Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) (10 page)

“Maybe you want to put these on me now,” I said playfully as I twirled the cuffs around my gold-flecked French-tipp
ed finger.

“You damn right.” And before I could get away, he snatched the cuffs from me, grabbed my hands, and locked them around my ti
ny wrists.

“So what are you going to do with me since I’ve been so bad?” I teased, pushing out my p
outy lips.

Marcus’s eyes were dark with desire. He quickly scooped me up in his massive arms and carried me into the bedroom. Any thoughts I had about a slow, romantic lovemaking reunion were quickly dashed as he bent me over the front of the bed. I heard his zipper come down. He ripped off the delicate red lace panties, and then he was thrusting inside me, causing me to gasp with pleasure. He pushed my shoulders down hard into the bed as he kicked my legs apart with his feet to gain deeper access. I pushed back up into his body as best I could with my arms constrained by the
handcuffs.

He grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled my head up. He leaned into my body and began to whisper roughly
in my ear.

“You like that?” he asked as he pushed hard inside my velvety warmth. I could barely catch my breath, so I just moaned in affirmation as I pressed my knees against the foot of the bed to raise myself up to heighten the
pleasure.

“Oh damn. You’re trying to make me explode, raising that pretty golden ass up in the ai
r for me.”

Suddenly Marcus was outside me. He pulled me up from the bed and pushed me down onto my knees in fro
nt of him.

I took him into my mouth and deep-throated him hungrily as he pushed his hips into my face while he palmed the back o
f my head.

“Yes, baby. That’s it. Take it all.” Marcus moaned, closed his eyes, and threw back his head. I felt him begin to thicken and pulsate. I quickened the pace and then switched up, licking along the large vein and swirling my tongue around the silky tip. I felt his l
egs shake.

Go
tcha . . .

“Give it to me, baby. You know what I want,” I said as I looked into his eyes, which were dark pools drunk wit
h passion.

I licke
d my lips.

Ready.

Waiting.

Marcus groaned deeply as he pushed back into my warm, wet mouth, hitting the back of my throat with long dee
p strokes.

It didn’t
take long.

Spent and with me wrapped in his arms, he said it. The ma
gic words.

“I love you, Laila.” He mumbled sleepily as he cupped my face with his hands and kissed me gently on the lips after our second round of ma
king love.

Now, I’m not stupid. I know you can’t always believe a man who says he loves you right after you finish sexing him like crazy. And I know that ball players are sleeping with girls in every city behind their wives’ backs. But it was the way Marcus said it to me that let me know he really
meant it.

My plan wa
s working.

But it never hurts to have a little insurance to move things along. I hit “Send” on the photo and softly placed my phone back on the nightstand, then turned around to wake
up my man.

CHAPTER 7

Nia

A
fter my meeting with Vanessa last week, I knew I had no choice but to contact my ex, Terrence. Since Vanessa wouldn’t let me go to the police, Terrence was the only one who could help us. And we hadn’t seen each other in five years, so that shouldn’t make it awkward or
anything.

Yeah, r
ight . . .

Damn, the things I do fo
r my girl.

I walked into the trendy SoHo French bistro and scanned the room. There he was, seated in a corner banquette. Before I could stop it, my mind began replaying the tumultuous relationship with him like a projector running i
n my head.

We met when I started as a cub reporter at the
New York Tribune
my first year out of Harvard. He was a rising star in the NYPD’s notoriously tough narcotics division. Jake Irby, one of the crime reporters at the paper, always got a bunch of reporters together for drinks on Friday nights after work, and one night he took us to a dive bar in Hell’s Kitchen where a lot of cops hung out. We were enjoying drinks and a couple games of pool when a long shadow was cast across our table. I looked up from my shot to see Jake talking to the finest man I had seen since moving to New York six m
onths ago.

I estimated he was about six foot two, and he had the lean, muscled build of an ex-athlete. His smooth deep-mocha skin was clean-shaven except for a goatee that framed full, juicy lips. And as he talked and laughed with Jake, I could see Crest Whitestrips–perfect teeth. But his eyes, deep brown with sleepy lids and thick lashes, were wh
at got me.

He was wearing dark jeans and dark brown Timberland boots. The sleeves of his navy-blue V-neck sweater were pushed up, revealing a tattoo on his forearm, but I couldn’t make out what it was. His police shield hung from a silver chain around
his neck.

Distracted, I missed my next shot, which was unusual for me because
I had hustled other Harvard students to get most of my spending money in college. Eight ball was the easiest money I
ever made.

“Ouch, Nia. Is this my lucky night? Am I finally going to beat you?” Jake asked as he turned back to me and took another swallow of beer. I could tell he was excited by the prospect of finally wh
ooping me.

“I’m just trying to make our games competitive for once, Jake,” I joked as I picked up my own beer off the high top table next and swallowed. I tried to play off the bad shot. I hadn’t done something like that since I was eleven and my uncle Joe taught me how to play after school at his bar when I was supposed to be doing my homework. I’d been playing pool with the hardest of cats for over ten years, and I hustled throughout college, armed with all the tricks a
nd angles.

“Has this beautiful young lady beaten you before, Jake?” Jake’s friend asked as he looked at me and then chuckled. His eyes
twinkled.

I had regretted not going home after work and changing. I smoothed down the sides of my medium-length layered bob and tucked my hair behind my ears. I had tossed on a pair of my favorite jeans, a black turtleneck, my old faithful Nine West boots, and my red leather blazer. Why did today have to be the day when everything decent I owned was at the
cleaner’s?

“She’s gotten lucky a few times, Terrence,” Jake said, trying to play off all the many cans of whoop ass I had opened on him for the last several weeks. I appreciated his bravado. “But it looks like I’m going to be the one getting lucky tonight.” Jake broke the stack and watched as the balls scattered across the worn table. The ten ball went in the side pocket on
the break.

“Cool. At least you got one ball in the pocket tonight,” I said,
laughing.

“Tonight’s my night, Nia. I can feel it. Terrence, she’s been beating me up a little bit, but tonight she’s go
ing down.”

“Yeah, in your dreams, Jake,” I shot back. OK, so now I knew his friend’s name was Terrence. Jake surveyed the table, looking for the easiest next shot and not realizing that he needed to think three shots down the line to even have a chance of b
eating me.

Rooki
e mistake.

Jake hit the cue ball too hard, missing his pla
nned shot.

“OK, well, I’ve got next,” Jake’s friend said as he laughed at his poor friend. He then placed his beer on top of a crisp fifty-do
llar bill.

“Are you sure you want to lose all your money so early in the evening?” I asked, walking around the table to size up my strategy to run the rest of
the table.

“I don’t plan on losing,” he said confidently. His voice was a deep honey-coated
baritone.

“No one ever does, and then they play me
,” I said.

Jake missed his next shot as usual
. My turn.

“Seven ball, corner pocket.” I chalked my stick and set my position for my
next shot.

“Three ball, in the sid
e pocket.”

The next five balls fell just as easily. In order to sink the eight ball and win the game, I had to squeeze by Jake’s friend. And when I did, I swore I felt an electric current jump between us. I noticed he smelled like a fresh shower and soap. Nice. I hated pretty boys who wore cologne li
ke chicks.

I bent over the table and lined up my stick. I could see out of the corner of my eye that old boy was sizing something up as well. I was glad I had at least worn my sexy low-rise jeans. I decided to give Jake’s friend a real show and a last chance to pick up his money if he asked
me nicely.

“Eight ball, corne
r pocket.”

“I hate to say this, Nia, but it’s impossible for you to put that ball in the corner pocket,” Jake said, surveying the table. He was sure that he was going to get another turn at the table to try to redee
m himself.

“Again, eight ball, corner pocket,” I said, not lifting my head from the table. I drew back my stick and hit the cue ball hard. It shot across the table, then ricocheted around. Slowing down, the ball then gently tapped the eight ball into the corn
er pocket.

My work here
was done.

The bar erupted in hoots at my victory. Jake hung his head an
d laughed.

“Damn, I thought I actually had a shot tonight.” Jake handed me twenty bucks and headed over to his friend. “Be very careful, Terrence. Nia’s a real shark.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder and then headed over to the bar to get another beer to soothe his wo
unded ego.

“Is that true, Nia?” Terrence asked as he leaned against the table with a pool cue between his legs. He said my name slowly like he was trying it out for the first time, and I liked the way it sounded on his lips. “Are you a re
al shark?”

“Well, Terrence. It is Terrence, right?” I said, playing with him. “Since you’ve never seen me play before and I just waxed the table with your boy, I’ll let you take your money back now if you’re scared.” I leaned against the table with one hand on my hip and the other holding out his fifty-do
llar bill.

He laughed and took the bill from my outstretched hand, then placed it back on the edge of
the table.

“Oh, now we’re going to play for sure. But let’s make it interesting.” He looked up at the ceiling as if trying to think of an interesting wager; then he turned b
ack to me.

“Fifty bucks if you win; your phone number if I win,” he said with a smile, the light from the bar dancing in
his eyes.

Oh shit. This brother is not slick. I know he’s not trying to spit game at me. He is fine, though. And I haven’t had anything close to a date or sex since I got to New York. This could get interesting. It could be nice to have a new friend with
benefits.

“You’re on. And I’ll even let you break to give you a fighting chance.” I walked around the table and got all the balls from the pockets as I sang Jay Z’s song “I’m a Hustla, Baby” and then racked them up
with ease.

“Well, I like your confidence. But it’s going to be sad to see that pretty face crumble when I beat you like you stole s
omething.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Let’s go, Officer.”
It was on.

As the last ball sank into the hole, I turned to look at Terrence with a sly grin on my face, half expecting to see him scowling because he got spanked. Beating him down was probably going to end our little flirt fest since I knew most brothers couldn’t handle getting beat b
y a woman.

“Well, at least you made it competitive,” I said as I came around to the side of the table where he stood holding his fifty dollars out to me. I was surprised to see he had a slight smile on
his face.

“Well, at least you have to give me a chance to win my money back. Double or nothing?” He winked at me as he began to collect the balls from the pockets, assuming I’d accept his challenge. I was disappointed he hadn’t put my phone number back into the wager, but I tried not to let him
see that.

“Sure, I could always use some spa money,” I said cockily. I took off my jacket and laid it on the bar stool that also held my purse. “Lose
r breaks.”

“With pleasure,” he said with a focused glint in his
dark eyes.

I never even made it back to the table. Terrence ran that table l
ike a pro.

Jake busted out in laughter and slapped Terren
ce’s palm.

Damn, I had been hustled by a hustler. I was
slipping.

Terrence walked over to me, smiling with his palm outstretched. I’m supercompetitive, so it took everything I had not to ask for another round. I reached for my purse and pulled out my wallet. Of course, as usual I had little money on me because I never bother to bring money to a pool hall since I know I’m goi
ng to win.

I hadn’t counted on gettin
g hustled.

I looked up sheepishly at him and held out his fifty, Jake’s twenty, a crumpled ten, and two fives dug out from the bottom
of my bag.

“I can run to the ATM and get the rest,” I said, my cheeks ho
t and red.

“That’s OK,” he said as he pushed the money away. “All I really want is your number, and we’ll call it even.” He smiled wide, his perfect white teet
h shining.

Hell, yeah, you can have
my number.

Long after Jake and the rest of the crew from the paper left, Terrence and I closed down the bar that night, drinking, talking, and playing more pool. At one point when I was down in another round, he cautioned me about a shot I was abou
t to take.

“Look, I know you think you’re hot shit and all because you beat me, but I’ve been playing pool for over ten years, which I learned from true hustlers on Chi’s South Side. I know this is the shot
to take.”

“OK, OK, no need to jump down a brother’s throat. But let me show you this right quick.” He came up behind and lightly leaned on my back, placing his hands on top of mine on the pool cue. His breath felt warm on my ear as he talked about the shot I should take instead. As he talked, I could barely concentrate on what he was saying. I could feel his long leg muscles as they pressed into the back o
f my legs.

“So try that shot instead and see how it works,” I heard him say as he stepped back. Shit, I’d been so caught up in him leaning up against me, I had missed everything he said. It had been a while since I’d had some physical contact. Time to pl
ay it off.

“I like my shot better,” I said, and quickly took the shot
, missing.

“Told you so,” he said as he chuckled softly before he stepped up to take his shot and finish
the table.

He beat me again. I w
as hooked.

That night, as we sipped our drinks and nibbled on hot wings at the bar, I learned about his childhood. He had grown up in Harlem with a single mom after his dad, who was also a cop, had been shot in the line of duty when Terrence was in the fourth grade. After watching his mother struggle to make ends meet, Terrence was driven to succeed so that he could help take care of his family. He attended the best New York City private schools through the A Better Chance program and went on to attend Columbia. He and Jake were roommates in college and had a long friendship. After graduation, he went into the police academy and for the last two years, he’d been assigned to the city’s dangerous narcotics and gang task force while attending law school at night at New York University. His plan was to get his juris doctorate and join the DA’s office as a prosecutor and then ultimately get into politics as
a senator.

I’d never met a man who was so driven and knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life. Terrence was serious about h
is future.