Second Time Around Read online

  “I was going to curse your behind out for coming here so early, but now that I see how good you look, I know that we need to do this.”

  Korie rolled her eyes as she spoke, then smiled.

  “Girl thanks,” Jayna said. “Your hair is still a hot mess this morning, but look at you. You’re in great shape too. Go jump in the shower, I’ll finish making the coffee.”

  “That sounds cool. A hot shower might just be the thing that I need.”

  Korie retreated into her bedroom to gather her things and Jayna went to the kitchen to grab two cups for coffee.

  At first glance, Jayna looked like a model out of a black men’s magazine. She had long, strong hair, striking features, chiseled curves, and a beautiful smile. She was a woman whose main goal in life was to be the perfect woman and one day a wife. Jayna was smart, thick, and stunning: Three great qualities that black men loved in a woman. Men saw her and often paused. Many were captured with her smile and later mesmerized by her body. Jayna was a gorgeous black woman. Part of the problem was she knew she was a gorgeous black woman.

  Just as beautiful as Jayna was, she was also very demanding when it came to men. They had to look a certain way, dress a certain way, and make at least six figures if they were going to speak to her. Aside from that, men were a waste of her time. She loved the attention that she got, but only if it was from the right kind of man. Average men were boring to Jayna and above-average men were often competing for her affection.

  Jayna’s standards were high. Some might say her standards were unrealistic. This was probably why at twenty-nine and a half, she was still single. She had proposal offers, but, for one reason or another, things never seemed to work out.

  Jayna thought if she improved the outer woman, men would see her and offer her the world. She figured she deserved the world because of her looks. She often thought to herself that God made her so damned fine because he wanted someone to take care of her. She figured no man could turn her down and any man who would was a damned fool.

  Korie loved her girlfriend but knew if Jayna needed to change anything, it was the woman she was on the inside. Jayna had strong credentials and experience, but that did nothing for who she was as a person.

  Jayna was a financial advisor in a downtown Chicago firm. She could talk finances with the best of the best. Professionally, she was considered a beast. She was a true force to be reckoned with. But then there was the other side of the coin. Personally, Jayna was a bit of a bitch—or at least that is how most men saw her. Seeing her fueled their lust for her, but most men referred to Jayna as a bitch or gold digger behind her back.

  Gold digger wasn’t a fair assessment of her because Jayna had her own money and was quite independent. There was nothing a man could do for her that she couldn’t do for herself. However, she demanded that the men she dated be either powerful or wealthy. The two things were almost always linked hand in hand.

  To date her, the criteria were quite strict. If a man met those criteria, he would be given an open invitation as one of her suitors. Oftentimes, this also meant that he would be given an open invitation into her bedroom. Jayna was drawn to powerful men.

  Jayna bedded many men who she came across. She was like a black version of the character Samantha Jones on Sex and the City. That was one of her major flaws. Sometimes she acted as if she were addicted to sex. If nothing else, she was addicted to the attention.

  She was in therapy for her issues with men. She was also in therapy for being what her therapist called hypersexual. Let Jayna tell it, she simply liked powerful men and also liked sex.

  That was her position.

  The position of her therapist was that Jayna was having high-risk behaviors; behaviors that often had high consequences. Jayna had been blessed that she hadn’t been raped, killed or given an STD. These were three very real things that could have happened to her at any time. Things she never thought about until after she had an orgasm.

  Korie didn’t think that Jayna was a whore or whorish, but she did think her girlfriend was sometimes too eager to give away her goodies. She knew that Jayna needed help, and was happy that she was seeing a professional.

  Korie’s worst nightmare would be for her longtime friend to come to her crying one day because she got the big disease with the little name. If that should ever happen, Korie was sure that Jayna would gladly trade places with their friend Eula, who recently lost her leg to a different disease—diabetes. Korie worried often about her friend. Every night she prayed for her. Even with counseling, that didn’t stop Jayna from having the high-risk behaviors. It didn’t stop her from inviting many men into her bedroom.

  The more money and more potential stability a man had to offer, the greater his chances were of taking Jayna to bed. She’d slept with very powerful men around the city of Chicago. She slept with them in their offices, the homes that they shared with their wives, and in many of Chicago’s best hotels.

  All the men Jayna bedded were handsome and were all considered pretty good catches professionally. Some were clients, some were colleagues. All of them were men who could make things happen. The problem was none of them ever made anything happen with Jayna, outside of sex.

  Nothing serious ever developed from any of those relationships and because of that, Jayna was down on herself. She would sometimes come to Korie complaining about how trifling men were, even the professional ones.

  There were times that Korie would listen to her girlfriend and say to herself, what did you expect to happen?

  When Jayna was upset about a man, she shopped. She bought the finest clothes, drove luxury cars, and traveled often. The thing was, many times she was doing these things alone. If not alone, then she would have one-night stands with men she barely knew. The men were always wealthy, but they were almost always married.

  On the outside Jayna looked like she had everything together. She had a great job, two great cars, and great looks. On the outside she was damn near perfect. On the inside, she was a mess. Still, being friends means sometimes that you don’t judge. That was the lie that Korie used to tell herself.

  Korie loved Jayna like a sister and today the sisters were going running. When they ran, they weren’t professionals, they weren’t judged by the world and its shallow expectations. When they ran, they were just two women hanging out with one another. Two beautiful black women, hanging out with one another.

  Korie grabbed her warm-up gear, which was always neatly folded on the edge of her bed. She grabbed her running shoes, her full-length outfit, bra and panties, and headed to the bathroom. She ran the shower and turned on her iPod.

  Korie quickly got undressed, brushed her teeth, and examined herself in the mirror as she brushed.

  Like Jayna, Korie too had made a considerable amount of progress in these past four months. She went from a size ten to a size six. Her abs were also beginning to show and her breasts, which were just beginning to sag a little, began to firm up.

  With all the water she was drinking, Korie’s beautiful Hershey chocolate–colored skin began to look flawless. Once upon a time Korie’s butt rivaled that of Jayna’s. Now, with the weight loss, she was beginning to look like a model; not like a music video model, but a model who you might see in a magazine. Korie had the killer looks and Jayna had the killer body.

  She looked in the mirror and was satisfied with what she saw. Before stepping in the shower she quickly thought to herself, what would he think? What would he think about her body? What would he think about the changes that she made with her life? It had been quite a few years and still, Korie couldn’t help herself thinking about him.

  Just as quickly as she asked the question, she dismissed it. She jumped in the shower, lathered up with her favorite vanilla-scented body wash, and rinsed off.

  When she stepped out from the bathroom fully dressed, Jayna was there with a small cup of black coffee in hand for her girlfriend. They each drank their coffee and talked about what was going on in their careers. Twenty min
utes later, they were out the door and running the trail at the park.

  As Jayna ran, she was looking for wealthy men at the park. As Korie ran, she tried to make sense of the dream that she had this morning.

  Jayna knew Korie would judge her, so she never mentioned when they ran that she was also looking for men. Korie knew, but she also knew enough not to say anything.

  Korie was preoccupied as they ran because the dream she had was so vivid and so real to her.

  He must be out there thinking about me or talking about me and that’s why he’s on my mind, she thought.

  Korie couldn’t shake the feeling that something major was about to happen in her life. The question was, would the major event would be good or bad? She liked the fact that she was happy in the dream. Did it mean that marriage was around the corner or something else?

  Chapter Three

  Darren Howard awoke from a sound sleep. His alarm was set to go off and waken him to the sounds of “Struggle No More” by Anthony Hamilton as it did every morning during the week. Darren got up, stretched, and went to the bathroom to relieve himself. He then ran bathwater and stepped into the living room to boot up his laptop.

  He made his way to the coffee machine and brewed some Exotic Coffee, checked the final tally of the stock market, and stretched his six-foot frame to its full length as he tried to get the last of the morning kinks out.

  He was up this early because he had a full agenda of errands to run before seeing his first client. Darren was a therapist for Chicago’s elite. He counseled pro athletes, R & B singers, CEOs, and other celebrities.

  He charged 300 dollars an hour, which was nothing to his clientele. Because he made his own schedule, life was good. He worked when he wanted, made a great salary, and had a lot of the finer things in life. The only thing that was not complete was his love life. That was another matter entirely.

  He grabbed the universal remote for his condo and switched the overhead speakers on. His favorite slow songs began to play. Darren went into the master closet and pulled out a pair of white-on-white gym shoes, blue designer jeans, and an equally expensive T-shirt. He laid the ensemble on the bed and headed back to the bathroom.

  The steam was billowing off of the water in his custom-made Jacuzzi. Darren slowly eased into the water and practically lay down in the water until it was at chin level. He sat in the tub and relaxed for about an hour, listening to jazz and neo-soul.

  When he was completely relaxed and his mind was free, he got up out of the water and rinsed off. His mind was wandering a lot this morning and he couldn’t seem to figure out why. He needed his music this morning to be a distraction. He had a lot on his mind. One of the chief things bothering him was how lonely he felt these days in spite of having just about every material thing that a man could ask for.

  When he stepped out of the tub and onto the thick rug on the bathroom floor, he listened to “And I Am Telling You” by Jennifer Holliday. Jennifer Hudson’s rendition followed as he began to shave and air dry. Most people Darren knew loved Jennifer Husdon’s rendition better than the original. Darren thought the original was a classic. He playfully used the shaver as if he were singing the song himself. His cracking falsetto was horrible, but that didn’t stop him from trying to sing the song.

  As he trimmed his goatee, he thought about all the things he had to do today. He picked up his phone and added a few new entries to the notebook. He then began to apply body lotion and sprayed on his favorite cologne. He went to the bedroom and put on his boxers, put on his clothes for the day, and headed out to his car after turning off the stereo in his condo.

  The first thing he wanted to do before starting his day was wash his car. He went down to the parking garage, chirped the alarm on his new sports car and hit the streets. His favorite hip-hop was blaring over the eight-speaker system.

  Darren’s first stop was the car wash. He went to the manual wash where he could give his car the attention that it needed. Like other black men who were washing their cars, Darren popped the trunk and had a host of cleaning supplies for his car, including a shammy, wax, degreasers, and Armor All.

  He washed his car with the care all black men give their cars when they are new. He gave other men there the universal head nod. He also made note of all the beautiful women cleaning their cars as well. Many were scantily clad. Others were in jeans, gym shoes, and tops.

  It was early in the morning and the sun was just beginning to flex its morning muscle. In spite of it being early, all the ballers, dealers, and anyone with a decent whip seemed to be at the car wash.

  Everyone was gearing up for a beautiful Chicago day. The sun was shining, music from various artists were blasting over the multiple speakers of different cars, and those with chrome rims were shining them to a point where the sun’s rays would bounce hard off the reflection of the rim tops.

  Darren cleaned his car and dried it off slowly. He cranked his system back up as he gradually pulled out of the parking lot.

  Next he went to get his hair cut by Big Gucci at the old barbershop in the hood. Darren slowly drove through the hood so women and men alike could see his newly cleaned car. He liked the attention, as did most men when their cars were cleaned. He checked out the women as they checked him out and smiled to himself as he thought about how all his hard work had paid off these past few years. He was already successful. His new goal was to be wealthy.

  Many brothers rocked hardcore rap as they drove their cars in the summer. Darren rocked slow jams. Eighties music was playing overhead as he slowly pulled into the parking lot of the barbershop. He stepped out of his car and walked in the barbershop all smiles as he was greeted by the other men inside.

  “Whaddup, playa?” one guy asked.

  Darren gave the guy a head nod.

  “What’s up, D?” Gucci said to Darren. “I got two ahead of you, but I got you.”

  “Cool, cool. Thanks, Gooch.”

  Darren sat down on the bench and watched as the many men in the shop fellowshipped with one another. Some were playing basketball on video consoles as they waited to get their hair cut. Others watched music videos, which were playing on the monitors overhead, and others still were talking about current events, the economy, and the challenges that faced the first African American president.

  Going to the shop was like being at an all-men’s club. It was a place where men could go to be men, and freely talk about the things that affected them. From sex to politics, nothing was off limits at the shop. Men of all ages passed wisdom on to each other, from financial advice to advice on women. On Saturdays, the barbershop was the place to be and it stayed crowded every day that it was open.

  Even though he made a high, six-figure salary, Darren still got his hair cut by Big Gucci. Gucci, whose real name was Guy, had been his barber for well over ten years. Many of Darren’s colleagues and high-society friends went to salons in downtown Chicago to get their hair cut. Darren kept his money in the community. He always went back to the hood.

  The successful brothers who didn’t go to salons had their barbers come to their homes. The cost was often over a hundred dollars. Darren was considered to be bourgeois by some, but he was not too good to go back to the hood and get his hair cut.

  A haircut in the hood was thirteen dollars; twenty with a tip. In addition to a haircut, there was always something going on that was entertaining at the barbershop. Whether it was a debate about who was the best ballplayer of all time, or a debate on what woman in Hollywood had the nicest body, the barbershop was quite an animated place on the weekends.

  Darren knew that contrary to popular opinion, men gossip just as much as women. The men in the shop gossiped, talked about each other, and joked so loud you would have thought they were teenage girls.

  Forty minutes passed and it was finally his turn. He sat in the chair and Gucci put the wrap around him to catch any extra hair.

  “Bald fade, right, D?” Gucci asked. He had a deep voice like a late-night radio personality.


  “Yep, you know it,” Darren said.

  Darren sat in the shop and looked at all the various hairstyles that were in the room. He looked at the brothers that were there to get a lining, brothers with bald fades, Afros, and one-level haircuts. Some guys were there to get razor-sharp fades and others were there to get their hair shaved off entirely. No matter what style they were looking for, Gucci could accommodate them.

  Darren reached for his cell phone and turned it off as he sat in the barber chair. A lot of the dope dealers in the hood came in and got their hair cut, but stayed on their phones almost the entire time. All of them were chasing paper. None of them could pause long enough to properly get their hair cut despite the sign posted that said Please put your cell phones away.

  Darren thought to himself, What’s with niggas and their damned cell phones? He powered his cell phone off in hopes that others in the chairs would get the message.

  They didn’t.

  Perhaps they didn’t want to miss any paper. Perhaps they needed the attention. At any rate, the drug dealers stayed on their phones and looked at the exotic pictures they had saved on them. They were oblivious, it seemed, to common courtesy and manners.

  “So did my guy come and see you?” Gucci asked.

  “Yeah, yeah he did. Thanks for the referral, Gucci,” Darren said.

  Gucci was not just a barber; he was kind of a celebrity himself. He played two years of pro basketball until he blew out his knee. When he was playing ball, however, he had a reputation for cutting the hair of a lot of professional ballplayers on his team and the opposing team the night before a game.

  Gucci stood six feet eight inches tall and was a force to be dealt with in his basketball-playing days. He was built like a pro wrestler. After he blew his knee out, he was devastated. He didn’t know how he would make ends meet and his heart was broken because all he ever wanted to do in life was play ball. Like a lot of young black men, he thought sports were his only avenue out of the hood. But a good insurance settlement gave him some other possibilities. Even though the money wasn’t enough to cover all the taxes he owed and the payments on his expensive lifestyle, he liquidated his assets, took the two million that he cleared from that, and invested with some brokers. As a result, he recently opened up his fourth barbershop and business was great.