Unrequited Read online

  Marley, 11:52 p.m.

  Queen bitch told me that Quentin took you home. You need to do him already. Senior year is almost over.

  Marley, 12:24 a.m.

  He IS FUCKING HOT! I hope you’re making me proud!

  I got ready for bed and climbed under my covers.

  Fatima, 12:48 a.m.

  You left me hanging tonight. You are officially on my shit list, only to be rectified by letting me borrow your Prada sunglasses on Monday.

  Marley, 12:53 a.m.

  Done. I owe you big time. And I see what you did there.

  Fatima, 12:53 a.m.

  Yeah, Yeah. G'night

  I stared up at the ceiling. Unwelcomed images of Amber and Quentin flashed through my mind. Him pumping inside of her, his muscular ass flexing with every movement. His mouth on her pussy. Her lips around his cock. Their tongues tangling in a messy kiss as she straddles him. Feelings of lust and jealousy spurned together as I slipped my hand underneath my panties and began to stroke the sensitive bud between my legs, bringing myself to orgasm.

  Chapter 5

  QUENTIN

  "SON, WHATEVER IT IS, it can wait. Get your head out of your ass," my dad clipped in a hushed tone between photo ops and handshakes.

  I had planned to leave this fundraiser fifteen minutes ago, due to the three-hour drive ahead of me. My mother, Adeline, wouldn't let me live it down if I were late. She was turning thirty-five for the sixth time and had flown in from Hawaii to spend her special day with me. It wasn't surprising that dear old dad forgot his ex-wife's birthday. He used to forget it when they were married, too.

  "Mother's here. Her flight came in this morning," I reminded him, glancing at my Jaeger-Lecoultre wristwatch.

  "Ah. I see. And Adeline will give you hell if you're late."

  "Exactly. I should have left fifteen minutes ago."

  "Well then. Another fifteen minutes won't hurt." He slapped me firmly on the back—his way of saying tough shit—before he resumed dull ass conversations with a bunch of old farts about current affairs, new deals, and land expansions. All the things that I gave two shits about. But I played the game, contributing to conversations when expected to, shaking more hands than the pope himself, and smiling until my fucking face felt numb.

  "Here comes Lobbyist Cameron Radcliff. His father is Judge Radcliff from the—"

  "270 district. I know, dad."

  Cameron Radcliff, a pompous potbellied motherfucker, approached us with an unnaturally plastic woman on his arm. She looked like a teenager. I'd bet my entire inheritance she was an escort. Radcliff introduced bimbo barbie to us, then probably regretted it, by the way her eyes kept dancing between my dad and me with a dreamy look in her eyes.

  Twenty minutes and three conversations later with constituents of the like, I was gunning my truck down the highway, heading for Sugar Land.

  ∞∞∞

  I LOOSENED MY TIE and rolled down the windows. It was chilly for April, but the sun was blinding, so I put on my sunglasses and lit a much-needed cigarette. I avoided smoking around my dad, not wanting to hear another lecture. Mother smoked all the time, and knew that I did, too. She shrugged off my habit, though. Most French men smoked, she explained, and my great, great grandfathers, from both sides of my family, migrated from France. So she gave me a pass.

  Adeline Belcourt-James moved to Hawaii a few months after my dad's affair. Belcourt held just as much political weight as James did, but I reckoned that Mother kept my dad's name out of spite for him and his 'new' bride. Eleanor, who I considered my real mom, not just a stepmother, wasn't exactly a new bride. She and my dad married nine years ago. My mother used to refer to Eleanor as the barely legal twit wife, so 'new bride' was a step up, I guess.

  Mother was green with envy over the close relationship I shared with both my parents. She also hated the fact that I called her "Mother," and I called Eleanor "mom" instead of Eleanor or stepmother. From the moment my dad left us behind for another woman, my mother told me things about their marriage that an eight-year-old had no business knowing. Because of it, I grew up hating the woman that broke up my family. And when karma kicked dad in the ass—as mother put it—and dad was left alone and devasted, my mother bought a cake, and we celebrated. Even as a kid, I knew that was some evil ass shit, but I ate the cake anyway.

  Socioeconomically speaking, Mother landed on her feet, taking her fortune and half of my dad's estate with her. But emotionally, she was never the same. My parents' divorce left her heartbroken. Though it was clear that my dad had moved on, my mother never remarried.

  Dad's affair almost cost him his Senate re-election and ruined his chances for the White House. Not that he gave two shits about it when he threw his family away. I remember overhearing my mother crying to Grandfather James about my father's plans to resign as Senator in order to run away with his whore mistress. "America will never trust him again if he marries her," my grandfather told her. "But don't you worry your pretty little head. He'll be back. I'll see to it. You just be ready for him when he comes crawling back."

  Texas, in fact, did re-elect dad as Senator. Many who opposed his re-election speculated that it was merely a sympathy vote after the sudden death of his father, Presidential Chief of Staff, Quentin James III. The two men were inseparable, the perfect father-son duo that everyone admired. His sudden death shattered our family, mainly my dad.

  Before my grandfather's death, dad was already broken. He had just lost the woman he loved, the one who he had risked it all for. When my grandfather died, not too long after, my dad was empty—a former shell of the man he used to be. I knew it, even at eight, because I was empty, too. It takes one to know one, and all that. I watched the change on his face and in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. I watched him struggle to smile or laugh, even at me, when I would try to do something silly to get his attention. During that dark time, my mother was hopeful about my dad coming home to stay. Every weekend when he came by to pick me up, she would get her hair done and wear a new dress. Dad would look at her once, give her one of his fake smiles, and then he and I would take off for the weekend to his new house or to Washington, D.C.

  When my mother received divorce papers by courier service, she drove me to my dad's house, crying and chain-smoking cigarettes the entire drive there. Dad was still at work when we arrived, so she had me wait on the porch for him and drove off without any explanation.

  She never came back for me.

  ∞∞∞

  AS I SPED DOWN the open highway, my mind drifted to more welcomed thoughts—or unwelcome thoughts—depending on how I looked at it. Smooth brown skin that glowed from every angle. Eyes the color of honey. A plump, fuckable mouth, and a seductive smile. The perfect ass. A tiny waist. Full perky tits, and legs for days. Fatima was a walking Maxim Magazine cover model. A far cry from the cute lanky girl from summer camp. It had been pure hell, standing on the sidelines like a pussy, and not giving in to the temptation to mark her and claim her as mine. Not only did I want to own every inch of her body, but I wanted to possess her fucking soul. The selfish bastard in me wanted to take everything from her until she had nothing left to give any other guy. Ever. I wanted her heart, even more than I wanted her pussy—and I really wanted her pussy.

  I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Fatima had the potential to be my downfall, and I had the potential to utterly destroy her. That's what James men did. We conquered and destroyed, leaving chaos and broken hearts in our wake. And if Fatima were anything like her mother, she would hook her claws into my chest, rip out my cold, lifeless heart, revive that fucker in her bare hands, before stomping the shit out of it. But not before I sold my fucking soul to her, forsaking all the plans that my family had for me.

  Fatima and I had an agreement. We were to keep a healthy distance from one another in public. Worst fucking agreement ever. I understood the need for us to remain loyal to our families by hiding our friendship. So instead of flipping the middle finger to everyone, I a
greed with the arrangement she set forth, knowing it was probably for the best. And what did I get in return? Fatima torturing me by dating obnoxious assholes. So I fucked my way through high school, hoping it would lessen my need for her. Sort of a tit for tat, if you will. Immature, I know. But if she could fuck around, so could I. Of course, none of the girls I fucked could compare to the black beauty with the sweetest pussy I'd ever had. The girl who smiled with her whole face. The girl who threatened to crack my chest wide open.

  ∞∞∞

  A POLICE SIREN RESOUNDED behind me, breaking into my thoughts. Fucking fuck. I didn't have time for this. I slowed my speed from 100 to a more reasonable and legal pace and pulled over to the side of the road. It helped to be the Senator's son in times like these. Our nearly identical resemblance made me easily recognizable. The entire sheriff's department knew my dad. And even if that were not the case, I had the gift of gab. Like my dad, I knew how to become whoever I needed to be in any given situation.

  I shut off my engine and took one last drag of my cigarette before snuffing it out in the center ashtray. I popped a breath mint in my mouth, raked my fingers through my hair, and within seconds I had transformed myself back into the young man that everyone knew and loved. The young man who fathers wanted their daughters to date. The one that their daughters thought they could easily tame. The one who mothers and wives wanted to fuck to make them feel young again. They all saw me as a cultured, well mannered, good-natured, and charismatic young man. Not the bored, self-centered asshole I really was.

  "License and registration," the middle-aged officer said, still looking down at his pad. I recognized him immediately, his bushy handlebar mustache making him hard to miss. Sheriff Dan Wiggins.

  "Sure," I said casually.

  Once Sheriff Wiggins peered up from his pad and noticed me, his dull expression brightened. "Hey, son. I didn't know that was you."

  I feigned sudden recognition. "Hey, Sheriff. How are ya?"

  "Good. Looking forward to this upcoming season of crew. You boys sure are making a name for yourselves, even in this football dominated town."

  "I appreciate that, sir. How's the missus?" Debra was part of a women's bible study group that my mom hosted in our home once a week. One night, she found me alone in the kitchen during their bible study and slipped her phone number in my pants pocket. I didn't do old chicks—especially married ones. I threw her number away as soon as she left the room.

  As expected, Sheriff Wiggin's stance eased at the mention of his wife. I smiled and nodded my way through the boredom and listened as he went on and on about their new greenhouse, like I gave a shit.

  "I hear you're a grandfather now," I added for effect. "Please extend my congratulations to Jim and Samantha on the new baby."

  "Absolutely."

  After a few more minutes of what seemed like a painstakingly long conversation, I was free to go without even as much as a warning. As soon as I was out of sight from his patrol car, I resumed my original speed.

  ∞∞∞

  I PLACED THE STRAND of pearls around my mother's neck. Fatima had helped me pick them out. "Happy birthday, Mother." I kissed her on the cheek.

  "Thank you, Dear Heart. They're beautiful. But you're late," she lightly scolded.

  "Sorry about that." I unbuttoned my powder blue J. Crew sports coat and sat down across from her. "Traffic."

  Her lips curled into a dubious smile. "I see. Am I to assume your father is to blame?"

  Instead of responding, I opened the menu and peered at it for a moment before putting it down.

  "I recommend the Poulet Rôti aux Olives Niçoise." Her gray eyes sparkled with delight. "While I was in Paris last month, there was this delightful restaurant on avenue Montaigne. The Poulet Rôti aux Olives Niçoise was delicious." Her eyes widened in excitement. "We should go this summer."

  "Maybe," I smiled, her elation infectious.

  Her smile faltered ever so slightly. "Please, consider it. I miss you, Dear Heart."

  "I know, Mother. I miss you too."

  A young black waitress approached our table and recited the specials of the day. I knitted my brows together, studying her flawless ebony skin and beautiful hair. She had long dreadlocks, just like Fatima's.

  Snapping out of my reverie, I placed our orders before handing the waitress the menus and eyeing her intently. "You have a beautiful accent," I compliment. "Nigerian?"

  Her full lips stretched into a smile. "Yes, actually." Her voice was a bit breathier than before.

  "That'll be all. Thank you, dear." Mother stared at the waitress expectantly, breaking my and the hot-as- fuck waitress's gaze.

  "Yes, ma'am." She gave a curt nod. My dick twitched when she turned to walk away. She even had an ass like Fatima's. A tight, upside-down heart-shaped ass. Fuck me.

  "Like father, like son," Mother lightly admonished, arching a dark brow.

  "Are we back on this again, Mother?" Over the years, she'd questioned my attraction to black women, and frankly, it was getting old. Black women were gorgeous, but if I were being honest, I was only attracted to women who reminded me of Fatima, regardless of their race.

  She extended her hand across the table and took mine, giving it a little squeeze. "You're a better man than your father. But you have his same…weakness, if you will, for African American women." She gave a sad smile before adding, as an afterthought, "I guess he eventually found his way back to his own when he married Eleanor."

  "Jesus, mom." I released her hand and raked a hand through my hair.

  "Let me finish," she urged delicately. "I have nothing against black women—only the one. But your father is weak. The Oval could have been his, but he let his little head destroy everything our family had worked so hard to maintain. A true leader makes sacrifices for the betterment of his family and for his country."

  "I know, Mother." I let out a heavy breath. A familiar weight pressed down on my shoulders, as it often did whenever we had conservations like this.

  "My blood runs through your veins, too. You come from royalty, Dear Heart. A lineage of strong and honorable men who have changed the world. I know you will make us proud and undo the damage your father has caused."

  Mother smoothed her hand over her shoulder-length brown hair and relaxed her features into a soft smile. "You are the best part of me—the best part of us both. You will change the world, Dear Heart. You will do what your father wasn't man enough to do."

  I flinched through my smile.

  Chapter 6

  FATIMA

  SUNDAYS AT THE MALL were usually busy, and today was no exception. The cosmetics department where I worked was busting to capacity with customers. I scored the job on my eighteenth birthday, after convincing my dad that I could maintain my 4.0 GPA while holding down part-time employment. It was a miracle that he agreed to it, being the proud, hard-edged, and stern man that he was. He hadn't always been that way, though. He used to smile and laugh and slow dance in the middle of the living room with my mom.

  At the end of my four-hour shift, my feet were barking, and my stomach was growling. A greasy slice of pizza from the food court had my name all over it. It was my after-work routine—work, then pizza. So although I could practically feel the pair of fuzzy socks that I left in my car, the fuzzy socks would have to wait. The food court was just a short walk and an escalator ride away.

  Ten minutes after clocking out, I stuffed a folded slice of pineapple and ham pizza into my mouth. I closed my eyes as I savored the flavors. A familiar voice called out my name from behind, causing me to turn and unplug my earbuds from my ears.

  "Hey." Quentin's arresting smile made my stomach do a little flip.

  I swallowed down my pizza with a sip of my Slurpee. "What are you doing here?" Quentin at the mall? I expected to see flying pigs first. Though he was labeled the best-dressed and fanciest guy at our school, I knew that his family had a personal shopper on retainer.

  "I came to have lunch with you."

  "
In public." It was a statement, not a question. Hanging out at school or behind closed doors was one thing. But out in broad daylight was another.

  "Yeah, in public, Captain Obvious."

  I gave him the middle finger.

  On their own accord, my eyes quickly scanned his body. He looked good. Real good. A pale green polo shirt, light grey chinos, and deck shoes encased his long, lean, muscular physique. His hair was perfect as always; the loose waves immaculately tamed. He looked like he belonged on the cover of some teenage girl crush magazine. Not standing in a crowded shopping mall holding an equally large slice of pizza and bottled water in his hands.

  "I thought today was Isabella's birthday party," I said as I gestured to the stool across from me.

  He shook his head. "Tomorrow."

  "Is she the four-year-old? I can't keep track of all the siblings you have."

  He took a seat across from me and pulled his phone out of his pocket, placing it on the table. "That's Lizzie. Isabella's turning seven."

  "Dang, your parents have hecka kids. Are you going to be a good Catholic boy and have a shit ton of kids one day?"

  Quentin gave a light shrug of his shoulder. "One day, I guess. I mean, that's the plan." He took a large bite of his cheese pizza, and I chuckled softly as I watched him. What was he? Twelve? What eighteen-year-old ate plain cheese pizza?

  "What?" he mumbled mid-chew, his eyes narrowing in skepticism.

  "Your culinary taste is about as adventurous as a toddler's. You always raid my pantry for Ho-Hos and Captain Crunch. Now cheese pizza? Such a deviant," I teased.

  "Pizza is good all by itself. There's no need to doctor it up."

  "Such a risk-taker, you are." I tore off a piece of my pizza, making sure it had pineapple on it and extended it to him. "Here. You might like it."

  "I'm good. Some things should never go together."

  "Like you and me," I chuckled. "I mean, our dads would have coronaries if we ever got together." I watched him closely for a reaction.