Lookin' for Luv

Book 1: Man's World Series

by Carl Weber

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Carl Weber is the Essence and Blackboard best-selling author of Married Men. The hilarious story of four single black men in New York City, this novel takes the game of love from the playoffs through the finals. Kevin's got the good looks; Antoine's got the heart and soul; Tyrone's got the skills; and Maurice has all the heartless player moves-but not one of them has a good woman in their life (not counting their mommas). So what do they do? They call 1-900-BLACK-LUV, the ultimate African American date line of course! The outrageous experiences that follow-including dates with everyone from bible-thumpers and chicken heads, to gold diggers and soulmates(!)-have to be heard to be believed. This unflinching window into the erotic world of contemporary romance will leave mature listeners satisfied. An authentically voiced narration from Kevin R. Free ensures a laugh-out-loud good time. "Filled with entertainment . will have you laughing from the beginning to the end."-Kimberla Lawson Roby

Release date: August 26, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

It was almost midnight when Kevin heard the phone ring. Who the hell’s calling at this time of night? he wondered. He finished his push-ups. Lifting his dark six-foot frame from the ground, he grabbed a small towel from the back of a chair and wiped the sweat off his face. Sweat glistened against his smooth dark-chocolate skin and trickled down the muscles along his broad shoulders.

“Hello?” his deep voice grumbled into the receiver.

“Kevin, is that you, baby? Lord, don’t tell me I done made a long distance call all the way to New York City and it’s a wrong number,” the voice had a strong but friendly southern accent. Kevin smiled.

“It’s me, Mama,” he answered happily.

Kevin and his mother were very close, even more so since his father died five years earlier. His mother lived in Hopewell, Virginia, where he had spent his entire childhood. She lived with his two sisters, Whitney and Phyllis. He liked to speak to his mother at least once a week to be sure she was doing all right.

“Is everything all right down there, Mama?”

“Everything’s just fine here, baby. But what about you? I expected to get that answerin’ machine of yours on account of it’s Friday night. What’s wrong, boy, you sick?” she prodded as only a mother could.

“Oh, I’m fine, Mama. I was just doin’ some push-ups, that’s all. I was just about ready to take a shower before you called.”

“Push-ups!” She laughed. “Now, Kevin, why you gonna go an’ lie to ya mama like that? I know you like the preacher knows Scripture. You got one of them New York City girls over there, don’t you?” She barely paused to take a breath. “Lawd have mercy, boy, I hope you usin’ them condoms I sent you. As much as I want some more grandchillin’, I want you married first, son. You hear me, Kevin? God knows them fast New York City girls gonna try an’ trap a good-looking boy like you.”

Holding the receiver away from his ear as his mother’s voice increased in volume, Kevin sighed heavily before interrupting. “Mama. Mama, stop,” he pleaded as she finally paused for a breath. “I don’t have a girl over here. Things are a lot different up here. Oh, and, Mama, how many times I gotta tell you? I don’t live in New York City. I live in Queens. And in Queens I’m just another guy.”

Mama exhaled loudly. Her voice was calm but full of intensity. “Just you wait one damn minute, Mr. Kevin Raymond Brown. I didn’t go through seventy-two hours of labor to have just another guy. You been special since the day you was born, son. Your problem is that you think havin’ a bunch of gold-diggin’ tramps chase after you makes you special. Well, I got news for you—it doesn’t.” She paused, but not long enough for Kevin to respond. “What you really need is to find yourself a nice church-goin’ girl and settle down. But don’t you worry, son, Mama’s gonna get the whole church to pray on it.”

Kevin cringed as he heard his mother mention her church. Mama had always been a strongly religious person, and while Kevin respected her for her faith, he didn’t necessarily want all the good people of Hopewell Baptist Church knowing about his dating problems.

“Mama, do you really think gettin’ the church to pray for me is somethin’ you wanna do?” Kevin asked, imagining his mother standing in front of the whole congregation saying “Would you please bow your heads and pray for my poor, lonely son to meet a real churchgoin’ girl?”

He could practically hear the chorus of amens that would follow her request and was sure Old Miss Williams would offer to send her homely daughter up to New York. The thought made Kevin’s temples throb, so he quickly changed the subject

“Mama, why you callin’ me at this time of night anyway? You know I call you every Sunday when the rates are lowest.”

There was a pause before she answered, still lost in her thoughts of matchmaking. “Lord have mercy, why did I call you? Oh, yeah, the coach from that Italian basketball team called here today. He wanted me to give him your phone number. But I told him I’d have to call you and see.”

Kevin released a long, sad sigh at the mention of basketball. Since moving to New York, he had done everything in his power to forget the sport entirely. Basketball had been the center of Kevin’s universe from the time he was old enough to tie his first pair of high-tops. He spent four years at Virginia State University, where he was captain of the team and the top scorer, leading his team to a NCAA Division II Championship. Becoming a professional basketball player had been his only goal after graduation, and he seemed well on his way to achieving that dream when the Charlotte Hornets offered him a chance to try out as a walk-on.

Kevin spent a month in Charlotte trying out, and his performance was strong. After practice one day he had a particularly encouraging conversation with a Hornets coach, who told Kevin he was a shoe-in to make the team. Still a little immature, and feeling triumphant from the good news, he skipped curfew and spent the night partying at a University of North Carolina frat house. During the party he hooked up with a particularly wild group of his frat brothers, who convinced him to go into a private room to share a joint with them. Normally Kevin treated his body like a temple, staying away from drugs of any kind. But this night was different. He felt like his life had just begun, and in his jubilance he threw all caution to the wind and got high.

That joint turned out to be the destruction of Kevin’s dream. Three days later he discovered that before he could officially be signed to a contract, he had to take a drug test. He seriously considered packing his bags right then and there but decided he couldn’t give up that easily. In a panic he resorted to drinking gallons of goldenseal tea, which was rumored to mask marijuana in a drug test, and spent many hours praying for a miracle. When the test results showed evidence of drug use, Kevin was denied a contract and returned home to Hopewell empty-handed.

Back in his hometown he tried to hold his head high and find a new direction for his life as a physical education teacher. He began teaching “phys ed” in the small rural school, but the town’s residents had viewed Kevin as their own hero, and now looked on him with pity. When a local radio station called to ask him for an interview about his fall from grace, it was the final blow. Kevin quickly decided to move as far away from Hopewell as possible. With the encouragement of his church pastor he completed the necessary paperwork to have his credentials transferred to New York and took the first job he was offered. He packed his bags, drove his Toyota Celica to Queens, and vowed to forget he had ever wanted to play basketball.

Now Mama’s phone call was threatening to stir up painful memories for him.

“Aw’ight, Mama, you can give him my number,” he told her sadly. “That way I can tell ’em that I’m not interested.”

“If that’s what you want, baby.” She wished her son would reconsider and decided to try one more time to change his mind. “Son, all your daddy’s life he wanted to be a train engineer, and he knew those trains good too. But them white folks wouldn’t even let him try on account ’a he was colored. So he ended up becoming a repairman just to be close to those trains, hoping one day he’d get his chance. Well, when that chance never came, he died more of a broken heart than he did from the alcohol. If you really love basketball like I believe you do, I think you should go to Europe and show the NBA they made a big mistake. Baby, this is your chance.”

“I ’preciate what you’re tryin’ ta say, Mama, but this is my life, and I have to live it.” There was true love and affection in his voice. “Basketball’s just not an option for me anymore.”

“Aw’ight baby, if that’s how you feel, Mama’s gonna leave it alone. Now let me get off this here phone. I love you, baby.”

“I love you too, Mama. I’ll call you Sunday.”

Kevin hung up and picked up his to-do list. He scribbled down Send Mama some flowers. Then, trying to relieve the stress that his basketball memories had stirred up, he went back to his push-ups, working his powerful dark arms until they began to ache. Satisfied with his workout, he peeled off his tank top, wrapped his towel around his neck, and sauntered into the bathroom. The towel dropped to the floor and Kevin slid his tight Calvin Klein underwear down his muscular legs. The cold air hit his naked body and he shivered.

“Damn, it’s late,” he said aloud as he took off his watch. Frustrated, he turned the water on and stepped into the warm spray. The soothing warmth soon turned scalding hot. “God damn you, Monty,” he cursed, glaring at the ceiling and wishing his landlord would separate the plumbing. “Every time your fat ass flushes, my cold water shuts off. It’s almost like you know when I get into the shower so you run to the john to flush.” Disgusted, Kevin shut off the shower and stepped out. He shivered as the cold air hit him, wondering if Monty realized it was fall, time to turn on the heat. Grabbing a plush towel, he paused. His eyes closed and his shoulders hunched. As was happening more often lately, the pressure of being an unsuccessful black man fell upon him.

Look at my life, he thought, staring at the dingy walls. Barely a year ago I was bragging about this great NBA career I was going to have. Now I’m blacklisted from the league and I’m too embarrassed to show up at homecoming.

Wrapping the towel around his hips, Kevin walked into his bedroom and searched for a pair of boxer shorts to put on. His bedroom was small. Assorted boxes of clothes filled much of the space, holding most of his extensive designer wardrobe. Although living from paycheck to paycheck, Kevin took enormous pride in his appearance. He chose to spend his money on clothes rather than a dresser to keep them in. Digging through a box, he finally found a pair of silk boxers.

Kevin sat and watched the Playboy Channel for about fifteen minutes. He was not really interested in naked women playing volleyball, so he checked his TV Guide to see what was playing on BET. He grinned when he saw they were running School Daze. A good Spike Lee movie could always take his mind off his problems, even if only for a while. Scanning the channels, he arrived at BET just as his favorite Chris Rock 1-800-COLLECT commercial was ending.

The commercial faded and a gorgeous woman appeared on the screen. Kevin thought it was Melanie Mann, an ex-girlfriend from Virginia State. He had many fond memories of their dates. Grabbing the remote, he turned up the volume to find out why his ex was on the screen. As he heard the woman’s voice, he realized it was not her, though she looked like she could have been her twin sister.

“Hi. Are you lonely?” the woman asked, flashing a brilliant white smile. “Are your weekends filled with too much TV and takeout?”

“Yeah,” Kevin answered the television pitifully.

“Well, I was that way too.” She put her arms around a Denzel Washington look-alike. “That is, until I met Derrick.”

Kevin laughed out loud as he opened a bag of chips.

“All I had to do was call 1-900-BLACK-LUV, and before I knew it I had a date for each night of the week. I finally settled on Derrick, and in three months we’re getting married!” The two actors kissed.

“Yeah, right!” Kevin groaned as the words 1-900-BLACK-LUV flashed underneath the kissing couple. Like either one of them has ever had trouble finding a date.

When the commercial ended, School Daze came back on and Spike Lee’s character was begging every woman he met for sex.

That’s one desperate brother, Kevin thought, watching another woman turn Spike down. Jeez, the stupid thing is I’m starting to feel a little desperate myself. Maybe not for sex so much, but for a quality relationship. Damn. It would be nice just to hold a good woman.

He looked at the phone a long while and finally grumbled, “What the hell. It can’t hurt if I call.” Reluctantly he walked over to the phone and dialed 1-900-BLACK-LUV. Lord, what am I doing to myself? he thought. He almost hung up as he heard the connection on the line.

“Hello, you’ve reached 1-900-BLACK-LUV, the ultimate African American date line. If you are a woman, press one; if you’re a man, press two; if you’re calling to receive your mail, press three.” Kevin began to pace across the living room floor but hesitated before responding to the prompt.

He pushed two and heard, “Hi, brother. Your mailbox number is twenty-nine twenty-nine. Please write this down so you will be able to retrieve any and all messages in your mailbox. Now you have the option of listening to other callers’ personal ads or leaving one of your own. If you would like to listen, please press one. If you would like to record your message, please press two and start talking after you hear the tone.” Thinking that he’d seem less desperate if the women came to him, he chose to leave his own personal ad. He pressed two and waited for the tone.

“Hi,” he said in the sexiest voice he could manage. “I’m Kevin and I’m a twenty-three-year-old phys ed teacher from Queens. I’m six feet one inches tall, dark-skinned, with a very athletic body. I’ve been in New York only a few months, and I’m really a country boy at heart. I like reggae music and all sports. I’m not interested in playing games. I want someone who’ll keep it simple and down-to-earth, so if this sounds like you, please leave me a message at box twenty-nine twenty-nine. Thanks.”

Listening to his message play back, he decided it was adequate. At least it was honest. He wasn’t about to start lying just to get a date on some phone service. He saved the message and hung up, still not sure about what he had just done. The whole idea of leaving a message on a 1-900 number left him a little queasy. No longer in the mood to watch television, he turned off the set and headed into his bedroom. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered what types of women might answer his ad, and if he could admit to his friends at work how desperate he had become.

The Alternative High School for Boys in Queens, formerly known as Jackson High School, was considered one of the worst high schools in the New York City public school system. Jackson High, once a pillar of the Queens community, was closed down by the city in the late eighties due to gang violence and poor test scores. During the late nineties, as overcrowding became an enormous problem for the city schools, Jackson High was reopened with a new name and an entirely different population. The Alternative High School for Boys in Queens, as it was now called, serviced two thousand adolescent boys whose behavior had gotten them suspended or expelled from schools throughout the city. The student population was tough, and the teachers worked under a great deal of pressure. Many faculty members left before they even finished a year, and those who stayed on had to find coping mechanisms to keep them from losing it.

Kevin had been in a state of shock during his first few weeks as a teacher at the school. He had not been prepared for just how difficult these students would be, and many nights he went home to search the classified ads for a new job. One particularly bad day he had started searching the ads in the faculty room during his lunch hour. An English teacher who had become well liked among the students spotted Kevin’s distress and explained to him that the best way to deal with difficult students was to get to know them. He offered Kevin a position with the after-school program so that the boys would have an opportunity to interact with Kevin on a social level. The man’s name was Antoine Smith, and Kevin accepted his offer like a drowning man accepts a life preserver.

The two men spent countless hours after school each day counseling and advising young minority boys on how to survive the rat race of inner-city life. What began as a mentoring situation developed into a steadfast friendship for Kevin and Antoine.

During their afternoons at the school the men got to know many of the building’s security guards. One guard, Tyrone Jefferson, entertained them with his quick wit and generous laugh. He would stop by briefly at first, but as the men became more familiar with one another, they each looked forward to their afternoon meetings, and a true bond developed between the three.

During one conversation Antoine mentioned that he was eager to lose some weight and asked his friends if they would join a local gym with him. Tyrone immediately nixed the idea because he couldn’t handle the membership fees. Then Kevin suggested they use the school facilities during their lunch hour as an alternative. Their lunchtime workouts quickly became a daily bonding session for the men.

On the Monday afternoon after Kevin phoned the date line, he was finishing up another workout with his friends. Tyrone, a tall, skinny, dark-skinned man, struggled under the barbells as he lay on the bench press.

“Come on, Ty!” Kevin yelled as Tyrone finally pushed the heavy barbell up. Grabbing the weights from him, Kevin placed it effortlessly on its holder. He smiled as he grabbed his friend’s hand. “Not bad for a street punk.” He laughed at Tyrone.

“What? What? You must be crazy. That’s two hundred and ten fucking pounds. Forty pounds more than I weigh.” Tyrone grinned, proud of his new personal best. He stepped aside to let Kevin do a set on the weights.

“Ay, I wasn’t tryin’ to put you down, brotha.” Kevin slipped onto the bench and did twenty reps with barely an effort. “Truth is, I’m surprised your skinny ass didn’t break a damn bone with all that weight over your head.”

“You see, Antoine, that’s why I don’t wanna work out with y’all no more.” Tyrone pointed his finger for emphasis. “Between you quoting everyone from Martin Luther King to Farrakhan an’ Kevin’s country ass cracking on a brotha’s physical appearance, I’d be better off joining a damn gym.”

Antoine, a stout, light-skinned man, removed his glasses as he gestured for Kevin to move off the bench. The most serious of the three, he wasn’t sure if Tyrone was truly offended by Kevin’s joke, but he tried to diffuse the situation. “First of all, Tyrone . . .” he said, lying down on the bench and struggling through twenty quick reps, “this lunchtime-workout thing was your idea. If I remember correctly, you didn’t have the money to join a gym. Second of all, you’re the last person who should take offense to jokes about physical appearance. All day long I’m the object of your fat jokes.”

“Well, you do look like an expectant cow,” Tyrone joked, patting Antoine on the belly. Neither of his friends responded, so he shook his head at their blank stares. “Damn, I guess you guys can’t take a joke. Fuck it, I’ve got to get back to my post before Pretty Boy chews me a new butthole anyway.” He turned toward the locker room but paused when Kevin finally spoke.

“Yo, Ty, hold up a minute. I found somethin’ you might be interested in.” Tyrone was unsure if this was the beginning of another joke, but he was curious, and returned to the weight bench.

Kevin turned to face both men, feeling strangely nervous; he wanted his friends’ opinions of the 900 date line he had called but knew he might be inviting a string of jokes at his own expense.

“I was watchin’ TV the other night and I saw this commercial. I figured since you’re both single, this might come in handy.” Handing them both a three-by-five index card, Kevin smiled sheepishly, trying to read his friends’ expressions.

“What the fuck? Very fuckin’ funny, Kev.” Tyrone threw the card to the floor. “You need this a hell of a lot more than me.”

“Kevin, please tell me you’re not serious about this 900 stuff. Are you?” Antoine asked as he stared at the card. “Y’know, I thought we were friends.”

“I am your friend, Antoine. And I’m serious about this too. Think about it. When was the last time you went out on a date?” he asked rather pitifully.

“Speak for yourself,” Tyrone quipped. He considered himself a player.

Kevin ignored him and continued. “Look, y’all, we get in here at seven o’clock in the morning and teach until three. Then you have computer club, Antoine, and I have JV basketball practice. By the time we get outta here, it’s six o’clock. And, Ty, you stay here longer than both of us.”

“What you tryin’ to say, Kev, I don’t have no women?” Tyrone asked with attitude.

“If you do, I ain’t ever seen or heard of ’em!”

Placing his hand on Kevin’s shoulder, Antoine tried to sound as compassionate as possible. Maybe his new friend from the South was more naive than he thought.

“I know you’re just trying to help, but 900 numbers are kind of taboo in New York. Sorry, Kevin, single or not, I still have my pride. I’d hate to think I’m so desperate that I had to call 1-900-BLACK-LUV to get a date.”

“Yeah, thanks but no thanks!” Tyrone laughed, trying to back up what Antoine had just said.

The laughter was interrupted by the deep voice of the principal, Dr. Johnson. None of them was thrilled to see him. The man was on a twenty-four-hour power trip, and his favorite pastime was belittling his staff.

“Shit,” Tyrone mumbled as he made eye contact with the tall, green-eyed man.

“How you doin’ today, Dr. Johnson? What brings you back here to the weight room? Gonna pump some iron?” He doubted it, since the principal was dressed in his usual attire, a well-tailored designer suit.

“Actually, you’re what brings me back here, Mr. Jefferson. It’s fifteen minutes past one.” He flashed his gold Rolex to Tyrone. “You’re supposed to be at the front desk at one o’-clock so someone else can enjoy lunch today. I suggest that you get back to work while you still have a job.” Tyrone retreated into the shower room, and the principal turned to the other two men.

“Don’t you two have classes to teach?” he asked in his typically condescending way.

“No, Maurice.” Antoine faced the principal defiantly and crossed his arms over his chest. He was the union president and not easily intimidated. “Matter of fact, we just finished lunch, and this is our preparation period, which by contract we can use however we choose.”

“Well, I suggest you use your prep time more wisely in the future.” The principal scowled as he watched the two men follow their friend into the shower room.

As he turned to leave, Maurice noticed the piece of paper Tyrone had thrown on the floor.

Damn fools can’t even clean up after themselves, he thought.

Even if his school was plagued by some of the city’s lowest test scores, Maurice insisted that it be kept spotless. This scrap on the locker room floor offended his fastidious nature. He bent over and grudgingly picked up the paper.

“1-900-BLACK-LUV!” he read, and turned abruptly toward the shower room. Using school property for their own personal use he could tolerate, but leaving phone-sex numbers that students might find was definitely intolerable. He was about to walk into the locker room and reprimand the men but stopped suddenly. Something about the number seemed strangely familiar to him.

He couldn’t place it. Maybe it was something he had read in one of his girlie magazines, or his buddy David had mentioned it, but he had definitely heard of 1-900-BLACK-LUV before. Then it hit him. The number wasn’t a sex line. It was the new black dating service advertised on TV.

Hmmm, looks like the three stooges are having a hard time getting some. He laughed, but then had a sobering thought as he realized his own situation was not so different. As he left the locker room, he placed the number in his breast pocket with a smile, thinking it might come in handy sometime.

Antoine paid the cabdriver and stepped out into the warm breeze. He carried both a knapsack and briefcase. The briefcase was filled with paperwork from school. The knapsack carried his personal books, which he spent most of his free time reading. Antoine loved the English language. Unlike most of the men from his neighborhood, he very rarely cursed or used slang. His behavior set him apart. In fact, he was something of a folk hero in his area, always helping the elderly and mentoring the youth. The teenagers had respectfully dubbed him Little Al, after the Reverend Al Sharpton, because Antoine was always around to offer support when someone was in trouble.

“What a beautiful night,” he hummed as he strolled down Jamaica Avenue. Smiling at a group of ladies walking by, he sucked in his belly in a self-conscious gesture. He knew women thought he was cute. That had never been his problem. Ever since he could remember, women had commented on how cute his features and baby fat were. But now that he was thirty-five, the problem was that his baby fat had turned into a less attractive spare tire around his waist. For several weeks now he had been making a concerted effort to get rid of the jiggle around his middle.

He was pleased with himself for asking the cabdriver to let him off a mile from his home in Hollis, Queens. A few weeks earlier Kevin had advised him to change his late-night eating habits and be sure to walk at least twenty minutes every day. For three weeks Antoine had religiously followed Kevin’s workout plan and diet. He had avoided a scale during this time, but now he was curious to see if his hard work had really paid off. The walk home was particularly brisk this evening because he was eager to weigh himself. He made it back to his apartment in just over ten minutes, winded but proud of his new speed. Catching his breath, he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Yoo-hoo! Antoine!” A voice came from the direction of the beauty shop, which occupied the storefront below the apartments.

Shoot! I was hoping she wouldn’t see me, he thought, giving a weak wave in the direction of the voice. He headed for the stairs, hoping his hello would be sufficient. Tonight was not the night he felt like dealing with his landlord.

“Oh, look! His sexy ass is wearin’ shorts,” his landlord announced as she stood in the entrance to her beauty shop. Keisha was a short, pretty woman with huge breasts and a large behind. She had a real thing for Antoine.

“I don’t know what the hell you see in him, Keisha,” a woman from inside the beauty shop shouted. “He’s not all that with his pudgy ass. Besides, he thinks he’s white.”

“He don’t think he’s white!” Keisha stepped back in the shop.

“Oh, yeah? How come every time he opens his mouth he sounds like a white boy? All proper an’ shit.” Everyone in the beauty shop fell out laughing. “That motherfucka acts just like Carlton on Fresh Prince.”

Keisha turned her head, glaring at the laughing women in her shop. Then she pointed her finger at the woman with all the mouth. “You know, y’all some ignorant heifers. You got the nerve to call him a white boy ’cause he speaks proper. For your information, he’s an English teacher. He’s supposed to speak with proper diction. An’ you of all people need to shet-the-fuck-up, Brenda. With those barefoot-and pregnant high-school dropouts you got at home. Hooked on Phonics couldn’t help them ignorant wenches.” The room became quiet, and everyone hoped Brenda’s comeback would be a good one.

“I’ll have you know my oldest, LaShandra, just passed her GED,” Brenda said proudly.

“Well, damn. It’s about time! What is she, twenty-three?” The beauty shop erupted with laughter.

“You know what, Keisha? I’m not even gonna trip in here. But don’t talk about my kids no mo’. Besides, don’t nobody want Antoine’s fat ass but you anyway.”

“I know you ain’t talkin’ ’bout fat. When was the last time you missed a meal, Ms. Size Eighteen?” The whole room fell out laughing as Keisha stepped out to look at Antoine again. “I don’t care what y’all say. That man is fine. I love me a man with some meat on his bones.” Keisha ignored the laughter of the women in her shop as she approached Antoine near the stoop.

“Hi, Antoine,” she purred, puckering her lips as if waiting for a kiss.

“I said hello,” he reminded her. Now he didn’t bother to suck in his stomach.

“I heard you, Antoine. I just wanted to see you in those shorts. You don’t wear shorts very often, do you?”

“No, I don’t. But with this weather we’ve had this week and the long walk home, I thought it appropriate to change into my workout clothes.”

“Workout clothes, huh?” She smiled, thinking, I’d like to work you out one time.

“Yeah, I’m trying to lose some weight,” he answered bashfully.

“I can tell. It looks good. But don’t lose too much. A woman needs a man she can hold on to.” She smiled again.

She was about to ask Antoine out for a drink later that evening but was interrupted by a young lady.

“What, Terri?” she snapped.

“Mrs. Martin is finished under the dryer and she won’t let nobody but you touch her,” the young lady said. Her eyes were on Antoine, and she smiled flirtatiously.

Keisha stepped closer to Antoine. “Well, I have to go. But when are we gonna go have that drink you promised me?” She smiled. “I’m free tonight if you’re not too busy.”

“Sorry, Keisha, I’m pretty busy tonight,” he lied, holding up his briefcase. “But soon, real soon.”

K