that had helped her rise from the fog of revenge. Bobby didn’t deserve what she had planned. Not after the way he’d taken care of her for all of those years. Even at the end, he still came through. Asia could name a list of women who ended up with nothing more than a Big Mac and supersize fries for the time they’d put in.

But Bobby had never treated her like a groupie. She never even felt like his mistress. Right from the beginning he’d gone after her—and her heart….

Chiquita couldn’t believe how easy it had been to make sure that Jamal wouldn’t attend that Lakers party with her. The ditch had been simple—she made a call to a couple of friends, who knew a couple of friends, and all of a sudden, Jamal had a big drug deal going down.

“I can’t believe this.” She’d whined and pouted, giving Jamal the full effect. “But would you mind if I went anyway?” she asked, after an appropriate number of seconds had passed. Not that she cared what his response would be—her name was already on the guest list. She just needed one more favor from him.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go up there with all dem ballers,” he said. “You’ll forget all about me.” He laughed, but Chiquita was a little surprised at how perceptive he was.

“Baby, that would never happen. It’s all about you.” She kissed him, full tongue, pressed her body into his. When he moaned, she said, “Those guys don’t impress me. I hardly watch the games when we go.” Another kiss. “So, would you mind calling and getting Noon’s name on the list?” Another body press. “And when I get home, oh, the things we’ll do….”

Within an hour, Chiquita was standing on Noon’s porch, her hands filled with the designer suit she would wear and everything else for the night.

“That’s my soooong.” Noon waved her hands in the air as Maxwell blasted through her bedroom.

Through the mirror, Chiquita glanced at her friend. In that gold lamé miniskirt and midriff-baring top, Noon looked even more hoochie than usual.

“How are we going to get to the Sunset Room?” Noon asked as she wrapped her blond braids into a bun.

“We’re taking a cab.” Chiquita dabbed a bit more color onto her lips. “I got the money.”

“I know you do,” Noon said. She whistled as Chiquita strutted to the middle of the room and spun around like a dancer. “Where did you get that dress? And how much did it cost? You hit Jamal for that much money?”

“Dang! What’s with all the questions?” Chiquita flung the strap of her Ferragamo bag over her shoulder.

Noon eyed the purse, and looked Chiquita up and down once more. “What are you up to, Ms. Chiquita?”

“And that’s another thing. I’m not Chiquita. Starting tonight, I’m going by another name.”

Noon frowned. “Are the po-lice looking for you?”

Chiquita rolled her eyes. “No! The police aren’t looking for me, but I’m looking for a husband and I plan to meet him tonight.”

Noon laughed, crossed her arms. “Forget about the part where I tell you how crazy that sounds. But even if that happened, what’s this madness about another name?”

“Name one famous, wealthy man who has a wife with the name Chiquita or Aquila or Shaquita or—”

Noon held up her hand. “So what’s your new name?”

Chiquita had given this much thought. Searched the magazines, looking at the model’s names. There was Elle and Cindy, but those weren’t exciting enough. Tyra was nice, but she was an LA girl, too. Chiquita wanted something different, exotic. “My name is Asia.”

“Like the country?”

“Asia’s not a country. It’s a continent.”

“Whatever it is, it’s where my hair comes from. That’s your new name?” Noon shrugged. “Whatever.”

As she tossed the beaded jacket over her shoulder, Chiquita added, “You may want to think about changing your name, too.”

“First of all, ain’t nothin’ wrong with my name.” Chiquita waited for the “and second of all,” but Noon had already turned to the mirror. Was smoothing her skirt over her round behind. “It’s the name my momma gave me,” she finally said.

It was Chiquita’s turn to say, “Whatever.” To her, Noon’s name was as ridiculous as hers. While her mother was just plain crazy for naming her after a banana, Noon’s mother was on a serious bad trip when she named her child to mark the time of her birth. And her full name—Noon Thursday Jones—said it all. But if Noon wanted to go to a party dressed this way, with that name, it was on her. Tonight was all about Chiquita anyway and how she was going to meet somebody’s famous, wealthy son….

Asia rose from her bed, glanced at the clock. Fifteen more minutes—she hoped Ms. Thomas was going to be on time. She hadn’t been to the gym in a week and she needed to get there.

She stretched out on her couch, lay back against the pillows, and remembered….

This wasn’t the kind of party Chiquita expected. She was used to darkened rooms, music blaring, and folks shaking their groove thangs in the middle of the floor. But instead, soft music without voices played in the background while tuxedoed waiters wandered throughout with trays covered with champagne-filled flutes and hors d’oeuvres with names she couldn’t pronounce. But Chiquita couldn’t eat or drink a thing. Close to two hundred people milled about chatting, laughing, sipping—and about half of them were gorgeous male specimens decked out in designer suits, sporting much bling.

“Girl, ain’t this party grand?” Noon said, grabbing more champagne.

Chiquita didn’t share her friend’s enthusiasm as she glanced at her glittering new watch. They’d been at this party for at least twenty minutes and not one man had approached her. Whenever she and Noon hung out at clubs in Compton or downtown, it took five minutes, tops, for the men to begin their chase.

Sure, there were plenty of other women there flossing in body-baring dresses, wearing green-blue-hazel contacts, and tossing back all kinds of long-flowing weaves. But Chiquita knew she didn’t have a rival in the room.
What’s taking so long
, she wondered as Noon slithered away toward another food tray. She glanced at her watch again.

“Can I go with you?”

“What?”

“You keep looking at your watch. I figure that you’ve got someplace you’ve gotta be. I wanna go with you.”

When she turned, she loved what she saw. And with the way he looked at her—like she was a select piece of filet mignon—he was just as pleased.

Her eyes wandered over all six-feet-plus of him and she smiled more. She’d learned her lessons well: his suit was expensive—probably more than a thousand dollars—the kind of material that never wrinkled. And he had style, the way he wore just a simple crew neck shirt underneath. Then there were his shoes—definitely Gucci. Nice.

“You like what you see?” He grinned.

She tried to recall a name to match his face from all the pictures she’d studied. And then she noticed it—the simple platinum circle on his left hand. No wonder she didn’t know his name. “Excuse me.” She turned away.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked, catching up with her. “I was just being friendly.” He extended his hand. “I’m Bobby Johnson.”

Ah, yes
. The superstar rookie. Inside, she sighed. He’d just signed a stupid contract. Too bad she hadn’t met him before he met his wife.

“Nice to meet you.” Again, she turned away.

“What’s your name?” he asked, keeping pace with her stroll.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I told you mine.”

“I don’t know why you did, you’re married.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t do married men.”

“I haven’t asked you to do anything.”

“But you would. Spend ten minutes with me and you’ll be asking me to do all kinds of things.”

He chuckled. Looked her up and down again like he wanted to make her his meal. “So why would my being married stop you? If it doesn’t stop me…” He shrugged.

She tilted her head. “Does your wife know you’re single?”

He laughed. “What she doesn’t know—”

She didn’t share his cheer. “I don’t roll like that.” She stood on her toes, got as close to his ear as she could. “I want my own.”

“Who says you can’t have it?”

“Your wife.”

He laughed. “I like you. You’re quick. And you know what they say about people who are quick. They’re smart.”

“I don’t know who’s saying that, but they’re right about me.”

“Okay, so let’s just have a conversation. Nothing more.” When she glanced around the room, he added, “After we talk, I’ll introduce you to anyone you want to meet.”

She peered at him. “Someone who’s not married?”

He nodded.

“And isn’t dating anyone?”

He laughed. “There’s no one in this room like that. But a girl like you”—he paused, now looked at her like she was a piece of pineapple-upside-down cheesecake—“I’ll hook you up.” He paused, gently took her arm, and moved her toward one of the tables set up for two.

Chiquita could hardly walk. It was the bolt of electricity that sparked through her at his touch that made her wobbly. The current had traveled from his hand, into her arm, and powered through all of her.

She didn’t breathe until they sat. And talked. For the rest of the night. She impressed him with her knowledge of basketball.

He impressed her with questions about her life. Where did she go to school? (She lied—told him she was in her first year at UCLA, figuring he’d never find out she was a senior in high school.) He asked about her family. (She lied—told him that she was an orphan, but that she had met a wonderful elderly woman who lived alone in Compton and sometimes on the weekend, and during the week if her studies permitted, she stayed over to keep the old woman company.) He asked about her dreams, her goals. (She lied—told him she wanted to work with disabled children, rather than the truth, which was that her life’s objective was to marry a man like him.)

When the crowd began to thin (she’d lost Noon long ago when her friend waved good-bye, strutting away on the arm of a white guy who was so tall he had to be a center), Bobby said, “You know what? You still haven’t told me your name.”

She’d lifted his champagne glass, let her lips linger on the edge where his lips had been, and then she took a sip. “My name is Asia,” she said putting the glass down. “Asia Ingrum.”

He shifted his chair closer and she wanted to drown in his fragrance. “Nice to meet you, Asia. Now, I have another question.”

“What?” she panted. There he was, taking her breath away again.

“What are you doing tomorrow? We’re not playing and I want to take you to brunch.” She glanced at his wedding band again, let her eyes linger there. He held up his hands. “I like talking to you,” he said. “So, we’ll eat and chat and…nothing more. Unless you want more.”

She smirked. She’d play along, for the rest of tonight. “Brunch, huh? Where are you thinking about meeting up?” If he said the Four Seasons or the Bel-Air Hotel, she’d have to reconsider.

“Have you ever been to the tallest building in the country? They have a fantastic restaurant on the sixty-seventh floor.”

Chiquita had frowned. The tallest building in LA was the U.S. Bank Tower in downtown. That was the best he could do? At least he was making the good-bye easy.

“No, I’ve never had lunch at the Bank Tower.”

“Bank Tower?”

“Yeah, in downtown.”

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I’m talking about the Sears Tower. In Chicago.”

“Chicago?”

He nodded. “I have a friend who has a private plane and I’m thinking about getting one, so I want to check it out. Wanna go?”

She looked at his platinum band again, the symbol of his commitment to another. Then, breathlessly, she said, “What time should I be ready?”

The ringing doorbell jolted Asia from her memories and she rushed to the door. When she opened it, she frowned. The woman in front of her stood steady, her arms clutching a thick binder.

“Ms. Ingrum?” the woman asked with a smile.

Asia nodded and motioned for her to enter. The woman took short steps; she was just a bit taller than Angel. Asia closed the door, looked down and smiled at the woman.