Read Online Best Black Women's Erotica by Blanche Richardson - Free Book Online Page B

it.”
    â€œI’ll prove I’m telling the truth.” He was about to open his wallet when I playfully snatched it away. I paused when I realized how heavy it felt. Before he could stop me, I opened the side of the wallet and took a peek at the bills. There were a few fifties but the rest of the bills were hundreds. One after the other after the other.
    I leaned in closer and folded my hands next to my cheek. “What the hell did you do, rob a bank?”
    â€œI thought you were interested in my name.”
    I opened the wallet again and looked at the driver’s license. Jorge Morales. I smiled over at Doris Ann. “He’s telling the truth. Sort of.”

    I handed over his wallet with a smirk. “What did you do to make all that money, George?”
    â€œThat’s a secret.”
    â€œCome on, you can tell me.”
    Doris Ann took a step toward us, her head wobbling a bit. “I have a feeling that money is dirty. I can feel it.”
    I raised my eyebrows at George. “Is she right?”
    He shrugged slightly, lifting his shoulder as if to dismiss the subject.
    A man dressed in brown corduroy pants and a beige corduroy jacket came over and asked Doris Ann if she wanted to dance.
    â€œHot damn! ’Bout time somebody noticed me around here.” She took the man’s hand and they headed off to the tiny dance floor.
    I turned to George. “So where’d you get all the money? You don’t have to be so secretive. I won’t tell.”
    George studied me carefully, gazing at my hair and face. “How old are you, Leah?”
    â€œTwenty-six.”
    â€œTwenty-six.” He shook his head as though my age was bad news. “You are lovely, Miss Leah. But you probably have men telling you that all the time.”
    Actually I couldn’t remember the last time a man gave me a nice compliment. Usually some ass would leave his telephone number at my table along with a so-so tip. Or I’d be filing something at the real estate office, turn around, and see some old bastard checking me out.
    George stared at the bottles behind the bar. As he took a last hit from his cigarette, I noticed a small mole high up near his cheekbone. “I would love to cook dinner for you. Why don’t you come to my place and I’ll make a nice dish from the Dominican. Arroz con habichuelas. Pollo guisado. All delicious.”

    â€œNuh-uh. No way. You could take me home and make me for dinner.”
    â€œI don’t want to hurt you. I want to cook for you.”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    We were quiet again before he asked if he could buy me another drink. When he took out his wallet I eyed all those bills. What must it be like to have your wallet full of money like that? I wondered. What must it feel like not to have to count every fucking penny? He tapped his glass to mine when the drinks arrived then rested his hand on his hip and watched me take a sip of my drink. “I really think you are beautiful. No bullshit. I understand that you don’t want to come to my place. Why don’t you allow me to take you out? I’ll take you someplace nice.”
    I took another sip and looked around the bar. A few more people had trickled in, but the place was far from full. I glanced over at Doris Ann. She had her arm hanging over Corduroy’s shoulder and the two dipped and swayed to an’80s pop song. I pictured her at the restaurant where she worked, dressed in a pink apron, carrying a pad and pencil. I’ve been waitin’ tables since I was sixteen! Tomorrow, I knew, I’d be doing the same thing. Come six o’clock after the four hours I put in at the real estate office, I’d be hustling for tips. I turned to George and glanced down at his wallet, which he’d sat next to his drink. The offer for dinner was nice and all, but I was more interested in money—his money. What was the difference, really, between hustling for a