CHAPTER NINE

Queens, New York

The overall talent of David Turner could be best described as networker. Not only did he scout out vagabonds at Port Authority, not only was he a frequent flier with a few of the hot properties from Fool’s Paradise, but he also had his claws sunk into the web. The Internet was where he came to know Debbie. It wasn’t too long before Moet’s murder that David would finally get to meet his “long lost love.”

It was during an autumn rush hour that David waited there at LaGuardia Airport for Debbie. All he had to go by was a digital photo, loads of e-mails, and almost as many phone calls. All of the technology helped him create a mental picture of Debbie. His perfect 10. And now, he praised his imagination for not failing him as he sifted through the many heads and eyes of the crowd milling up the airport corridor. Debbie was one of the last to emerge. But when she did, David turned on his charm. He called her name, smiled and went as far as the metal detectors to embrace her. Debbie felt relieved within his hug, as though she was soaking into his arms. A perfect fit, thought David. She was shorter than David. Almost a foot. Her Camay skin was just a shade lighter than his own complexion. And even with jeans and a jean jacket on, David recognized her shapely contours. He disregarded her body for the moment (almost certain that it would soon be his to explore), and allowed himself to become a victim to her wide, attractive smile.

“Let me help you with your bag,” said David, as he took hold of her shoulder bag. Then he led the way through the airport lobby, to the baggage area. After picking out 2 pink and black suitcases and then loading them onto a baggage cart, the two glided out through 2 sets of sliding glass doors onto the walkway outside of the airport’s “arrivals” terminal.

David’s jeep, with its dull-platinum finish and worn tires, was parked across the pavement and close to the curb. While Debbie waited by the cart, David started the jeep and maneuvered it backwards and diagonally to meet her at the entrance. Moments later, the couple were weaving through the maze of roads and byways that led out of LaGuardia Airport with Debbie melting into the leather seat and blushing with her big, glossy eyes and round cheeks.

“So . . . finally.” David cut through the awkwardness of their first physical interaction.

“Yeah. Seems like forever, huh?”

“Well, it has been a while since we’ve first met . . . or communicated, anyway. But somehow it seems like we’ve known each other for much longer.” David tried to be as cool and manly as he could, working hard on creating a good first impression. This is what mattered, even more than their year on the Internet and the lil’ chat room rendezvous that frequently took place.

“This trip even seemed like forever,” said Debbie. It had been an hour and a half flight from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. But instead of weightlessness and jet lag, other things occupied her thoughts. To some degree, Debbie felt that she was abandoning her mother. On the other hand, she knew she had only one life to live. And she was determined to live it to the max. For her mom, and even for her brother, Ray Ray. The thoughts in her mind spun once again, and she thought about Jackie.

“Do you know where Ninty-fifth Street is?”

“Actually, I’ve already been by your friend . . . Jackie’s?—house. We’ve met and everything. Didn’t I tell you?” David knew he hadn’t told her. He was just being cute.

“No. You didn’t tell me. What did you guys talk about?” Debbie uttered a hint of jealousy. Tempering her words.

“We talked about Southside Chicago and . . . your old boyfriends.”

“Boyfriends?” Debbie was sure that the neighborhood knew about the high school jock turned college hunk, Robert Bass. But what they knew exactly, she wasn’t sure. And what else did they know that she didn’t know they knew? Debbie was suspicious and skeptical too.

“Well, not really boyfriends—as in many—but there was one guy.”

“Oh really?” Debbie felt a bit betrayed, folding a mood with her arms.

“But Deb, it was all good, baby. She just gave me an idea of the kind of guys you like.” David consoled her.

“Oh . . .” Debbie softened her anger into guilt. His saying “baby” helped a lot, reminding her of their Internet chats.

“Debbie, relax. Jackie can’t wait to see you, okay?”

“Well . . . I just . . . you know us girls.”

“No, not really. What about you girls?” David uttered his lie with a playful sarcasm and a raised brow.

Debbie took a dive into the subject, revealing some of the ghetto in her. David never picked that up on the Net or through the phone calls. It was all nostalgic to him, arousing even. He’d met a full string of attractive women and grew a talent for stereotyping them. Even if they’d hide their characteristics. Meanwhile, he allowed Debbie to be talkative and used the opportunity to take closer looks at her. Great skin. Well kept hair. The perfume was counterfeit, but David could sense that Debbie was trying hard to fit into the groove of big city essence. Even though she wasn’t quite cutting it.

While she conversed with David, Debbie kept an eye on the landscape of Queens. A lot of small homes stood in close proximity to one another. Meager lawns, many trees, and that equal mix of both city and suburban. It almost seemed like back home, which made her all the more comfortable. As they arrived at Jackie’s home, Debbie instantly sized the residence and surveyed the block. The house was a small, brick one-level, identical to those to its right and left. The surroundings were stapled with well manicured shrubbery and lawns. There were no children in the streets, like she was accustomed to on her block in Chicago, and there was a certain ease and seclusion that was infectious.

Before Debbie could pull the lever to get out of the jeep, Jackie came flying out of the screen door, down two steps and through a waist-high wrought iron gate. Debbie hopped down from her seat and they both embraced, each shedding their own silly tears. David unpacked the back of the jeep with that all-systems-go smile, and he followed the two as they chitchatted their way into the house. Debbie fell silent, taken by the atmosphere inside. There were artifacts of every sort on the walls, on the floor and on the tables. The tables and chairs themselves were even cluttered. In a slow-motion ballerina twirl, Debbie became preoccupied with surroundings.

“Hi!” A man about Debbie’s height popped out from the hallway. He could’ve been a young Sammy Davis Jr., with his head so square. Reaching to shake Debbie’s hand, the guy then turned to help David with the suitcases.

“Can I get you something to drink?” The guy was trying to do everything for Debbie all at once. And he barely acknowledged David’s presence.

“Some water,” Debbie answered with the unimposing voice.

“You just have a seat . . . I’ll get you something nice . . .”

The kind man shot a shiny glare and smile at Debbie, and David could smell that something was up his sleeve. Debbie nodded, and she moved towards the couch, folding her ankle under her behind. The two men disappeared into the back of the home.

“That’s Danny,” said Jackie. “He’s Mom’s boyfriend. It’s actually his house. But we’re all family.”

“What’s with all these African artifacts?” Debbie nodded towards a mask on the wall and tall drum with animal skin stretched at its surface.

“He’s into that stuff . . . collecting and all. But you ain’t seen the end, girl . . .” And they went on to discuss Danny’s tofu meals, super-nutrition drinks, mandatory Tai-Chi routines, and the sound effects in his bedroom after hours. Jackie made a face when she explained this, but the truth was that she was just happy that her mom was compatible with someone. The idea that her mom was getting the guts boned out of her in the next room was not as outrageous as the fits that she’d go into during her lonely spells without a steady man. A win-win-win situation, if you asked Jackie.

Settled In

A week went by before David had opportunity to see Debbie again. The vibe was kept warm with a phone call here and there, but there wasn’t that same “Internet feel” about things. David was busy anyhow; inconsistent. Never content with any one woman. In fact, he was manipulating much more than he could handle. Eventually, however, David came back around. On a chilly Friday evening, David pursued his promise to show Debbie a good time. His idea of a real good time was thwarted somewhat, because he’d encountered some unexpected sexual satisfaction just an hour or so earlier. But the date was already arranged. And so, even though he was spent, he went through with it. David just had that insatiable appetite for more and more.

“It’s a surprise,” was all he mentioned to Debbie, as they traveled northbound on the Grand Central Parkway. David actually had two surprises up his sleeve for Debbie. But for now, he was feeling that total control as he commanded his Cherokee over the Whitestone Bridge and through the toll. Unbeknownst to Debbie, David was headed for a full course menu of crab legs at JP’s, one of the dozens of fish restaurants on City Island. But once she got in the restaurant . . . once Debbie sat down in front of her plate, she ate like a whale.

“Damn, baby! Where you puttin’ all that?” David asked while assisting with a nutcracker, breaking the meat free from the crab’s shell, dipping it into the red, spicy cocktail sauce and then feeding it to her directly. For David, this was nothing new; he’d been here plenty of times before with one chick or another. It was actually a while since David had been to JP’s, and he’d almost forgotten how incredible the food was. But for sure, he had been to almost every restaurant on the strip with his crab-feeding, his under-the-table foot games, and the oyster slurping. Deep into his game, Debbie sucked it up like a sponge.

“Well, just how adventurous are you?” David’s question came after their dinner, while they were traveling away from City Island, northbound on the Hutchinson River Parkway.

“Pretty damned adventurous, David. I can handle most things, if you don’t recall; I’m a Chi-Town girl.” Indeed, Debbie seemed excited enough to get into anything, so David took a shot.

“I don’t know . . .” said David.

Then Debbie said, “Try me.”

“Okay. Close your eyes.” She did, expecting David to maybe reach over and fondle or kiss her. She braced herself for anything. Almost.

David had no such thing in mind. He was close to the Pelham exit of the Hutch. He glided up the off-ramp as if by gravitational pull, made a left, caught a few traffic lights and parked.

“We’re here,” David announced. And with the motor still running, he relaxed in his seat, watching Debbie open her eyes to have a look around. Disregarding the various auto body shops that lined either side of the block, Debbie eventually zoomed in on a crowd that lined up outside of the entrance. Swinging over their heads was the bold and bright sign that read:

GILMORE’S

FOOL’S PARADISE
The Leader in Adult Entertainment.

Having no idea of the usual Friday night frolic that took place inside of the club, Debbie smiled inquisitively at David while her hands stretched out in front of her to her knees. Bashful, but game.

After a quick U-turn, David took a vacant parking spot. He ran around to open the passenger door for Debbie and upon closing the door, armed the vehicle’s security system.

“Bleep-bleep.” The alarm called the attentions of many men who waited in line to pay their $10 admission. And that was just fine with David as he took Debbie’s hand, arrogantly stepping ahead directly to the entrance. Debbie tagged along, in a black, short skirt and a matching blouse. The material clung to her body like cellophane wrap, merely outlining her breasts and curves with somebody’s fabric. The excitement, attention and evening chill further provoked the impressions of her nipples through the clothing.

As usual, David displayed his familiar savvy at the entrance, attracting Jimmy’s attention and preferential treatment in front of the eager crowd. Upon entering the club, the atmosphere all but sucked the two in, how electric it all was, with wall-to-wall people. Most of the focus was on the main stage where Sadie was twisting her body to the club banger, “Over Like A Fat Rat,” and tossing smiles to as much of the crowd as possible. She was sweaty and glisting. Her attitude was convincing and her dance moves driven. While Sadie captivated the customers, the bartenders and bouncers were politicking to increase their own popularity or stake in the game. Bartenders leaned into individual customers with concern and interest, while bouncers put on their bold veneer of Superfly and Superman, impressing one and all (or trying to) in their muscle-stretched STAFF t-shirts. All the while, two adjacent stages promoted similar hustles, with 2 dancers on each, vying for their own audiences. In the front corner of the club, Gil was counting singles for a customer. And behind that customer was another who also wanted singles. Above everything else, the DJ and his music, the movie screens featuring X-rated films, and the colorful streams of light that flickered throughout the club, made Gilmore’s a completely electrifying experience.

David was jaded, accustomed to and no longer impressed by the euphoria in the club. Instead, he proudly weaved through the crowd, showing off his new friend, until he reached the VIP area. As an elevated area in perfect view of the main stage, the VIP section was enclosed by decorative wooden railings and accommodated five tables with respective seating. One table still had two empty seats, which David and Debbie quickly occupied. With their backs to a mirrored wall, the two looked on at the heat in motion. David was comfortable; Debbie, on the other hand, was new to this, set in her own moment of silent shock, and yet mesmerized by all the various activity. No words were exchanged as David bopped his head to the beat of the music, hoping that it would rub off on Debbie and that she would grow just as comfortable. He could see that she was apprehensive about this “surprise” and he refrained from looking her directly in the eye. Instead of facing the honesty of the circumstances, he asked her if she wanted a drink.

“Could you suggest one for me?” Debbie replied.

“How about a . . . a rum and Coke?”

“Cool.” Debbie suddenly twisted her smile into a tight grimace, realizing that David was leaving her alone. Now, she could feel more comfortable! With arms folded, she let her eyes wander. Various areas along the walls in the club were occupied by groups of women, mostly in bikinis or negligees, with just about every one of them shamelessly hunched over, with their hands clenching their knees to brace themselves as they grinded up against the groins of those customers behind them. Those same men kept a tight grip on the dancer’s love handles, hips and even their breasts. On the movie screens above, various porno flicks were showing. In one, a man and women were humped over and under each other, bobbing and bumping into each other’s pubic area.

At the table next to Debbie were three men and a dancer. They paid that girl their undivided attention, each working hard to strike up meaningful conversation. Debbie peeped the girl concealing a yawn, which when they locked eyes, almost made the two giggle.

Debbie Meets Moet

Moet sat with drink in hand, legs crossed, with her attention on the porn flick. Close enough to touch, Moet eventually focused on Debbie and they smiled at one another.

“First time?” Moet asked.

“First time here? Yeah. You?”

“Nah, honey. Like, 10 years in this game. Started when I was like thirteen. I had blessings.” Moet wiggled slightly in her seat, squared off her shoulders and pushed out her chest to emphasize her “blessings”.

“. . . But you know, the suckers never seem to disappear.” Debbie tried to suppress her laugh, knowing how the three men were within listening distance, but Moet made it easier with her own deep, jolly cackle. And Debbie joined in.

“I’m Debbie.” Debbie reached out her hand.

“Okay. And I’m Moet,” and the ladies both shook hands. “My real name is Nadine, but please call me Moet.”

“Ten years, huh? Wow. Do you like it?”

“It’s a living. I wanted to go to college, but the money got so good that I stayed with this. Sometimes I wish I went to school. Other times, I love this shit. Depends on the time of the month, I guess.” The two laughed.

“What’s the money like?” Debbie was curious.

“I do well . . . sometimes fifteen hundred, sometimes two Gs.” Moet pulled a cigarette from a new pack and offered it to Debbie. Debbie raised her hand to say no and Moet put the white stick to her lips. One of her customers played humble servant, flicking at his lighter again and again; on the fourth try, a short flame popped up.

“Baby, you need to step your lighter-game together, fo’ real.” Moet brushed her admirer away and turned back to Debbie.

“A month?”

“No. A week.”

“Wow. The club pays you that much?”

“No. The club doesn’t pay, boo. Most of my money is in tips or bachelor parties.” Moet sucked on the cigarette and released a relieved stream of smoke into the air.

“You thinkin’ about gettin’ down?”

“I’m just visiting, really. But the money sure sounds good.” Debbie looked back towards Sadie. She was now pressed up against the mirrors on the wall behind the stage, arms extended, jiggling her shiny ass in rhythm with the music. The DJ mixed in “Encore” while, one by one, men stepped to the stage and tossed singles into the growing pile.

“Your . . . good love . . . deserves . . . an encore!”

“That is the jam,” Debbie testified while Moet sang.

“Don’t get me wrong, girlfriend . . . I make that kind of money . . . she makes that kind of money . . .” Moet pointed to Sadie with her nod. “. . . But she doesn’t make our kind of money.” Moet had directed her remark towards Claudine, who was nearby at a table on the main floor, practically begging with excessive fawning and flashing. Just then, Debbie could see that David was making his way back to the table with two drinks in his hands.

Moet also saw David coming. That’s when she said, “Listen. I don’t know how you got with that loser, but if you want to make some real money, meet some real men . . .” Moet fumbled quickly for a business card. “. . . call me.” Debbie squinted, disturbed by Moet’s comment. But David was back at the table by now. He curiously acknowledged Moet, as she did him, and he passed the rum and Coke to Debbie. The couple spent the next hour watching the excitement of dancers wiggling, gyrating and touching themselves in front of a capacity crowd of about 200 anxious men. Debbie tried to count the shower of money that fell at the feet of the dancers. By 1AM she lost count.

Back in David’s jeep, he attempted to feel her out. For the most part, despite the euphoria that consumed her mind with images and sounds from the club, Debbie was quiet about the experience. She couldn’t shake the comment from Moet. She kept thinking “loser” and “real men.” But her comments were contradicted by David’s actions and words. The Internet, on the phone, at the restaurant. He was so polite; a gentleman. He was humorous and seemed to know a lot. All those months that Debbie had invested, believing that he filled voids for her. And his poem . . . David’s poem set a fire in her heart. Nobody ever wrote or said anything so beautiful to her. Somehow, she found herself looking for a crack in such a perfect picture. Was he putting on an act?

The trip back to Queens was a confusing one. Debbie didn’t have those same romantic feelings that she had earlier. She easily dozed off, awaiting the view of Jackie’s house. She needed to know more about David before they went any further. She had let him get close to her heart, but did she really know him? Moet would tell her more, of that she was sure.

A quaint kiss and hug ended the night. But the next morning brought questions and concerns that couldn’t escape Debbie’s every thought. She had grown so callous because of the various nightmares back in Chicago and feeling the weight and responsibility of achieving in the name of the Rose family. Part of that responsibility meant being in good hands and on the right path.

Moet.

The business card Debbie received didn’t even have Moet’s name printed. There was simply a phone number in glossy, raised black print, in the center of the card. Considering Moet’s blessings, less was certainly more. When Debbie finally connected with her, the two agreed to spend the night out. Moet provided the transportation, driving her brand new Mercedes Benz. They made small talk on the way to Moet’s favorite restaurant, Mobay in Harlem. The journey was a short one, past LaGuardia Airport, over the Triboro Bridge, through the toll and down 125^th Street. Moet double parked outside of the popular Harlem hot spot, which had already developed an early crowd. Unusual for a Saturday night. Many other sporty vehicles were also double parked in the vicinity of the restaurant.

Moet and Debbie stepped proudly towards the Mobay entrance, like celebrities deserving of fanfare. They blended into the night, a part of this impeccable Harlem night. Before Moet had a chance to step through the doorway a homeless man with dark clothing and crusty hygiene ran up as if to accost her. Debbie gasped under her breath, but then she realized that the scruffy man was offering to keep an eye on the car while they were inside. Moet always kept her car clean anyhow. Cleaned and polished. She also had a silent alarm built into the vehicle that was designed to alert the cellphone on her waist. But the guy was polite and humble and convenient for Moet to impress her present company. Without haggling, Moet agreed to let the guy take care of her car while she and Debbie disappeared inside of Mobay. The homeless man scurried to retrieve his bucket and rag.

Quickly becoming a cornerstone of Harlem’s dining and nightlife, Mobay was suitable for Moet and Debbie to have a heart to heart talk. Tevin Campbell’s classic song, “Can We Talk” was playing just loud enough to encourage customers to lean in for a little more intimacy in their conversations. Bartenders and waiters bounced from one patron to another, wearing neat black and white uniforms, pleasant attitudes and blending evenly with the buzzing, humming crowd. Every one of the seats, it seemed, was occupied. Some drinkers were standing shoulder to shoulder with one another for even more personal discussion.

Moet and Debbie made their way through the musks and perfumes of the thick, well-dressed crowd, and into the dining room where reserved seats were awaiting them. A maitre d’ greeted the ladies and escorted them. Table candles were lit throughout the room, flickering about the faces of diners and silverware in use. Fine art hung about the walls. A few ceiling fans and flowers on each table and excellent Caribbean food completed the authentic and genuine dining experience.

A waitress readily stepped up to hand menus to the ladies and suggested the fish of the day. After ordering drinks and finding themselves in their own intimate sphere, Debbie thought it as good a time as any to ask some questions.

“What’s it worth to ya?” Moet tried to break the seriousness in Debbie’s face. “Just kiddin’ . . . loosen up, girl. He’s just a man. I deal with men everyday—I damn near have a Ph.D. in the field.”

“So I’ll ask you again . . . what’s wrong with David?” Debbie sipped at the glass of water that the waitress poured for her.

“I think he’s a user. That’s another way . . . another word for a pimp.” (Debbie visibly gulped her water.) “That’s right . . . I said pimp.”

“What makes you so sure?” Debbie asked, a bit defensive. Chaka Khan’s voice was now romancing the establishment.

“You mean, besides seeing him with a different girl every now and then? Girlfriend, listen, the guy’s a fuckin’ pimp-wanna-be-mack, whateva. He even tried to fuck me. He tried to . . .”

“So that’s what this is about? Cuz y’all didn’t hit it off, I’m s’pose to turn his lights off?” Moet restrained herself, aware that nearby tables were too close for her peak emotions.

“It’s not even about that, Deb. I’m bein’ upfront with you. You don’t need him. Not as a boyfriend, not as a pimp . . . girl, he’s not even good enough to be a man.” Moet eased her attack, faced with Debbie’s frown. “I’m tellin’ you some good shit, Deb.”

Moet reached across the table and placed her palm over the back of Debbie’s hand, offering compassion. Not a second later, they were disrupted. The waitress laid down their drinks. Debbie had a rum and Coke, while Moet lived up to her name and had champagne.

After their red snapper dinner and some flirting at the bar, the evening’s excitement escalated with a trip downtown to The Shadow nightclub in midtown Manhattan. Moet’s Mercedes was extra shiny (well worth the $5 tip she’d paid outside of the restaurant) and it attracted some appreciation from the long line outside of the club.

It was now 1AM, and Moet knew that she was playing with fire. The club usually sold out by this time on Saturday nights, and the crowd was body to body along the ramp ascending towards the entrance. She rushed into the adjacent parking lot, paid the attendant and encouraged Debbie to get a move on.

“Come on. I know the doorman,” Moet said. And just so, the two avoided the crowd thanks to Moet luring the doorman with her half naked body.

Once inside, Debbie could feel the drone of house music thumping and bouncing off of the walls and floors and ceilings. She felt her heart beating like a jungle drum under her breast as she looked up and out into the dark, captivating rotunda. Colorful strings of laser lights shot out into the fog above a sea of ethnic men and women. Heads bobbed and eyeballs roamed, while people wandered to and fro in their endless search for companionship.

The heaviest concentration—where most of the body heat was focused—was the large dance floor in the center of the club, where men and women shook and wiggled and dazzled one another. Blending the rhythm with some attitude was DJ Sugar Daddy, currently spinning the classic Colonel Abrams hit, “I’m Not Gonna Let You,” and thrilling the venue of mostly 30-somethings. One behind the other, Moet and Debbie worked their way through the crowd of bodies, to different areas and designated rooms. In one of those designated rooms reggae music encouraged women and men alike to wind and grind against one another. Some men were standing back against pillars, or up against walls, merely observing the activities instead of actually participating.

Leaving the reggae room was like walking through a sound barrier or time warp, with the reggae and club music clashing, the beats and tempos conflicting and the vibrations at war with one another. From that room, the two climbed a case of stairs to an intimate wing on the second floor. To the left was a jazz room where the mood was smooth and mellow. To the right was a glass-enclosed balcony, complete with couches, cocktail tables and a few intimate couples. From that position those couples had a glass-enclosed, unobstructed view of the crowded dance floor below. Moet and Debbie occupied a table and soaked into the obscurity of the dimmed atmosphere, and they too looked down over the sea of heads on the dance floor below. Although the music was muffled to a low hum, the vibrations still thumped and bumped and penetrated the walls and floors throughout.

The night was just an ongoing movement for Debbie, now with this latest head rush to help her to forget the concerns at the top of her list; like suddenly feeling alone in New York; or like not being financially stable; and most of all, there were David’s deceptions that somehow persuaded Debbie to veer from her mother, and from her wants and desires for a successful future. All of these concerns were now so easily whisked away, or at least subdued by the ever-intriguing Moet. She seemed to have influence with all the right people in all the right places. Yes, her acquaintances were mostly men, but from all walks of life. She had what Debbie was beginning to crave. Control.

That late night on the way back to Jackie’s house, Moet pulled over into a service area on the Grand Central Parkway.

“Everything is . . . yeah, everything is fine. I just wanted to stop for a minute.” Debbie shrugged at Moet’s answer and sank back, relaxed in the passenger’s seat. She settled into a mood of calm, with her eyes closed and her mind on the pleasant, infectious sounds of Tony Toni Toné’s “Slow Wind,” playing on Moet’s Alpine sound system. Moet leaned over into Debbie’s own field of warmth. Her lips barely touched Debbie’s, prompting her to jolt and draw her head back wide-eyed and dumbfounded.

“Moet!” Debbie seemed more amazed than shocked. Suddenly folding her arms over her breasts, she shrank into the soft leather, at a loss for words or actions. Her jaw simply fell open.

“Relax, Deb. I like you. Just wanted to get with you closer—you know?” Moet maintained dominance, with her arm extended, resting behind Debbie’s neck next to the headrest. Yet Moet held a concern in her eyes. She didn’t appreciate the rejection. Nor did she expect it—not from anyone.

“Don’t you like me?”

“Yeah . . . but . . . Moet?” Debbie widened her lids inquisitively. Her way of confronting a taboo. “I’ve . . . never . . . I mean, you know . . .” She tried to explain with open palms. “. . . like . . . been with a woman.” As if these were words she was expecting, Moet placed her fore and middle fingers to Debbie’s lips.

“You don’t have to explain. I understand.” Moet maintained control over Debbie’s senses, now reaching over to the volume dial on the car stereo. You could hear a pin drop, the car turned so quiet. There were also those faint “zips” and “whooshes” of speeding vehicles darting past on the parkway. The force of the wind budging the vehicle ever so slightly.

“Close your eyes for me and relax. Let nature take over.”

Moet leveled her serious eyes, and the moment made Debbie shiver a bit. Debbie also felt her nerves pricking under her skin and her lungs pumped harder and deeper breaths as Moet touched her fingertips to Debbie’s lids, guiding them closed. Now, with that full feeling of the unknown, a wave of heat flushed Debbie’s body. Moet rolled her fingers down along her cheek, then her lips, and on down her neck until she grazed Debbie’s stiffened nipples. Debbie’s whole body was stiff. Her nostrils flared—the result of sensations shooting through her . . . of being touched so delicately. Moet now had all of the girl’s breast in her hand. One hand on Debbie’s; the other on her own. Then she moved in and pressed her lips to Debbie’s. Debbie’s eyes twitched as if they were anticipating eye drops, but she slowly gave in and relaxed under Moet’s pressure. She found comfort in the moment; a security and warmth that she’d been missing for so long.

Moet became more aggressive, prying into Debbie’s lap and then her panties. It came to a point where Debbie jumped defiantly. Moet had gone too far. For now, anyway. And still, Debbie attempted to save face, saying, “This is . . . this is moving too fast for me. I . . . I need time.” With puckered lips and eyes full of desire, Moet backed down. But behind her eyes Debbie could see some promise, as though she didn’t want to chase away the future of this potential relationship. Relationship? What am I saying? And, now that Moet’s intentions were clear, is this the reason she said those things about David? Moet didn’t even need to try hard to provoke Debbie to change her mind about David; she discouraged her just enough, and then extended her own invite.

In all of New York City, there couldn’t be anyone more confused than Debbie was right now.