Woman on Top
Woman on Top
By Brenda L. Thomas
Houston, Texas * Washington, D.C. * Raleigh/Durham, NC
Woman on Top © 2015 by Brenda L. Thomas
Brown Girls Publishing, LLC
www.browngirlspublishing.com
ISBN Ebook: 9781625175076
ISBN Print: 9781625175083
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means including electronic, mechanical or photocopying or stored in a retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.
First Brown Girls Publishing LLC trade printing
Manufactured and Printed in the United States of America
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It is reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.
Dedicated to a true artist, my nephew
Eric N. Brown
1968 - 2013
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: Happy New Year
Chapter 2: Blessed Babies
Chapter 3: Restitution
Chapter 4: Woodloch
Chapter 5: Make New Friends, but Keep the Old
Chapter 6: Homeward Bound
Chapter 7: Soul Food Sunday
Chapter 8: Happy Birthday
Chapter 9: Million Dollar Baby
Chapter 10: Maxed Out
Chapter 11: BBWC
Chapter 12: Happy Mother’s Day
Chapter 13: Under the Sea
Chapter 14: The Ribbon Cutting June
Chapter 15: Devil in the House
Chapter 16: Hotter than July
Chapter 17: Disney World
Chapter 18: FALL
Chapter 19: Philly, We Can Do Better. . .
Chapter 20: Selfies
Chapter 21: Platinum Images
Chapter 22: Eye of the Storm
Chapter 23: #FLOP ~ She’s Sorry
Chapter 24: My Little Princess
Chapter 25: Trick or Treat
Chapter 26: Lies & Alibis
Chapter 27: Thanksgiving
Epilogue
Prologue
An Evening in Paris
Tiffany L. Johnson-Skinner
The party was just getting started, but little did I know, it would never end.
Why I’ve been dreaming about him, I don’t know, but tonight I can feel him, here at the Mayor’s Charity Ball. Peering up at my handsome husband, I can’t imagine why I’m even thinking about another man. Yet, he’s managed to stay in my head, like a stained memory recalling itself at will. However lately, the memory is there at times when it shouldn’t be. Like tonight, while I’m in the arms of my husband, the most powerful man in the city.
Gazing across the ballroom, with guests dressed in Parisian attire, tables adorned with Eiffel Tower centerpieces, and replicated paintings by Claude Monet and Paul Cezanne hanging on the walls, it feels like I’m walking through a cheesy Parisian museum. Nonetheless, it’s for a good cause and people seem to be enjoying themselves.
As First Lady, I enjoy every aspect of what my position allows me, whether it’s supporting my husband’s initiatives or building my own platforms. All of this, of course, is preparation for Malik’s future, another term as mayor, then governor, and final stop, The White House.
“You okay?” my husband asks, his fingers tickling along the deep opening at the back of my dress.
“A lot on my mind,” I say in response, all while checking the movement of the heavy red velvet drapes to see if he might be lurking there.
“Thinking about your event tomorrow?”
“No, thinking about me and you skipping this party, and going up to our suite.”
“Well then who,” he asks, turning to look behind him, “do you keep looking around for? Are you waiting on somebody?”
I want to tell him that the person I’m waiting for, I fear, is already here; instead I hold my head up toward him for a kiss.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he says, giving me a smile that comforts me, the same way it does the people in this room.
Mayor Malik D. Skinner
My life is good and if things continue to go as planned, it’ll only get better. Tonight’s gathering has brought out the best of not only my constituents but also those with pockets deep enough to finance my re-election campaign.
Only a man who loves Philadelphia could be the mayor of this city, with all it’s grittiness, drug wars, union strikes, and organized crime, I’ve learned to leverage it all. We have the best restaurants and retail shopping outside of New York and no other city can quite match our historical culture, which is proven by the hoards of tourists who visit every year. But even with all that, it’s this woman right here in my arms, who’s always got my back.
“You know I had the DJ play this for us,” I tell my wife as Eric Benet begins to sing “Chocolate Legs.”
“Malik, don’t you start singing in here.”
I tighten my arms around her, bending my head to her ear and croon, “The memory of my day will quickly fade away, when you come wrap them chocolate legs ’round me.”
You know you can’t sing, right?” she says, but her smile tells me she loves it.
“I’m the Mayor, I can do anything,” I whisper in between verses.
“Yeah, well it’s been three weeks since we. . .”
“I need you to understand and make me glad I’m your man. . .” I continue to sing to my wife who, when I brush my hand over her backside, I realize isn’t wearing any panties.
“You’re a bad girl, Mrs. Skinner.”
Again, that smile.
However tonight’s festivities are dampened with thoughts of having to demote my longtime friend, Wesley Lawson. I see him over at the bar, nodding my way, giving me that innocent grin he’s been using all his life to get over.
When I took office, Wesley had been disappointed that I hadn’t appointed him as my Chief of Staff. Instead, I’d placed him in the role of Senior Director of Community Relations. But even in that position, his self-ingratiating ways and back door deals caught up with him, and threatened to not only tarnish my reputation, but my bid for re-election as well. Luckily, we got wind of his shenanigans before they were made public, so I’m reasoning that having to demote him from my staff is far better than losing him as a friend.
I look over Tiffany’s shoulder and down at my watch and that’s when my Chief of Staff, Constance Barnes sidles up next to us on the dance floor and says, “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but you’re going on the air shortly.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Eight, maybe ten minutes, but Deacon Brown would like to see you beforehand and DA Leander would also like a minute.”
Deacon Brown has been vying for a private audience with me on a subject that I’m not ready to broach. I’m already committed to speak at the Concerned Black Ministers Brunch in the morning, and he’s pushing me to do a series of Town Hall meetings in February for Black History Month. I don’t mind, but at every public forum I attend, it’s the same thing; everybody wants taxes cut yet they want the full services of the city. Nobody, believe me nobody, wants to hear or see the ugly side of this city; the child porn ring we busted, the murders that don’t make the papers, and corruption that runs through to the city's core. If they heard about all that really goes on, the residents would flee Philly faster than a mouse in the cold.
Mr. Gregory D. Haney II
I’m not one to go out and celebrate New Years; my preference is to keep it private with the people who have tas
tes similar to mine. Tonight being no exception, I head straight for the bar in the crowded and noisy Marriott lobby.
“Cold out, my friend?” the bartender asks as I pull off my gloves, stuffing them into my coat pockets.
“I’m not complaining, anything is better than where I spent the past few New Years.”
“What can I get you?”
“Old Grand Dad, neat.”
An exquisite Asian woman two stools away from where I stand, slithers over toward me.
“You sound like a man that enjoys a good drink,” she muses.
I nod.
When the bartender settles my glass on the bar, I watch the brown liquid swirl against its sides, but I don’t want to rush the first drink I’ve had in over six years.
“Been a long time since I had one of these,” I say, taking a whiff of the whiskey that used to cap my nights.
Offering me her well-manicured hand, she says, “Sato.”
Licking my lips I prepare for the sting of the warm liquid; but instead of savoring it, I down the entire glass.
“Haney,” I respond once I finish, confirming that I’m the one she’s here to meet. At the same time, another woman, tall, bronze, and statuesque, moves to stand in front of me. “Felices Año Nuevo, Haney.”
“Give them both what they’re drinking,” I say to the bartender, before laying a crisp hundred dollar bill on the bar.
Smiling, the bartender surmises, “Guess you ain’t headed to the Mayor’s party?”
Looking from the Asian beauty, to the sultry Latina, each standing with a hand on my shoulder, I say to the bartender, “Mine will be a private party.”
With our glasses refilled, I begin to engage in conversation with the ladies when I hear the bartender exclaim, “Now that’s a beautiful black woman right there!”
Turning his way I see him smiling at the flat screen above the bar where First Lady, Tiffany Johnson-Skinner is standing beside her husband, as he’s being interviewed on the news. Unable to hear what they’re saying, I watch her hands, her lips, and the contour of her breasts against her dress, which are fuller since she had the baby. But most of all, I wonder about the scent that lingers between them.
All those years in federal prison and it wasn’t my ex-wife who I wanted back, nor did I have fantasies about regaining control of this city. It was only her, the First Lady, that I craved.
I mumble in response, “She tastes even better.”
“Sir?”
“What’s your name, bartender?”
“They call me Reds.”
“Well, Reds,” I say, taking notice of his Mohawk of red hair, “make sure these ladies don’t go thirsty while I’m gone. And while you’re at it, pour one for yourself, it’s New Years.”
Placing my room key on the bar between the two women, I walk away in what I know is the wrong direction.
Tiffany
I didn’t see him enter the room, doubt that he came through the main entrance, probably slithered along the perimeter. Yes, that’s how he was, the slithering type, only being seen when he was ready to be seen or better yet, when he was ready to pounce. That’s why we’d put him down, locked him away, for what had to be at least six years.
I wish Kamille and Julian could’ve come to the party tonight, because they surely would’ve made a long night more bearable with their comic banter. However, my brother was celebrating New Year’s in Prague, and my sister was bringing in the New Year at home with her family, probably in front of that huge stone fireplace. But for my New Year’s, there’s no other place I’d rather be than right here, in my husband’s arms.
“What time can I take you away from all this?” I ask him when Eric Benet’s voice fades out and the tempo of some version of a line dance begins to play.
“With this dress, you can get me to do anything. Faire l ’amour Ce soir.”
I vaguely hear Malik’s attempt at speaking French, promising a night of overdue lovemaking because I'm distracted by a figure I see thorough the haze created from the pale glow of the gas street lamps placed throughout the room.
“Hey, woman?”
“Yeah.”
“The song’s over. You okay?”
“No. I mean yeah, I need to go to the ladies room.”
“You want one of the guys to escort you?”
“No, I’ll be fine by myself.”
Mayor Skinner
With Constance beside me, and my security detail tailing behind, we head toward a smaller room to where my interview will take place, but not before we’re stopped.
“Mayor Skinner, do you have a minute?”
I turn toward the voice of the CFO of Children’s Hospital. “Dr. and Mrs. Pope, how are you? Enjoying yourself this evening?” I ask, shaking his hand, then, kissing his wife on the cheek.
“Oui, Oui! We’re having a delightful time,” Mrs. Pope says. “Having been to Paris, I must say you did a great job replicating the city.”
“I see tonight has brought out the French in all of us,” I respond, it being obvious that Mrs. Pope is slightly intoxicated, “but I owe all the credit to my staff.”
“Mayor, I’d like you to meet our daughter,” Mrs. Pope offers, nudging her daughter out from behind her.
“Yes, the Naval officer. Welcome home,” I say, turning to shake the hand of the stunning young woman.
“Merci, Meryl Pope, sir.”
“Officer Pope, hard to see you standing on the front lines.”
“I’m protecting my country, which includes you, sir.”
“What are your plans now that you’re home, for what, six months?” I ask, glancing at her father for clarification of what he’s told me.
“Yes sir, six months before I deploy out again.”
Having put her arm through mine, Mrs. Pope speaks up, “Mr. Mayor, you know we’ve been in full support of your wife’s fundraising, and we’re hoping that perhaps our Meryl might intern at your office.”
Dr. Pope gives her a disconcerting look and I feel embarrassed for him as my mind immediately goes to the reputation of interns and their infatuation with men in power. However, for me, besides being unable to trust them, the lure of beautiful women isn’t worth what I would stand to lose. Plus, Tiffany isn’t the type to stand beside me through an affair and she told me that on several occasions when I was running for office.
With Meryl now poised directly in front of me, before I respond, my eyes briefly take in her well-toned body. “I’m sure we can find something to fit your skill level. I’ll have my chief of security give you a call this week to see how we can fit you in.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor. It would be my honor to protect you.”
Mr. Haney
Heading up the escalator to the mezzanine level, I move down the wide hallway, where men in those stupid berets stand with palettes, attempting to paint drunken partygoers on canvasses. I’m humored with the knowledge that the majority of these people have never even been out of the country.
Careful not to be noticed, (as if anyone would notice me), I stand off to the side of the ballroom, hoping for a simple glance of her in the flesh. It’s hard to see through all the bullshit decorations, yet my eyes find her dancing in his arms. I’ll admit seeing her in that dress, knowing those warm chocolate thighs are hidden underneath, makes my mouth water. Even her scent from that far away fills my subconscious.
Unbeknownst to Philly’s First Lady, I’ve been following her for days, if only to see what type of woman she’s become. She’d been so young and vulnerable back then, unknowing of the depths of her sexuality, and how eager she’d been to use every part of herself for my satisfaction.
As for him, Mayor Skinner, it has taken me a long time to get over wanting to put a bullet in the back of his head; but for Tiffany, my only revenge would be tying her up for days, taking what I wanted and giving her what she needed - she’d like that. However, cautiously I mutter to myself, “Haney, this isn’t what you’ve come for.”
Tiffany
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br /> Easing around the perimeter of the ballroom, I make my way toward the exit, but then I hear, “Mrs. Skinner, hello Mrs. Skinner, do you have a second?” It’s the annoying voice of a guest trying to get my attention.
Knowing I can’t ignore anyone, I turn and face the woman, who I know is a pastor’s wife, but whose name I can’t recall.
“Bonjour, Mrs. Skinner, Bonjour. You remember me?”
“Yes, of course,” I lie, which is often when people expect me to recall their names and faces.
“You look beautiful tonight. That dress is perfect for your skin tone,” she tells me, her voice soaked with envy.
“Thank you, but if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’m headed to the ladies room,” I respond, while still in motion.
“Let’s take a picture,” she adds, while waving over Lou Mendels, a city photographer who’s been following Malik and I around all night.
“Sure, you ready?” I ask, smiling for the quick photo op.
“Mrs. Skinner, I was checking to see if you’d be coming with your husband to the brunch tomorrow. Some of us wives would like to meet with you.”
“Of course, I’ll have a moment,” I say, now headed toward the elevator to rid myself of her. “We’ll chat then.”
“That’s wonderful, but Mrs. Skinner. . .”
“Yes?” I answer, irritated.
“The ladies room is that way.”
Mayor Skinner
Once again we head in the direction of my interview, scheduled to air live on tonight’s eleven o’clock news and I now have exactly two minutes to spare. I tell Constance to reconfirm my attendance with Deacon Brown, however that’s when my security captain, Keenan Wright, informs us the DA has been called away on an emergency.
Lowering my voice, I ask, “Anything I need to know?”
“Not yet, sir. I’m waiting to hear from the Deputy.”
In the adjoining room, my press secretary, Cyndi Kilrain, greets us, then begins affixing a microphone to my lapel.
“Has it been all work for you this evening?”
“Actually, Mr. Mayor, I tried to get your attention earlier, but you’ve been on the dance floor all night,” Cyndi tells me.