“Yup” was all he said.
Kingston realized he was going to be in and done in less time than it took him to change his church clothes. “I’m pitching. If you’re catching.”
“You must be new at this. I told you. I’m wide open,” he answered.
Enough procrastination. “Let’s go to a private playroom.” There was no need to discuss his health status; both of them knew what they were there for. Occupying one of the bedrooms wasn’t necessary.
Real men didn’t require missionary, foreplay, or afterglow. As he entered the standing-room-only space, the click of the lock reminded Kingston of being in the janitor’s closet.
Erasing the childhood memory, Kingston snipped a tiny split in the edge of the condom packet with his canine teeth. The guy pulled down his sweatpants, leaned against the wall, spread his feet. Kingston unfastened his belt, let his jeans rest below his knees. Unrolling the latex over his shaft, he stepped out of his pants, then hung them on a hook. Squatting, he tilted his pelvis. Slowly he swiped his head between 232323’s tight butt cheeks, then penetrated him.
Images of Theodore eating cream pie off of his dick while Monet was on the phone heightened Kingston’s sex drive from stiff to rock-hard. The more he replayed his last session with Theodore, the greater he struggled to dismiss his feelings for Theodore.
Was Theodore letting a man do to him what Kingston was doing to 232323?
Rapidly pounding again and again, the hood of his jacket slid down to the nape of his neck. His sunglasses slid to the tip of his nose. Kingston’s secret shielded his truth. Kingston continued thrusting, praying this would be the last time he sexed a random.
Why did I enter the janitor’s closet? What did I think would happen that day? Certainly not what Langston Derby had done.
Ten minutes later, Kingston released himself. He carefully removed the condom. Trashed it in the can filled with liquid that destroyed DNA on contact. Quickly he cleansed his genitals with a moist towelette. Putting on his pants, he placed his hood over his head. Pushed his frames to the bridge of his nose.
Cumming inside of that man felt more gratifying than ejaculating raw inside of his wife, but only during the act. Now that the orgasm was over, Kingston felt empty.
I’m not gay, he told himself, questioning his sexuality. Certain his wife had called him at least three times by now, he headed toward the exit. Kingston had to develop a plan to keep Monet in Columbia until he’d gotten out of his system the urge to sex men. Another month or two should suffice. But how was he going to end his situation with Theodore?
Triple twenty-three wasn’t as good as Theodore, but Kingston’s mission was accomplished. Rushing to his car, Kingston headed to Bar Purgatory to meet up with his church friends. His dick felt sticky against his boxer briefs.
Transit time was best for him to call Monet. Having a destination gave him a valid reason to get off the phone shortly.
“What took you so long to call me back?” his wife complained.
“Baby, church. Today was my Sunday to usher the late service.” Decreasing his speed to a complete stop, Kingston looked to his left.
The driver stared. Breaking eye contact, Kingston looked straight ahead. Adjusted his tacky shaft from his inner thigh toward his abdomen.
“Hey, Daddy,” Israel shouted.
Nairobi echoed her older sister.
Saved by his girls. “Hey, my beautiful little angels. I’m sending you special-edition backpacks. One is pink and the other is purple. Don’t fight over them. The one with the cell phone in it is for Nairobi,” Kingston said, knowing if Monet disapproved she’d be the bad parent.
Israel countered, “What’s in mine?”
“Guess,” he said. Kingston kept the conversation going, hoping to run out of time to talk with his wife.
“Clothes?” Israel said.
“What kind of clothes?” Kingston hadn’t purchased anything—backpacks, cell, clothes—for the girls. Not yet.
Israel stated, “Tennis shoes with lots of rhinestones?”
“You are a mind reader,” he said.
Monet was quiet. The girls screeched with excitement.
“I know Mommy isn’t happy with my being away from home,” Kingston stated, then explained, “I have to stay busy in order to keep focus on our goals of finding a place here.”
Kingston parked in the lot at the bar. Texted Lilly, I need you to pick up four, make that five gifts. I’ll drop off $10,000 and the list to you later.
Np, Lilly messaged back.
“Daddy, I don’t want to move,” Nairobi protested.
“I don’t want to make new friends,” Israel said with attitude. “People in Atlanta are plastic.”
“And fake,” Nairobi added.
A call registered from Theodore. Kingston loved his wife, but his children made his decision to take his time easier. Ignoring the flirtatious female in the car next to his, he drove off.
“That’s Lilly calling about the house. Let me call you back, baby. Love you guys,” he said, thankful to end the conversation.
“Hey, man. What’s up?” Kingston answered.
“It’s your wife,” Monet retorted.
Damn. He hit the red circle this time to end the call. Kingston looked at his cell, then dialed Theodore back and said, “Hey, man. What’s up?” with the same enthusiasm.
“How about I bring over dinner and dessert tonight,” Theodore suggested. “But I ain’t giving you this delicious dick. We’re chilling and watching a movie.”
Sensing there was a smile on Theodore’s face, Kingston’s lips curved upward. “I’d like that. I need a friend in Atlanta, bruh.”
“And you think I don’t know that,” Theodore replied. “See you at seven . . . man.”
CHAPTER 5
Monet
Monet released the cell from her grip, letting it fall into a fruit basket in the middle of the island. “Stop jumping right now!” Her eyes shifted from one to the other as she yelled at her daughters.
If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Monet. The thought of hurling her smartphone across the kitchen at one of the many family photos hanging on the wall throughout their home was on the tip of her brain. Every room in their house was built with her husband, kids, or her mother in mind.
Four happy feet skipped lightly around the dining table. “I said stop it. Right this minute!” Monet slapped the bar-height island as she stared at her girls.
Wide light brown eyes beamed at Monet. Israel’s full lips, were like her dad’s, and high cheeks, mirrored Monet’s. Her onyx skin shined from an excessive application of shea butter. She didn’t blink when she asked, “What’s wrong, Mother?” Resembling a skinny replica of her father, Israel stood five feet, five inches, at eleven years old.
Monet’s anger wasn’t her children’s fault. Kingston cutting her off to talk to his boy pissed her off. Not returning her call. Not telling her “I love you” first thing in the morning, before bedtime, or saying it prior to ending their conversation had become more frequent. No more phone sex. Or FaceTime. His coldhearted tone was new and hurtful.
Monet’s mother quietly sat at the island on one of the six barstools. She’d changed, too. Helping less with the girls. Siding more with Kingston.