The Saddle Club

by Anya Nicole

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Sports Romance

Synopsis

Welcome to the Saddle Club, where you can have the man of your dreams without the commitment—that is, if you can afford it. Masked as a private social club for women who love horse racing, The Saddle Club offers high-class sex to powerful women.
Lavender, the head madam of the house, has only one rule that she expects all of her well hung, buff, sexy talents to keep: Never get personally involved with the clients. When Keon, her top earner, falls for one of his regulars, he finds himself mixed up in murder, mayhem, and more mischief than he can handle.

Release date: January 1, 2012

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

Keon stood in the courtyard of Graterford Prison and waited patiently for the corrections officer to unbolt the gates. He looked up at the fortress-like cement walls that surrounded him and let out a loud sigh of relief. He’d already spent three long years and a day behind bars; he didn’t mind waiting a few more minutes to get out. The corrections officers, armed with pistols at their hips, ushered him toward the exit. As the final gates parted, Keon cleared his parched throat and jostled his sweaty hands inside the pockets of his light blue denim Rocawear jeans, which were the style in 2004.

“You’re free to go,” the officer said, impatiently waiting for Keon to step outside the gates so he could get back to his mid-morning coffee break.

“Yeah ... you right. I am free to go,” Keon said, almost hesitantly.

He looked at the guard as if needing official approval that he was, indeed, a free man. The guard nodded, giving Keon the affirmation he sought in order to leave the premises. As he took his first few steps as a free man, Keon inhaled the fresh morning air. He closed his eyes and allowed the sun to beam down on his scruffy-bearded face. Today is a new day, Keon thought. He no longer had to abide by the rules of the system. Well, at least that’s how it would be once he finished his parole. Keon stared down the dirt road leading up to the prison. There wasn’t a car within a mile of his view. He was confident that his boy, Marquise, would be there to meet him as he promised earlier in the week. He looked down at the fake Rolex he just placed on his arm several minutes before; it read one P.M. It was then that he realized that the battery had stopped working from years of disuse. Leave it to Marquise to be late, Keon thought. He kicked at the tar-colored bits of gravel, trying to decide what he wanted more—a cheesesteak from Jim’s or some pussy. If he could have both at the same time it would be a dream come true.

Keon’s thoughts were quickly interrupted by Jay-Z’s “Roc Boys (And the Winner Is) ...” blaring from Marquise’s silver smoked-out BMW 760Li with chrome wheels. The car rolled up beside him and he rolled the window down just enough for Keon to see his lopsided, sly grin.

“What’s up, nigga?” Marquise yelled, positioning the car in park. He jumped out and walked around to give his homie a hug followed by a strong handshake.

“Man, I was starting to think you wasn’t going to show,” Keon said, shoving his hands back in his jeans pockets.

“Go ’head with that shit. You know we been cool way too long for me to do you greasy like that,” Marquise said, leaning against the car and folding his arms across his chest. Marquise looked Keon over and then said, “Damn, nigga, I see you got your weight up.”

When he got down to his boy’s sneakers, he noticed Keon was wearing a pair of leaned-over Air Forces that used to be white but now were a light shade of gray. “I almost forgot,” Marquise said, walking around the side of the car and opening the door. He reached into the back seat and pulled out a green and tan shoebox. He returned to his friend. “Here, man,” he said, holding out the box to Keon. “You ain’t going nowhere with me in them dogged-assed sneakers.”

Keon took the box from his hand. “Thanks, man.” He peered inside. His eyes fixed on a fresh pair of Timberlands in a size eleven. Keon grinned as he tucked the box under his arm and strolled toward the front passenger side of the BMW and opened the door.

“Wait a minute, homie,” Marquise said, forcefully shutting the door, almost jamming Keon’s fingers in the process. “I told you, you can’t wear them bullshit-assed sneakers if you going to hang with me. Take them muthafuckas off right now and put them boots on.”

“You serious?” Keon asked, easing around Marquise, again reaching for the car door handle.

“Hell yeah, nigga—dead serious,” Marquise said, pushing Keon away and leaning against the door so he couldn’t get in the car.

“And what am I supposed to do with these?” Keon asked, looking down at his sneakers, realizing that they were, indeed, dogged.

“Leave them shits right here on the side of the road,” Marquise said, walking around to the driver’s side.

Keon shook his head and slid his feet out of the sneakers, revealing a huge hole in one of the heels of his dingy off-white socks. Keon stepped into the boots and laced them up. The fit was perfect. Marquise had sent him a couple of pairs of sneakers while he was locked down so he knew his size.

“Now, can I get in the car?” Keon asked, grabbing the door handle.

“Yeah, nigga, you can get in now.” Marquise chuckled. “But, for real, I shouldn’t let you get in my car with them old-ass Rocawear jeans you wearin’. And I ain’t even gonna get on your sorry-ass white T. I’ma save that for another day.”

Keon sucked his teeth. “Fuck you, man. This the first time I put on real clothes in three years.” He opened the door and slid in beside Marquise.

Marquise shook his head, laughing. “Nigga, them ain’t real clothes you got on. I don’t even know what to call that shit.”

The lavish tan leather seats swallowed Keon whole. The fresh new-car smell filled his nose, as did the tantalizing aroma of high-grade weed. Keon shook his head. “After all these years you still ain’t learn your lesson about smoking that shit.”

Marquise shrugged, still grinning. “What can I say? Old habits die hard. Ya mean?” He eased his foot off the break and pulled off without checking his mirrors.

“Nigga, ya old habit is what got me locked up in the first place,” Keon said, staring at the prison in the sideview mirror as it became smaller and smaller before disappearing from his view. Keon laid his head on the lush headrest and closed his eyes. If I ever see that prison again, it will be too soon, he thought. At that moment, Keon promised himself that no one or nothing could ever make him go back inside those walls.

“Damn, man, how many times you want a nigga to apologize for that shit? I told you I would take care of you once you got out and here I am. So stop trippin’ on me,” Marquise said, glancing at Keon, then refocusing his attention on the road.

“I know, man. I just thought you would have given that shit up by now. I mean, you in the fuckin’ NBA, you got everything you could ever want, money, clothes, bitches, everything,” Keon said, staring at the burned-up blunt in the ashtray.

Marquise’s eyes followed Keon’s gaze. He breathed heavily. “Well, being in the NBA ain’t like what you think it is. I gotta work so much harder than these other niggas ’cause of my knee injury. I got so much fuckin’ pressure on my ass right now just to keep my startin’ position.”

“Yo, remember that night?” Keon asked, looking over in Marquise’s direction.

“What night?” Marquise asked, knowing exactly what he was talking about. He knew it was only a matter of time before Keon brought it up.

“The night I got locked up, nigga, what else would I be talking about?”

“Come on, man, that was over three years ago. I can’t remember everything,” Marquise said nonchalantly.

“Well I remember, that night changed my life. We was celebrating my birthday.”

“Yeah, I remember we had just left the club and was heading to the after hour at the Motorcycle Club in South West,” Marquise said blandly. Marquise remembered everything about that night. He just didn’t want to talk about it. He knew that at some point it was going to come up, but he figured the less he acted as if he remembered, the better.

“Yeah, and we got pulled over by them two female cops. I knew as soon as that fat, little light-skinned bitch got out the car there was going to be trouble,” Keon said, folding his hands in front of him on his lap.

“Yeah, she did seem to have it in for us and shit. The tall brown-skinned jawn was on me hard like she was ready to give me some pussy; she was going to let us go. But that other one, she was looking to send a nigga up,” Marquise said, reaching up to adjust his rearview mirror.

“I’ll never forget that bitch ... Officer Ortiz. You know that little fat-ass ho had the prettiest green eyes I ever seen. I ain’t never seen no Rican wit’ no green eyes. I couldn’t help but to stare at her when she shined that fuckin’ flashlight in my face,” Keon said, reliving the event in his mind.

“Damn, nigga, you really remember all dat shit? I was way too high that night to remember what the bitch looked like,” Marquise said, shaking his head. “All I remember is the bitch being fatter than a muthafucka.”

“I bet you remember her hitting you in the back of your knees with that fuckin’ baton. You was cryin’ like a little bitch,” Keon said jokingly.

“Get the fuck outta here,” Marquise said, flagging him and returning his hand to the wheel. Marquise twitched, thinking about how bad the baton had stung that night.

“You know I told you to get rid of that gun a long time ago,” Keon said, getting serious for a moment. He looked straight ahead at the road.

“Do we gotta talk about this? That shit in the past,” Marquise mumbled.

“For you it’s in the past. I’m the one took the rap for your little store robbery and shootout,” Keon hissed like a venomous snake. “Who the hell robs a fucking deli anyway? You knew them Chinks was gonna be armed.”

“Damn, man, so you just going to throw me under the bus like that? I made a mistake; I needed a couple of dollars in my pocket and I ain’t know where else to get it from.”

“A mistake?” Keon asked, raising his voice. “That mistake got me locked down. I did that time for you because I knew there was no way you was going to make it in jail. You my nigga and all but you too much of a loose cannon; you’da left the pen in a body bag.”

“So what you trying to say, I’m a nut?” Marquise asked, raising his voice.

“I ain’t say all that, I’m saying you ain’t built for jail.” Realizing that Marquise was getting upset about the conversation, Keon decided to just let it go. “So when you get this wheel?” Keon asked, easing off the subject.

“Nigga, this ain’t my wheel. I graduated to Bentleys two years ago. This car is for you, playboy. It’s the least I can do.”

“For me?” Keon repeated, making sure he had heard him right.

“Yeah, nigga, you. I copped it a month ago after your parole hearing. As soon as I heard you was being released, I had to get you a welcome home present.”

Keon ran his hand across the genuine wood finish; it was as smooth as a baby’s ass. He leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. “I can’t keep this car, man. If my parole officer gets wind of this I’ll be right back where I started off.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Marquise said, merging onto the highway. “I’ll keep it for you. And when you get offa parole, it’s yours. Is that cool?”

“Hell yeah, that’s cool,” Keon agreed.

Marquise turned the satellite radio to Shade 45, and 50 Cent’s “Hustler’s Ambition” quaked from the sound system. He bobbed his head to the music, swerving in and out of traffic on the highway with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift.

“Where we going?” Keon asked, rolling the window down halfway to escape the weed smell.

“To my crib. Why? You got somewhere to be?” Marquise asked, letting out a soft chuckle.

“Naw, man. I’m just hungry as shit.”

“Damn, you fucked me up for a minute with them dicked sneakers you had on. I almost forgot I had you a steak on the back seat.”

“Would you get off that sneaker shit? I’m tired of hearing about it,” Keon said, reaching in the back seat.

“It’s probably cold by now but it shouldn’t matter, you used to eating cold-ass food anyway.”

“Man, fuck you. Just because I was in the pen don’t mean I was eating cold-ass food,” Keon sneered, ripping the foil off the steak and unmasking its mouth-watering aroma of fried onions, ketchup, and Cheez Whiz. His stomach grumbled as he took his first bite. He chewed slowly, savoring each and every flavor. His taste buds tingled as he swallowed his first bite. Ketchup and Hellman’s Real Mayonnaise dripped down his hands as he went in for a second bite.

Marquise glanced over at Keon. “The way you acting over there make me think they ain’t feed you at all.”

Ignoring Marquise as best he could, Keon continued eating at a fast pace. After he finished, he licked the mixture of ketchup and mayonnaise from his hands, balled the tinfoil up, and chucked it out the window.

“Damn, that was good,” Keon said, using his tongue to probe around his mouth for meat stuck between his teeth.

Keon pulled the lever on the side of his seat until it reclined in a comfortable position. He closed his eyes and, shortly after, fell asleep.

When Keon awakened an hour later, Marquise was pulling up to the valet in front of the Society Hill Towers on Second and Spruce Streets. They got out of the car and Marquise tossed the keys to the attendant.

“How long you been staying here?” Keon asked, passing the doorman, a tall, husky dark-skinned black man with big red lips and a cocked left eye. The doorman nodded as he held the door open for the both of them, and then he closed it just as gently as he opened it.

“About six months now,” Marquise replied, strolling toward the mailroom to check his box. He pulled out his BlackBerry and began texting. He continued past the front desk, making sure to create enough distance between himself and Keon so that Keon couldn’t see him using the phone.

Keon’s eyes lit up and his mouth fell open as he wandered through the lobby, which was more crowded than usual due to one elevator being out of service—something that hardly ever happened. A huge gold crystal chandelier hung in the center of the lobby. Italian area rugs covered the white marbled floors, which were so clean that you could see your face in them.

Keon trailed Marquise as they stepped off the elevator and rounded the hallway to his condo, which was one of three that dominated the floor.

Marquise fumbled in his pocket for his door keys. When he found them, he unlocked the door and stepped into the pitch-black apartment.

Keon ducked under the doorway, carefully making sure not to bump his head, and stepped inside the apartment.

“Welcome home!” voices yelled in unison.

There were three guys from his old college basketball team at Villanova lounging on Marquise’s ivory-colored Italian leather sectional. Each one had a chick on his lap wearing nothing more than bikini bottoms and high heels; their tops lay sprawled across the bamboo wooden floors.

Keon went down the line, shaking every one of their hands. He then looked at the women, who were giggling like three little schoolchildren about how gorgeous he was. He rubbed his hands together and then said, “So um ... which one of you is for me?”

Marquise put his hand around his shoulder and led him away from the pack. “Don’t worry about these hoes out here. I got something real special for you in here,” Marquise said, nodding his head toward the back bedroom.

“Ho? Who you calling a ho?” the light-skinned chick with the long auburn hair asked, folding her arms across her chest.

“You, ho. Now shut the fuck up before I kick ya ho ass out,” Marquise said over his shoulder.

She rolled her eyes and placed her right hand on her hip, glaring at him in silence.

Turning back to Keon, Marquise guided him down the hall, then knocked softly on the door at the end of the corridor.

“Come in,” a sultry voice purred from the other side.

“Go ahead and open the door,” Marquise insisted.

Keon grabbed the knob and turned it slightly to the left, cracking the door just enough to peek inside the room. He quickly shut the door just as fast as he opened it.

“Is this some type of joke, man?” Keon asked, whispering as if they were spying on the girls’ locker room as they had back in high school. “Is she a man or something? I’m sorry, she look too damn good to be true. Don’t fuck wit’ me like that, Quise, I’m ready to tear dat ass up something crazy.”

Marquise threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Hell naw, that ain’t no man. That’s Lady Lavender, one of the best bitches in the industry. I paid good money for that ass, now go and tear it up, champ.” Marquise patted his shoulder and headed back toward the living room.

Keon delayed his entry even further by wiping his clammy palms on the front of his j. . .