news.
“Where’re you now?” she shouted, battling the noisy crowd.
“There was an accident on the turnpike. I’m doing like ten miles per hour,” he yelled, aggravated.
“The Wizards are down…” she said and he could hear the roar of “Defense” before the call dropped. Warren tried phoning back but didn’t have a signal and threw his mobile against the dashboard. Frustration became his roadside companion.
WBGO-FM pumped through his hi-tech sound system but even his favorite jazz station failed to mollify him. From exit 5 to where the New Jersey Turnpike split traffic crawled at a mind-dulling pace. Once he passed exit 8A, three truck lanes opened on the left, ending the gridlock. For the remainder of the ride, Warren’s speedometer stayed on 80. But he was still late. When he pulled into the arena’s parking lot, boozed-up fans were pouring into the street waving Nets banners c elebrating like it was the championship. Warren stopped an older man wearing a Wizard’s cap to find out the score.
“Damn fool hit a three-point shot at the buzzer,” the man said, unfolding his portable cane. While he complained about the referees, Warren caught sight of Erica and his stomach turned to slush. She was here. His baby. The one he drove two hundred and thirty-two miles to see in traffic, with no water, no stops, just highway, and a feverish yearning to touch her face. Erica was his cure-all and even with thirty-feet between them he felt amazingly well.
On thin heels she glided, swinging her hips and smiling. Warren opened his coat to her.
“Hey, babe,” she mashed her body into his with her cheek brushing his chin. While they rocked and touched hello, Warren’s hands slid down the slope of her ass, which felt like marshmallow, spongy and plush, and he held it with both hands as he pressed into a kiss. Her mouth tasted melony and, like a glass of champagne, it went straight to his head.
“I can’t believe you missed the whole game. It was so damn exciting,” she tilted, and the glow from the street lamp made her brown eyes sparkle. Warren got lost watching her.
“What?” she traced his nose.
“Just missed you,” he said. “Where’s my surprise?”
“Oh, that,” flashing a toothy grin. Erica took two steps back. Keeping eye contact, she slowly unzipped her waist-length jacket.
“Is this X-rated?” He looked around to see if anyone was watching, but everyone who passed was either shouting about the Nets or rushing to their car trying to avoid the inevitable traffic.
“You tell me,” she flirted, spreading her jacket and flashing him. The Nets tee stretched across her curves, and it took Warren a few seconds to realize what she was doing.
“You’re so corny,” he snickered.
“And your team stunk. I was so close I could have been the towel girl.” She pretended to shoot the ball.
“I heard they won at the buzzer.” He took her hand, helping her into the car.
“And it was oh so pretty,” she threw back.
Warren rounded the vehicle and hopped into the driver’s seat. “The Nets got lucky, is all,” he put the car in reverse, merging with the departing traffic. “I can’t believe I missed it.”
Erica reached across the console for his trumpet hand, caressing his calluses. “I’ll make it up to you,” she said, kissing each finger.
Traffic into the city was minimal and they made it to Lafayette Street with ease.
“There’s someone coming out,” Erica pointed and Warren swerved, ducking in front of a yellow cab for the parking space. It was a tight fit, but after cutting the wheel twice he was in.
“Wish you could drive like me?”
“Whatever,” she said, checking her reflection in the mirror. After clipping his mobile to his waist, Warren got out and walked to the nearest parking sign. He had received too many tickets in New York City and needed to confirm the space was legit. Satisfied, he went back for Erica. It was chilly, and they walked the three blocks with
“Where’re you now?” she shouted, battling the noisy crowd.
“There was an accident on the turnpike. I’m doing like ten miles per hour,” he yelled, aggravated.
“The Wizards are down…” she said and he could hear the roar of “Defense” before the call dropped. Warren tried phoning back but didn’t have a signal and threw his mobile against the dashboard. Frustration became his roadside companion.
WBGO-FM pumped through his hi-tech sound system but even his favorite jazz station failed to mollify him. From exit 5 to where the New Jersey Turnpike split traffic crawled at a mind-dulling pace. Once he passed exit 8A, three truck lanes opened on the left, ending the gridlock. For the remainder of the ride, Warren’s speedometer stayed on 80. But he was still late. When he pulled into the arena’s parking lot, boozed-up fans were pouring into the street waving Nets banners c elebrating like it was the championship. Warren stopped an older man wearing a Wizard’s cap to find out the score.
“Damn fool hit a three-point shot at the buzzer,” the man said, unfolding his portable cane. While he complained about the referees, Warren caught sight of Erica and his stomach turned to slush. She was here. His baby. The one he drove two hundred and thirty-two miles to see in traffic, with no water, no stops, just highway, and a feverish yearning to touch her face. Erica was his cure-all and even with thirty-feet between them he felt amazingly well.
On thin heels she glided, swinging her hips and smiling. Warren opened his coat to her.
“Hey, babe,” she mashed her body into his with her cheek brushing his chin. While they rocked and touched hello, Warren’s hands slid down the slope of her ass, which felt like marshmallow, spongy and plush, and he held it with both hands as he pressed into a kiss. Her mouth tasted melony and, like a glass of champagne, it went straight to his head.
“I can’t believe you missed the whole game. It was so damn exciting,” she tilted, and the glow from the street lamp made her brown eyes sparkle. Warren got lost watching her.
“What?” she traced his nose.
“Just missed you,” he said. “Where’s my surprise?”
“Oh, that,” flashing a toothy grin. Erica took two steps back. Keeping eye contact, she slowly unzipped her waist-length jacket.
“Is this X-rated?” He looked around to see if anyone was watching, but everyone who passed was either shouting about the Nets or rushing to their car trying to avoid the inevitable traffic.
“You tell me,” she flirted, spreading her jacket and flashing him. The Nets tee stretched across her curves, and it took Warren a few seconds to realize what she was doing.
“You’re so corny,” he snickered.
“And your team stunk. I was so close I could have been the towel girl.” She pretended to shoot the ball.
“I heard they won at the buzzer.” He took her hand, helping her into the car.
“And it was oh so pretty,” she threw back.
Warren rounded the vehicle and hopped into the driver’s seat. “The Nets got lucky, is all,” he put the car in reverse, merging with the departing traffic. “I can’t believe I missed it.”
Erica reached across the console for his trumpet hand, caressing his calluses. “I’ll make it up to you,” she said, kissing each finger.
Traffic into the city was minimal and they made it to Lafayette Street with ease.
“There’s someone coming out,” Erica pointed and Warren swerved, ducking in front of a yellow cab for the parking space. It was a tight fit, but after cutting the wheel twice he was in.
“Wish you could drive like me?”
“Whatever,” she said, checking her reflection in the mirror. After clipping his mobile to his waist, Warren got out and walked to the nearest parking sign. He had received too many tickets in New York City and needed to confirm the space was legit. Satisfied, he went back for Erica. It was chilly, and they walked the three blocks with
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