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“I already have.”
No sooner had Chere left than the cacophony next door started again. Jen’s walls vibrated. Her head felt like someone had parked a Mack truck in it and left the motor running. Enough was enough. Jen stepped out into the hallway in time to see a scantily clad hoochie mama exit 5B.
This was no tenant. 5B seemed to get more than his share of action. Women were constantly coming and going at all kinds of hours. Jen had heard the fights, the broken glasses and the slammed doors.
“Call me,” the woman with the belly-button ring said to someone Jen couldn’t see.
A grunt followed before the door closed firmly behind her.
Jen’s Midwestern good manners kicked in. “Hello,” she greeted the woman tottering by in too-high heels.
A disinterested glance was tossed Jen’s way. She’d been summarily dismissed as inconsequential. The music inside 5B’s apartment ended abruptly.
Jen returned to her apartment and decided to get comfortable. She slid into a pair of shorts and a halter top and considered what to do about dinner. There were at least three restaurants to choose from nearby but it was no fun sitting at a table eating alone.
Discarding the possibility of having food delivered, Jen opened the refrigerator hoping to find something edible. She slammed the door again. It looked like takeout was the only option.
The Godawful racket started again. Now it sounded like Middle Eastern chanting. 5B had turned up his boom box full volume again. An Indo rap artist was going on about bitches and whores.
Grabbing the remote phone, Jen punched in the numbers for a soul food restaurant that delivered and shouted her order. She would try escaping the loud music by taking the pile of mail out to the terrace.
Jen’s apartment offered a clear view of the beach. Tiny white lights were starting to twinkle on the opposite shore. On a sigh, she inhaled the smell of brine and thought how lucky she was.
The pounding music followed her outside. This new singer sounded like a cat in heat.
“You just got on my last nerve,” Jen mumbled, tossing the letters aside. “I have a right to a peaceful existence and I’ll have it if it’s the last thing I do.”
Tre Monroe snorted loudly. He was bored out of his skull. He needed constant stimulation. These wannabe artistes were not doing it for him. He’d hoped to find at least one potential star in the bunch, but nada so far.
WARP, the radio station where he was both musical director and on-air personality, was constantly inundated with unsolicited CDs; CDs that he as musical director was forced to listen to in his spare time. Tre had cranked up his music hoping that the lyrics and beat of just one of them would get his attention. But so far the pitiful talent just made him more restless than he already was.
He popped another disk into the player. He’d already had one uninvited visitor show up, a woman he’d dated casually; someone almost fifteen years his junior. At one time the sex had been good, but the conversation nonexistent. He’d quickly grown tired of her and tried to let her down gently, but she continued to hang on.
In a couple of hours he would be on the air, playing his tunes and broadcasting from the only black radio station in town: the happening station. Tre loved fielding calls from his late-night audience, often a colorful and vocal group.
Over the sounds of heavy metal, Tre vaguely registered the banging at his front door. Not her again. Had she forgotten something? Swearing softly to himself, he padded barefoot and shirtless to answer. Security was getting lax. He’d have to talk to somebody about this.
Tre ignored the peephole and threw his front door wide. The woman who stood before him looked like she had a definite axe to grind. He registered that she was attractive and had a great pair of legs. She had the kind of smooth cinnamon-colored skin you felt compelled to touch. Her lips were full, wide and inviting. Streaked, straightened hair skimmed her broad shoulders. High cheekbones and wide hazel eyes gave her a slightly exotic look. How come he’d never seen her before?
Tre’s gaze slid down the woman’s strong body. She was ripe. Her perfectly proportioned breasts filled that halter top nicely. Damn it but those long, shapely legs deserved to be wrapped around somebody, preferably him. He wondered how come he hadn’t run into her before. He would have remembered. When he smiled at her, she did not smile back.
It dawned on him it had to be the new tenant. He’d seen the moving truck pull up and unload a pitiful few pieces of furniture; mostly antiques though, so at least she had good taste. Sheer nosiness had forced him to inquire of the moving men where they were taking them. They’d told him they belonged to the occupant of 5C.
“Is there something you wanted?” Tre asked, staring at the woman. She’d folded her arms across those luscious breasts and now they threatened to spill from the low-cut halter.
“Your music is driving me crazy. I can hardly think. Much less work.”
“Who am I turning my music down for?” Tre asked, his glance sliding over her body again.
She seemed conscious of his assessment but not at all self-conscious. Yet she backed off, putting space between them. “I live in 5C,” she said, pointing up the hallway. “Next door. Show a little consideration. I’m surprised 5A and D haven’t called security.”
Tre narrowed his eyes, giving her the look that usually made women’s legs buckle. He’d been told often enough he had bedroom eyes. He swept his gaze over the tempting piece of flesh standing in front of him, letting his eyes linger for a second too long on the woman’s cleavage, then focusing on those long legs again. And what legs. He’d always been a leg man.
“No one’s ever complained about my music before, baby,” he drawled. “I’ve lived here two years. You’ve been here how long?” One eyebrow arched upward. He was at his most intimidating.
“About six weeks,” his pissed-off neighbor supplied.
“Long enough to listen to noisy altercations in the hallway and develop headaches from that obnoxious stereo of yours. I work at home a couple days a week.”
Tre draped an arm across the doorsill. “Who am I supposed to be shutting down my boom box for? You got a name?” On purpose he’d slipped into the dialect of the street.
5C actually had the grace to look embarrassed. She thrust a toned arm forward. She must work out with weights, another point in her favor. Toned arms with just a trace of muscle were sexy.
“Jen St. George. And you are?”
“Jen?”
Tre let the name wrap around his tongue. The last name was definitely foreign. She might be from the islands; Haiti quite possibly. He’d always had a thang for island girls. They were feisty and knew exactly who they were. She waited for him to tell her his name.
“Trestin,” Tre said, skipping his last name as he often did. Once women found out he was WARP’s music director, and popular radio personality, D’Dawg, they began acting like fools. The name was rightfully earned from his “poon hound” days.
“Well, Trestin,” Jen said, “can we come to an agreement? Can you at least lower your tunes so I can get back to work?”
The door of 5A located directly across from Tre pushed open. Ida Rosenstein stuck a head decorated with pink curlers covered by a net through the opening. She called in the loud croaky voice of a smoker, “You could at least invite this one in.” Looking from one to the other, she sniffed. “How come your girlfriends never wear clothes?”
“I am not one of his girlfriends,” Jen snapped. “Like you, I’m his next-door neighbor.”
“What was that?” Ida shouted, lighting a cigarette and blowing a perfect smoke ring.
Jen pinched her nose. “Must you?”
Tre’s palm cupped Jen’s elbow. He propelled her in the direction of the smokestack. “This is Jen St. George,” he said. “Jen just moved in.”
“John, did you say? Why does she have a man’s name?”
“My name’s Jen,” Jen carefully repeated. “Doesn’t his music bother you? How come you’re not complaining?”
“I’m too old to complain. It doesn’t do any good. I just take action.”
Tre tried to discreetly whisper to Jen that Ida was severely hard of hearing.
“His music,” Jen shouted. “Doesn’t it bother you? It’s too loud.”
“I like his music,” Ida boomed back. Good for her. “It makes me feel alive.” She began mimicking urban dance movements she must have seen on TV.
Jen was stunned.
Tre smiled brightly at Ida. She was taking up for him. He’d always liked the old lady and gave her credit for being so open-minded at her age. She’d told him she refused to move when the building was remodeled and the first influx of black upper-middle-class tenants moved in. According to Ida, she was the first resident to move in after the building was constructed. She’d be there until it was torn down or they took her out in a box.
A head poked out from 5D. “Can you keep it down?”
Camille Lewis was the last person Tre wanted involved in his business. Her mouth ran like there was no tomorrow. She thrived on gossip or made it up. Tre would have to convince Winston, her husband, to help put a lid on Camille’s mouth. That would cost him a handful of new CDs.
“This is Jen St. George, our new neighbor,” Tre said smoothly, forcing a smile. “Camille Lewis.”
“We already met.” Camille turned her attention back to her cell phone.
She had a heavy West Indian accent that came and went depending on whether she was talking to a relative or not. She waggled the cell phone at him. “I’m trying to talk to my girlfriend. Can you at least go inside?”
He was being ganged up on. Camille Lewis normally didn’t care about how loud he played his music; just that he made sure some of the disks came her way. She’d mastered the art of multitasking and knew everything there was to know about everyone in the building. They usually got along fine and Tre had learned to ignore her monitoring of his comings and goings.
“Fine. We’ll take our discussion inside,” Tre agreed. He held his apartment door open hoping Jen would come in. “Night, y’all.”
Camille grunted at him and slammed shut her door. Ida stayed put.
“Tomorrow this entire building’s going to hear about the threesome we had in the hallway.” Ida cackled loudly and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray she held. Examining Jen through rheumy eyes, she continued. “You’re a step up from his usual. His taste is improving.”
“I am not his usual. I am nothing to him,” Jen answered before stomping off.
Tre said good-night to Ida Rosenstein and slipped inside his apartment.
Jen St. George wasn’t going to be easy. He’d have to plan a strategy, maybe take a bottle of wine over to her later in the week and turn up the heat.
With any luck, he’d have her on her back and those long legs wrapped around him.
Give him one month and he’d be in those tight shorts of hers. Then guess who would be complaining about who.
Chapter 2
“Yo, Flamingo Beach. This is D’Dawg coming to you live from WARP. Bad day at work? You been dumped, lied to, or just played? Come sit back and chill with me. My tunes are guaranteed to make you relax and take you on a trip down memory lane to the good old days when brothas and sistahs pushed getting high on life. Let’s conversate. You can tell me what’s happening in this sleepy little town of ours, the Southern answer to Peyton Place.”
Tre had a habit of slipping into urban vernacular when addressing his radio audience. He’d grown up in the ghettos of Detroit and knew this was what his people expected and what they understood. He punched a button and Luther Vandross’s soulful crooning dominated the airwaves. The singer was a man he’d deeply admired. Tonight would be a tribute to him.
Tre sat back, preparing to listen. He propped his feet on the console and took a bite of his sandwich, letting Luther’s sensual voice mesmerize him. It was times like this he wished he was with someone special, someone he had a connection with. So far that hadn’t happened and he didn’t want to just hook up with anyone. Times had changed and making the wrong choice came with consequences.
Another Luther song dropped, this one in a slightly different vein. As the singer began sharing his childhood memories with the radio audience, Tre unfolded The Flamingo Beach Chronicle and began flipping through it. This new advice columnist was a trip. Here she was giving some crazy old lady tips on marrying off her son. What if the man was a confirmed bachelor? And who cared if he was gay?
He reread the mother’s letter and dissected Dear Jenna’s response. Pushing a button on the console he drawled, “Nothing like a little Luther to soothe the soul and get us in the groove. So what y’all think about this chick Aunt Jemima, the new advice columnist from Cincinnati? Anyone read today’s column? Let’s break it down. I’m here to take your calls.”
Tre guffawed loudly. “Freudian slip, y’all. The lady’s name is Jenna. This brotha thinks she likes to stir things up, telling the man’s mama to get on the Internet and place one of them personal ads. Phone lines are open, y’all. I’ll be here for the next four hours.”
During the next fifteen minutes every line at WARP lit up. Tre took call after call and conceded he just couldn’t keep up. His show rocked.
“Sheila, what do you think?”
“Dear Jenna gave sound advice.”
“Why is that? What mama needs to get involved in a grown man’s business?”
To her credit, Sheila stood firm. “I’m a mama. My son brings home these hos. They come into my house, belly hanging out, disrespecting me. Who can blame a mother for wanting to see her son settled with a good churchgoing woman?”
“I hear that. But what if the man’s gay or as Jemima calls it, queer?” Tre now appealed to the audience. “Anybody else got anything contradictory to say?” He punched another button. “Rufus, you still hanging?”
“In for the duration, my man.”
“You got a different opinion from Sheila?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. Mama needs to butt out. Cut the apron strings and let sonny boy make his own mistakes.” Rufus’s raucous laughter rang out. “Mama needs to find herself a man.”
“Anyone else in the house?” Using a finger that was almost as dark as the console before him, Tre pressed the button on yet another line.
“This is Kim. My ex-boyfriend turned out to be gay and there was nothing I could do to change that.”
“Hear that, callers. Kim couldn’t get her man to change. You try one of them Victoria’s Secret numbers?”
“Yes, I did.…”
Kim quickly hung up. She’d lost it and sounded like she was about to cry.
And so it went on, until Tre took a break for advertising. All of Flamingo Beach must have tuned in tonight. Some had opposing views but the discussion was lively, controversial, and at times irreverent, just like Tre liked it. Four hours would pass quickly tonight.
Jen stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her dripping body. When the phone rang she considered letting the machine pick up but at the last minute grabbed it.
“Hello?”
“Watcha doing?” Chere bellowed.
Ignoring the puddle beginning to form on the white tile floor, Jen responded, “Getting ready to head for the Pink Flamingo to grab something to eat.”
“Want company?”
What about Leon? I thought you two were joined at the hip.”
Chere sucked her teeth. “Leon who?”
Clearly that diversion was over with. Chere sounded perfectly fine. She was one of the most resilient people Jen had ever met.
Balancing the receiver between ear and shoulder, Jen said, “Okay, give me the lowdown.”
“Turn your radio on, girl. Tune into WARP. D’Dawg’s dissing you.”
“Is it some kind of wrestling station?” Nope. The DJ’s supposed to be finer than The Rock. Alls I know is he sure as hell cracks me up.”
Jen vaguely recalled hearing something about a controversial show modeled after the New Yorker, Howard Stern’s, except a whole lot cleaner.
“The man is slamming our column and he’s got the listeners calling you Dear Jemima and saying you’re a bigot.”
“Why am I a bigot?”
