CHAPTER 6
Jordan
“Trust and believe. We’re never going to find true love in Atlanta.” Jordan curled her neatly French-manicured nails into her palm, pounded her hand on the round dark wooden table, then shouted, “Ever!”
The liquid inside of Chancelor’s snifter and Victoria’s long-stem wineglass swayed.
“Damn, girl,” Victoria replied. “You’re out of order. This is not a courtroom.”
“That’s pent-up frustration,” Chancelor commented. “Let me take the edge off that marinated pussy,” he joked.
Ignoring Chancelor, Jordan hit the table again to emphasize her point. “Men in Atlanta want women to pay them for dick. Even the ones who can’t fuck worth a damn.”
Victoria laughed out loud. “We do have most of the money and all of the pussy. Meow,” she said, sounding like a cat. “The problem is, too many men are acting like females. They want women to suck their nipple, get on top and ride it, get them hard, kiss and hold him after she’s done all the work. That’s worse than paying for dick.”
“That’s a lie,” Levi yelled from behind the bar.
There were four eight-inch rounds in the bar section of the restaurant, plus eight barstools at the counter. Levi was aware of everything happening at all times.
“Some of the trans are sexier than a lot of y’all born with the real thing,” Levi stated. “They keep themselves up. Hair. Nails—”
“And what else they’re keeping up, Levi? Huh?” Jordan’s voice projected across the bar. Levi needed to stay out of the conversation with his fake-ass relationship with Queen. None of them had met her.
Flinging her lustrous, kinky curls away from her sweet toffee skin, Jordan’s shoulder-length hair bounced back in place. Makeup beat to perfection, her facial features were pronounced. She knew that her left eye was smaller, right ear sat higher, and her narrow nose barely had a bridge. Nothing foundation, concealer, eye shadow, and lipstick couldn’t alter beautifully.
She thanked her mother for her flat ass. At least men weren’t objectifying her based on what was behind her. And though she was 150 pounds, only five feet, five inches, her hips were wide, her waist was small, and her skin was smoother than a baby’s. What she lacked in the rear, she made up for with her double-F boobs. This time Jordan slapped the table.
“Whoa.” Chancelor quickly gripped his snifter. “Don’t spill the cognac.”
Staring at him, Jordan replied, “How many times must I tell you? What you drink is brandy. Kingston is a cognac connoisseur.”
Successful men wanted to cum and go leisurely—no accountability or responsibility to a woman—the same as broke guys, except the ones with nothing played head games in order to drain gullible women of their tangible and intangible assets.
Jordan directed her attention to her friends at the table. “I’ve been here fourteen years, dated six professional men, and all of them were on that MGTOW nonsense until it came time to fuck.” She pronounced the Men Going Their Own Way acronym as “mag-tow.”
“Mag what?” Chancelor had a habit of laughing and frowning at the same time. When he did, his forehead wrinkled and brows almost touched. “That law degree has you making up words now? Lower your standards or keep sleeping by yourself,” he told Jordan.
A seasoned attorney, Jordan moved to the ATL to practice, find a good man, and partake in a robust lifestyle she never had in her hometown of Rome, Georgia, which had a population of less than forty thousand.
“Lower my standards. Like you did. And let men use me the way Tracy used you,” Jordan said to Chancelor. “No thanks. You might want to try screwing fewer women at church.” She waved to the mixologist. She held up her second bottle of the imported red wine she’d brought in from her collection for Levi to uncork.
Defending his rights to smash whomever he wanted, Chancelor responded, “Why do you think women go to church? To find a man like me. I’m helping them out.”
Credit card theft, unauthorized bank and CashApp transfers, jewelry heisting, auto title pawning, failure to repay personal loans, marrying without prenuptials—the list of things women were forgiving and doing to get a man in Atlanta kept growing. If Chancelor continued chasing beautiful women who were hustlers, he was bound to get robbed. For real.
Jordan Jackson, of the Jackson, Johnson, and Jones law firm, represented countless intelligent ladies that were scam artists and those that were victims of con guys. She was admiring the original paintings hanging on the wall adjacent to the entry, and Corey Barksdale’s colorful abstracts stood out among the rest in the bar area. She knew what type of man she didn’t want and the must-have pre-qualifications she demanded before dating anyone exclusively.
Jordan articulated, “I need a wealthy, highly educated man with great character, and a sense of humor. The kind that prefers lobster and fish over beef and chicken. Cork over a twist-off cap. Flying to a destination for vacation over cruising with port pit stops. The beach over a cabin in the woods. A man that would stand up for justice and not ignore the struggle of his people.”
The mural off of the downtown connector—Interstate I-75/85—of U.S. Representative John Lewis mirrored her type of guy, inside and out. She hadn’t come close to finding that man.
“Here I am. Next round on me,” Kingston said, entering the bar. He was wearing a black short-sleeved, button-up shirt, denims, and gray-black-and-white snakeskin hard-sole shoes. He sat in his usual seat, spread his thighs.
Victoria stared at Kingston’s dick imprint. Kingston really was working with a salami. Not a wiener like Chancelor’s.
“See something you like?” Chancelor mumbled across the table at Victoria.
“Women are always in trap mode trying to find a husband. Men don’t look for love. Love looks for us,” Kingston said, sliding his chair forward. Winking at Victoria, he added, “That’s why I stay single.”
Kingston is fine and fuckable, Jordan thought as she shook her head. He is too attractive. And if he slings good dick . . . He’s trouble with a capital “T.”
The blackest man she’d ever met had the whitest teeth. Tall. Athletic. Ripped abs. Tight, round ass. And he appeared to have a big dick! Kingston Royale was perfection personified.
A whiff of masculine cologne greeted Jordan every time he was near. But with his having two young kids by the same woman, crossing the line with Kingston, knowing the attachments he had, Jordan was not risking losing the friendship of a celebrity.
“Excuse me, Kingston. Can I get a picture with you?” a gorgeously voluptuous woman asked.
“Not now, baby. Maybe later,” Kingston replied, then said to the group, “Monet dropped our first baby on me when I was a senior in high school. She knew what she was doing. I knew, too. But I didn’t want to be a ghost to my kids, like some of my teammates’ dads were with them. My folks are Bible-toting parents. That’s why finding a church family was at the top of my list. Monet’s dad wasn’t around. When she got pregnant with our second child, I felt obligated to do right by her,” Kingston commented.
“What? How do you define ‘obligation’?” Jordan questioned. “What’s the right thing when you still haven’t married her? How do you consider that—”