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  One time Mildred even offered to pay for Seneca's half of the travel package, but Seneca declined, offering some lame excuse that left Mildred believing that it wasn't that Seneca didn't want a free trip, she just didn't want a free trip with her.

  So Mildred experienced the world through her travel magazines. She had subscriptions to all of them: Caribbean Life, Travel + Leisure, National Geographic, Travel—the corners of her apartment were piled high with back issues. Her favorite places, her must-see-before-you-die places, those pages she'd torn out of the magazines and tacked to the walls of the bedroom and bathroom.

  She had twenty thousand dollars in her bank account, not to mention the fifty-seven thousand she'd accumulated in her 401(k). Her dream was to take the savings account money and spend a year traveling the world—well, that was only if she didn't need it for the dream wedding she'd been planning ever since she was eight years old.

  CHAPTER

  Three

  Mr. Henderson is in receipt of your résumé and is very impressed.” The silky voice came from the other end of the line. Tony's eyebrows rose and his cock jerked in his pants.

  “He would like to meet with you for lunch on Tuesday. How does one o'clock at Santucchi's sound?”

  Tony was speechless for a moment. He looked over his shoulder to see if anybody was watching him. He was sure his eyes were as big as saucers. James Henderson was the managing director of new accounts and acquisitions over at Greene Investments, the oldest black-owned financial firm on Wall Street.

  Tony had faxed over his résumé to the human resources department three weeks before. He was confident that he had the experience for the position advertised in the Sunday Times, but he'd never expected to be getting a call from the assistant to Da Man!

  “Mr. Landry, are you there?” the sexy voice asked.

  “Yes,” he croaked, and then cleared his throat. “Yes, I'm here. One o'clock would be fine.”

  “Okay then. Do you have the address for Santucchi's?”

  Everyone knew where Santucchi's was located. All of the big-time power brokers lunched there. Santucchi's was to Wall Street what Sardi's was to the Theater District.

  “Yes, I do,” Tony said.

  Tuesday took forever to arrive. Tony had to wait through all day Friday, the weekend, and then a rainy Monday.

  He arrived at Santucchi's ten minutes early. His stomach was in knots as he stood in front of the mirror in the men's restroom, straightening and restraightening his tie. He'd run his hands over his hair so many times that now his palms were greasy.

  Washing his hands for the fourth time, he caught sight of the time on his fake Patek Philippe. It was two minutes to one.

  Tony still had the paper towel in his hand when he rushed out of the bathroom. Mr. Henderson was just being seated. Tony looked wildly around him for someplace to stash the refuse. He thought of shoving it into his pocket, but then a waiter moved past him with a tray of dirty dishes and Tony dropped it into a half-full coffee cup.

  His heart was beating a mile a minute. If he got this job, his base salary would be sixty thousand dollars a year. With overtime and bonuses he could easily pull in a cool one hundred thousand.

  He took a deep breath, eased up alongside Mr. Henderson, and said, “Mr. Henderson, I'm Tony Landry.”

  The interview had gone on for two hours.

  He was sure he'd asked all of the right questions, and when Mr. Henderson asked what position he saw himself eventually securing within Greene Investments, Tony gave him his most confident smile and said, “Partner.”

  Mr. Henderson smiled. He himself had pulled himself up and out of Baltimore's toughest ghetto. The son of a drug-addicted mother, he'd spent most of his life in foster homes. When he was sixteen he was a high school dropout and had already been in and out of four juvenile detention homes. It was clear he was headed straight to the penitentiary when his court-appointed lawyer took an interest in him.

  He returned to high school and graduated at the age of twenty-one, with honors. A full scholarship to Howard University followed.

  He'd been recruited by Goldman Sachs and Deutsche Bank, but in the end took an analyst position with Greene Investments.

  Twenty years and countless promotions later, he'd help build Greene Investments into the financial powerhouse it had become.

  The bottom line was, James Henderson was Tony Landry's hero.

  “I like your confidence, Tony, I really do” was Mr. Henderson's only comment before he called for the check.

  They parted with another strong handshake and Tony walked away from that meeting feeling the most unsure he'd ever felt in his entire life.

  Later that day, Tony was still mulling it over as he and his best friend, Errol Payne, played a game of one on one.

  “Why you letting it fuck with you, man?” Errol asked as he tried desperately to block Tony's shot.

  “ 'Cause,” Tony breathed, hunched over, clutching the basketball close to his chest, “I really want that fucking job!” he bellowed before he turned, sprang up into the air, and dunked the ball.

  “Damn,” Errol screeched as he watched Tony swing from the rim with one hand.

  “Twenty-one, dawg, I win again.” Tony laughed as he dropped back down to the ground, and smacked Errol on his back.

  Errol followed Tony back to the splintered wooden bench.

  “You probably got it, so stop stressing.”

  Tony wiped at the perspiration on his brow and then lifted the sports bottle of Poland Spring water to his lips and took a long swig.

  Errol watched out of the corner of his eye as Tony's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as the water slipped down his throat.

  “Hey,” Errol said as he reached over and gave Tony's collarbone a tight squeeze, “It's cool, man. You gotta start thinking positive.”

  “Hey, you're the Buddhist here, not me,” Tony said, laughing.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  Mildred was cleaning her glasses when Tony walked up to her desk and announced himself.

  She looked up from the task at hand and her eyes lit on a dark blur. Not recognizing the voice or the name, she squinted, and then realized that her glasses were still in her hands.

  Calmly, she slipped her glasses back onto her face and then looked up again. Tony was grinning down at her, his dazzling white teeth blinding, and Mildred found herself jerking back a bit in her chair. The sudden movement set the chair in motion and she found herself helpless as the chair rolled backward from the desk, stopping with a slight bump on the wooden file cabinet behind her.

  He stood about six feet tall, with a deep chocolate complexion, broad shoulders, thick eyebrows, and the longest lashes she'd ever seen on a man. He was movie-star good-looking and Mildred was immediately smitten.

  “Oh,” she said as she scooted forward again.

  Tony kept his smile steady, but he was wondering how a voice so sexy could come out of such an unattractive woman, and wondered further how she had secured a job with his hero. Tony knew that if he were in Henderson's position, he'd have a fox as his assistant. Not this buck-toothed mongrel of a woman sitting before him now.

  “Tony Landry,” he said again, extending his hand. “I have a three o'clock with Mr. Henderson.”

  Mildred blushed and took his hand in hers. It was strong, warm.

  “Mildred,” she muttered in a small voice, suddenly unable to remember her last name.

  Tony's eyes moved between his hand and Mildred's face. After a few moments, when it was clear that Mildred wasn't going to let go, he shook his hand loose of her sweaty palm.

  Mildred was staring at him, mouth open and eyes wide, as if she'd been struck.

  Tony's grin widened—he was no stranger to the effect he had on women. This one, though, wasn't one he would pursue; she was way past homely.

  “Johnson,” Mildred suddenly spouted, finally remembering her surname, “Mildred Johnson.”

  Tony nodded and looked impatiently at his wa
tch.

  “Please have a seat. Mr. Henderson will be right with you.”

  Tony watched from the corner chair as Mildred fussed with some loose papers on her desk before rising and walking toward the smoked-glass office door that read

  JAMES HENDERSON

  Managing Director

  As Tony watched Mildred make her way across the gray carpet, he grimaced as Mildred's run-down orthopedic shoes squealed. He couldn't understand how a woman of Mildred's young age could allow herself to look so unkempt. The outfit she wore was something fit for a sixty-something-year-old who'd never had any kind of fashion sense. And the tired ponytail she sported was ragged and he was sure he saw bits of lint clinging to the strands of hair that didn't quite make it beneath the rubber band.

  Mildred called over to him, “You can go in now.”

  “Thank you,” Tony said as he sauntered past her and into the office.

  Mildred pulled the door shut and then happily inhaled the lingering scent of his cologne. Delicious—she knew the scent well. She'd been spraying it onto her pillow-cases every payday, right before she settled down and dialed 1-800-Hot-Boyz.

  Back at her desk, she waited anxiously for Tony to reappear. When he did she called to him, “Have a nice day.”

  “You too, um . . . Mildred,” Tony threw over his shoulder without looking at her.

  Mildred melted into her chair. She was in love.

  CHAPTER

  Five

  Errol had stopped going into the Black Swan when he took his vow of celibacy. It was just too many pretty, long-legged temptations in one place.

  A few years ago, not unlike Tony, he'd been a whore-monger. Then a friend of his had introduced him to the Buddhist practice. Although he could not find the time to attend the meetings, he studied the religion on his own and began dutifully chanting every morning and evening.

  Celibacy had been a hard road to walk, but he made it through every difficult day by whacking himself off.

  He'd expertly managed to avoid the Black Swan for months, but he found it hard to say no when Tony called and told him he'd gotten the job with Greene Investments and wanted him to meet him there for a celebratory night out.

  Thursday nights at the Black Swan were always good. Wall-to-wall people packed the normally all-white after-work spot. White folk who didn't know that Thursday night was black night could often be seen exchanging confused looks with one another and either sitting back and enjoying the vibe or paying their tab and hustling out the door toward more familiar territory.

  Tony was a regular at the Black Swan, and had bedded quite a few women who hung out there. But today would mark the beginning of a whole new set of females, because it was the beginning of summer and the beginning of summer meant a flock of fresh-faced top-college-recruit interns, book-smart Ivy Leaguers who were so green that Tony almost felt bad taking advantage of them.

  A twenty-something female was helpless beneath his charm, and if he was on his best game, he could have a new woman beneath him almost every night from June to August.

  “What you drinking, man?” Tony turned to him. Errol looked up into his face, but his eyes were on a woman who was standing a few feet away from them.

  “Damn, she's got perfect dick-sucking lips,” Tony said in Errol's ear, leaning in close.

  Errol reluctantly turned his head in the direction Tony indicated. The woman, barely twenty-two from what Errol could see, was smiling in their direction.

  “First victim,” Tony whispered, and then started toward her.

  Errol watched from his place at the bar as Tony made his approach. After ten minutes or so, the woman was tracing Tony's cheekbone with the long pink nail of her index finger. Ten minutes more and Tony was kissing her neck as she giggled girlishly and halfheartedly tried to push him away.

  Tony turned toward Errol and winked at him. Errol knew that wink. It was the sign to let him know that Tony was in like Flynn and that their night together was over.

  Errol sighed, drained his glass, and threw a twenty down onto the bar.

  CHAPTER

  Six

  Mildred had access to all types of files. She wasn't a dishonest person, really she wasn't, but when Mr. Henderson announced that he had just hired Tony Landry, she just had to know everything about him. And so she pulled his personnel file.

  Unmarried.

  No children.

  A sister.

  A mother.

  Father deceased.

  Age: 34.

  She scrolled through page after page of information. They'd hired him even though his credit score was in the 500s and he had a few judgments against him.

  Tony Landry was probably something real special for them to ignore that.

  Mildred logged off and crossed her fingers.

  She had dreamed about Tony Landry the night after he walked into her office. Mildred believed wholeheartedly in her dreams, and she took this particular dream as a sign that they were meant for each other.

  Now all she had to do was convince him of that.

  Seneca was standing in front of the Black Swan; she had on a short pin-striped miniskirt and an off-the-shoulder white peasant blouse that accentuated her mammoth bosom.

  She had way too much makeup plastered on her face, and even Mildred had the good sense to know that ice blue eye shadow went out with the breakup of the Supremes.

  “What are you doing?” Mildred asked when she approached Seneca, who was holding a clipboard in her hand.

  “I'm signing people up for Maverick Movers and Shakers.”

  “What's that?”

  Seneca gave her an exasperated look. “It's like Black Diamonds.”

  “What's Black Diamonds?”

  “Mildred, you really need to get out more, you know that?”

  Mildred shrugged her shoulders and pushed her glasses back up onto her nose.

  “It's an organization, a black organization that promotes networking functions.”

  “Oh.”

  Mildred didn't know anything about parties or networking functions. The only party she consistently attended was the company Christmas party, and even then she only stayed long enough to participate in the first round of toasts. By the time the appetizers were served, she was scurrying out the door.

  No one ever seemed to miss her.

  “You should go in,” Seneca threw at her as she turned and shoved the clipboard at a handsome couple. “Are you on the Mavericks contact list?” she asked.

  When she turned around again, Mildred was gone.

  Mildred thought about him all night, running his information over and over again in her head until it almost drove her mad. Around midnight, she pulled herself from the bed and padded across the floor to the chest of drawers.

  There in the bottom drawer, hidden beneath her winter sweaters, wrapped in layers of aluminum foil and tissue, was the black vibrator Seneca had given her as a birthday gift two years earlier.

  Mildred had been horrified and had tossed it aside in anger. Mildred's ungratefulness had hurt Seneca, and she'd stormed out of the apartment. They didn't speak for a month.

  Mildred had stared at the repulsive plastic contraption for hours, afraid to touch it—but more afraid to actually dispose of it because there were nosy busybodies in her building and the thought of them finding it was so upsetting to her that she used the dishtowel to fish it from the trash and wrapped it up in tissue and then tin foil before sticking it in her bottom drawer.

  It remained there for a year. She and Seneca never spoke of it, and truth be told, Mildred had almost forgot it was even there until one day the apartment above her, which had been empty for more than six months, was finally occupied by a young woman whom Mildred had laid eyes on only two or three times.

  Petite and brown, with track-star thighs and Halle Berry features, she screamed when she climaxed.

  The first time Mildred heard her she thought the woman was being murdered and had almost dialed 911, but then laughter follow
ed and soon after that the insistent thumping of her headboard.

  The tenant before her had had carpet on the floor and something obstructing the vent, but now the sounds came through so clear that Mildred often felt as if the woman was right inside her apartment.

  Mildred would pop a bag of popcorn, turn the lights off—all but the small writing lamp—prop herself up in her bed, and listen to the lovemaking sounds as they filtered down through the floorboards.

  It left her excited and wet and she often found her hands down between her thighs, playing with herself.

  One Friday night, Mildred lay curled up in her bed, surfing the television channels for a good movie to watch when she stumbled onto a commercial that advertised live chats with hot men.

  Mildred was mesmerized by the black men who smiled out at her from the television. With perfect teeth, large biceps, and precisely chiseled chests, they invited her to call in for the nominal fee of $4.00 for the first minute and $2.99 for each additional minute.

  Mildred didn't know what had gotten into her, but she dialed the number that flashed in red on the screen.

  1-800-HOT-BOYZ

  She was advised by a computer-generated voice to enter her credit card number. After a few seconds of clicking sounds, she was connected to a man who introduced himself as Bobby.

  Bobby had a voice that sounded like that of the famed radio host Vaughn Harper. Deep, inviting, and sexy.

  Bobby also had many questions:

  Her name?

  Did she have a man?

  What was her sexual fantasy?

  Did she ever have her pussy licked like a lollipop?

  Mildred was speechless. But she was wet, and she looked down between her legs to see a large dark spot spreading through the cotton material of her navy blue panties.

  “I'm touching myself. What about you?” Bobby asked. “I'm touching myself and thinking of you. My dick is so hard, so fucking hard for you.”

  Mildred still couldn't find her tongue. All she was able to manage was a few grunts.