Alphonso. Bastard probably thought I’d forgotten about him. All the better for me. I’d blow his brains out when he’d least expect it.
I had an hour to spare before boarding, so I headed to Karl Strauss for an extra spicy Bloody Mary. One seat left at the bar and it was mine. I sat between a man and woman chatting. “Excuse me.” I arched my back, ordered my drink.
The woman gave my breasts a frown, the man smiled. “We were talking,” she hissed, pushing back her stool.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You’d better get going. Your flight is leaving shortly.”
“Bitch,” she muttered at me between her teeth, then smiled at him. “Nice meeting you, Santonio.”
Bitch? A better attitude or a friendly request—“Would you mind exchanging seats?”—would’ve worked. She was no diva and definitely not from LA. LA women had perfected false flattery. Like a scorpion preparing to deliver the sting of death, the more an LA woman despised a person, the friendlier she’d become. Irrespective of intent, image was everything.
Easing my celery stick in and out my mouth, I smiled at him. “Santonio, hi. I’m Sapphire Bleu. And”—I touched his ring—“you are a Mason. Nice. And you have very nice hands.”
He blushed. “Yes, I am. Let me buy your drink.”
The woman next to me bumped my leg, waved at the bartender. “Check.”
I pivoted in her direction while Santonio ordered an Amber Lager, then paid our tab. I placed my badge on the counter and opened my purse for her to see my gun. “Be careful, sweetheart. Real careful. Check your damn attitude. And do not touch me again.”
Santonio touched my arm. “Everything okay?”
I picked up my badge, nodded, turned my back to her, faced him. “Where’re you headed?”
“Carolina for business, but I live there too,” he said, and took a big swig of his beer. “Travel a lot for my job.”
Gulping, swallowing, anything except sipping. I did not like men who sipped pussy or alcohol. “North or south?” I asked.
“North, Charlotte to be exact. And you?”
“I’m headed to Atlanta,” I said, looking over my shoulder. The woman stood behind her chair waiting for her tab. The bartender was on the other side of the bar mixing a drink. Some people were constantly ignored because they didn’t respect others.
Santonio handed me his business card: “Santonio Ferrari, Chief of Police.” “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to take you out to dinner.”
“She said she’s going to Atlanta, not Charlotte,” the woman commented.
I refused to respond to the nosy bitch suffering from an overdose of rejection.
“Go ahead. Get mad. I don’t care if you are a cop. You can’t arrest me. I haven’t broken any laws. You need to cover your titties up. I’m going to report you.”
What was her problem? I remained silent.
Santonio said, “I’m talking to a lady, not to you. And she has beautiful…breasts.”
Yes! He said breasts! Santonio might just be my kind of man. “I’d love to join you for dinner,” I said, writing my cell number on a napkin. “I’ll wait for you to call me.”
The woman tossed twenty dollars on the bar and left.
Santonio smiled, shook his head. “I knew there was something I liked about you the moment you sat next to me. Sapphire Bleu, you are one classy woman.”
CHAPTER 8
Valentino
Back in Atlanta…
A ll females were confused bitches in heat or heated about some dumb shit.
Shit lingered in a bitch’s subconscious waiting for an innocent or ignorant nigga to show up. Fuck me on the first date. Treat me like a lady. Pay for our meals. I got it, baby. Don’t come over to my house ever again. Here’s a key. I wanna have your baby. I wouldn’t have your child if my life depended on it. I don’t want a relationship. Marry me. Let me suck your dick. Your sorry ass ain’t shit. Get the fuck out! Baby, don’t go.
Pimping was therapeutic. A nigga couldn’t win no fight with a woman.
Women were forensic
I had an hour to spare before boarding, so I headed to Karl Strauss for an extra spicy Bloody Mary. One seat left at the bar and it was mine. I sat between a man and woman chatting. “Excuse me.” I arched my back, ordered my drink.
The woman gave my breasts a frown, the man smiled. “We were talking,” she hissed, pushing back her stool.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You’d better get going. Your flight is leaving shortly.”
“Bitch,” she muttered at me between her teeth, then smiled at him. “Nice meeting you, Santonio.”
Bitch? A better attitude or a friendly request—“Would you mind exchanging seats?”—would’ve worked. She was no diva and definitely not from LA. LA women had perfected false flattery. Like a scorpion preparing to deliver the sting of death, the more an LA woman despised a person, the friendlier she’d become. Irrespective of intent, image was everything.
Easing my celery stick in and out my mouth, I smiled at him. “Santonio, hi. I’m Sapphire Bleu. And”—I touched his ring—“you are a Mason. Nice. And you have very nice hands.”
He blushed. “Yes, I am. Let me buy your drink.”
The woman next to me bumped my leg, waved at the bartender. “Check.”
I pivoted in her direction while Santonio ordered an Amber Lager, then paid our tab. I placed my badge on the counter and opened my purse for her to see my gun. “Be careful, sweetheart. Real careful. Check your damn attitude. And do not touch me again.”
Santonio touched my arm. “Everything okay?”
I picked up my badge, nodded, turned my back to her, faced him. “Where’re you headed?”
“Carolina for business, but I live there too,” he said, and took a big swig of his beer. “Travel a lot for my job.”
Gulping, swallowing, anything except sipping. I did not like men who sipped pussy or alcohol. “North or south?” I asked.
“North, Charlotte to be exact. And you?”
“I’m headed to Atlanta,” I said, looking over my shoulder. The woman stood behind her chair waiting for her tab. The bartender was on the other side of the bar mixing a drink. Some people were constantly ignored because they didn’t respect others.
Santonio handed me his business card: “Santonio Ferrari, Chief of Police.” “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to take you out to dinner.”
“She said she’s going to Atlanta, not Charlotte,” the woman commented.
I refused to respond to the nosy bitch suffering from an overdose of rejection.
“Go ahead. Get mad. I don’t care if you are a cop. You can’t arrest me. I haven’t broken any laws. You need to cover your titties up. I’m going to report you.”
What was her problem? I remained silent.
Santonio said, “I’m talking to a lady, not to you. And she has beautiful…breasts.”
Yes! He said breasts! Santonio might just be my kind of man. “I’d love to join you for dinner,” I said, writing my cell number on a napkin. “I’ll wait for you to call me.”
The woman tossed twenty dollars on the bar and left.
Santonio smiled, shook his head. “I knew there was something I liked about you the moment you sat next to me. Sapphire Bleu, you are one classy woman.”
CHAPTER 8
Valentino
Back in Atlanta…
A ll females were confused bitches in heat or heated about some dumb shit.
Shit lingered in a bitch’s subconscious waiting for an innocent or ignorant nigga to show up. Fuck me on the first date. Treat me like a lady. Pay for our meals. I got it, baby. Don’t come over to my house ever again. Here’s a key. I wanna have your baby. I wouldn’t have your child if my life depended on it. I don’t want a relationship. Marry me. Let me suck your dick. Your sorry ass ain’t shit. Get the fuck out! Baby, don’t go.
Pimping was therapeutic. A nigga couldn’t win no fight with a woman.
Women were forensic
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