Flamingo Place. Marcia King-GambleЧитать онлайн книгу.
Ms. Mabel’s letter in Chere’s direction. “What’s your take?”
Chere’s double chins bobbed. She scanned the letter before guffawing loudly. “Uhhh, your advice ain’t going to sit well with the peoples.”
“Why not?”
Because this is Buppyville. We are nothing if not politically correct. These peoples aren’t going to like that you used ‘queer.’ Lover boy might be a player but you telling Mama to get on the Internet and place one of them there ads is meddling, baby girl. No man ever likes the babe Mama chooses.”
“Maybe you should be answering my mail,” Jen said jokingly. “You know how this town operates and you seem to know your way around men.”
“Yup, I sure as hell do. What if Romeo’s gay? You didn’t tackle that.”
Jen chuckled. “Maybe the number of letters from women offering to turn him straight will force him out of the closet.”
“I doubt that. I had me a few of them, even my antics couldn’t keep them on the straight and narrow. Listen, I have to go. Leon will kill me for being late.” She tossed the letters back on Jen’s desk and reached for an oversized Coach bag in a sickly shade of coral, hoisting it onto her shoulder. “Just tell the witch to butt out of a grown man’s life. She should be at bingo or learning to fox trot at Arthur Murray. She needs to get a life.”
Chere wiggled her bejeweled fingers and headed for the door. “Want me to take care of homeboy next door on my way out?”
“I already have.”
No sooner had Chere left than the cacophony next door started again. Jen’s walls vibrated. Her head felt like someone had parked a Mack truck in it and left the motor running. Enough was enough. Jen stepped out into the hallway in time to see a scantily clad hoochie mama exit 5B.
This was no tenant. 5B seemed to get more than his share of action. Women were constantly coming and going at all kinds of hours. Jen had heard the fights, the broken glasses and the slammed doors.
“Call me,” the woman with the belly-button ring said to someone Jen couldn’t see.
A grunt followed before the door closed firmly behind her.
Jen’s Midwestern good manners kicked in. “Hello,” she greeted the woman tottering by in too-high heels.
A disinterested glance was tossed Jen’s way. She’d been summarily dismissed as inconsequential. The music inside 5B’s apartment ended abruptly.
Jen returned to her apartment and decided to get comfortable. She slid into a pair of shorts and a halter top and considered what to do about dinner. There were at least three restaurants to choose from nearby but it was no fun sitting at a table eating alone.
Discarding the possibility of having food delivered, Jen opened the refrigerator hoping to find something edible. She slammed the door again. It looked like takeout was the only option.
The Godawful racket started again. Now it sounded like Middle Eastern chanting. 5B had turned up his boom box full volume again. An Indo rap artist was going on about bitches and whores.
Grabbing the remote phone, Jen punched in the numbers for a soul food restaurant that delivered and shouted her order. She would try escaping the loud music by taking the pile of mail out to the terrace.
Jen’s apartment offered a clear view of the beach. Tiny white lights were starting to twinkle on the opposite shore. On a sigh, she inhaled the smell of brine and thought how lucky she was.
The pounding music followed her outside. This new singer sounded like a cat in heat.
“You just got on my last nerve,” Jen mumbled, tossing the letters aside. “I have a right to a peaceful existence and I’ll have it if it’s the last thing I do.”
Tre Monroe snorted loudly. He was bored out of his skull. He needed constant stimulation. These wannabe artistes were not doing it for him. He’d hoped to find at least one potential star in the bunch, but nada so far.
WARP, the radio station where he was both musical director and on-air personality, was constantly inundated with unsolicited CDs; CDs that he as musical director was forced to listen to in his spare time. Tre had cranked up his music hoping that the lyrics and beat of just one of them would get his attention. But so far the pitiful talent just made him more restless than he already was.
He popped another disk into the player. He’d already had one uninvited visitor show up, a woman he’d dated casually; someone almost fifteen years his junior. At one time the sex had been good, but the conversation nonexistent. He’d quickly grown tired of her and tried to let her down gently, but she continued to hang on.
In a couple of hours he would be on the air, playing his tunes and broadcasting from the only black radio station in town: the happening station. Tre loved fielding calls from his late-night audience, often a colorful and vocal group.
Over the sounds of heavy metal, Tre vaguely registered the banging at his front door. Not her again. Had she forgotten something? Swearing softly to himself, he padded barefoot and shirtless to answer. Security was getting lax. He’d have to talk to somebody about this.
Tre ignored the peephole and threw his front door wide. The woman who stood before him looked like she had a definite axe to grind. He registered that she was attractive and had a great pair of legs. She had the kind of smooth cinnamon-colored skin you felt compelled to touch. Her lips were full, wide and inviting. Streaked, straightened hair skimmed her broad shoulders. High cheekbones and wide hazel eyes gave her a slightly exotic look. How come he’d never seen her before?
Tre’s gaze slid down the woman’s strong body. She was ripe. Her perfectly proportioned breasts filled that halter top nicely. Damn it but those long, shapely legs deserved to be wrapped around somebody, preferably him. He wondered how come he hadn’t run into her before. He would have remembered. When he smiled at her, she did not smile back.
It dawned on him it had to be the new tenant. He’d seen the moving truck pull up and unload a pitiful few pieces of furniture; mostly antiques though, so at least she had good taste. Sheer nosiness had forced him to inquire of the moving men where they were taking them. They’d told him they belonged to the occupant of 5C.
“Is there something you wanted?” Tre asked, staring at the woman. She’d folded her arms across those luscious breasts and now they threatened to spill from the low-cut halter.
“Your music is driving me crazy. I can hardly think. Much less work.”
“Who am I turning my music down for?” Tre asked, his glance sliding over her body again.
She seemed conscious of his assessment but not at all self-conscious. Yet she backed off, putting space between them. “I live in 5C,” she said, pointing up the hallway. “Next door. Show a little consideration. I’m surprised 5A and D haven’t called security.”
Tre narrowed his eyes, giving her the look that usually made women’s legs buckle. He’d been told often enough he had bedroom eyes. He swept his gaze over the tempting piece of flesh standing in front of him, letting his eyes linger for a second too long on the woman’s cleavage, then focusing on those long legs again. And what legs. He’d always been a leg man.
“No one’s ever complained about my music before, baby,” he drawled. “I’ve lived here two years. You’ve been here how long?” One eyebrow arched upward. He was at his most intimidating.
“About six weeks,” his pissed-off neighbor supplied.
“Long enough to listen to noisy altercations in the hallway and develop headaches from that obnoxious stereo of yours. I work at home a couple days a week.”
Tre draped an arm across the doorsill. “Who am I supposed to be shutting down my boom box for? You got a name?” On purpose he’d slipped into the dialect of the street.
5C actually had the grace to look embarrassed. She thrust a toned