Pure Paradise (20 page)

T
he pounding in her head was unbearable. It was one of the worst hangovers of her life. But then last night had been one of the worst nights of her life.

She limped to her bathroom, looking for aspirin or something to ease the pain. She stopped moving and stood thoughtfully in the door frame of the luxurious marble and chrome paradise that was her personal bathroom. Something was wrong. What? Aside from the throbbing headache, she felt edgy. Bad dreams, perhaps. No, something really horrible must have gone down for her to get sloshed to the point of forgetfulness.

The phone rang. She picked up the extension in the bathroom without identifying the caller. “Hello?”

“Hey, Milan.” It was Sweetie. Her tone was somber, like she was depressed. Milan was not in the mood for another lecture about what she should be doing for their mother. “Bad news, girl.”

Milan braced herself for what felt like something worse than their mother’s gardening problems. She still hadn’t made it to the medicine cabinet to find some relief for her pounding head.

“What’s wrong?” Milan flinched. The vibration of her own voice worsened the pain.

“Ya boy Hilton Dorsey ain’t in the lineup with the Eagles,” Sweetie announced with hostility. “Quantez checked it out.”

“I said he was trying out,” Milan defended meekly.

“Rookies and selected veterans already reported to training camp. They had their first practice. The remaining team members are reporting tomorrow; they’re about to prepare for the first pre-season game. Quantez said that Hilton Dorsey is not in the lineup.”

Milan was silent; she didn’t know what to say.

“Ya boy’s been talking a bunch of crap; blowing your head up with lies. He’s still living in the past. Trippin’! He gotta be crazy if he thinks he’s ever gonna play for the NFL again. Quantez said the boy blew out his knee something terrible. Irreparable damage! He says everyone knows Dorsey’s knee injury ended his career. He might have a chance with some corny overseas league, but he told you that he was picked up by the Eagles and that’s a damn lie!” Sweetie sounded furious. And her anger wasn’t over her sister being misled. Milan realized that Sweetie was fuming over the Eagles game tickets that she wanted for Quantez. “Dorsey had to hang up his spikes for good and he knows it. I don’t know why the man is faking like he’s in some big negotiations for a deal.”

Milan sighed. She had no idea why Hilton had concocted the story. In fact, if memory served correctly, it was Hilton himself who told her about his failed career. Back when he first started driving for her, over a year ago, he’d felt the need to explain his humbled position in life and told her that he was a former NFL player and had sustained a knee injury that ended his career.

Yup, those were his exact words, she recalled. So, why was
he so hell bent on getting in playing shape and why was he so upset that Milan had expressed doubt about him getting back in the game?
Beats me!
Football players must be like boxers—won’t believe it’s over until they’re too punch drunk to know right from left. Milan crept up to the marble vanity and slowly slid open the mirrored medicine cabinet, afraid that quick movements would exacerbate her headache.

There were troublesome thoughts flitting at the back of her mind—something far worse than Hilton’s lie. She squinted as she shook out two pain killers into her palm and returned to her bedroom for bottled water that she kept on hand. She spotted the nearly empty crystal bottle next to the bed, evidence that something was really, really wrong. Milan enjoyed wine—only the best when she was out in public, but behind closed doors she preferred the cheap, sweet stuff. So, why had she drunk herself into oblivion with scotch when she abhorred its bitter taste?

“You still there?” Sweetie yelled.

“Yes. Stop hollering, Sweetie. I have a hangover. A bad one.”

“So, whatchu think your lying boyfriend is up to? Umph, pretending to play for the Eagles…that’s pitiful. Quantez was all hyped, thinking we were gonna be getting season tickets and shit until I told him ya man’s name. But he still went online and checked it out, just in case there was a grain of truth to ya boy’s story.”

Under different circumstances, Milan and her sister would have mulled over Hilton’s lie together. They would have tried to make some sense of things, but at that moment, Milan had a sudden flash of memory—and the images that blazed across her mind were downright awful. The FBI had paid her a visit.
She couldn’t remember all the details, but she saw vividly the alarming flash of their badges. What had they wanted? Whatever it was had her still quivering inside. Something about Maxwell! she suddenly recalled. Then it hit her: The dirt bag pervert had faked a plane crash and had absconded with millions as if he needed more money than he already had. Greedy! He was, plain and simple, purely greedy.

And Sumi, the slut, had assisted Maxwell in ripping Milan’s precious salon from under her. It was unfathomable that the little twit was that shrewd, but sadly, it was true. Milan should have seen it coming. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. She’d played with Sumi’s emotions, and Sumi hit her where it hurt. Her bank account.

The feds said she was not and had never been the true owner of Pure Paradise and now her precious salon belonged to Sumi. Sumi! A lowly, fuckin’ assistant had outmaneuvered Milan.

“Milan! Why do you keep zoning out on me? When you gon’ call your lying boyfriend and ask if he’s at least in touch with some of the real players? Quantez had his heart set on those free tickets.”

Milan didn’t know how to respond. Her mind was on something else entirely. “I have to go, Sweetie. I’ll call you back,” she said abruptly and hung up.

She’d lost Pure Paradise. She eased herself down and sat on the side of her bed, trying to come to grips with the uncovered information.
I lost Pure Paradise. My precious business
. Like last night, the pain was felt at a visceral level. Milan could imagine the horror of having Alzheimer’s; she felt like a victim of the disease as she recalled the horror of last night all over again. She continued to sit, without a clue about what she should do.

Check on your money
, she told herself and called her bank.
The representative who took her call was extremely courteous and told her in the cheeriest, most friendly tone that the bank had been ordered to put a hold on her accounts.

“For how long?” Milan said in a weak voice

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We don’t have that information. Normally, we’d tell you to get in touch with your creditors and try to make arrangements on the late payments.”

“I don’t make late payments.”

“I’m aware of that, ma’am. Your case is a federal matter. The government has put a seizure on your bank accounts. All I can suggest is that you be patient and wait.”

I don’t have any money! I don’t have any money!
she thought repeatedly. It was preposterous.
Don’t panic
, she told herself.
Everything is going to turn out all right
. She bit down on her bottom lip.
How?
She didn’t know.
When?
Real soon, she hoped.
Change your focus
, she suggested to herself and had an instant image of Pure Paradise, desolate and padlocked. It was a sad sight, even in her mind.

Milan had to see her business shut down with her own eyes. She showered and dressed and called her driver. To her utter dismay, his phone was disconnected. Damn, the driver was on Maxwell’s payroll. Milan shook her head. She’d have to get used to wheeling herself around from now on or at least until Maxwell was smoked out of this hiding place. After she was granted access to her money, she’d hire another driver. Outside her front door, she released a huge sigh when she saw her Rolls sparkling in the sunshine, untouched by the feds. It was a miracle! Then she remembered they probably hadn’t taken it because it was gift from Maxwell and the title was in her name as was the deed to her home. Thank God!

But her jubilation was short-lived. When she rolled up in the
parking lot of Pure Paradise, she couldn’t believe her eyes. No padlocks, no warning signs that the business had been shut down. The parking lot was filled with luxury cars. And even worse, she could see Royce, his jowls swinging as he smiled, nodded, and greeted the high-society lunch crowd. He was acting as if it was business as usual, meeting and greeting the clients in the manner in which he was trained—by Milan, who sometimes rewarded him by letting him take his twenty-minute break under her lavish desk where he gave her one of his famous lick-downs.

My desk!
Milan pictured Sumi sitting behind her custom desk and felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

If Milan didn’t love her vehicle so much and if she still had money to burn, she would have stepped on the gas pedal and driven her Rolls straight through the plate glass window and plowed Deputy Dawg down, and then driven up the escalator straight to her former office, taking down whomever and whatever was in her path.

Sumi could pull out every martial arts trick in the book, it wouldn’t do her a bit of good. Once Milan got ghetto on her ass, that slimy thief wouldn’t be able to do anything but plead for mercy and beg for her life.

Her delicious reverie was interrupted by the ring of her cell phone, which she had trouble locating in her stunning and rare, oversized Chanel hobo bag. By the time she retrieved the phone, it had stopped ringing. A few moments later, she was shocked to discover a message—left by Hilton.

Nervous and jittery, she could barely remember her passcode. She pushed a series of wrong numbers until she finally got it right. “I’ll catch up with you a little later,” he said in his deep,
silky voice. Hilton paused and released a sigh. “Miss you, baby,” he admitted, his voice dropping even deeper.

I miss you, too!
Hearing his voice was healing. It made her feel tingly and warm all over. She could feel her anger toward Sumi, Royce, and Maxwell dissipating as she pulled out of the lot and cruised into traffic. They no longer mattered. Fuck ’em; her mind was on her man.

W
hen it came to vanilla relationships, Milan didn’t know zip. All of her liaisons had been kinky, adventurous explorations without emotional commitment. Her encounters could be described as sexual skydiving—risky, exciting, and dangerous. She’d had countless fuckfests with both genders. In her world of decadent sex, no promises of true love were ever made.

She could really use some sisterly advice. Despite Sweetie’s numerous flaws, she knew all about love and relationships. Sweetie had a good husband who loved her and their two bad brats. Sweetie and Quantez had been in love since high school. They were so into each other, it was sickening, but Milan was ready to take the plunge and commit to the same type of nauseating devotion—if Hilton would have her. She didn’t care if he had a football contract or not. He could have the position of the team’s water boy and her love would not diminish. Wow! She really loved her some Hilton.
Love
. The word sounded good, made her heart feel good, and distracted her from her problems.

She would have loved to consult with her sister to find out the rules in the vanilla world, but Sweetie would most likely give
her the brush-off or berate her for falling for a NFL has-been. Quantez took his sports seriously and if Hilton couldn’t help him get Eagles tickets, Milan doubted that Sweetie would offer anything other than criticism.

She was so anxious to talk to him; to tell him she was sorry for hurting his feelings. Hmm. Maybe she shouldn’t reopen that can of worms. Should she return Hilton’s call? Or wait until he felt the urge to hear her voice again? She was so green in the rules of love. The last time she’d fallen hard for a man, it was her strict trainer, Gerard. She’d played herself and blown up his phone. He didn’t like being pestered and had warned her in advance to never call unless she was instructed to do so. She’d disobeyed and hounded him mercilessly. Gerard had no qualms about expressing his disapproval. He punished her severely for exhibiting such obstinate behavior. Recalling the hot candle wax that her trainer had dripped on her shaven pussy made Milan cringe.

But that was a lifetime ago. That Milan was a different person, lovesick and submissive. This Milan was in love. She wanted a healthy relationship.

She stopped for a red light and mindlessly watched a couple crossing the street, holding hands. How sweet. She’d never done that with anyone. Public displays of affection were as unfamiliar to her as discount shopping. In fact, anything other than fucking for the sake of getting off was completely foreign to her. She and Hilton had flirted with the idea of being a romantic couple, but she’d blown it before their affair was even off the ground.

She imagined holding hands with Hilton and became instantly flushed and goosebumpy. The light changed and honking
horns snapped Milan to attention. Okay, what did she have to do to be a part of regular society? Get honest. With herself. And with Hilton.

Inside her chateau, Milan dropped her bag and immediately returned Hilton’s call, holding her breath as she listened to his phone ring.

“Hey, baby,” he answered, making Milan feel so welcome and wanted.

“Hi,” she said shyly.

“I want to apologize—”

“You do?”

“Yeah, for acting like a jerk. I acted real immature at your crib the last time I saw you.”’

Really
? She thought she owed him an apology. “That’s okay. I hit a touchy subject. It was real insensitive of me, but as you surely must know, sensitivity is not one of my strong points.” She inhaled. “But I’m working on it, Hilton. I really am.”

“You were keeping it real. Don’t even worry about it, baby.”

Baby
! Oh, how she loved the way he called her
baby
.

“Look, I called because I got some good news, a reason to celebrate.”

Was he celebrating being a water boy? Okay, she’d stick to her promise and support him in whatever he did. Water boy, team mascot, whatever. She knew for a fact he wasn’t on the team.
Do water boys get free tickets
? she wondered on her brother-in-law’s behalf.

“Management is making the big announcement tomorrow, but I’d like to have a private celebration with you tonight. Wanna clink champagne glasses with me, baby?” he asked, his voice low and deadly sexy.

Of course, she wanted to celebrate with him. Whatever he was celebrating was inconsequential.

“Think you could make a trip to…” He paused and then laughed. “Feel like making a trip to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania? I know it’s the sticks…can’t compare to Paris, but that’s where I am and I’d love it if you were here with me. If just for one night.”

“Who needs Paris?” she said sincerely. “I’m there!” She’d be unafraid to show the burning desire, as well as the love that was stored up in her heart. Milan was going to whip it on him. She and Na-Na missed Hilton and Big Hammer real bad. Love and lust were a powerful combination. She’d have to try to control herself because she was liable to kill Hilton, fuck him to death with her overzealous way of showing him love.

Bethlehem, PA—the Eagles training camp was only about an hour-and-a-half drive from Philly’s Main Line, where Milan lived. She did a quick happy dance and mentally started packing. Then her heart sank as she remembered the tote under her bed. With that imagery came the warning from the feds:
“Don’t leave town.”

Oh, shit!
Would the feds consider a sixty-mile trip as leaving town? She didn’t know and seriously didn’t care. She had to be with her man. Fuck the feds. They’d already disrupted her life as bad as anyone could by stopping her cash flow. Could they lock her up for spending the night in Bethlehem? She doubted it. And if they could, so be it. Being with the love of her life was worth a day or two behind bars. And she meant that shit with all her heart.

“What time does the party start?” she asked, her tone playfully flip.

“Are you really coming?”

“I wouldn’t dream of blowing a chance to make amends with you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Shhh. I want to make it up to you. I should have been more supportive of your dreams. And I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Now, tell me…when and where?”

After Hilton filled her in with the pertinent details, Milan hung up. She ran to her bedroom and yanked the tote from under the bed. She replaced the casual wear she’d planned to escape with for slinky and sexy. She tossed out the ballet flats and tucked in a pair of fuck-me-all-night stilettos.

The drive to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania was surprisingly pleasant. She used the time to fantasize about her private celebration with Hilton. Along with the triple X-rated scenarios that flitted through her mind, her heart was filled with love. Sex combined with love would be a strange and exhilarating experience and Milan could hardly wait.

When she finally arrived and strolled inside the hotel lobby, she took a deep breath and touched her heart and then called Hilton’s room. “I’m here,” she said softly, her tone deliberately nonchalant. She wanted to jump and shout with joy, but Milan maintained her composure.

“You’re in the lobby?” Hilton sounded excited.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll be right down.”

Nervous jitters didn’t come close to describing the quivering and quaking that shook her insides as she watched the bank of elevators like a hawk.

She saw him the moment the elevator doors slid open. Hilton exited the elevator, looking elegant and as well put together as a Sean John model coming down the runway. Her heart skipped, her pulse became erratic. He was gut wrenchingly-handsome. Sure, Milan knew the man was fine but she’d never seen him dressed up and looking so debonair!
Whew!
Her coochie caught a quick fit—it got so hot, she was sure that sparks flared up. Milan wanted to bend down and fan between her legs but keeping up a ladylike appearance, she cautiously squeezed her thighs together and extinguished the imaginary flames.

In a dark gray tailored suit, cream-colored dress shirt, a colorful silk tie, and matching pocket square, he was totally GQ. From his low-cut fade down to the high-shine leather shoes, Hilton looked extra fly.

Hilton scanned the lobby, his handsome face set in a serious expression. When he spotted her, he broke into a thousand-watt smile and hurried toward her.

Milan pressed her lips together to keep from giggling like a girl.
Oh, the hell with it; appearances be damned
, she decided and let out a shriek of delight. She was happier than she could ever remember being and could no longer contain her joy. Rejecting any semblance of keeping her cool, she threw caution to the wind and ran briskly to meet her man.

Right there in a public area, they smothered each other in kisses. “You look beautiful. Ooo, I missed you, girl,” Hilton murmured, running a hand over the swell of her derriere.

No Chanel showing, nor the best seats in her favorite restaurant, not even receiving the VIP treatment aboard Maxwell’s private jet—nothing she’d ever experienced had made her as blissfully happy as she felt at this moment.

Hilton beckoned a bellhop. “Take her bag to room 1907,” he said and handed the young man a tip. Then he told Milan, “We have dinner reservations.” He shook his sleeve to check the time; his sparkling cufflinks twinkled in the light. With an arm around her waist, he steered Milan out of the lobby and out to a waiting car. “I tried to get in touch with your driver to tell him to—”

“I don’t have a driver. He quit,” she said and then faked a laugh, trying to make light of the subject.

“He quit?” Hilton scowled, looking peeved enough to punch out her driver. “He just left you hanging? Why’d he quit?”

“I’ll explain later,” she said as the driver of the Lincoln Town Car got out, smiled, and opened the door. Milan slid in and Hilton got in beside her, sitting close. He smelled good, she noticed, enjoying his closeness and somewhat awed that she and Hilton had never shared the backseat of a car before.

Hilton scrunched his lips together, concerned. “And how’d you get here?”

“I drove,” she said matter-of-factly.

He looked surprised.

“Anything for you,” she answered. The sincerity of her words shone in her eyes.

The restaurant was nice enough. It was most likely the best in the Lehigh Valley area. In the past year she’d enjoyed fine dining all over the world but had never felt so at ease and satisfied with her surroundings as she did right now.

Hilton pulled out her chair. This gentlemanly action that was previously part of his job description was now done from the heart. Milan was touched. “Thank you,” she said, enjoying the chivalrous behavior.

“Would you like something from the bar?” the waiter asked.

Milan was no wine connoisseur, but she knew enough to speak the jargon and to choose the perfect wine to complement a meal. Her mind scrolled through her mental Rolodex of words associated with wine:
vintage, crisp, full-bodied viscosity
. Prepared to impress the waiter with her vast knowledge, she leaned forward and fixed her lips to describe her preferences, but Hilton patted her hand, hushing her before she could speak.

“She’ll have a glass of white wine. Nothing dry,” Hilton quickly added, speaking on Milan’s behalf. “In fact, bring a bottle of White Zinfandel.” He glanced at Milan, gauging her reaction, expecting her to protest. She didn’t.

Surprisingly, she wasn’t insulted by Hilton’s take-charge manner, nor did she feel ashamed that he’d publicly exposed her preference for cheap wine. All was well in her world. Hilton could have ordered a bottle of Thunderbird, and she wouldn’t have flinched if the waiter served it in a plastic cup. Milan sent the waiter an agreeable smile and then gazed at Hilton, the sparkle in her eyes telling him that she was happy to defer to him.

“And you, sir? What will you be having?” the waiter asked.

“I’ll have what she’s having.” He winked at Milan. They both knew he preferred beer.

“Thank you; I’ll be right back with your order.” The waiter left.

“Thanks for ordering for me.”

“I hope it didn’t bother you.” he said, unsure whether or not her remark was facetious. “I want you to enjoy yourself, baby. You’re with me. No need to put on airs and to suffer through that dry, nasty stuff you drink when you’re feeling the need to impress.”

“I’ll admit, having a man take charge is a different experience for me, but I liked it, I really did. I found it extremely gallant.”

Pleased that he’d made the right move, he nodded and relaxed in his chair. The waiter returned and uncorked the wine and poured the pale liquid into the stemware.

Hilton held up his glass. “Let’s make a toast.”

Beaming, Milan sat up and uncrossed her legs. Eagerly, she lifted her glass.

Then a somber look crossed Hilton’s face, changing his expression from animated to serious. “To no more bullshit,” he said, his toast throwing Milan for a loop.

Milan’s smile became tight and then faded. Disappointed, she lowered her arm. Stunned, she asked, “What? What are you talking about?” She’d been prepared to hear a romantic promise, forgiveness for her previous bad behavior and unsavory past, an oath of devotion—a long speech pertaining to true love.

“This is a new beginning. Let’s make this pledge. I’m into you, baby, but if we expect to take this to the next level, you gotta cut the bullshit. You have to get honest and start being yourself.”

She’d been fake and manipulative for so long, she wondered if she were capable of getting honest. She toyed with her drink, ran her fingertip around the rim of the glass. Shame whirled inside her. With her head held low, she battled to keep her emotions from appearing on her face.

“You’re absolutely right and I’ve been given a couple of reality checks that have brought me down to earth—”

“Can we make the toast?” His expression was stern and his brash tone cut off her unnecessary rambling.

“Okay.” She raised her glass. “To no more bullshit.” There
was no hesitation this time. Her voice did not waver. What was the point? Her life kept falling apart. Money came and money went. Life was an unpredictable fight and she was bone tired of getting knocked down, clawing her way back up, only to get beat down again. She was weary of the fight, prepared to throw in the towel. She wanted to be enveloped inside Hilton’s strong arms and protected from future harm. His position with the team, whatever it was, didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except being in his life. Milan’s freaky playing days with multiple partners was over. She’d always be a freak, but she wanted to share her freaky sex acts with Hilton, exclusively. She hoped Hilton felt the same.