Page 16 of The Pleasure Zone
He’d forgotten to unblock his number when he’d called her as he had the few other times he’d called her. He’d had his number changed and blocked shortly after Marika’s death. Too many people had had his number, and the phone calls had been overwhelming—from those wishing to extend their condolences to the nosey-asses wanting to know what had happened to the relentless reporters fishing for a story. It’d been too much for him to deal with, so he changed his number, cutting off everyone’s direct access to him.
Less than a second later, Nairobia’s phone pinged.
“Did my text come through, yet?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said as she opened the text with his number. “Now, tell me. What exactly is in Rhode Island?”
Marcel smiled. “Laila Reynolds is giving a free concert in Providence,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone. As if she would have known this already.
“Oh,” was all she said.
Nairobia liked the R&B singer. She even had both her albums. Autographed. But that did not mean she stayed abreast of the sultry songstress’ tour schedule. However, she did enjoy a good show. “When? And where?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. At India Pointe Park. And I want you to attend with me.”
Nairobia took another swig of her water. “And why would I do that, MarSell, my darling? So you can hold me hostage, then have your way with me?”
Marcel laughed. “I assure you, baby. I won’t do anything against your will. Je le promet.” I promise.
“Very good. Now what time shall I expect you?”
Marcel grinned. “My driver should be there around ten.”
“Okay. I’ll be down in the lobby waiting.”
“We’ll be outside waiting. See you tomorrow, beautiful.”
Nairobia smiled. “Oh, and MarSell, my darling…”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“U krijgt geen kut.” You will get no pussy.
Marcel knew what kut meant, so he knew that whatever she said had something to do with her pussy. He groaned. “Damn, baby. What did you say about that beautiful pussy of yours?”
Nairobia repeated herself. “I said you would not get any of it. You will not taste, or feel the insides of my kut. Comprendre?”
Marcel let out a hearty laugh. “Aiight, baby. I understand. Whatever you say. But how about some of those sweet kisses instead?”
Nairobia felt her body warming. There was something deliciously irresistible about him. But she would not allow him to become a distraction for her. Period.
“You have done nothing to earn my sweet kisses, my darling.”
He groaned. “Then I’ll have to fix that.”
“Best wishes, my love.”
Marcel laughed. “See you in the morning, baby.”
She disconnected the call, smiling.
EIGHT
Ten a.m. sharp, Nairobia stepped out of her building to find Marcel’s driver waiting. The moment he saw her, he tipped his hat and smiled as he opened the rear door.
The car smelled of leather and him.
Dial soap, a hint of cologne, and a dizzying amount of testosterone. She slipped inside the car and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek once she was safely inside and the door shut. She hadn’t seen him since the radio interview, and he looked good, casually dressed in a pair of white linen pants and a white linen shirt that was partly opened, revealing a smooth expanse of chocolate chest. No, on second thought, he looked better than good. He looked…damn good, fucking good—and everything else in between.