1
Friendships and Fatherhood
“ Ooh, yeah, just like that, just like that!” Frieda Moore-Livingston cooed as expert hands moved up and down her bare back, across her shoulders and back down . . . kneading, rubbing, before coming to that sensitive dimpled spot just above her juicy assets. “That . . . feels . . . so . . . good.” “Oohs” and “aahs” surrounded each word that oozed from her lips. Strong, lean fingers continued down her thighs, paying special attention to the calves and feet before heading back the way they’d come, lingering at the small of her back, switching to feather-light strokes as they splayed across her shoulders and along the nape of her neck. Frieda felt as though she’d have an orgasm right on the spot. It had taken her a while to understand the hype. But now she was a true believer: there was nothing better than an afternoon massage.
“We’re done, pretty lady.” Tyson, the masseur to the stars and to those with star quality (translated, plenty of cash), tapped Frieda lightly on the shoulder to signal the end of their session. “See you next week?”
“Of course, baby,” Frieda said, turning over and getting off the table, shamelessly letting the towel fall on the floor. More than once Tyson had suggested she wait until he leave to begin dressing, but Frieda had other plans. Often, she’d wondered how it would be to have other body parts massaged during these sessions, but so far her not-too-subtle hints had only been met with a patient smile. The first assumption had been that he was gay. After all, who would turn down what Frieda called “pussy on a platter”? But her friend Stacy’s baby daddy, Darius, had told her that Tyson didn’t get down in that club and since the platinum-selling R & B singing sensation was patently homosexual and very much a part of that world, Frieda thought that he would know. If not for the fact that she was now headed to a thick link of sausage not far from her old stomping grounds, she might have been insulted. As it were, she simply laughed as Tyson quickly averted his eyes and left the room.
Moments later, Frieda clicked the locks on her shiny new Lexus LX and slid inside. Ever since she’d purchased the pearl wonder with light tan seats, she’d given to wearing outfits and/or accessories in the same color, often finished off with Louboutin pumps and pearl-colored Gucci shades. Frieda’s picture could have appeared next to the word materialistic, but she didn’t mind. She’d learned how in LA image was everything. She had faked it until she made it and snagged a doctor in the process. Thinking of Gabriel, the hardworking husband and sponsor of the designer duds she wore, caused a tiny tinge of guilt as she turned down Martin Luther King Boulevard and headed toward where she used to live. Passing row after row of modest apartments much like the one she’d rented upon arrival from Kansas City, she reflected on her journey from then till now, and how far she’d come in less than five years. When she’d left the Midwest and a drug-slinging boyfriend to join her cousin and best friend, Hope Taylor, in the City of Angels, all she’d hoped for was a good time. And now here she was a wife and mother, living in a tony Westside neighborhood amid five-thousand square feet of luxury, a bank account courtesy of her husband that never boasted less than five figures, credit cards with no limits, a chef, a maid, and a nanny/house manager. Sometimes she had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. And sometimes she had to do what she was doing now. . . . go slumming for something that money couldn’t buy—a thick piece of sausage.
“Get in here, girl,” a tall brothah said as he opened his apartment door. His island accent was as sexy as his long thick locks, his ebony skin, his straight white teeth, and his washboard abs. “You know me don’t like to wait for ya.”
Frieda was nonplussed as she threw her purse on the couch. She kept silent as she unzipped the front zipper on her pearl-colored mini and let it fall to the floor. Her cell phone vibrated, but she ignored it as she reached behind her and unclasped her bra. The youngblood’s eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips. That’s right, she thought. This caramel goodness is worth the wait, isn’t it? Her nanny/house manager’s son, Clark, could say whatever he wanted just as long as he did what she told him to. And he did. Long and hard. Every single time. “Stop sulking and get over here,” she said, looking fierce while wearing nothing but a wispy thong, five-inch pumps, and a smile. “And show Mami how much you’ve missed me since I’ve been gone.”
Two hours later a totally satiated and satisfied Frieda left the hood and headed back toward the Westside, and her appointment at the spa. The man was a beast, and she needed professional help to wipe the just-been-sexed-to-within-an-inch-of-my-life look off her face and body. It would be the last appointment of the day before heading home to a quiet evening, probably alone. Even though it was likely that Gabriel would work well into the night, Frieda always scheduled a spa visit after her romps with Clark. She never wanted to make her husband suspicious and had learned early on that the astute doctor didn’t miss much. No, tonight she was not in the mood for a lecture on what he sometimes called “behavior inappropriate for a doctor’s wife.” There was already enough on her mind. Like Clark, and how she was going to continue to have her cake and eat it too.
Her phone rang and as she looked at the dash, she again felt a twinge of guilt. The last thing in the world she ever thought would happen was that she’d go soft. The old Frieda wouldn’t have given two hoots about what anybody else thought or felt. Undoubtedly her cousin would attribute it to the Holy Spirit that Hope swore never left Frieda’s side. I hope that Brothah took a break just now. Otherwise, He got an eyeful! Frieda thought it was less likely divine intervention and more probably motherhood that had unearthed the heart she’d buried during her teenage years, fending for herself on Prospect Avenue, perhaps dug up by the three-year-old who had both his parents wrapped around his finger. Or maybe it’s you, she thought, reaching to connect the call. She could honestly say she loved the somewhat stodgy, somewhat geeky doctor whose work was his passion. Even though he bored her to tears.
“Hello.” Frieda turned down the sounds blasting from her speakers as she spoke.
“Where are you?” Gabriel Livingston’s voice was just short of curt. “I’ve called you three times.”
Just then Frieda remembered that her phone had vibrated earlier, when she’d been so focused on . . . well . . . various types of massages, and she’d forgotten to turn it back on. “I’ve been out running errands,” she said, the beginning of an attitude creeping into her voice. Having basically been on her own since she was fifteen years old, she wasn’t too used to having to report her whereabouts.
“Cordella said you’ve been gone for hours.”
That nosy nanny needs to mind her own business! Frieda made a mental note to speak to her at the next opportunity. Sistah-girl wouldn’t get fired as long as her tenderoni son was handling that pipe like he did, but his mama was definitely going to have to put her mouth on lock. “After my workout I went to get my weekly massage, then went shopping”—screwing but hey, they both have eight letters and start with an S—“so yeah, I guess I’ve been gone for a while.”
“You can’t keep doing this, Frieda. Spending your afternoons gallivanting while Cordella watches our child. In the two years that she’s worked for us, I’m beginning to think Gabe considers the nanny his mom.”
“Did you call to make me feel bad about taking care of myself?”
Gabriel’s exasperated huff came through the phone. “I called to tell you about a dinner engagement tonight with a prominent couple from DC. An unexpected change of plans has them here for the evening, time enough to make an impression that will hopefully result in a large donation for the new oncology ward.” He told her the name of the restaurant. “Reservations are at eight.”
“Looks like it’s a good thing I’m on my way to the spa,” Frieda purred. “So I can look good and help impress your guests.”
By the time the call ended, Frieda knew that she’d flipped the frown that had undoubtedly marked Gabriel’s face when the call began. She turned up the music again as she thought about how opposite she was from Gabriel in so many ways, and how her vibrant personality was what had drawn him to her like a hummingbird to sugar water. He was often exasperated with her, but a witty quip, flirty phrase, or naughty innuendo could usually brighten his mood. He’s so easy to manipulate. And when it came to fathers, there were none better. That heart that Frieda liked to ignore constricted a bit. She really did love Gabriel. He’d do anything for her, and even more for his namesake, the namesake that every day was looking less and less like the good doctor and more and more like one of the men Frieda used to know.