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Langston’s speed increased as he sprinted, releasing the steam of last night’s dream.
“Have you tried sex?”
Malcolm’s voice reminded him of the question. Not that he needed to, as it seemed to be the only thing Langston could think of when he thought of her.
“Don’t,” he whispered to himself.
As much as he was tempted to be frank with Lisa, he didn’t want to use her for revenge sex. Nor did he want to use her body to blow off some steam. That didn’t stop his cravings for her flesh, and Langston simultaneously felt a sense of guilt mixed with desire.
He gritted his teeth, inhaled a deep breath, and flipped around in a U-turn to head back to where he had started.
* * *
“Did you see that broadcast yesterday?”
Langston sucked his teeth and lifted the short glass of brandy and took a swig. “Yes,” he said to his brother Malik. “What did you think about it?”
Malik’s nostrils flared; his eyes dimmed. “Do you want my honest answer?”
They were sitting at Café Olay for a midday lunch. Café Olay was a quaint restaurant located in the affluent neighborhood of Northshire Bend.
A small establishment, it seated a dozen patrons at a time. The décor was simple, and the ambiance was upbeat. The seating in the café was arranged so patrons had a pleasant view of the street through its large bay window. The chairs were upholstered with soft cotton fabric, and the tables were polished to an inviting sheen.
The café smelled like freshly baked bread, scallion pancakes, sweet sticky buns, and rich pastries. The air was thick with the scent of hot waffles, sausages, and eggs frying on the grill, mixed with the odor of hot chocolate and creamy cappuccinos.
The doorbell jingled, and they glanced up to see Tristan and Derek entering and speaking in low tones.
“Gentlemen,” Malik said on their approach. “You’re just in time.”
They slapped hands and pulled each other in for hugs.
Tristan sat down and crossed his legs at the ankles. “What did we miss?”
Opposite him, Derek did the same. The men were dressed in their usual wear—tailored suits—cut to fit their muscular bodies like a second skin, cuff links, ties, and bow ties. Traces of Aramis cologne drifted from the men, a mixture of citrus and spice, exotic and arousing like a Caribbean cruise.
Tristan removed his aviator sunglasses as Malik spoke up. “We were about to get into that broadcast yesterday.”
“Ah, yes.” Tristan squinted. “What about it?”
“I asked Malik what he thought about it,” Langston said.
Their eyes turned to Malik. “And?” Tristan added.
“It’s bullshit.”
Derek groaned and slipped a hand down his face. Malik turned an arching brow at him. “I expected that response from Langston, not you.”
“Why?”
“Because we had an understanding about his nasty display of fuckery. Langston is more forgiving.”
Suddenly, thoughts of Malcolm Jones’s comments filled Langston’s mind.
“Maybe doing things the way you’ve always done is the problem.”
“Yes, but I’m ready to put this behind us, and I believe Mom is, too. Dragging this on gets us nowhere. She’s told me plenty of times that she’s okay, and I’m inclined to believe her—unless you know something I don’t?”
“He disrespected her in front of millions of viewers,” Malik pointed out.
