CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Deal or Die

The days passed by slowly in the beginning. But in time, they glided by as nothing more than irritating pimples. Douglass had grown callous to all of the monotony. The shouting, jingling keys, electronic sliding gates, three square meals and the stand-up counts were now presumed as a way of life. However temporary. Communal living, warehousing, slavery . . . call it what you will, Douglass had successfully landed in this new world. He had so far survived the worst of it all with no suicide attempts, no extreme depression or nervous breakdowns. It was hard, but he handled it hard.

There was a T.V. in the big day room where he was left. He ignored the conventional soap operas and Seinfeld sitcoms, but highly appreciated Soul Train on Saturdays. T.V. was the only medium of entertainment next to loud, boastful banter that inmates slung around on a day to day basis. And Douglass wasn’t claustrophobic by any means, but it was a survival course just to breathe. His first day was merely a challenge, how he was vying for air in the tiny holding cell with all those men smoking. And later, when that goon tried to “punk” him in front of other prisoners. But those wouldn’t be his biggest tests.

Douglass’s personal items consisted of a towel, a small slice of motel soap, and a 2-inch toothbrush. (The toothbrush wasn’t the usual length because if it were any longer it could be whittled into a knife or dagger.) The slim pickin’s he was issued to wear were not interchangeable, and there were no laundry services. So getting into a crusty shower only to change back into the same dirty clothing was fruitless. The best Douglass could manage was to lounge in underwear while his hand-washed shirt and trousers dried. And nobody would dare steal his drying laundry since word got around that he knew kung fu real good. “Knocked that Newark cat right on his ass,” they were saying.

The hand-washing continued almost every other day, just so he could feel clean. As time went by, a prisoner here or a prisoner there would get bailed out or set free by a judge, leaving scraps of excess clothing or linen (resources!) behind for the daily scavenger hunt. So accordingly, Douglass learned to make ends meet with time. Fortunately, he was tall and lanky enough to handle the frequent climbs up and down, to and from the top of his three-man bunk bed. It was either that, or sleep on the floor with ten or fifteen others. It had been a long first weekend at the jail. And looking at things with some novelty made all the difference in the world. To write down as much as a note to the doctor, a pen or pencil had to be smuggled from a prisoner with better privileges. Douglass got hold of one, but he couldn’t write a letter since he had no stamps with which to mail one. So he got creative and produced a chess set. With the back of some other paper scraps that he ripped into shapes, Douglass fabricated the game of strategy and even taught one or two others how to play.

The meals were always generous. That much he appreciated. A thin, black man was quarantined by the rest of the room—visibly gruesome, with pock marks and lumps scattered about his face and body. He had discolored skin, and he was constantly coughing and vomiting. Word had already spread about him: AIDS. Another thin, white man constantly needed insulin and extra food. He even had a doctor’s note that ordered him to have a second portion of food at each serving. Prisoners stayed away from him, too. A few days passed and Douglass was moved along with a group of others to a fourth-floor pen. He was surprised that there was an elevator to lift them there. Such luxuries included elevators, electronically controlled doors, and steel doors and gates to protect everyone. Any time prisoners were near to passing one another, a corrections officer made one stand with palms on the wall so that there was no free-flowing communication. Besides that, all movement was announced by accompanying officers into their all-empowering tools of confidence—their walkie-talkies; anchors which were held onto like life-preservers.

On the fourth floor, Douglass was assigned to 4B—one of three cages. The various cages were sectioned off by steel doors and electronic gates, creating one huge octagon of confined areas. There wasn’t much difference between the conditions at the jail and a zoo, so far as Douglass could tell. And at the center of the octagon, with a hallway that looped all the way around, was an officer’s station, positioned up a platform and enclosed with unbreakable glass. Behind that thick glass, an officer controlled prisoner movement with switches, buttons, clipboards and phones.

Cell 4B didn’t differ much in comparison to the first-floor day room, but for an extra TV, more three-man bunks, and a warmer climate. There was a lived-in element, evidenced by the makeshift clotheslines and scattered personal effects such as legal work and articles purchased from commissary. Cigarettes, candy, cosmetics, etc. Unlike downstairs, where nearly everyone was a newcomer, and nobody was permitted to smoke, the occupants in 4B were long adjusted to the jail. They stared at newcomers with great curiosity and evaluation. Part defensive, part intimidation, one was either made to feel at home or snubbed as if they didn’t exist. Since Douglass was both a newcomer and from a different state, the label of outcast might have fit him well, except that the word had gotten around. Yeah, that same old tale about the kung fu and the beatdown on the first floor. The notoriety was apparently good enough to make him an attraction, and in no time other prisoners were bringing things to him. Stamps, excess underwear, commissary items; he was even given another inmate’s lower bunk. So much came to him so fast that you’d think he was the Pope here on a yearly visit.

It took a couple of weeks to settle in and to discover his own way of doing this time. He could see that 95 percent of the prisoners were locals, caught up in local trends, and he sat and watched them, inconspicuously, of course, just to figure out how to penetrate the psychological mechanisms. In one of his routine phone calls home, Douglass asked Demetrius to mail in some photos. Demetrius didn’t understand why, but carried out the request nonetheless. There were 50 photos that came; and they featured an array of celebrities and shapely females to serve as incantations of success. Once all of 4B got a whiff of Douglass’s associations with international icons of music and entertainment, and with the most popular porn stars in the world, he became a phenomenon at Passaic County Jail. And once the word spread throughout the jail, other prisoners were sending Douglass notes for one reason or another: “Yo, I heard you a big willie up in New York. You know that nigga, Binkie? I need to reach that nigga bad, and I know he into the skin market deeep, like you.”

“Yo, I heard about you in the newspaper, man. I got connects out here, so lemme know if you need somethin’. Anything. Word.” Douglass was getting these types of letters every other day, and that made him more or less a big fish in a small pond. He quickly earned greater bargaining rights than before, however whimsical. The drug dealers, bank robbers and violent offenders couldn’t match the fame that Douglass lived on the streets. And he can kick ass, too? His was the type of notoriety that couldn’t be bought. Moreover, it couldn’t be denied. Now, he was beyond welcomed. He was more than gifted with fresh, clean clothing, underwear, slippers, stamps or extra food.

More introductions were conjured. Some common ground was established, which enabled him to cross lines of race, age and nationality. But, although Douglass settled in, the minor comforts weren’t getting him out of jail. And they weren’t helping him to breathe better either. Out of the hundred-plus men in 4B, ninety or more of them were chronic smokers. In Douglass’s bed assignment, the bottom of a three-level bunk bed, he could cover up, blanket over his head, and he was still planted in the midst of a thick fog of cigarette smoke that followed breakfast, lunch, dinner and persisted throughout latenight conversations. He wanted to complain. He wanted to move to some no-smoking area of the jail. But he kept his beef to himself. No sense knocking a good thing in the ass since he knew for sure, no matter how popular he had become, these men were stressed. And there was no way they were gonna give up smoking for a short-term visitor. Instead of bitching, day after day, for weeks, Douglass would erect his own makeshift tent with a sheet, attempting to shield himself from the deadly cloud. But it was pointless. There was no escape. On occasion, Douglass was near suffocation, tearing and coughing with ferocity before the buildup of smog eventually dissipated. A visit to the jail’s physician went nowhere. The doctor even hid his name tag when Douglass threatened to call on his attorney about the problem. And speaking of which . . .

Douglass’s appointed lawyer was unreachable on most occasions, and had no answers on others. A bail hearing eventually brought the bond down to $350,000. Douglass felt that the judge was unmerciful for a reason, and that she had ultimately pigeonholed him because of his dark skin. The experience for the most part, the smoking and the legal turmoil, were similar to sleeping on a nail. With each passing week, for over six months now, the nail had become less and less of a discomfort, and more and more of a mere formality. The bottom line was that Douglass had to deal or die.

Mechelle coped with her position as just another dancer. Half naked, in the same ol’ murky setting, with men fawning all over her by night and going to bed manless by day. She was growing tired and unexcited by her circumstances. After three months, she began to show. Her tummy could not be concealed any longer. She quickly threw together a resume and persuaded her way into a position with Bosuer Products, a creamy-white makeup company down in midtown Manhattan. They respected her, valued her and made her feel at home as their receptionist and gofer. She began to appreciate the standard of receiving legitimate paychecks. She grew more and more able to cope with her newfound independence without Douglass. Now, she had something more important to rely on other than a man. She had herself! Go, Mechelle! This was her very solid excuse to avoid visiting Douglass in jail. And his phone calls were even becoming inconvenient as she was out more; at the doctor’s, at pregnancy classes or with friends that were lending her a hand during this very lonely time.

“Let me ask you something, Mechelle. What’s more important, that damned job . . . or me?” Douglass asked her pointblank on one particular phone call.

“You.” She hesitated and still answered cautiously.

“Well, then why can’t you get your ass down here?” Douglass heard himself shouting, but muffled the volume as best he could, with so many ears close to him. Mechelle hung up on him when he paused for her reply. That infuriated him more. She left the receiver off the hook. It wasn’t replaced until the next day when Demetrius found it on the floor. Mechelle quickly moved out, according to D. Douglass assumed that she’d be back, after all, she was pregnant, and she’d pulled this “leaving” thing before.

Still Ticking

In contradiction to the turmoil that Douglass faced, and the various tragedies that were connected directly or indirectly to Fool’s Paradise, the energy of the club persisted. Income was still strong and consistent. Gil was in his usual routine; in the office with his choice for a quickie, or else falling asleep cuddling a bottle of Guinness Stout as he stood overlooking the various club activities. Sometimes he’d be the cashier in the box office window, accepting ten-dollar bills that were pressed down into the stainless steel tray. Then seconds later, he’d swing out of the box office window to see that the doorman was doing his job properly, taking the admission ticket from the patron. The same ticket was then handed back to Gil. This confused routine was a comfortable one. One that offered Gil the security of that total control. The same security that he in turn surrendered when he explored his sexual adventures behind closed doors.

A bizarre freedom persisted inside of Fool’s Paradise when Gil was back there tucked away in his office, between some young dancer’s legs. The absence of true organization and control made stealing easy. Douglass couldn’t even do anything about that before all the drama with his arrest. Now that he was away, shit was really buckwild. In essence, the young Gilmore’s original vision was never further from its mark. Even with the bouncers, dancers, bartenders and eventually the customers doing as they pleased, the popularity of the establishment continued to grow, with the biggest porn stars in the world endorsing the joint, and the lap dancers still drawing those crowds. Drink prices increased to $6. Even lap dances grew more expensive. Pushovers like Claudine were lucky enough to make $2 or even $3 when they took a customer to the wall, pressing their big balloon behinds into the guy’s groin in a senseless quest for friction and an imitation of sex. But the top-shelf dancers like Sadie and Valerie were getting $15, $20 and more for the same dance. The top-shelf girls were so captivating that a little wind in a man’s ear might make him explode in his trousers without so much as a brush against him—well worth that top dollar. This was why men came to Fool’s Paradise in the first place; not simply to see the spectacles, the thrills on stage . . . but to touch some of it; to interact. To be touched and to feel the sensation all the way up until (and almost as if) they’d reached an orgasm.

Tony really didn’t have any new statistics or methods to report to his Capo. There was little to explain; a club, some music, drinks, and a lot of black girls. Tony couldn’t figure out how all those women were drawn to Fool’s Paradise. He knew about the booking agencies. But what they sent in emergency situations was nothing close to the quality of women that showed up on their own. Tony wondered how the club became such a magnet for them. He could only stand around, buddy up with Gil, observe and remain consistent. Eventually, he expected to impregnate the sudden success with some loan sharking and some other vending contracts. It was clear to him that the Biancos would have to make more money off of the establishment, but Tony was challenging time. The time he was investing at the club versus the time it took for his investment to grow. On top of that, he was handling other deals and scams to meet his quota of $5,000 a week—money he was obligated to bring back to the family.

For now, Gil wasn’t accepting loans. He was in a cash-rich position. So, Tony came up with an alternative plan: he planned to open a similar club, one that would be bigger, better and more exciting than Fool’s Paradise. And shamelessly, he’d open the club across the street. Surely, such an attraction would lure the best dancers; and pay them more. It was a brilliant idea! That is, from Tony’s mouth to God’s ears. The question was, would the boss go for it? This was quite a proposal he was thinking up. His biggest ever for the family.

“This is Brenda Feather, signing off. Hoping that your news is always good news . . . ” The channel 5 theme music for the nightly news jingled along to a close as Brenda shuffled and shifted her notes, waiting to walk off the set. She was focused for most of the broadcast, until the sports segment came on. “Ken Stevens this, Ken Steven that . . . ” Home runs. RBI’s. The bid for MVP of the playoffs. The many accolades just enhanced Ken’s image; the physical one that swept her off of her feet. Brenda reviewed a number of magazine articles. She watched a stream of video footage and couldn’t help but to imagine and fantasize how one day she might be Mrs. Stevens. And that one day might come real soon.

The playoffs were in the final game (in the best out of five series) when she first had the opportunity to meet and interview the hot baseball superstar. Brenda even led herself to believe that it was her inspiration that caused Ken to hit the game-winning home run. Ken was known to shorten his interviews to 15 minutes, allowing for the preservation of his integrity. Hopefully then, the press wouldn’t have the opportunity to build him up just to break him down. And everybody in the industry knew the press could slam dunk a man due to any trivial foul. Ken was already hip to the “slam dunk strategy” that was put on his sports colleagues like Mike, Michael, Dwight, and Magic. And it wasn’t that sports icons didn’t ever error in their ways. It was how the media had exploited those errors, even the tiny ones, as if they were international catastrophes. As if jocks weren’t human. But things were different with the Ken Stevens interview. Ken gave Brenda a whole hour! She should have expected that, though, considering what she went through to prepare. She wore her favorite Kente pullover top. It was mixed with mudcloth and merged with tribal colors and patterns. She wore a pair of tight, black cotton leggings that hugged her ass and calves just right. And to accent that, she wore Cowrie shells, strung on a choker necklace of black leather strands and fixed with elaborate, brass medallions. Brenda did her best and succeeded at maintaining her on-camera composure. But whenever Ken moved his lips it was as though she could feel them on her—whenever. Every second of the interview was a tease for Brenda, as her loins curled and her folds turned moist between her clasped thighs. Right there in the studio, bright lights and all, she was getting hot flashes. She was going through more than facts and figures during the interview. More than dates and accomplishments, or the euphoria of the playoffs. It was there on the set that Brenda was wide open, with nostrils flaring. And it was also there that she decided she would become that extra umph in Ken’s life. Beyond the fame, the money and the notoriety, she’d become everything else that he needed in the world.

The Cat Gets Out of the Bag

So now, a few months into the off-season, Brenda thought it might be a good time to approach Ken from another perspective. Hers. Maybe he’d appreciate that she was interested in him, outside of the media hype. After all, he did give her his home number—of course, it was supposed to be business related. But maybe it was an invite. What the heck! You only live once, she ventured. And that attitude had Brenda scurrying through the production area of the newsroom, headed for her office. She organized her desk, poked at her Blackberry for Ken’s number. It was at that point, seeing his phone number, that Brenda got warm once again. Determined now, whatever it took, she’d get closer to Ken. She grabbed her Gap wind-breaker from the back of her door, flicked the light switch and returned the endearing waves from the production crew, suddenly appreciative of the admiration which she’d earned as one of New York’s top anchorwomen.

If they only knew how horny I am!

In the parking garage, secluded from the hype and tah-tah of her own celebrity status, Brenda made the shameless call to Ken. There was a half a minute of jazz on his voicemail, nothing more. Brenda guessed it was Charles Mingus. Orange-something, she recollected. Waiting for the beep, she keyed the ignition and turned it enough to activate the car stereo. There was a Mint Condition CD in the player.

“Put your head on my pillow . . .
And just relax . . . relax . . . relax . . .”

Her favorite old-school song was a fresh reminder of the luxuries that she’d worked for. She lowered the volume, surprised that Ken immediately returned her call. A pleasant shock. Her fuck it attitude remained strong, and she laid it on the line. A late nightcap, she called it. How ’bout Birdland, on Forty-fourth Street? Brenda suggested. Ken seemed a little shook, but he went for her spur-of-the-moment get-together. It was a Monday night. A brisk winter evening, no wind. The streets were ashy from the city’s salt throwers of the past weeks. The moon was full, set against a clear, black and blue sky. Stars appeared to be as close as they were far. Meanwhile, Brenda commanded the smooth streets with her trademark platinum late model Lexus GS, soaring up 57^th Street and down 9^th Avenue as the traffic lights disappeared behind her. The night seemed to flow for her, with street lights brilliantly reflecting down onto the hood of her vehicle. So slick and presumptuous, she caught a slight chill, wondering what the hell she was doing, cornering a horny jock in midtown Manhattan for a booty call. Perhaps it was the lingering church-girl that was asking the questions. But as Brenda pulled up to the curb at Birdland, the devil had the upper hand, reminding her of her physical needs. She shifted into park and pulled the rearview mirror to check her makeup. Her evening wear was nothing but the routine broadcast fashion. Nothing near to what she wore on the day she first interviewed Ken, but would it matter? She pondered. Her black, meshed blouse was low enough to hint at her head-turning cleavage, and it played well against her black brassiere. The combination that was “flat” enough for the hot lights in the studio, but it was also provocative enough if close-up with a companion. Brenda also had on a matching skirt that barely concealed her thighs. Whatever the weather, whether Ken wanted to test the waters, or if Brenda needed to merely entice him some more, she was ready for business.

By the look of things outside, considering the open parking spaces and half empty parking lot across the street, it was an intimate Monday night at Birdland. Brenda adjusted her bra and pushed her healthy breasts up a little before she hopped out of her ride. Then, as if she had an important appointment, she bleeped her car alarm, glided through the entrance, and easily melted into the opulence, soft music and warmth of her favorite jazzy spot. The maitre d’ escorted her to a rear enclave of the establishment where Brenda found comfort amongst an arrangement of couches and tables that were visible by candlelight only. She ordered a light salad and a Perrier water while she waited for Ken. Waiting and anticipating. A 3-piece band was working on stage, apparently overwhelmed by the opportunity to play at “the world famous” Birdland. In the meantime, the warm-up tunes they played amused Brenda to the degree that her nerves were soothed with her body sucked into the ambiance. She smiled at the intimacy here; the audience wasn’t thick and cumbersome, but average and sentimental to every element. Couples in the sunken dining area by the stage, and singles at the bar were all caught up in the mood that carried throughout the room. They were even too caught up to notice the tall, determined figured that suddenly slid through the front entrance. However, Brenda didn’t miss him. She already had her radar up for the ever-so-casual Ken Stevens. Although she had to admit that his attire tonight complemented her own. He had the white turtleneck, the black blazer, and the black denim jeans. When he got closer she also peeped the wing-tipped, snakeskin boots. Ken had a palm-sized cell phone clenched in one hand and he wore a white baseball cap with the NY insignia low, just above his brow. Now the movie that she played over and over in her mind was coming to life—Ken nodding and whispering to the maitre d’; Ken being told where his guest was seated . . . Ken gliding across the carpet, directly towards Brenda.

Brenda inhaled as if to pull the tall, deliberate and masculine Ken Stevens ever closer to her. And for an instant, she could read his walk and expression; how he moved as though he knew himself, his capabilities and his wants. She hoped it wasn’t an act and she exhaled once he neared the table. He was now in her zone. She welcomed him with a kiss on the check; close enough to the lips to offer promise.

“Thank you for coming out on such short notice,” she said. And they chatted briefly about the atmosphere and the music of Birdland. Eventually, the conversation eased into the evening’s broadcast. A post-season story, and that hint of contract renewal. Ken addressed the subject like it was a secret forthcoming soap opera episode. Yet, in so many words, Ken made it clear that he couldn’t discuss the issue at all. Meanwhile, Brenda watched his lips, smiling at him with her eyes and winking at him with her mind.

Don’t worry, big boy. I’ll get it out of you.

After some hot apple pie and cocoa, with the jazz winding down into the 1am hour, Brenda turned her head from the stage to catch Ken staring. It caught her off-guard and she feigned modesty and crunched her shoulders in with a slight giggle. The reaction, she felt, was overdone. But it was too late now. She was feeling like she was in college again; that dizzy, weather girl wannabe. But, at least she had his interest. And damned if she was gonna let that go.

“Wanna get out of here?” By Brenda’s suggestion, the two left for Ken’s place. She told him that she’d never been to a village loft and was looking forward to the experience. Maybe more than that.

And in their black and silver toys, the two complemented each other as Brenda followed Ken’s Navigator down 42^nd Street to the West Side Highway. They raced each other playfully, aware that the road was virtually empty, until they reached Green Street, next to New York University. Is Ken tasting from the fountain of youth? Brenda wondered as she rolled down and into the garage behind him, the sub-level of Ken’s building. He explained that he owned the entire property, but that he only occupied the top floor—a penthouse overlooking the Hudson River. The first through third floors were leased to artists, performers and fashion designers.

As the garage door automatically lowered behind the vehicles, Brenda’s eyes adjusted to the smear of lights that bounced off of a dozen or so vehicles that reached into the farthest corners of the basement and gave a fair indication of the massive length and width of the building.

“Yours?” Brenda asked after parking aside of Ken.

“A boy’s gotta have his toys,” was his reply as he led her into a freight elevator.

“This is the only way to get from floor to floor,” Ken explained, very much into his property. “Unless you wanna use the long staircase to the side. And, trust me, you don’t ever wanna walk from the basement to the penthouse.” Ken pulled a gate across and reached up to tug at a strap until it pulled down half of a heavy, steel barrier. An identical barrier simultaneously lifted from below until the two parts met like closed lips. Brenda watched the ease with which Ken executed the process, wondering to herself (suddenly feeling captive) if she could do it like Ken did.

As the car moved slowly and silently up, and to break the uncomfortable silence in the car, Brenda expressed her awe of Ken’s living arrangement. It was so rough and rugged. No personal driver or bodyguard, she noticed. No doorman or red carpet treatment at home. And that turned her on even more so, besides being the only other thing they hadn’t discussed besides sex. She talked enough to fill the void until they reached his penthouse loft. Ken went through the motions again, this time in reverse. The steel lips separating, revealing a dark cavernous room, with only blacklights in the far reaches, glowing against various framed artwork. The paintings were illuminated at different intervals throughout the loft. And the only navigation in the room was the reflection and hue from the art, along with the moon that glowed down through a huge picture window at the outdoor balcony. Tiny red indicator lights could be seen about the facing, some electronic devices here and there—all of this building an anticipation for Brenda. She couldn’t wait for the lights to reveal all.

As Ken stepped from the elevator and onto a section of red-pile carpet fit for a king, the sensors reacted from the pressure of his foot, activating a series of mood lamps throughout the loft. Prerecorded music also began to play over the Bose speakers that were posted in various areas of high ceilings and expansive walls of the loft. Gothic, was Brenda’s first impression of Ken’s habitat. Her second impression was hulking. She could see that he liked to live large. She had a career full of Donald Trump sensations, Presidential invites, and at least one Kennedy interview—the extended family that is, but until now, she just didn’t know what large really was! Ken never exposed the true size of his world, and she never realized his absolute financial influence—how eccentric, excessive, and monolithic—until she came to his house. From the white Italian marble floors, to the towering ceiling and tanned granite. Part of the cavernous loft was sunken, with broad Aztec rugs, an enormous couch of suede and plenty of throw pillows. All of this was the setting facing a six-foot fireplace. Only Paul Bunyan could soak up so many abundant luxuries!

A graceful, spiral staircase, with birch-wood treads and rust-colored iron, led up to a study that overlooked most of the loft. From the study, a walkway ran against the wall (opposite the entrance) and afforded access to tall, sliding glass doors. Outside was a balcony that contained an in-ground pool below, as well as the best-ever view of New York City’s twinkling lights in the distance. To the left of the entrance, Brenda could see a hallway. She was free to explore the stretch, and in doing so, discovered the kitchen and dining area. She could’ve fainted! Above those rooms, at the top of a hidden staircase, there were a couple of bedrooms; guest rooms, Brenda reckoned. Further sniffing lured her to Ken’s fairytale master bedroom. Cast-iron pillars spiraled up like four thick branches, leading to those high arches from which white chiffon was draped on either side. Adjacent to the bed was a huge, velvet curtain with golden tassels and ropes. Brenda was almost afraid to open them. But when she did, she was smacked with a higher-than-high, breathtaking view of the large living room down below. Just over the balcony, she could see where she had entered. Above where she stood, a 25-foot movie screen was tucked up to an angle, apparently commanded by some electronic remote that called it to swing down into vertical use. There was also a walloping, black wood stove to the side of the bed on a pad of ceramic tile.

Brenda had all the intentions of concealing the impression Ken had on her. However, that idea went out the window along with every other possible prevention of falling, sinking, or submitting to the awesome realities and freedoms of the Ken Stevens universe. She wanted to dive onto the bed! She wanted to swing on the railing, and dance up and down his spiral staircase! And if Ken wouldn’t take possession of her in every possible way, then she hoped that his home would!

Standing on the balcony, still soaking this all in, Brenda was rattled when Ken snuck up from behind and clasped his hands around her hips. He eased up even closer, brushing the small of her back with his bulge. Brenda began to relax, in his arms, and they just stood there, king and queen, discussing things. The conversation graduated into talk of groupies, the many what-ifs and myths about sex, celebrities and . . . well, just things that a top anchorwoman wouldn’t expect to discuss with a celebrity bachelor. At the two o’clock hour the two toasted, clasped wrists to sip at their drinks and dissolved into one another’s lips. Brenda almost spilled her martini. Ken took hold of the drinks and then, he took hold of her. Eventually, he spread her out on the floor, amongst the pile of pillows in front of a blazing fire. All of Brenda’s defenses and pretenses were abandoned. She didn’t just feel submissive, she wanted to be submissive. Either that, or else she had no other choice but to be caught up in the spell, serving him unconsciously. But then, Ken must have wanted her that much more, because the way he took Brenda . . . he took her as if he had something to prove. He grabbed her and worked her body as if she was new, foreign, undiscovered land to conquer and claim. Again, again and still again, Ken robbed Brenda of all her sensibilities. He turned her out! Even as he spent all of himself inside of her, he desired more. And she was just as delirious and mindless with her own responses. Out of control, still writhing from Ken’s incredible abuse of her, Brenda extended the post play, nibbling at his torso, nipples, genitals and even his toes. The teeniest bites built to a crescendo of salacious slurping and sucking. Every plateau excited Ken more, not expecting Brenda to turn out this freaky; freakier than he’d ever imagined! Even as freaky as a groupie! And just to think, he saw a church-girl in her.

Brenda fell half asleep somewhere between his thighs and his ass, not even aware when Ken got up to shower and complete his nightly rituals. Through watery eyes, Brenda later imagined that Ken was way across the loft, in the study, with a lamp over him. Writing? A question mark twisted in her face. The last expression of the night.

She was the first to wake the next morning. 10am. And like a thunderbolt just struck, she jolted, thinking she’d overslept her errands and duties for the day ahead. Yet, that sudden impulse that woke her was merely a pinch of reality. She wasn’t dreaming. She’d lain with Ken. No. She fucked Ken like she’d never fucked anyone else. Like she’d never fucked anyone in her dreams! Not convinced, she told herself, “Hell no.” The truth was, Ken really fucked her. And he did it like a triathlon athlete. But then, he had to get out of the bed and write? Brenda was a maze of desperate emotions with the morning’s daylight disturbing her peace. She rose from under Ken’s draping arm and eased over to the window to fold the blinds upwards—pushing the “pause button” on Mother Nature’s sunny wake-up call.

Brenda jumped into the shower, slipped on a pair of Ken’s boxers and a clean, official baseball jersey over her bare breasts. She investigated more of Ken’s living quarters. The kitchen, the bathrooms, medicine cabinets and eventually the study. Ken left a book. . . . a journal open. Maybe he fell asleep writing and carelessly left it exposed. Or perhaps it was there for her to discover? To find out certain things?

Naw . . . Ken wouldn’t be that extreme.

With the very little daylight that bounced down through the balcony doors onto the marble and up to the study, Brenda peeked through Ken’s written entries. His latest entry was both anemic (for its lack of depth or meaning), and robust (in its passion and sexuality), describing how excited he was about a relationship with a real live news anchorwoman. He was actually more into her than she even realized. There was talk of her perfect shape, her sparkling eyes and dark, bronzed mane. Brenda was a toss-up between satisfied (with his interest in her) and abandoned (by his open-mindedness.) And—

How dare he document my blowjob! Fuck! She felt violated. But on second thought, this was his personal journal. Wasn’t he able to write what he wanted? Brenda gazed over towards the balcony and bedroom in the distance. Ken had turned over, but was still asleep. She began to flip back through the days, weeks and months, very interested in Ken’s other trysts, or even his feelings during the playoffs.

There were two or three others. She was afraid of that, still curious as to who she was sharing him with. There were relationships in Atlanta, L.A. and New York. In New York, surely of specific interest to Brenda (because of location), a dancer named Moet was noted in the journal. Realizing that he was detailing accounts with a topless dancer, Brenda found herself flipping too fast, skipping pages and hoping to stumble on some juicy revelations. Her heart pounded as she flipped back to the latest entry and worked her way backwards.

Ken was surprised about the dancer’s murder. Okay. Brenda’s mind continued to spin. Was he really surprised or was he just keeping notes to cover his ass? He knew so much about Moet. Did he kill her? Moet is Nadine Butler. Brenda recalled news coverage with one side of her brain and calculated Ken’s involvement with the other. Damn! Ken Stevens . . . the Ken Stevens was involved with a murder victim! Coincidence?

Aloof with reckless excitement, Brenda flipped back through the journal. There was a skirmish with a white man after a long night with Moet—a date with Moet and a friend.

Camay from Queens, Ken wrote.

Wow. Brenda felt she’d stepped deep into a treasure chest of answers to life’s most pressing mysteries, and that the map to some hidden secret was opened there in front of her. She’d forgotten all about the playoffs. And now, she even felt uneasy about the sex from a few hours earlier. That was all pushed aside by her ambitions for a hot story, and the improprieties of how she was getting it.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” The journal fell to the floor, swept there with the rush of paranoia that drove through Brenda’s body. Ken was towering over her, just a few feet away, at the top of the spiral staircase. In most other circumstances, a half naked man—tall, available, and wearing a frilly pair of boxer shorts, would be enticing; inviting. But Brenda was dead wrong here . . . and she was the one in violation, not Ken.

Fear (with a capital F) filled the space between the two. Distress pumped Brenda’s heart faster still, until Ken spoke again.

“I’m shocked at you, prying into my personal life like that. I feel so . . . so violated.” Ken approached Brenda, her expressionless face, and he casually picked up the journal to replace it on the desk. Capitalizing on the engrossing shadow that he represented, hovering over Brenda like a vulture, Ken leaned down with his nose inches from hers. His approach was peaceful, harmless even, but it made Brenda even more uncomfortable. What her shower washed away returned with a quickness to her armpits and the folds between her thighs.

“I . . . I just . . . it was opened and . . .”

“You know what this means now, don’t you?” Brenda was as still as stone, shaking her head slowly and unknowing. “Lemme show you.” Ken lifted Brenda like a casualty and her arms circled around his neck submissively. He carried her carefully down the steps, maintaining a playful expression of utter disgust. Brenda was calmed by the warm embrace of Ken’s strong arms, still holding her wrongdoing in her eyes. Across the main floor and back up to the bedroom, Ken placed Brenda down (as though she were his prey), on top of their soiled sheets, and he assaulted her with the wicked smile of a nemesis. Intrigued, but not afraid, Brenda put her palm to Ken’s chest.

“You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

“You’ve been a bad, bad girl, Bree. Where I come from, bad girls get punished.” Ken pressed himself past her ounce of prevention and growled, then barked loudly.

Brenda’s body jerked with fright just before Ken dug his teeth dramatically into her neck while restraining her hands with his—overpowering her to the point of surrender. Just enough to make an impression on her skin, Ken continued growling and snorting and gnawing as if he were Brenda’s personal bloodhound.

“No! No, please . . .” Brenda wriggled underneath Ken, her eyes widening, her face smiling with pleasing anguish.

“Ken! Pleeeease don’t leave any marks. Oh, Ken, pleeeease—ahh!” Half screaming, half shrieking, Brenda was helpless and pinned against the silk sheets. Ken adjusted himself on top of her. Lowering himself as if to enter her. He pulled Brenda’s wrists to her sides, and began nibbling, biting and teasing her nipples through the jersey. Now straddling her, with his knees forcing her arms against her waist, Ken sat lightly on her pelvis and began beating his chest Tarzan-style. He let out a roaring, echoing yelp, as if he had just transformed into the American werewolf. Brenda gasped, not knowing whether Ken would eat her whole or just ravage and rape her. Either way, she didn’t mind.

“Now. You dare invade my privacy?”

“Ken. Stop. I don’t know what you’re about to do, but you’ve got me pinned. I can’t do a thing. I shouldn’t have looked through your journal. I’m sorry,” Brenda pleaded, seriously wondering if Ken was a killer. “What do you want from me? You’re scaring the daylights out of me!”

“What do I want? You’ve just violated the most personal, intimate details of my life. Who the fuck do you think you are?” Ken changed from jest to no-nonsense.

“Ken . . . I’m sorry . . .” A convincing tear spilled from Brenda’s eye. “Just tell me what you want—I’ll do it.” Brenda didn’t see the excitement forming in Ken’s boxers.

“Slave hours. You owe me three slave hours.”

“Slave hours?” Brenda wiped her cheek against the sheets.

“Yes. You do . . . as I say.” Ken’s fists went to his hips. Brenda’s tongue poked around under her left cheek while she deliberated just how extensive her penance would be. Then she silently agreed by giving in. She let herself go, not really wanting to hear Ken’s commands, but obediently complying to every beck and call. Brenda was Ken’s sex slave for more than an hour, and she loved it. Exhausting not only every possibility, position and taboo, but her energy as well. In so many ways, Ken was Brenda’s breakfast.

Ken allowed Brenda to nap into the 1 o’clock hour, while he made waffles and turkey sausages. It was late, but it just seemed politically correct to have breakfast. The sweet aroma woke her, as Ken stood over her overworked body with a tray of edibles. She hid her guilt of the prying and the slave labor by busying herself, smoothing the sheets and tossing the baseball jersey back onto her naked body. Ken went to retrieve another tray for himself and they both sat comfortably on the bed facing each other, hungrily feeding their appetites.

“Listen . . . I really am sorry I went through your personal stuff, but I just couldn’t help noticing . . . umm..Moet. The dancer.”

Ken continued chewing, thinking about all he wrote in the journal and what possibilities could’ve come to Brenda’s mind. He spoke through the food. Casually

“What about her?”

“Ken, she was murdered. You obviously know that.”

“I do.”

“And you’ve been speaking with Detective Wade on the subject.”

“Mmm . . .” He let off a sigh, neither agreeing or denying.

“Alright . . . let me be perfectly honest with you . . .” Brenda wiped the sausage juice from her lips. “If there’s a story here, and I suspect there is, I’d like to get first dibs.” All sincerity surfaced in Brenda’s face as she maintained eye contact with Ken.

“And that’s why you’re fucking me? For a story?”

“Ken! I did not know about your relationship with Moet until a few hours ago. You’re not being fair; I’m with you because I wanna be . . . I loved every minute I’ve spent with you. Every minute.” Brenda let some ghetto slip through her all-American TV facade. “I’m not with you for a story, or for any other reason but to be with you. Can’t you respect me that much? Do you think I’d honestly go through with your slave hours if I didn’t feel something for you?”

“Sounds good anyway.” Ken was still for her convictions, but then went back to his waffles; unaffected. Brenda pushed her tray aside and reached to take the fork from Ken’s hand. She set it down and moved the tray in one swift motion, before she adjusted herself so that she’d be sitting in his lap with her legs around his waist. She also draped her arms around Ken’s neck, close and intimate enough to feel him exhale a maple syrup scent into her nostrils.

“Listen to me, Mr. Stevens. Mister star pitcher and marathon fuck of my life. Can’t a career woman have the same insatiable desires that the groupies do? Can’t I want you, have and do you because you fine . . . not for some ulterior motive? Can’t you see me for me, and not a woman with a title and a mission? Maybe I was wrong to talk shop with you so early, but my instincts want the story. My insides want you. So if you want, we can forget about the story. That’s my day job. But you? I want you for my night job.” Brenda followed up with an all-out tongue-in-his-mouth assault on Ken. It wasn’t meant to be convincing, but it did convince him. Brenda was a flying free spirit now, just letting herself go. Breakfast got cold as they became preoccupied with other things; like part two of the slave hours.

Back at Channel 5, Brenda sat with the director for the evening news. She was staring into space while they reviewed the forthcoming broadcast.

“Brenda, snap out of it—”

Brenda shook her head.

“—You okay? Want me to get a fill-in tonight?”

“No, no . . . I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.”

“You sure?”

“I’m double sure,” she responded. Only, her head was indeed elsewhere. Right about now she was wondering what her producer would think if he knew about her activities during the past eight or so hours. And she had to smile to herself about the idea of it . . . the churchgirl. Hahaha!

Segments had been airing for a few days now, relating to the delay of court proceedings of Douglass Gilmore. The case was going nowhere. And the follow-up stories and the investigative strategies for the broadcasts were at a loss for significance. It was called “running” in TV terms; just filling airtime. But Brenda Feather was curling with information, all of it forming knots in her tummy. Ken shared a few things with her, but he also demanded that she keep him anonymous, as if he never existed. Brenda also knew that Darryl, her news director, would insist on sources; legitimate verifiable sources. Brenda had the biggest, most verifiable source in all the land; problem was that she swore to confidentiality. Question was, how was she gonna get her information to broadcast? Because . . . she was gonna get the story out. Brenda knew that her details would be important for a few reasons. Number one: Douglass Gilmore, who was the FBI’s only target, was sitting in a New Jersey jail. And two: there was a crime to be solved. Pity, that the overall investigation seemed to be a battle between local and federal law enforcement agencies, playing tug-of-war with Gilmore’s son. A mix of egos and miscommunication. Most importantly, the public trust and interest was being violated and misdirected because someone concocted a twisted story.