Uptempo: A Novel

Chapter 1

The beat was infectious.

I’d lost my boy, Tony, three songs before, so I was flying solo. I slapped the remnants of the drink I’d been nursing down on the bar with a thud and a request for another. Swishing the rusty brown liquid around the glass, I pushed two bucks back toward the bartender and finagled my way to the edge of the dance floor, turning my body this way and that to maneuver through the thick, hot crowd. Thanks to my fourth drink of the night, I reveled in a warm, I-can-do-anything confidence evident in my self-assured swagger.

I was out of my element, but damn if I intended to broadcast it. My attire alone was a labor of love. I’d taken my time picking out an outfit that didn’t scream, Haven’t Been to a Club in Ages!—gray, flat-front gabardine slacks, Italian leather driving loafers (sans the socks), and a pale yellow, lightweight cashmere sweater, cherry-on-topped by the slightest splash of Gucci Rush for men. According to Ebony, my favorite fashionista/saleswoman at Bergdorf’s, it was definitely an ensemble she’d lend an approving nod. Mr. Jordan, she’d said, stepping back from the fitting room door to get more of an objective look, impeccable. A definite winner.

Earlier in the day, with the lawyer in him turned up to eleven, Tony had persuaded me to hang out. For old times’ sake, he had said, doing that thing—the corny pointing gesture with his index fingers—that over the years had become part of the Anthony J. Cummings esquire-at-your-service institution.

And like a sucker, I finally caved and agreed to go to Club Sutra, psyching myself into believing I could use a night of innocent fun after a hectic week of meetings, change orders, and RFPs.

I took my perch by one of many pillars adorned with carvings bearing Kama Sutra postures. In front of me, an unlikely looking couple, bathing in a sea of sultry bass and alcohol-induced bliss, kept the tempo like synchronized swimmers. The brother stood nearly eye level with me, so he had to be at least six-three and buffed, inflated, superhero-like buffed. His partner, a little sliver of a thing, could easily catch a black eye for calling Mini-Me a midget, but that didn’t impede their flow. I had to stop myself from staring when he scooped her up, wrapped her legs around his waist, and engaged in a slow grind so deep, it would have made Dr. Ruth blush. I wondered if they were trying to mimic the statue that hung above my head.

I intended to keep my role as onlooker, my eventual goal to spy out Tony and tell him I’d soon be calling it a night. But despite my intentions, my eyes locked with those of a comely sister who appeared to be out for a night of fun with her girls. Before I could look away, she zoomed in on me as well and I became rapt in her gaze.

A reggae tune blasted from the speakers. The corners of her mouth turned up slowly and revealed the beginnings of a smile that quickly returned to a sexy pout that kept me transfixed. Gold bangles slid down her lithe wrists as she brought her arms up above her head, swaying seductively to the music. My id, in good, working order—sniffing out immediate gratification—parted the dance floor like the Red Sea and zoomed in. With her posse dancing around her in an arc shape, she held an invisible spotlight in the middle, turning, spinning, and undulating like a wave.

Arms up, hips gyrating, eyes smoldering into mine, she danced her way toward me, leaving her all-girl group to their own devices. Deftly, expertly, she moved in front of me, and like a trained puppy or one willed by some greater force, I found myself following along. At first, I moved slowly, almost timidly, still aware of the cool that I’d intended to maintain. But it wasn’t long before sweat dripped from my brow, popped from my back, and penetrated the fine fibers of my sweater. I doubted Ebony from Bergdorf’s would approve.

My Dancing Queen was a bronze beauty draped in a black, silk dress that hugged her curves like a Porsche ripping up the Autobahn. Gold stilettos cradled her lovely feet. She ran her hands across my chest. I shivered. I ran my hands down her back. She returned the favor. She faced me, and together, our bodies stirred the air rhythmically. My hands rested on the small of her back just above her ass. She surprised me and slid them lower. There my hands rested, happily mounted, cupping every ounce of her mean, round, womanly wonderfulness.

There seemed to be no one else in the club, no other thoughts in my mind. There was just this woman, her silky dress, her mouth, her ass, her beautiful feet, and the bass-heavy thump of a slick reggae beat.

She turned her back to me and swiveled her waist. Painting invisible figure eights in the atmosphere, she positioned herself on the hot spot that had been cool only a few songs before but was still my crotch.

Facing me again, she stood on her tiptoes and leaned up to my left ear. You smell good, she hissed. Good enough to eat.

I don’t know what sparked it or how it logically took place, but those two sentences hit my sexual epicenter with the precision of a spinal tap. And as if on cue, I made my probing tongue very familiar with her pouty mouth.

Somehow, we had traded places with Sasquatch and Shorty. I was now part of a spectacle in the middle of the dance floor, an exhibitionist, ignorant to all the attention my companion and I were attracting. It didn’t matter. The gawkers only spurred me on. She had no objections either. I kissed her more fervently. She probed me more urgently. Then, she pulled away.

Come with me, she pleaded, taking my hand. I followed silently. At that point, I would have followed her into hell wearing gasoline-soaked drawers. I didn’t care. She led me up a few steps into another room of the club. On the way, I spotted Tony, whose only communicado was a devilish smirk, followed by a nod. Wordlessly, I knew he was saying, Thatta boy. That’s the old Bryon I know! Do your thing, brother. Then, without missing a beat, he was back to the business at hand: wooing a petite Kimora Lee Simmons look-alike who appeared to be talking nonstop.

The back room was lush and ruby colored. More kinky statuettes lined the walls. Her hand felt soft and warm in mine. She guided me into a corner and onto a stack of silky pillows and floor cushions hued in deep purples, reds, and oranges. In a hazy fog, we resumed right where we’d left off—groping, kissing, and exploring one another like nobody’s business. When she took me in her mouth, I felt like I was in another universe, a place where nothing was what it seemed.

I closed my eyes and heard the thrash of her heart. Or was it mine? It didn’t matter. At the moment, she was everything. If compared to cotton, she was the finest silk. If likened to roses, she was a graceful calla lily. If held next to Isaac Mizrahi’s affordable clothing line for Target, this woman was an Issey Miyake one-of-a-kind couture. She played me like a violin, and together, we played a soul-stirring concerto.

When she pressed a condom into my palm, I opened my eyes and noticed the sheer curtains that had been drawn around us. I felt like an onlooker in a fantasy locked so deeply within me, I hadn’t known I owned it. I tore the wrapper away effortlessly and she took it back from me, gliding it on as a low growl escaped my lips.

As I entered her, pushing the silk dress up around her torso, she exhaled. I kissed her again. She tasted both salty and sweet. And now, it was my turn to take the lead.

There, in our own piece of heaven, I orchestrated the music. She climaxed first—loudly, proudly, and beautifully before unleashing a primal groan. My hands around her waist, fingertips on the small of her back, I felt her shudder repeatedly. Not until then did I join her.

Spent, we fell back onto the cushions.

We still hadn’t exchanged names.

Chapter 2

Things are never as they seem.

I’d written a paper titled Appearance vs. Reality in Sister McClarity’s eleventh-grade AP English class that supported that fact in William Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The theme had come up again early on in my career when my boss and mentor, a man whom I admired and respected, told me he’d be taking an indefinite leave of absence to check into a rehab facility. He seemed to have it all together, running multimillion dollar projects, spurring the staff on when morale got low, and encouraging me to dream bigger, but he was an alcoholic whose only solace could be found at the bottom of a vodka bottle. And now, most shockingly, I had managed to jump onto the disguise bandwagon too, showing that the stiff-collared, Bergdorf-shopping engineer I appeared to be on the exterior had been really camouflaged as an incognito freak.

I lie in bed with my hands folded behind my head, fingers interlaced, replaying the events of the previous night. Outside my window, high above the New York cityscape, the birds sang a sweet late-morning April tune, a stark contrast to the music that had led me into a session of floor aerobics with the Dancing Queen. Never in a million years did I think—forget it, I’d never even dreamt anything like that. It was a likely possibility maybe for someone else—Tony, for sure—but definitely not me. Certainly not these days.

Tony had always been the quintessential ladies’ man and had upstaged me in that department for years. At St. Ann’s, he’d played the lead in a storybook four-year high school fairytale replete with his choice of willing princesses. His squire at best, I was lucky to snatch up a leftover crumb. Despite it all though, there was one area in which the playing field leveled. I wasn’t much of a looker back then, but in one arena, I always managed to outdo him, thanks to one particular attribute—I was smart. As a rawhide bullwhip.

With reciprocal respect, Tony and I navigated school dances, term papers, dates, and standardized tests. I aided him with academics. He guided me with girls. By the time graduation rolled around, we’d placed first and second in our class and sported fine-as-wine dates at prom. Then, with slates cleaner than Cloroxed tighty-whities, we started college. New game. Newer rules.

Tony became fluent in legalese at John Jay while I tackled equations and engineering principles in the Leo Engineering Building of Manhattan College. By this time, with high school valedictorian under my belt, I was sure I’d mastered more than academia. I rocked a PhD in punanny.

We tore up New York City nightlife and hit every hot spot from Webster Hall to Club NV. We didn’t discriminate. Like our own little chapter of the Rainbow Coalition, we welcomed all colors, kinds, and creeds with open arms. Whether you were a sexy sister, a lovely Latina, an alluring Asian, or a cookie-cut Caucasian, straight off a Greyhound from Smalltown, USA, our mack game didn’t categorize. Every lady in the land was fit to hold court with Bryon Jordan and Tony Cummings—two clean-cut up-and-comers in a city teeming with thug-wannabes with little to offer above lame game and rotted-out dreams.

During those years of partying with Tony, I convinced myself that the glitzy lifestyle was what I needed. I hung tough, club-hopped hard, and did my best to prove my bravado, sometimes wearing it on my sleeve, but deep down, I felt like a fraud. I believed in the fast-lane lifestyle for a long time too, until the day someone had the guts to call me on it.

Her name was Angie, and I’ll never forget the afternoon I met her, a real-life ballerina studying at the Juilliard School. I’d hopped off the #1 train at Lincoln Center and picked up a textbook from Barnes & Noble. To kill time, I took a seat by the Lincoln Center fountain before the short walk down to Fifty-ninth Street where I would hook up with Tony at John Jay, our usual rendezvous spot. I spotted her wild, sun-streaked curls half a block away and ran through a series of hackneyed pick-up lines in my mind, readying myself for her impending saunter. Wearing a white mini over leggings and an orange bodysuit, she approached. Before I could get a word in, she beat me to it.

Hello will be sufficient, she said, coming my way.

Excuse me? I questioned. Lord have mercy. Sweet Southern drawl, I thought.

She paused in front of me, a matter-of-fact look taming her undomesticated features. Just say hello. Save the game. Heard it all before.

Don’t know what you’re talking about, but hello, beautiful, I smiled, playing stupid.

She cracked a brilliant, toothy smile and shook her head in resignation. Hello to you too—? she said, her question hanging in the air along with the city humidity.

Bryon, I offered, probably too willingly.

Thank you, Bryon, for the compliment, that is, she added before taking a seat beside me. She placed a large duffle bag down on the concrete and crossed one leg over her knee. I watched with increasing interest as she removed a shoe and began rubbing her right foot.

Sorry, my feet are killing me. Devil was a downright bitch today.

Devil? I echoed.

Yeah, devil. Ballet class with Professor Pilar, the devil in a blue tutu. We laughed, the crack about the tough-as-nails instructor chipping away the ice. It couldn’t have come at a better time.

Angie’s humor incited a two-hour exchange that passed faster than an underground ride on the Uptown A Express. While we talked, I commandeered foot-massaging duty—with great pleasure.

As taxicabs, pedestrians, and buses blurred by, we sat chatting like old buddies. Despite our novel relationship, Angie somehow deemed me a worthy sounding board that day, and I savored every second of it. And in spite of our rocky start, she allowed me to tickle her toes, ponder her personality, and pick her brain—all in the midst of a spirited tête-à-tête.

No topic was taboo. We debated about school. We sparred about sports. Men. Women. The challenges that each faced. We even got into a discussion about men in ballet. But no matter what Angie thought, I held steadfast to my belief that no man, no man, no matter how flexible, stretchable, or bendy he may be, had any business in a pair of ball-hugging tights. Packages—yes, the male type—were not designed to be restrained or exhibited in such a way. Period.

I also learned that Angie was twenty, a year younger than me. She had a three-year-old daughter back home in Houston whom her mom was raising while she pursued her lifelong dream at Julliard. Initially, I had expected to sit through a sad tale of unplanned pregnancy and the disappearing act of a teenage father, followed by hopeless desperation of mother and child, but Angie gave me none of that. She seemed unstoppable.

With three semesters between her and graduation, this beautiful ballerina was a stone’s throw from her curtain closer. Where others like her may have been downtrodden or depressed, Angie was determined. She was feisty and, I had to admit, deeper than any woman I’d ever kicked game to. As she spoke, I looked into her eyes and something within me shifted. It scared the hell out of me. And it changed me forever.

You see, Angie’s story hit home. It echoed that of my own mother—a woman I consider the closest living being to a saint, and I’ll tell you why. Mom Duke’s maternal resume reads as follows: single mom who worked early shifts so she could pick my sister and me up from school before heading to night school herself. Super cook. Champion fixer-upper of boo-boos, bad dates, lousy days, and bruised egos. Selfless martyr who went without so we didn’t have to. Winner who eventually obtained a degree, worked harder than anyone I know, and became a program director at a center that straightened out wayward teens. A-class all the way.

I lost myself in Angie’s eyes that day because I found myself staring into my mother’s, my grandmother’s, and my great-grandmother’s eyes, and I questioned myself. As I let my mind drift over all the names of women I’d toyed with and strung along like puppets, I examined what I thought was my manhood. But where I once felt power and might, I now felt nothing but shame. With most of them, it’d never escalated past shot-down attempts and short-lived thrills that eventually fizzled out like flat Pepsi, but there was almost one for every letter of the alphabet. Aileen. Betsy. Christina. Denise. I’d offered all these women a guise whose only purpose was to boost my own faltering esteem. Esa. Fiona. Gwendolyn. Hailey.

From behind my mask of disloyalty, I had served up honesty and sincerity with a straight face when truthfully, I was riddled with lies and insecurities. Illiana. Jackie. Keisha. I knew I had been raised better, and in that moment of clarity after my discussion with Angie, not only was I ashamed but determined to change as well. I’d lost track of Angie over the years, but she had a lasting effect on me. Based on that encounter, I began to treat women differently and because of it, at age thirty-three, I now had a relationship with a woman of quality. But what the hell had I done to jeopardize it the night before?

The shrill cry of my phone shook me into the present. It was almost like my girlfriend, Kendall, was right there reading my thoughts, though I hoped to God she wasn’t. I picked up after the first ring.

Hello.

Morning; how’s my favorite guy?

I concentrated on sounding normal. Hey, baby. I’m fine. How are you? How’s the weather down there?

I’m okay—missing you, of course—but having a good time. Weather’s great—sunny, not a cloud in sight. What’s up with you?

Well, you know. Saturday morning, lounging around, that’s all.

You still in bed? This is kinda late for you. Should I blame Tony for this? she teased.

I chuckled, praying it didn’t convey how nervous I felt. Well, you know how intuitive you are. Tony and I did do a little hanging last night. I had a few drinks. Not as young as I used to be, though. I guess I had to sleep them off. I held my breath, now hoping I wasn’t rambling.

I knew it. My heart stopped but resumed its job of supplying my vital organs with blood and oxygen when she continued. Well, I hope you had a good time. I know how rough the week has been for you.

I was breathing again, but barely. More nervous laughter. Yeah, it was alright. Nothing to write home about, I lied, cringing as the words fell from my lips much too easily.

Okay, babe. I have to run. We’re taking the kids to Magic Kingdom.

You and Glenda, the good witch? I asked.

I told you about calling my sister that!

Well, you know what they say. Everybody’s got their skeletons in the closet, but that woman’s gotta be the exception to the rule. They’re living a dream down there.

Well, I’m happy for them. She’s wanted this life since we were kids and she, of all people, deserves it. Leave her alone. Anyway, I’ll call you tonight. I love you.

Love you too. Bye.

Bye, baby, she replied. And then, she was gone.

The sound of the tone reverberated in my ear for a few seconds before I finally swung my feet over the side of the bed and placed the phone on its cradle. I rested my elbows on my thighs and hung my head in my hands. Wrestling with thoughts of Shakespeare’s conniving Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the debilitating habits of my former boss, and my own tangled web of deceit, I slid open my night table. I picked up a small, blue Tiffany box, then I dropped it back in as if it had singed my fingertips.

Like an advancing newsreel, my mind flipped through quick takes of the Dancing Queen, Angie, and Kendall, the woman who until hours before I was sure I wanted to be my wife. The mere thought of the first sent a tingle down my spine, the latter pangs of guilt. Caught somewhere in the middle, Angie fingered an area of nostalgia, a different time and place in my life. But now, today, where I thought I was sure, I was faltering. Or had I been unsure all along? I didn’t know. As life would have it, my doubts would only grow deeper with time.

I hightailed it into the bathroom, away from the mental montage, away from my night table, and mostly away from the ring in the robin-egg blue Tiffany box, the one I’d planned on giving Kendall on her first night back from Florida. I knew that merely looking at it would bring my thoughts back to her and I couldn’t bear the sight of it. Seeing it, all shiny 2.5 carats of emerald-cut perfection, according to the thin-lipped Tiffany salesman, nestled in the plush, black velvet would have made me physically sick.

On any given day, thinking of Kendall would have been kosher, something that brought a megawatt smile to my face. But at that point, it was unacceptable. In fact, it was downright wrong, because Kendall should have been the only woman on my mind—but she wasn’t.

And she damn sure wasn’t the reason for the tent in my boxers.

Or the driving force behind my need for a very necessary cold shower.

Chapter 3

When in doubt, leave it to your homeys to put things in perspective.

I climbed into Tony’s 380Z and, on instinct, reached below to adjust my seat as far back as it would go. Surprise that an ego the size of my best bud’s could fit into such a compact vehicle was one thing, but certainty that Tony’s little frame was a perfect fit behind the wheel was another. My friend had an ego the size of Central Park, but on a good day, he was about five foot, seven inches tall (wearing his platforms, I’d always tease) and was a textbook overachiever, constantly trying his best to compensate in bulk what he lacked in verticality, thus our impending trip to the gym.

Playa, playa, he sang, hitting me with a congratulatory pound as I tethered my seatbelt.

What up, Tone, I grunted, shifting my knees and offering my best impression of a contortionist. It took all I had to keep my kneecaps from scraping the dashboard. What we working on today? I asked, referring to body parts and the gym. I knew the inevitable was coming, but a healthy game of dodgeball was worth a shot.

Working? Man, please. We’ll figure that out when we get there. From what I gather, you had a workout already. I guess Miss Kendall doesn’t have your Jolly-Green-Giant ass as whipped as I thought. Tony threw the car in gear and peeled away from the curb, tires screaming. Lucky for them, vigilant pigeons scattered. An old lady trying to cross the street with a shopping cart raised a fist and muttered obscenities. I couldn’t quite make all of them out, but it was obvious she was vexed. My driver, as usual, was oblivious to it all.

I shifted again, this time angling myself against the guilt weighing down on my shoulders. I gave Tony nothing to work with, but he kept on anyway. I wasn’t surprised.

Who knew that Goody-Goody would end up in the boom-boom room? I don’t even know where to start, B! This is one for the history books!

Alright, man. Enough already, I said. Do we have to talk about this now?

"Hell, yeah! Can you think of a better time? Would you like me to whip out the BlackBerry and schedule an appointment? What the hell is wrong with you, B? That sister was fine as hell!"

Tony. I know, I shot back. Heat was creeping up the back of my neck. Not a good sign. I took a deep breath and concentrated on being cool. I wasn’t one to lose my temper on impulse and I didn’t think it was a good time to change that fact—especially while cooped up in a virtual sardine can with Mouth ’O Mighty. I continued, more placidly. My words came slowly, emphasis on each syllable. I know that, but that’s not what’s bothering me. That’s not the shit that’s eating me up inside.

Eating you up inside? What do you mean ‘eating you up inside?’

Just what I said, Tone. Clean out your ears, Li’l-Bit.

Tony rolled his eyes. He hated when I made fun of his height. It was a shortcoming (pun intended) that he’d struggled with for years and never quite overcome. True, his height issues could be partly attributed to any number of genetic factors connected to the Cummings clan, but the bigger monster was really a speck of self-consciousness that I couldn’t help but knead a little now and then. I knew I’d hit a sore spot and felt no guilt about it, because he was being a jerk.

Tony shot a glance in his side-view mirror and his chest puffed up a little, a sure sign that I was beginning to piss him off. Still, he held his ground. "Alright, alright. I know Kendall’s not here. Been away for what—more than a week now, right? So, I should have realized that you haven’t had anybody to share your sensitive side with."

The emphasis on the word sensitive really annoyed me and I cut my eyes at him, but Tony kept on. So, I’ll volunteer my services, but only while she’s away. When she gets back, I don’t wanna hear any more of this Oprah-psychobabble-touchy-feely shit. Ya feel me? But for now, reveal your soul, my brother of another color. I’m all ears, baby.

I took a deep breath, somehow feeling that I was setting myself up for disaster or endless mockery. I looked over at Tony and found an expressionless face, one of the utmost sincerity. His eyes were calm, the tranquil gray of an old, reliable sweater ready and willing on that first chilly night in October. He had that look of patient waiting, just like Papi Cee-Cee.

I succumbed to it. Based on his expression, the odds were in my favor. Tone, I feel like shit, man, I blurted.

How come? There was no derision in his voice.

Because— I wasn’t sure I could put it into words, so like a stubborn kid, I made my single-word reply reason enough and diverted my attention out the window. The blossoming trees and buildings blurring by were much easier to deal with.

Tony eased up to a red light on Riverside Drive and tapped his fingers against the wheel. Little bastard even turned down the radio and said, I’m waiting. So much for sincerity.

Then, without warning, my words bubbled over, rushed and eager, hot like lava. You wanna know why? I asked, not waiting for an answer. "Because—because I feel like I betrayed her. I feel like I let her down, man. Like I let us down. Me and her. Without even a second thought—or a first," I admitted.

Oh, really? Tony’s voice was flat, more of a statement than a question.

Yeah, I said with conviction, stabbing my finger in the air for emphasis.

Well, I really can’t understand why you’d feel that way. Are you married, Bryon? Rarely did Tony call me by my full name. Either he was dead serious or bordering on nasty condescension. I almost felt like he was about to cross-examine me like a hostile witness.

No, I replied, like the big dope in that movie The Hand That Rocks the Cradle. It’s the scene where Rebecca DeMornay’s cuckoo character, Peyton, hems up ol’ boy Solomon and taunts him. Are you a fucking retard? she asks him viciously. No and a blank stare is all he has to offer. I felt just as lame.

Out of the blue, Tony was on a roll, taunting me just like that psycho nanny bitch, Peyton, or some kind of wound-up Perry Mason on crack. I mean, let me know if y’all ran down to city hall and got hitched without telling a brother. Or, or if you got a little too tipsy one night after she gave it to you real good and flew out to Vegas to do the damn thing. Huh, B?

"Tony, you know that’s not the case." I said slowly, trying to suppress the heat again. At least that time he’d called me B.

Oh, alright then, good. Tony slowed the pace and snapped his fingers as if he’d struck eureka. I thought some secret, 007 Bond-type shit had gone down that I wasn’t privy to. Oh, I get it, he added holding up his index finger. My bad. You’re engaged, right?

"Tony. No! Dammit. You know it’s none of that, but you know I got the ring, man. You know. You were there! Don’t try to play me, Tony."

Tony squinted his eyes and did the worst Mister Miyagi impression known to man. A Korean straight off the boat could imitate a rapper better. Aaaah, there, grasshoppa. Now you-ah learn. You berry smarta I-ya see. I could not-ah say-ah da words moah bettah my-ah-self.

I couldn’t help but crack up. Leave it to Tony to disarm me so quickly. Anthony Juan, you’re a fool, I said. I don’t care how you try to change that voice of yours, you still sound like a Puerto Rican from the Bronx, and that’s all she wrote. Give it up, man. You can take the Puerto Rican out the Bronx—

Tony joined in —but you can’t take the Bronx out the Puerto Rican. More laughter. "No doubt! Boogie Down Bronx Boriqua for life!" he shouted and hit the horn twice.

Once the laughter died down, our confined space was punctuated by heavy silence as we sat motionless, waiting at another red light.

Tony broke the silence with a wistful smile. Anthony Juan, he said tellingly, the gravity of the words evident in his tone. I haven’t heard that in a while. He blinked hard and looked out the driver’s side window, his right arm draped across the wheel.

I’m sorry, man, I didn’t mean to—

No, it’s okay. He’s not here anymore but that doesn’t mean we have to pretend he never was, right? He wouldn’t want that.

True. I pondered my words carefully, aware that I was navigating tender terrain. Tone, if Papi Cee-Cee was in here with us right now, he’d say, I changed my tone to mimic Tony’s father, "‘Ay, I don’t wanna hear this shit. The two of you arguing like two little niñas. Let me out in the corner. I’m catching the train home. Mari has more cojones than you two! She birthed four of my children and made less noise!’"

Tony smiled. "Yeah, in the corner, and God help anybody who tried to correct him. Pop was so stubborn. He always used to tell me, ‘Just ’cause you got a degree, don’t think you’re smarter than your old man. Life taught me more than those high-priced textbooks will ever teach you.’"

He was proud of you, though.

Yeah, I know, B. I know. Mami swore me to secrecy, but believe it or not, she told me he cried at my graduation from John Jay. I’ll never forget what he told me when I passed the bar. We were in the kitchen of 282, the old building. He had that crusty, old brown mug filled to the brim with that strong-ass Bustelo.

That’s right. Black, two sugars. Only way he’d take it, I interjected.

You know it, Tony agreed. "He sat the mug down, eased down into his chair at the head of the table and said, ‘My son—Anthony Juan Cummings. A genuine abogado. A Cummings lawyer. I saw big things for you when you were born, niño. Tony went on, imitating Papi Cee-Cee. ‘Represent this family well, kiddo. Make me and your mother proud and don’t never forget where you come from.’ He looked me in the eye like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Then he got up, picked up his coffee and said, ‘So, you gonna be making big bucks now, heh? Good. We’re going to City Island for dinner tonight—on you.’"

B, I didn’t even have a job yet, Tony said, smiling.

Laughter filled Tony’s little Z car again, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like Tony’s dad, the closest man to a dad for me, was watching over us.

Tony turned the radio back up. Wendy Williams, a radio personality who’d since moved on to TV, was gossiping about a TV star’s baby-mama drama on a best-of spot. I could tell Tony was done talking about Papi Cee-Cee, so I let it go too.

Look, B, he said. All I’m trying to say is don’t sweat it. You did what any red-blooded man in the same situation would have. She offered it up on a platter. You partook. No crime in that.

I’m just feeling guilty, Tone, now that it’s all said and done, you know. Kendall doesn’t deserve that.

"You know what, B? I’ll give you that. Kendall’s good people. Even I think she’s good for you. She’s good for you, you’re good for her, and all that other happy-go-lucky-good-karma-good-energy shit that people get paid to preach these days. To me, it’s all bullshit that I don’t have time for. He paused and looked out the window. But we’re not talking about me, are we?"

I offered silence to the rhetorical question.

Tony went on with his soliloquy. "Anyway, B, point is Kendall is one thousand miles away right now, and what Kendall don’t know won’t hurt her."

We pulled into the parking lot of the gym and Tony killed the engine. I twisted all six feet, four-and-a-half inches of my body out of the sardine can and grabbed my gym bag, appreciative of my exodus from bondage.

Then, like a fool, I said, You know what, Tony, I think you’re right.

Little did I know, we were both wrong.

Chapter 4

After hitting the gym, Tony and I grabbed some power shakes and turkey burgers from Jackson Hole, a burger drop-in on Eightieth and Columbus. Following lunch, I became host of an impromptu houseguest, Tony, for three and a half hours. Joy.

There were no prearrangements, no forewarnings, no can-Is, or would-you-minds. Nope, none of those formalities—just Tony squeezing the little Z into a tight space and cursing as his rear bumper tap-kissed that of an ancient Buick longer than Ninth Avenue. This one-man production was followed by a frantic leap from the car to ensure that all hind parts were still intact. Once the car’s soundness was proven, Tony proceeded to open the trunk, grab a small garment bag, and follow me toward my apartment building, without so much as a word about the drama that had just unfolded. No surprise there. Mi casa, su casa was obviously the theme du jour. But if Tony was guilty of trespassing, I was an accessory to the crime because I rarely gave him any heat about dropping in. So why would today be any exception?

I nodded to Stan, the concierge, and checked my mailbox. There was the usual slew of bills and credit-card offers. Tucked in the middle was an Orlando postcard from Kendall, which incited a breathtaking, albeit quick, tightening of my chest. Apparently, my guilt was hanging around. I eyed the postcard and stuck it under the May issue of Sports Illustrated so Tony wouldn’t see it and light into me again. No need to revisit that topic—not now, at least.

Tony stabbed at the elevator button. First floor, going up, announced the monotonous elevator keeper. We got in, did the required about face, and I hit number twenty-seven. Please stand clear of the closing doors, our electronic friend chimed again. Tony smirked. I wonder what that chick would look like standing here. Betcha she’d be a hottie. Not as much of a prude as she sounds.

What? I asked.

The elevator babe.

Tony, you know what, man? You’re sick. How do you even think this shit up?

Aww, c’mon, B. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. All alone in this elevator, taking that long trip up to the twenty-seventh floor—it never once crossed your mind?

"Tony, for Christ’s sake, it’s a goddamned automaton. Are you that hard up, man?"

Tony screwed up his face and went on a diatribe. Hard up? Me? You must be kidding. I may be a lot of things, he gestured with his hands, you know, suave, intelligent, one hell of an attorney, and a tad bit egotistical, some might say, sure, some, I thought, "but hard-up I am not. Never that. I’d sacrifice my right testicle before sporting that moniker. He did that damn thing with his fingers for good measure. I don’t even know how to be that. Finally, he stopped to take a breath—a very short breath. In fact, remember that little Kimora Lee Simmons dime-piece look-alike I was chatting up last night?"

Uhm hum, I said wryly, recalling that to my surprise, she appeared to have been doing much of the talking. Maybe old Anthony Juan had met his match. Time would tell.

Well, I’m going out with her in, Tony glanced at his watch, a showy Tag Heuer, "three short