He cupped my breasts in his large hands and flicked his thumbs over my hard nipples. “But I do what I have to do to get the job done.”
My mind told me to say no to his date-later-for-sex-now offer, seeing as how I was determined to end this. But then he pushed against me with his hard-on, and my body started insisting, Yes, take the offer. Agree to anything that would end this conversation and get him inside of you.
“Okay,” I said.
He pushed against me again, and I was fixed to die it felt so good. “Okay, you’ll meet me after your show tonight?”
“Yes, I’ll drive over here after my show—”
He entered me before I could finish my promise. I suspected that I had given in too easily. But as the orgasm started to rush over me, I found it hard to care.
. . .
I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled the bacon as we came out of the bathroom. The still-unseen Mildred had left breakfast for us, all neat and prettily presented, on a maple table in the far corner of the bedroom.
There was also a full outfit set out for James and a robe for me with a handwritten note, saying that new clothes would be delivered for me within an hour.
“Where’s my bunny suit?” I asked James, not seeing it anywhere in the large room.
“Paul sent it out for dry cleaning. It should be back around the same time as the clothes.”
I did a mental check of my bank balance and realized that I only had about thirty bucks to last me until next Thursday. But I pulled a pen and my checkbook out of my satchel anyway. “Um, thanks. How much do I owe you?”
“Put your money away.”
“Seriously, how much do I owe you?”
James shook his head. “I’m not sweating you for a few dollars.”
“It costs like fifty dollars to dry clean that suit. More if you took it to a place that will have it back to you in an hour.”
I started writing out the check, trying not to think about the overdraft fees I was about to incur.
“Look, it’s hospitality. I feel bad for making you get your suit dirty—”
I lowered the checkbook. “James, are you really serious about pursuing this . . . this thing we’ve got going on?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m serious,” he said. “You think I work this hard with every girl I meet?”
“Okay, then let me just emphasize my situation to you. I am poor. I am happy, but I am poor. I have college loans. I’ve got rent. I’ve got car repairs. I can’t get used to your lifestyle. I cannot afford to get used to your lifestyle. Do you understand?”
James shook his head. “How long did you say you’ve been living in L.A? Because I have never had to have this conversation with another woman.”
I started filling out the date area on the check. “And how much were the clothes that Paul ordered for me?”
He snatched the checkbook from me and tossed it back into my satchel. Suddenly I wasn’t talking to gentle Andrew McCarthy James anymore. He was bad boy Judd Nelson James, and he looked real mad.
“I’m not going to take your money,” he said with clenched teeth. Then he caught himself. He took a deep breath through his nose and said, “Davie, you’ve got your pride and I’ve got mine. You said you’re poor, and I’m telling you that I can’t take money from the poor.”
I sucked on my teeth. “You mean, not unless there’s a relaxer involved.”
James’s shoulders untensed, and the anger seeped out of his face. “An exchange of goods, yes.”
“So if I wanted to pay you back for the Jheri curl juice . . .”
He laughed. “Hey, don’t sleep. There are still people rocking those curls. Farrell Texturizer does brisk business in certain markets.”
. . .
Over breakfast he asked me, “Did you have a Jheri curl growing up?”