The Next Best Thing Page 15

  Word on the street is that mobsters opened the Golden Ox back in 1946, but true or not, the décor surely hasn’t changed much since then. It is a cozy, romantic little place with dim lighting, dark, wood-paneled walls, and an open kitchen.

  My waiter was an older brother, early fifties maybe, who made my first solo dining experience entertaining and pleasant.

  “What do you name a baby girl with one leg shorter than the other?” he asked, removing my lobster tail from its shell for me.

  I didn’t know the answer.

  “Eileen!” he said, “and her nickname would be Tippy!”

  Corny, but I still appreciated his efforts to make me feel comfortable. In fact, I enjoyed my meal and the service so much that I didn’t even think about Reggie or that he’d had the audacity to abandon me on our date. In fact, that idiot didn’t cross my mind until I was spooning up the last of my tiramisu. That’s when my cell phone rang, and Reggie’s name and number popped up on the caller ID.

  “Can I speak to Tori?” a woman’s irate voice demanded on the other end of the phone.

  “This is Tori speaking.”

  “Hi Tori, this is Shonda. Are you the one Reggie went out on a date with tonight?”

  “If you want to call it that, then yeah.”

  “Well this is his wife, and I really don’t appreciate the fact that your phone number is stored in my man’s phone!”

  “And how is that my problem?” I asked.

  “Bitch, it’s gonna be your problem if I catch you messing around with Reggie. Now, this was just a courtesy call, but if there should be a next time, bitch, that’s gonna be your ass!”

  “Look, you really need to check yourself,” I said, “because there’s not a man alive who is worth all that aggravation.”

  After that, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

  Old girl was really trying to get live.

  Yelling, and calling me everything but a child of God.

  She kept asking questions like, “Where you know Reggie from?” “How did y’all meet?” “Have y’all slept together?” and “Did he tell you that we’re engaged and have two kids together?” but she didn’t pause long enough to get the answers.

  Sister-girl was on such a rant that I could have hung up the phone and she wouldn’t have known the difference.

  Then things really got hilarious when she put Reggie on the phone. “I’m really sorry about all this, Tori,” he said. “I should have told you I was already with someone.”

  Reggie sounded like he was genuinely sorry about the whole situation, which caused Shonda to go off even more in the background. “Tell that bitch you can’t see her anymore!”

  “I can’t see you anymore.” Reggie squawked like a damn parrot.

  “Tell her you’re in love with me!” Shonda demanded.

  “I’m in love with Shonda…” Reggie repeated.

  Squawk! Polly wanna cracker! Squawk!

  I ended the call and did the only thing I could do under the circumstances, which was have a good laugh about the whole thing.

  The minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get even less than you settled for.—Maureen Dowd

  FRIDAY

  My new dating record is now 0–3. Man, I really thought I was a better judge of character than this. Then again, this is what dating and “kissing frogs” is all about.

  I always said I would never be one of those women who frantically run around trying to find a husband like a chicken with its head cut off. Well, never say never, because here I am.

  The truth is, single women in search of their soul mates want every man they date to be “the one” because it is a long process and we don’t want the process/road to be long or particularly painful. So we try to circumvent the process by projecting all our hopes and dreams on one poor, unsuspecting guy who just wants a good meal, good conversation, and hopefully a good lay.

  Just like Yvette told me the other day, They ain’t all gonna be winners, but there is at least one guy out there that has your name on his heart. You just gotta keep going until you find his ass.

  20

  The day following my “date” with Reggie, Simone and I met for green tea and sushi at Kato’s Teahouse.

  The restaurant is a magnificent specimen of architecture that always makes me feel as if I’ve been miraculously transported to Okinawa, Japan, and the zen atmosphere is calming to the spirit, something I definitely needed after last night’s misadventure.

  As is customary for Simone, she wasted no time relaying third-hand information that she thought I could use.

  “I told Fatima about the trouble you’ve been having and she told me to tell you that it’s way too soon for you to be out there.”

  For the past year-and-a-half, every other word out of Simone’s mouth has been “Fatima said this,” and “Fatima said that.”

  Fatima is a life coach who Simone swears is a godsend, but personally, I think the woman is a fraud.

  Simone introduced Fatima to me at a party once, and I’m sorry. I just do not trust a woman who wears open-toed shoes and hasn’t even bothered to get a pedicure. That right there suggests that the woman doesn’t have good, sound decision-making skills.

  Why should I trust her to tell me how to go about handling my life?

  “Wait a minute,” I said, taking a bite of my shrimp tempura roll. “Why are you discussing my personal, private business with a woman I don’t even know?”

  “Fatima’s a licensed therapist,” Simone snapped, obviously irritated that I don’t revere Fatima as much as she does. “And she said it takes at least six months for every year you were together to truly get over a breakup.”

  I did the math: Three years…six months…

  “So I shouldn’t date for eighteen months?” I asked.

  “At least that long.”

  “Hell no! First of all, pleasuring myself has long since stopped being pleasurable, not to mention frustrating as hell,” I said. “And at this point, it’s not even entirely about orgasms anymore. I need intimacy, too. You know? Someone to hold me, and a warm body to snuggle up to in the wee hours of the morning.”

  “No,” Simone said. “What you need is to give your heart time to heal so that you don’t take old emotional baggage into a brand new relationship.”

  Now she tells me.

  “Well if that’s true, why in the hell did you introduce me to Reggie?”

  “Because the last I knew, he was single!” Simone said. “And besides, you were already back out there meeting the same type of fools you were dealing with before you settled down with Roland—not that he was such a great catch, anyway.”

  “Of course it’s easy to say that in hindsight,” I said.

  “Well, truthfully, I knew all along that you and Roland wouldn’t last. And it’s only because ever since I’ve known you, Tori, you have consistently made bad choices in men.”

  “Don’t we all?” I asked, thinking that Simone was sitting just a little too high on her moral throne. After all, Rasheed is extremely gregarious and has the tendency to be a little too touchy-feely with other women at times.

  Me included. He will kiss you on the cheek, put his arm around your waist, rub your shoulders, hold your hand, and Simone thinks absolutely nothing of it.

  “Rasheed is just an incredibly passionate man who loves and admires women,” Simone told me once. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  I don’t know…

  I’ve been at parties where I saw Rasheed getting a little too close for comfort with other women, but I never said anything to Simone because knowing her, Rasheed and the woman in question would actually have to be in the act of fucking before she would even consider that it was not completely innocent.

  Not saying that Rasheed is a cheat, just that I have learned the hard way that it is never a good idea to be that trusting of any man.

  “Of course, choosing the wrong guy is something we’ve all done,” Simone said, dousing a rainbow roll with soy
sauce. “But the problem with you, Tori, is that you are led by your hormones and your emotions, instead of using your head. You only thought Roland was the one, because the sex was good, and because he wasn’t always stealing money out your purse like some of the others in your past.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” I stammered. “Roland had some other…good qualities.”

  “Like what?” Simone asked, crossing her arms like she couldn’t wait to hear this.

  “Well, he was extremely affectionate for one thing.”

  “Affection doesn’t count, because it goes back to your hormones. Try again.”

  “Let’s see…” I searched my mind for Roland’s good qualities, but drew a prolonged blank. Finally, I said, “Fuck it! The truth is he was a conniving, selfish, immature mama’s boy, who was a fraud from Jump Street. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “There you go! Now that is the stuff you should have taken the time to find out before you declared you were in love. Instead, you did what you have always done, which is to fuck first and ask questions later.”

  “Wow!” I said, completely offended. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “But it’s the truth. And as we all know, the truth ain’t always pretty,” Simone said. “But if you really want to get deep, you should schedule some couch time with Fatima.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “Everything ain’t for everybody. Besides, I don’t need Fatima, when I have you to so lovingly point out my faults and shortcomings.”

  Exasperated, Simone gave me a “you didn’t learn a damn thing” look, drank the last of her tea, and signaled for the check.

  21

  Sophie breezed into our status meeting twenty minutes late. Gucci sunglasses shielded her eyes, and she was holding her ever-present venti mocha latte, all evidence of a long night with her latest twenty-something Italian boy-toy.

  The meeting got underway with Sophie offering no apologies or excuses for her tardiness.

  Just rude and inconsiderate. And just one of the many perks of being the boss.

  “Tori, how is the planning for the upcoming breast cancer benefit coming along?” Sophie asked.

  “Everything is all lined up, and under control,” I responded. “We have the models for the fashion show, the caterer, the DJ, the gift bags, and Kay Barnes has been confirmed several times to emcee the event. So, as of right now, there are no foreseeable worries or delays.”

  Sophie smiled at me. “I knew you’d be on top of things, which is why I choose you, Tori, to be in charge of a surprise sweet sixteen bash for the daughter of a wealthy businessman. Sky’s the limit on the budget, which means your commission will be astronomical.”

  Cha-Ching!

  Now that’s what I’m talking about. Big money, plus a chance to redeem myself.

  The first sweet sixteen party Sophie put me in charge of was years ago, back when my career first started. The event was such a complete disaster from start to finish that I was nearly fired because of it.

  That particular event was held in the main ballroom at the Hyatt Regency hotel. The guest of honor was the mayor’s bratty, overindulged daughter, who insisted on a Caribbean theme in the middle of November when most things tropical are out of season. On the day of the party, it was all of nineteen degrees outside and the weatherman was predicting several feet of snow, three of which had already fallen. The palm trees, flowers, and pineapples that we did manage to round up were droopy and not of the best quality, but décor would prove to be the least of my worries.

  Shortly before the party was to start, one of the lighting technicians was electrocuted and had to be rushed to the hospital, and then I found out that the caterer accidentally brought the wrong food.

  Meanwhile, the birthday girl was up in the penthouse suite with some of her closest friends, having a pre-party celebration, which I later found out included marijuana and a couple bottles of Grey Goose vodka. Come party time, the girl was so loaded that when she leaned over to blow out the candles on her birthday cake, she kept leaning forward…kept leaning forward…kept leaning forward…until SPLAT! Little Miss Princess was facedown in the cake—passed out cold.

  Ah, man…That debacle was the talk of the town for months, and to this day is the one and only blemish on my otherwise spotless reputation.

  So of course I’m looking forward to redeeming myself with this one.

  “This family is the crème de la crème of high society,” Sophie was saying. “So we want to impress these people, and have it be shock and awe all night long.”

  “Got it,” I said, writing it all down. “Just keep the good times rolling and make sure this turns out to be bigger than the prom at her school.”

  “Exactly!” Sophie agreed. “Which is why this is your baby, Tori. You know what the trends are, and I trust that you have enough creativity and resourcefulness to bring this one home.”

  “Will do,” I said with a smile. “When is the initial consultation?”

  “Three o’clock this afternoon.”

  “And the client’s name?”

  “Vincent McKinney.”

  I kept smiling, even though hearing that name was the equivalent to being whacked upside the head with a Louisville slugger.

  Vincent McKinney, (aka “super freak”) is the owner of a chain of twenty-four-hour fitness centers, and someone with whom I had a steamy on-again/off-again affair, back when I was young, dumb, and full of you know what.

  He was thirty-four, I was twenty-one, and for me Vincent was that one liaison everybody eventually has where you learn not all that is good to you is necessarily good for you. The relationship was doomed right from the beginning. He was married for one thing, and was cruel enough to wait until I was hooked on him before confessing that he was married with three children.

  Vincent made it clear to me that he did not intend to leave his wife, but he certainly wasn’t against sexing me on the side every chance he got.

  Unfortunately, when you are young and naïve, there is always someone willing to take advantage of your youth and inexperience. This is exactly why older men love younger women, because they know you don’t know enough to realize when you are being mistreated. Being the dum-dum that I was at the time, I went along with Vincent’s infidelity because hey, getting good head is a hard habit to break, and I didn’t see any reason to go cold turkey just because he happened to be someone else’s husband.

  It wasn’t the healthiest situation to be in, to say the least. The affair went on for almost two years, and towards the end, I was feeling so guilty and insecure that I could hardly stand myself. Simone suggested therapy, but I took Mama’s advice and just prayed on it. It took awhile before I finally wised up, but I eventually recovered my self-esteem, and found the courage to break it off with Vincent completely.

  At ten minutes after three, I walked down the hallway towards the conference room, and I could smell Mr. Vincent McKinney before I actually saw him. His signature Fahrenheit cologne never failed to get me in the mood, which is exactly why I did not want to be alone with him in my office, where most of my client meetings are usually held.

  Erin was supposed to attend the meeting to take notes and serve as a buffer between Vincent and me, but she was running late getting back from dealing with the florist on another event. Vincent had already been kept waiting for ten minutes, so I had no choice but to start the meeting without Erin.

  Before entering the room, I paused in order to calm my nerves, and to gather up the determination to remain detached and professional towards Vincent, as if I had never laid eyes on him before.

  I walked into the conference room with my defenses up, and there he was, still fashionably on-point from his Gucci cufflinks and spit-shined Salvatore Ferragamo dress shoes, to his impeccably tailored Purple Label suit with a silk Hermes pocket square and matching tie.

  Vincent obviously makes use of the gyms he owns, because even at forty-four, he still has the chiseled, muscle-bound body of life. His smooth, bro
wn face is as handsome as ever and he hasn’t lost that mischievous glint in those sexy, dark-brown eyes.

  Overall, time has been good to Vincent McKinney.

  The only apparent change is that his hair and goatee have bits of gray here and there.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. McKinney,” I said, offering a handshake. “My name is Tori Carter, and I understand that you want to throw a sweet sixteen party for your daughter.”

  “You look beautiful, Lolita,” he said, opting for a hug instead of the handshake.

  Lolita was Vincent’s pet name for me, and hearing him say it now really pissed me off.

  I quickly backed out of the embrace. “The name is Ms. Carter,” I stated firmly.

  “Oh, well, excuse me. Ms. Carter it is.”

  “Thank you,” I replied coldly, taking a seat across the table from him. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you have in mind?”

  “Well, Dawn will be sixteen on November second, and I want this party to be a complete surprise for her.”

  “And your wife?” I asked.

  “We’re divorced,” he said, rather pointedly.

  I folded my arms and shot him a look that said, As if I care two-shits about your marital status!

  “I meant does you wife—or ex-wife—know about the party for your daughter?” I asked.

  “She does, but Brenda won’t be involved with the planning, which is why I need your help, Ms. Carter. Word of mouth is that you are exceptionally good at what you do, and I was hoping you could work some of your magic on me,” Vincent said, his voice dripping with lust.

  I shifted in my seat to keep from getting all worked up down there.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your daughter’s likes and dislikes, and we can take it from there,” I said, opening my Louis Vuitton portfolio to the notepad.

  “Well, Dawn is a typical teenager. She likes to shop, listen to music, eat, run up her cell phone bill, and hang out with her friends.”

  “Okay…” I said, writing it all down.