Miasha: Secret Society

It was two-eleven when I knocked on suite 2016. There was no answer. At first I was thinking the dude had played me and fed me some bullshit. But I waited around for a little while, hoping he didn’t. It was two thirty-eight when I finally decided to leave. I walked toward the elevator.

“Where you goin’?”

I turned around and saw the guy placing the key in the door. I was relieved, but I had to let him know that I was pissed. I looked at my watch.

“Two o’clock was a half hour ago,” I said.

He smiled and said, “Right, so we definitely don’t have any more time to waste, do we?”

I grinned and followed him into his suite. It was big and nicely designed, but I’d seen better. Besides, he had it looking like a pigsty.

“I never did get your name,” he said as he started throwing things from the bed onto the floor.

“Ce…lina,” I said, deciding at the last minute not to give my name.

“Selena?” he asked. “Like the singer?”

“Yes, like the singer,” I said, standing in the same position as if I was on my pivot.

“Come in, have a seat. You have to excuse this mess, I was rushing for the show.”

“What’s your name?” I asked as I walked over to the bed.

“Mann,” he answered.

I sat down and he sat next to me. He was an old head, probably in his mid- to late thirties. He was short and somewhat stocky, with a cute light brown face: squinted eyes, a pointed nose, and thin lips. He had a nicely groomed mustache and goatee and a low cut that revealed a nice grade of waves. He admired me, I could tell.

“You are very attractive, you know that?” he said. “And you look good as hell in that dress. Is that a dress?” he asked, placing his hand on my thigh.

I was wearing a Missoni minidress. It was colorful, with blotches of aqua and hot pink, and it came to the middle of my thighs. It had long, loose sleeves that gathered at the wrists, giving it a balloon effect. My legs were bare and I wore a pair of Marc Jacobs leather hot pink pointy-toe pumps with a kitten heel. I wore my hair in a weave that was parted in the middle with loose curls at the tips that fell a little past my shoulders. My makeup was soft but vibrant, with one coat of hot pink on my eyelids and lips and a small amount of pink blush. I had on diamond hoops and a diamond Rolex, and I carried a small hot pink leather clutch. I wore no coat despite the fact it was the end of October.

“You look like something out of magazine,” Mann said, rubbing my thigh.

I rolled my eyes and said, “Enough about me. I want to know about you. What are you into?”

“Well, I told you earlier I’m not no star, you know. I’m just a regular cat doing regular things.” He was beating around the bush.

“A presidential suite in the Four Seasons is not regular in any sense of the word,” I said. “Come on, tell me what you do. You run the show, don’t you? You’re that man behind the scenes that nobody knows but who got the big bank, ain’t you?” I asked him in between nibbling on his ear.

He smiled. “I don’t know about the big bank, but I am behind the scenes. I’m a promoter-slash-manager. So, yes, I am the one who runs the show.”

“See, now, was that hard?” I asked, fondling him.

“And what about you? What do you do, because usually the gold diggers go after the performers, the ones who show their hands. I never in all my years in this business had one come after me. Shit, they even go after the bodyguards and the drivers. But they never come after me. So what are you into?”

I smiled at him. “Why dig for gold when diamonds play the surface? I’m a professional.”

“I see,” Mann said, as he lay on his back and closed his eyes.

“Good morning, yall,” I said as I walked into the salon.

I got the usual “Hey, girl, what’s up? You look tired.” I sat down at the receptionist’s desk and pulled out my bacon, egg, and cheese on a hoagie roll. I took two bites out of it and was interrupted by a phone call on my cell.

“Yes,” I answered, frustrated.

“Put that sandwich down and have brunch with me.” The voice on the other end sounded so clear, as if it were right next to me.

“Ba-by!” I squealed as I jumped out of my seat.

Michael was walking toward me from the back of the salon.

“Yall knew my baby was back and yall didn’t say nothing,” I teased.

It had been a whole month since I’d seen Michael, and I missed the hell out of him.

“Oooh maaa!” He gave me a big kiss on my forehead and squeezed me in his muscular arms.

“When did you get back?” I asked, sounding like a little girl.

“Late last night. I didn’t want to call because I figured you were asleep.”

“So, where are we doing brunch?” I asked excitedly.

“Somewhere nice,” Michael said as he tossed my keys to Kelly, the first stylist.

“Here, you lock up tonight. We won’t be back in time to close,” he told Kelly.

I grabbed my black and white graffiti Louis Vuitton bag off the counter and followed Michael out the door. We got in his white-on-white S500 and sped off. We hit 676 and I put my seat back and fell asleep. When I woke up we were on 495 south headed to Maryland.

“The harbor?” I asked in amazement.

“Yeah, there’s a nice breakfast spot down here I’ve been wanting to take you.”

Michael maneuvered the Benz S-class into a parking spot. I checked my appearance in the mirror and we hopped out. It was nice outside for a November day. The sun was shining bright and the air was thin but crisp, creating a light, comfortable breeze. I had on a pair of low-rider straight-leg jeans that were smack tight. The black cashmere leg warmers on top of them fell right over the top of my black leather pointy-toe stiletto boots. I had on a black cashmere fitted hooded sweater that revealed a little of my stomach underneath a white fitted waist-length leather jacket by Kenneth Cole. I looked cute and casual, very much dressed for the occasion, fortunately.

“Two?” the hostess asked.

“Yes, nonsmoking, please,” Michael said.

“Right this way.”

We followed the hostess through a half-empty diner. She led us to a booth, handed us two menus, and told us our waitress would be with us shortly.

“This is a nice place,” I said as I examined the decor.

“Yeah, I used to come out here every Saturday when I lived out Silver Spring,” Michael said.

“You lived everywhere.”

“Well, when I get a contract that takes one or more years, I have no choice, right?”

Michael and I ate a delicious breakfast and enjoyed each other’s company. We walked along the harbor hand in hand and he told me all about the building he just finished in Pittsburgh. He made $75,000 off that job alone. His bank account had to be O’ed up. Anytime he was able to open me a salon in Northern Liberties, pay rent on Delaware Avenue, and afford month-long hotel stays every now and then, he was paid.

Michael and I spent the whole day in Baltimore. We did some shopping while we were at the harbor. I spent like $2,000 (of Michael’s money) in Victoria’s Secret buying up just about everything from their new collection. Then we drove to a movie theater on Eastern Boulevard to see Minority Report. After the movie, Michael took me to this restaurant called Cactus Willies. That had to be the best buffet spot I’ve ever been to. Michael dropped me off at my car at a quarter to ten. The salon was closed up. The cold dark streets were empty. I would have spent the night with him, but he was exhausted and just needed to be alone in his own house in his own bed. I respected that.

When I walked in the door, I noticed I had messages. I plopped down on my couch and pressed the button to listen.