Read Online Playing Hard To Get by Grace Octavia - Free Book Online
Authors: Grace Octavia
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He was an artist, a jazz musician, and he’d poured his entire self into it—even picking up a few drug habits to prove his dedication. “I want the fame,” he went on. “Just get me on the networks!” Nathaniel laughed a little louder than his joke called for. He was drunk and Tamia had noticed two dinner dates ago that when he got drunk he got louder and more obnoxious. While Nathaniel was what the 3Ts called a beach ball, 9 he had the nerve to be handsome anyway. His brown skin was without defect. And like Charleston, he had perfect teeth and his grooming was impeccable. When Tamia met him at some rapper’s film premiere in Chelsea, and the two shook hands for the first and last time (it was more traditional to hug and trade dry kisses), she’d noticed how soft and moist his palms were. Like a newborn baby’s, they felt as if he’d just walked right out of a hospital nursery that very day. He then whispered in her ear that she should only call him by his full name—not Nate or Nathan. He claimed he was the fifth Nathaniel Cecil in a line of Burris men that predated the Civil War and it would be a shame to dishonor this history, but really it was just because he liked the way the formal version sounded. “Nathaniel” was the perfect accessory. It matched his ascots, argyle sweaters, and penny loafers.
“You’re so funny, sweetie,” chimed Ava, who was smiling beside Nathaniel. Thus far, Tamia had met three of his women, but Ava seemed to be sticking around. She was as skinny and dainty as a dove feather. Her skin was the color of the inside of a banana peel and there was not a trace of a crinkle in a strand of her shoulder-length auburn hair. It took Tamia hours of painstaking pressing and perming to get hers right, and she envied just looking at Ava’s slick roots. She must be mixed, Tamia thought, mixed with something somewhere in her family.
Charleston said Ava was a model, but Tamia thought she hadn’t even sounded that smart. Not a day over twenty-three, she mostly agreed with what Nathaniel had to say and laughed at his jokes before he’d reached the punch line.
“I told that white boy he can keep my check. Shit, set them on fire if he wants,” Nathaniel went on.
“Man, you’re just talking shit now, just like at school when we pledged K-A-Psi. You know you didn’t say that,” Charleston insisted. “And if you don’t want the $50 you’re gonna make selling iTunes to me and your mama, you can send it to me. I can use it to get a haircut.” Charleston rolled his hand over his head and shimmied dapperly.
“How about I cut out the middleman and just send the check directly to your mama? Pay my child support,” Nathaniel jabbed and they all laughed. Unlike Charleston, he’d come from big money. His great-grandfather once sold insurance in Brooklyn, and when the business went belly up during the Depression, he spent his life savings on a dilapidated building in Greenwich Village. Only it was the ’30s then and everyone thought he was crazy. The Village wasn’t the big hot spot just yet. Drugs were everywhere and in just thirty years hippies would be sleeping in the streets. However, after fixing up and renting out units in the property for five decades, his son sold it and purchased another dilapidated building in midtown during the recession in the ’80s. The salesman said he would need at least $5 million to fix it up in order to make any profit from renting office space. Nathaniel’s grandfather spent $1 million and turned it into an indoor parking facility. Now Nathaniel’s father was selling the spots for $275K a piece. The family would keep 50 percent to stay in control.
Tamia was adding up how much Nathaniel’s family was making off of all the spots when she felt the table vibrating beneath her right elbow. She looked down to see that Charleston’s phone was aglow and before he snatched it from the table and excused himself, she saw as clear as black lettering on a white
“You’re so funny, sweetie,” chimed Ava, who was smiling beside Nathaniel. Thus far, Tamia had met three of his women, but Ava seemed to be sticking around. She was as skinny and dainty as a dove feather. Her skin was the color of the inside of a banana peel and there was not a trace of a crinkle in a strand of her shoulder-length auburn hair. It took Tamia hours of painstaking pressing and perming to get hers right, and she envied just looking at Ava’s slick roots. She must be mixed, Tamia thought, mixed with something somewhere in her family.
Charleston said Ava was a model, but Tamia thought she hadn’t even sounded that smart. Not a day over twenty-three, she mostly agreed with what Nathaniel had to say and laughed at his jokes before he’d reached the punch line.
“I told that white boy he can keep my check. Shit, set them on fire if he wants,” Nathaniel went on.
“Man, you’re just talking shit now, just like at school when we pledged K-A-Psi. You know you didn’t say that,” Charleston insisted. “And if you don’t want the $50 you’re gonna make selling iTunes to me and your mama, you can send it to me. I can use it to get a haircut.” Charleston rolled his hand over his head and shimmied dapperly.
“How about I cut out the middleman and just send the check directly to your mama? Pay my child support,” Nathaniel jabbed and they all laughed. Unlike Charleston, he’d come from big money. His great-grandfather once sold insurance in Brooklyn, and when the business went belly up during the Depression, he spent his life savings on a dilapidated building in Greenwich Village. Only it was the ’30s then and everyone thought he was crazy. The Village wasn’t the big hot spot just yet. Drugs were everywhere and in just thirty years hippies would be sleeping in the streets. However, after fixing up and renting out units in the property for five decades, his son sold it and purchased another dilapidated building in midtown during the recession in the ’80s. The salesman said he would need at least $5 million to fix it up in order to make any profit from renting office space. Nathaniel’s grandfather spent $1 million and turned it into an indoor parking facility. Now Nathaniel’s father was selling the spots for $275K a piece. The family would keep 50 percent to stay in control.
Tamia was adding up how much Nathaniel’s family was making off of all the spots when she felt the table vibrating beneath her right elbow. She looked down to see that Charleston’s phone was aglow and before he snatched it from the table and excused himself, she saw as clear as black lettering on a white
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