Dutch Chocolate5: Somebody to Love Me

By B.L Wilson

In the fifth book of the Dutch Chocolate series, Somebody to Love Me, FBI Undercover Agent Zita Fernandez has been depressed since her Aunt Marjorie’s murder six years ago. FBI Special Agent Marsha Sharpe, Zita’s handler, doesn’t know what to do with her. While Zita is working undercover in the field, she’s beginning to make mistakes that could end her life. Neither FBI Special Agent Sharpe (Sharpie) nor Zita wants to ask for Dutch’s help. Both women are worried that this will take Dutch backwards to an uncomfortable time in her life when she was in love with Zita’s aunt.
Can Zita deal with the consequences of her mistakes? More importantly, will she find love despite the setbacks she has suffered?

• Language: English
• Publisher: B.L Wilson
• Release date: Mar 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215274187

B.L Wilson

B.L. has always been in love with books and the words in them. She never thought she could create something with the words she knew. When she read ‘To Kill A Mocking Bird,’ she realized everyday experiences could be written about in a powerful, memorable way. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with that knowledge so she kept on reading.Walter Mosley’s short stories about Easy Rawlins and his friends encouraged BL to start writing in earnest. She felt she had a story to tell...maybe several of them. She’d always kept a diary of some sort, scraps of paper, pocketsize, notepads, blank backs of agency forms, or in the margins of books. It was her habit to make these little notes to herself. She thought someday she’d make them into a book.She wrote a workplace memoir based on the people she met during her 20 years as a property manager of city-owned buildings. Writing the memoir, led her to consider writing books that were not job-related. Once again, she did...producing romance novels with African American lesbians as main characters. She wrote the novels because she couldn’t find stories that matched who she wanted to read about ...over forty, African American and female.

Book preview

Prologue: My Tia is dead

Jesus Martinez slipped the gun he’d just used into the back of his slacks. He glanced at the huge acreage of vacant factory grounds. The area looked like parts of London during World War Two with its faded, crumbling red brick buildings that had seen better days. Rusting staircases to nowhere that sat among piles of bricks and cinderblocks that used to house products. Blackened metal chimneys and lonely gray cement pads that were once factory floors sat among gravel and weeds. Steel and iron machinery arms used to build and lift things now sat exposed to the elements. It was a factory graveyard that El Jefe bought to serve as another kind of graveyard.

He marched back to his car, stroking his goatee in thought. He gotten as much as information he could about Dutch and her two companions from his two dead idiot guards. Now he needed to figure out what route she’d take to return to the city and where she’d go when she arrived. By helping the two women escape, she’d proven she wasn’t an assassin. Or a cop gone rogue. Who was the real Dutch Chocolate AKA Yolanda Riggins? Once he had that answer, he’d know where she was going in the city.

The top-secret folder he’d bribed a low-level clerical to hand over didn’t tell him that. He still had to sort through the things Dutch left behind when she stole the two kidnap victims. Then there were the videos from the house cameras to review. If he wanted to catch her quickly, he’d better get started. He sent part of his crew to her townhouse and her office in the city. He wanted to send men to the judge’s place and the other woman’s place. They’d have to view it from a distance. He was sure both places were under FBI and police surveillance by now.

Where do we go, Senor Martinez? the huge man Dutch nicknamed Goliath asked.

Back to the mansion. We need to find out more about Dutch and the other women with her. Those two idiots had no idea where she was going. Send some men to bury ‘em behind the building with the rusted chimney.

Si, Senor Martinez. The big man bowed to Martinez as one might pay homage to a king, then he opened the passenger door for him. He pulled out his cellphone and relayed Martinez’s commands as he slid into the driver’s seat.

Twenty-four hours later, and Martinez’s men had more bad news. Dutch hadn’t shown up at the townhouse she owned or the office space she rented. He’d posted men at all the entrances to New York City from New Jersey by car, train, helicopter or boat. So far, neither Dutch nor anybody resembling her or the two fugitives with her had entered the city. Did that mean she’d given up going east and decided to head west? Martinez wondered. He lit another expensive cigar while he sat in his office space thinking. He blew smoke rings and watched them drift to the ceiling and disappear. He opened another research folder with pictures of her associates and information on them. He made more calls to send his men to each address listed in the folder. It would take time, but it was worth it to find the trio before word got back to El Jefe. One word to El Jefe, and he was a dead man. El Jefe was a creature of habit besides being a mean bastard. His own death would be long in coming and painful too.

After seventy-two hours on the road, hiding out in no-name motels and off the beaten track shopping malls, Dutch and her precious cargo snuck back into the city. Marjorie’s tenderness was on Dutch’s mind. She needed to see Marjorie, touch her thick inky black hair with the streak of white displayed like a silky fan across a pillow. The nude image of her lush, bronze-toned body was so vivid, Dutch nearly reached out to touch her. Yes, she needed to see Marjorie Vasquez and tell her the truth about everything she’d seen and done in the past eighteen days.

On the outskirts of the city, Dutch told Bonita, the Pirellis and her medical crew to bring the med-lab for the sergeant and the judge’s daughter. They were to meet her at the flower shop of her beloved Marjorie. Since the FBI was at the farmhouse too, FBI Special Agent Sharpe agreed to come along with her crew as well. Her partner, FBI Agent Riley, stayed with at the farmhouse to provide protection to the remaining crew members, the fake murdered judge and his wife. Special Agent Sharpe decided it was time to pull her undercover out of the field and reassign her to an urgent, nearby mission. She called her.

Agent Fernandez, shut the hell up and listen.

Yes, Ma’am.

Twelve minutes later, Zita was climbing out of a cab pulling on her FBI jacket over her bulletproof vest and making sure her ID hung around her neck. She tossed forty dollars at the cab driver as she kept a hand on her weapon. Get the hell out of here now! she warned.

Want I should call the cops?

No, I’m FBI. Leave now before I arrest you, Zita remarked softly. Her gaze took in the street. She didn’t see anything odd. No black vehicles with blacked out windows waiting on either corner. Nobody studying her activities. She cautiously walked to the shop’s front door. The shop had a closed sign in the front window. The lights were out as well, yet when she turned the knob, the door opened.

She pulled out her penlight and her weapon. Tia? Where are you? You left the front door unlocked. Are you here? She searched each area of the shop from the front room to the back. Her aunt was nowhere to be found.

With a great deal of dread, she walked down the basement staircase. She found bags of planting soil and fertilizer, glass and plastic vases, decorative and simple clay pots, plastic pots made to look like clay, plastic and clay drain saucers, assorted sizes of cardboard mailing boxes, bubble wrap, labels, rolls of brown and white wrapping paper, dried plant bulbs, boxes of seeds, buckets, metal and plastic watering cans, hoses, a variety of hose heads, plant stakes, and twine. Everything was neatly labeled and arranged on rows and rows of sturdy metal and wooden shelves. Her aunty wasn’t in the basement either.

Maybe her handler was wrong. Her aunt wasn’t here. She didn’t see any sign of anybody else either. Why would Dutch come here? It made more sense for her to go upstate to the cousin’s farmhouse. Unless she wanted to take Tia with her along with the judge’s daughter and the sergeant. She and the sergeant could protect all of them in one familiar place. That made sense. She sighed as she slowly walked around the basement one more time. Now she needed to check her aunt’s home. She didn’t think she find anything there either.

What would that mean? Zita wondered.

Marjorie, are you down here? Dutch called out from the basement staircase then saw the gun before recognizing the woman holding it. Whoa, whoa. I’m unarmed, she remarked, raising her hands high in the air. Hey, I know you. You’re the niece … ah, it’s Zita, right?

Dutch?

Yes.

What are you doing here?

Later. Help me find your aunt. I’ll tell you on the way.

I searched the flower shop and down here. I was going to her place next.

Dutch dropped her hands. You do that. I’ll check the greenhouse and yard.

No. They might be out there. We do this together.

The women walked up the basement stairs. They went through the shop’s rear door to check the yard and the other small greenhouse first, then they planned go back inside through the residential entrance. Even the best plans can hit a roadblock and go off track.

Dutch couldn’t say who saw it first. She thought it was a brightly colored clump of wrappings and bags for Marjorie’s flowers. The closer they moved, the more Dutch realized it wasn’t that at all. Zita realized what it was too and froze. Dutch ran toward Marjorie, shouting, No! O-oh god. No. Please no. She reached Marjorie first. She dropped to her knees and ripped off her T-shirt to stop the bleeding. There was so much blood. She dabbed at Marjorie’s face. Baby, it’s gonna be alright. We’ll get help.

Zita! Get over here and effing help! Call 911.

Dutch? Marjorie asked in a soft, weak voice.

It’s me, Rea-rea.

I didn’t say anything, Chica. They tried to make me. I didn’t.

It’s okay, Baby. We’ll have plenty to talk about later.

Marjorie licked bloody lips. Did you do it? she asked weakly.

Dutch kept pressure on Marjorie’s chest wound, figuring that was the worst one. No, never. It was a plan the judge and I did to get his daughter back. She frowned when blood soaked through her makeshift bandage. Zita! Damn it! Where’s that ambulance?

ETA five minutes.

Dutch?

Yes, Baby. Dutch kissed the hand she held and looked into the soft brown eyes she loved.

Don’t give up on love.

What are you talking about? You’re gonna be fine. You’ll heal. We’ll have fun. I’ll take a vacation. You name the place. We’ll go. Or we stay here. You teach me how to grow stuff and sell it in your shop.

When I go, just don’t, My Bella Chica, Marjorie murmured so weak that Dutch could barely hear her words.

Zita! Damn it. Call ‘em again. Dutch could see the effort to breathe was taking its toll on Marjorie. She felt so goddamned helpless to do anything about it. All she could do was hold Marjorie and pray EMS could work miracles.

Zita heard the sirens clearly. Why didn’t Dutch? She ran into the shop and directed the EMS worker to the backyard. There was so much blood surrounding her aunt. She wondered how anybody could live with that much blood on the ground around them. Yet her aunt held a whispered conversation with her lover until EMS arrived.

The next thing Zita knew, Dutch was screaming and threatening the EMS techs what would happen to them if they didn’t shock her aunt’s heart into beating again. Dutch’s rage and regret boiled over like a newly activated volcano. She punched one tech in the nose, preparing to yank the paddles away to give Marjorie one more shock to bring her back. The police intervened, handcuffing Dutch until her handler, FBI Special Agent in Charge Sharpe, took over the field investigation. She placed Dutch, her crew, the judge’s daughter and her cop protector under FBI protection. She couldn’t believe her Aunt Marjorie, so full of life and love, was dead.

One: What happened to the six years in between now & then?

In East Harlem, a semi-tractor trailer had backed into what used to be a community garden. The new owners had turned the garden area into a prefabricated storage building made of corrugated steel and erected over a concrete pad. The storage facility was a large, wide one-story affair that took up the entire garden space. The Black and Brown community was disappointed when the former shop owner’s relatives didn’t take over the flower business and keep the community garden growing and going. They remembered how, at her aunt’s funeral, she promised to reopen the flower shop in her aunt’s honor.

Instead, the owner’s niece allowed the vacant flower shop to become a neighborhood eyesore, which accumulated a number of community complaints and city violations. Dead and rotting plants and flowers created a stench that drifted up one block and over to another block. In the summertime, the odor of decaying plants and flowers made neighbors who lived close by sick. Rats had begun invading the shop’s basement to eat the plant food Marjorie stored there. Teens sometimes hung out to smoke MJ and do the wild thing in the greenhouse. Junkies had discovered the place as well and chased the kids out. The shop became a place to buy drugs and use them, then spend the night on chairs and mattresses inside the shop.

Several of the community’s business owners—the guys who owned the barbershop across the street, the East Harlem Restaurant Owners Association, the small business association, the beauty salons and nail shop owner—held a townhall meeting with sanitation’s local garage, the police department and the building department representatives. Local government officials all promised to do something. The unsecured vacant shop and building continued to invite trespassers and illegal activities.

The police department made a few easy drug busts. Sanitation issued violations and cleaned the lot twice, while building’s department claimed they couldn’t locate the new owner. The property continued to be listed under the now deceased owner Marjorie Vasquez. Within a month, drug dealers, users, squatters and teenagers were back in the flower shop, the residential building and the basement. The neighborhood gave up hope that things would improve for securing the wide-open, vacant house. The residents and members of the business community did what they could to stay safe. Those with adjoining properties installed high-beam motion lights and alarm systems in their rear yards and fences of their premises. Others in the community continued to call in complaints to the police department and sanitation. This time, they included their elected officials on their complaint list.

When the building’s department finally located the owner’s niece and threatened her with court dates and garnishment, she resolved the situation. The niece hired a contractor to clean out the flower shop, the greenhouse and basement. After the debris removal was complete, the contractor’s carpenter sealed all openings with framed-out, three-quarter-inch plywood screwed into frames with reversible screws.

As final security, the contractor installed a twelve-foot mesh fencing topped off with razor wire around the entire property, including the aunt’s residence, with no openings. The shop owner’s niece still hadn’t decided what to do with her aunt’s property. But she didn’t think her aunty would want to upset the neighbors by allowing the shop to become an eyesore again either. She decided to pay a couple of the neighborhood kids to keep an eye on the now sealed shop. She vowed she’d drive by every so often to check on her aunt’s place until she either re-opened it or sold it.

For good reason, Zita woke up early, long before dawn and after midnight. She couldn’t go back to sleep. It was the anniversary of her aunt’s murder. She tossed and turned on her king-size bed. She punched her pillows a dozen times then placed one on her head and another under her head. Still no sleep came to her. She finally sat up in bed and grabbed her cellphone. She scrolled down a list of likely lovers and frowned. They’d know exactly what she wanted tonight. Every single one of them would hold her hostage for more than she wanted to give.

She spotted a half-smoked joint in her only ashtray and grinned. She shouldn’t do it. After she smoked it, she’d fall sleep like a baby. She swung long legs over the bed. She walked over to the bookcases stuffed with legal workbooks, law texts, and medical textbooks. Old and new magazines, newspapers, case folders, and files and fashion magazines filed in the empty spaces of several bookcases lined up on her front and side walls. Thirty minutes later, she’d smoked it down to a nub. She was feeling mellow now. Sleep found her fast. She collapsed face-first into the pillows and on top of the bedcovers, snoring softly.

It was morning before she knew it. She decided to drop by one of her used-to-be favorite places. Now, when she stopped by, the place brought back bad memories. It was time to check out the place again. She’d heard there was a new renter for her aunt’s flower shop. She wanted to see who rented it this time. She glanced at her cellphone. If she left now, she could visit before she started her day at the bar. She showered, dressed and hit up her app for Uber.

Twenty minutes later, she was parked across the street from her dead aunt’s former flower shop.

How long we sitting here, watching whatever it is you be watching? My dispatcher gonna be pissed at me if I doesn’t call ‘em soon, the African American driver remarked, angling his rearview mirror to see his backseat passenger better. What cha watching for anyway, huh?

Just checking to see who goes in there and comes out, Zita remarked.

Why? You ‘pecting to see something or somebody? Like maybe a husband or a boyfriend buying you somethin’?

Zita exhaled. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining how much she loved the fragrant smells inside her aunt’s flower shop. Soon she as walked inside the front door, the fragrant sweet scents drifted into her nostrils from the fresh cut flowers. When she walked further into the shop and stepped into the greenhouse, the scents were far more exotic and less identifiable.

The driver frowned, watching his passenger close her eyes. Hey? Lady, you ain’t gonna get sick on me back there, are you?

No. I was remembering this place when my aunty owned it.

The driver nodded. Nice-looking, friendly woman with white wisdom strip in her hair. I seen her a couple times when I dropped off folks.

Wisdom strip?

Us peoples down south call it that. Peoples that have ‘em supposed to be smart ‘n’ mystical too. Same thing peoples with early all-white hair. The driver adjusted the rearview mirror. You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that with all the black hair you got. Then he turned to around to study her face. You got something going on, though. It be in your eyes. I kin wait if you got somethin’ to do round here.

Zita sighed then rubbed her temples. Nah. I just wanted to see about the new renters. The place looks expensive, almost too expensive for the neighborhood.

The driver turned around to stare at the Exclusive Scents and Flower Shop. He liked the expensive-looking, wood background designs, the artistic one-of-a-kind handmade flowerpots and usual flowers in the large display windows. Yep. I kin hear cha-ching, cha-ching for I even get in the front door.

Zita sighed and nodded. I don’t think I’ll need to visit this place anymore. Looks like it’s in good hands now. I think my aunty would be pleased with this owner. She glanced at her wristwatch. Let’s go, driver, or I’ll be late for work. She gave the driver the address of her office downtown.

When Zita glanced out the cab’s window, her mind began to drift again. She started thinking about where she was in her life. She was thirty-two. She had a job she found wonderful at times. She worked for a woman who was wonderful at times too. She just wished the woman in question would look at her like a potential date or affair. Hell, even a one-night stand with her handler would be worth it. Maybe if she loved her handler good in that one night, it could turn into a lifetime of good loving and a woman to come home with at night and kids too. She sighed. Something about visiting her aunt’s shop to view each new owner made her reflective. The shop visits provided markers in her life since she didn’t have her aunt to provide them. She remembered the first renters of the shop.

They created a toy and candy shop. The attractive, colorful shop did well. In the beginning, it was a good fit for the neighborhood. They called it a shop for all seasons. They converted her aunt’s community garden into a Santaland for Christmas. Bright Christmas lights ringed the perimeter of the vacant lot. Children could ride the Santa slides, Santa pony rides, Santa swings, a Santa merry-go-round, and a small Santa Ferris wheel while their parent went shopping inside the toy store. The business-smart renter created fantasy lands for each of the holidays. There was a haunted house and graveyard theme for Halloween, Easter-egg Land with an Easter hunt in the yard at Easter. For July Fourth, there was a community BBQ and fireworks. Memorial Day and Veterans Day were more celebration and fireworks. If the locals could prove their status as vets, they received a huge discount at the store. For Thanksgiving, the store set up a tent, and with local churches, they fed the homeless.

The store lasted for over two years until local reporters wrote a background piece about the original owner who was murdered in the store’s backyard. Parents stopping bringing their children to a place where murder had ended a flower shop owner’s life and was linked with a murderous drug cartel. The toy store and candy shop quickly went out of business.

The next renter tried to build an ice cream store business geared toward children. Unfortunately, it ran into the same problem as the toy store and candy shop. Nobody wanted to eat ice cream or cake where a brutal murder had taken place. It closed within the first year it opened.

The third one installed a bookstore and coffee shop that resembled a mini version of Barnes and Nobles. Customers could buy books and read them in the store or head to the outdoor open-air sitting and eating area. During the winter months or rainy season, owners erected a huge tent that covered entire rear yard for their readers and diners.

Like the former renters, the bookstore owners used the residential area for book storage space, office space and living quarters. The bookstore’s owners complained of excessive noises at night. One of them claimed to have seen a lone figure floating in and out of the rooms on nightly visits. When hiring a priest to bless the place didn’t work, the real estate agent rented the entire space, commercial and residential, to the current renter with an option to buy in the contract. She heard the ghost story from one of the neighborhood kids. It made her feel sad. And thinking about the ghost story still had a depressive effect on her.

After reviewing her sad little life, Zita decided work was not where she wanted to be today. Driver, forget that last address. Take me to this one instead. She gave him another address much further away on the border between Manhattan and the Bronx in Riverdale. The driver made a U-turn and found a ramp heading for the Henry Hudson Parkway, 9A North. She pulled out her cellphone and tapped a new but familiar contact number.

r u home? need 2 c y. R.

where? when? I

now. R

y? u no I work 2day. I

ah, u no u miss my loving. u r the boss. take the day. R

kids r here. I

school or movies. u choose I pay. R

damned right u pay! I

on my way. R

keeping it hot 4 u. I

Zita whistled through her teeth and then muttered, Ahh, baby, you are a hot one. I need hot today to heat my cold soul. She swiped off then pressed another phone number. She’d slipped into her undercover personality, Rosa Bustos.

Hello, Paloma’s Bar & Grille. The bar’s owner had caller ID on his office phone. What’s up, Rosa? If you’re asking for a favor like time off, how much time and when?

Why are you being so nice today, Guzman? There must be a catch.

Guzman chuckled. You know me too well … this for that.

"What’s the this and what’s the that, Guzzy?"

Guzman rocked back and forth in his worn office leather chair. He looked around the space. His eyes darted from folder to folder stacked in messy piles around his office. Files and folders covered every inch of space, which included a matching leather couch in the far corner. Unfortunately, the papers were everywhere but inside the new metal cabinets lined up on a side wall. He’d get to the cleanup part eventually. Well, Rosie, it’s like this. I said I could supply a good-looking female bartender for a couple of afterparties. You know, like before. Where you met that older married chick you’ve been screwing.

You think you know who’s in my bed at night, huh, Guzzy?

Yep. Since the chick is married to a hard-ass dyke, I’m figuring daytime is your time with her. Nighttime could get you six feet under.

How do you know what I do and with who?

Well, let’s see. It’s been five days since you asked for time off. I figured it was about time to see her again. It’s also coming up on that anniversary you told me about long time ago, when your favorite aunt died.

Zita squeezed her eyes shut. For a long moment, she was silent. Good undercovers mixed enough real life into her fake life to make it seem realistic. She’d nearly forgotten she’d told Guzman about Marjorie’s passing. Good thing she didn’t mention her aunt’s name or the circumstances surrounding her death.

Hey? Rosie, are you still there?

Zita inhaled, taking a deep breath then letting it out. I was just thinking about my aunt.

Take the day, Rosie. If you need more, just text me. Enjoy your day off.

Thanks. Text me the particulars of the afterparties and I’ll do them. Bye. Guzman didn’t know it, but it was where she got the most intel on the weapons shipments. Bartenders were like housekeeping staff. Unless they were needed, they blended into the woodwork. Nobody realized they were there when they made deals for all kinds of things. She slid her cellphone into a back pocket then leaned again the window. Driver, wake me when we arrive.

That’s not a problem. The driver grinned. He’d bet the woman in the backseat was a big tipper. His gut told him as much. It was the main reason he stuck with her stops, starts and lengthy address changes.

Two: Zita’s assignments are doozies

Zita didn’t feel the taxi stop and park in front of Imogene Grayson’s three-story brick estate. She didn’t hear the door open. She didn’t feel the backseat dip. She did feel warm hands stroking her forehead then her cheeks.

Wake up, Honey Lamb. Imogene whispered her love name softly in her ear then kissed her forehead.

Zita opened sleepy eyes. She stared straight into sparkling vivid olive eyes and smiled. When did you get here?

Two minutes after your taxi drove down my driveway and parked in front of the house. I wondered why you didn’t exit. I came outside to find out. You are irresistible when you sleep. Imogene sat back to eye her newest lover. She frowned at Rosa’s work outfit. She hated the cheap-looking clothes. Pay the driver and come with me. She stepped outside the taxi onto the estate’s sidewalk then wiggle-walked up the wide limestone porch steps.

The driver eyed the attractive woman’s swinging-swaying backside and her shapely legs going up the stairs. He wisely didn’t make any comments when Zita grabbed her backpack, threw money at him, which equaled the meter money and fifty-dollar tip, then rushed out the door. He drove off with a big smile. This was his lucky day for tips.

Hey, wait for me. Don’t walk so fast, Emmy, Zita called out, striding quickly up the limestone steps and following Imogene Grayson into her three-story mansion. This time, she remembered to remove her shoes at the door. She loved the feel of the fluffy, springy white carpet underneath her feet. She watched Imogene turn around to face her halfway up the wooden staircase.

Don’t forget to remove your shoes at the … door. Imogene’s eyes sparkled as she watched her lover kick off her shoes then neatly settle them next to hers. Ah, I see you remembered this time. You get a gold star.

Zita chuckled. Suppose I want more than a star.

Well then. I guess you’d better do something spectacular, hadn’t you? Imogene smiled broadly when Zita caught up with her then pressed her against the staircase wall to kiss her with plenty of tongue.

Hmm, Zita remarked until Imogene pressed against her chest, pushing her away. You taste delicious in the morning.

Sharp green eyes studied her new young lover. Yes, I know I do. Tell me something I don’t know, please.

While I like your arrogance, why turn it on me today?

Is that what I’m doing? Imogene snapped over a shoulder as she briskly walked to a large bedroom down the hallway. She shared the space with other lovers and her wife. Once she reached the bedroom doorway, she blocked it with her body.

Zita frowned then removed her backpack from a shoulder. She scratched her head as she studied Imogene. Did I do something wrong? Is that why I can’t come inside?

Yes.

I don’t understand. I just got here.

What are you wearing in my house and getting ready to walk into my bedroom?

Zita looked down at her work uniform. She wore a clean white pleated shirt, a black bowtie, cheap black slacks and a black apron with the Paloma’s Bar & Grille logo on it. Her shoes, which she had left at the door, were comfortable but worn black leather sneakers. She covered her outfit with a casual, inexpensive black raincoat. She was playing the part of a bartender without much money who didn’t have a large clothing budget.

She held out her arms then sniffed her armpits. What? I’m clean. I took a shower before I came over here. These are clean clothes. She studied large olive eyes that were examining her intently as if she was a brand-new species of insect. Nervous now, she jammed her hands into her pants pockets then cleared her throat. This was a bad idea. I’d better leave. We can do this another time. You call me when it’s a good time for you. She felt warm hands fiddling with the zipper on her fly until she smacked them away. Stop that! I’m leaving.

Nope. You’re removing those cheap-ass clothes before you set foot in my bedroom.

Hey, I do honest work in these clothes. I love my job. I was on the way to the bar when I decided to see you instead. Zita stared at Imogene’s haughty look. Which was an obvious mistake. She closed her eyes then leaned against Imogene’s shoulder. She moaned softly as educated fingers flicked her clit and inserted themselves into her heated core. Oh-o-o-o-no-o. Ya can’t just …

What can’t I do to you? Imogene switched spaces, pressing Zita against the wall outside her bedroom. By now, she’d pushed down Zita’s cheap slacks and the silk boxers she’d bought her and inserted a knee against Zita’s dripping crotch. Quiet now, Lover. Open those strong legs. I love making your honey flow. It’s so sticky and tastes so sweet.

Thought you wanted me to … to … Lordy. Zita braced against the wall opened her legs and closed her eyes. Fingers and knees, she rode them. They rode her. She was naked by the time she slid down the wall to the hallway floor.

Imogene was waiting for her. She pushed her legs open wide and nestled between them supping her nectar and creating more. When she finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stood, looking down at her depleted lover. Now, you can come into my bed, she whispered then giggled. If you can still walk.

Zita gathered her clothes ready to bring them and her backpack with her when Imogene called out.

Better leave that cheap, cheesy crap right where it is. I don’t want anything but those silk boxers in here. And the backpack I bought you.

But I need my clothes.

I promise to dress you later, Lambie Pie. For now, fold ‘em and leave ‘em out there.

Zita suddenly realized something as she strolled into the bedroom aware that fabulous Imogene Grayson was giving her a hungry leer. That’s what has you so pissed, huh? You don’t like my clothes, huh?

Too cheap for my tastes. If you would let me, I could buy you some decent clothes. You’re a bright young woman. If you would let me, I could get you a better job too. I told my wife about you and where you work. We both think you could do better working for us.

Zita wore her gifted silk boxers and her backpack into the bedroom. And I told you I love my job as a bartender. I can pay my rent. I can buy the clothes and supplies I need. I can buy my entertainment too. I’m a happy camper, Emmy. She stared at the naked ebony-colored woman with the bright green eyes studying her with interest.

Zita continued to gawk, unable to pull her eyes away from the stunning picture. Imogene’s round, shapely, mint chocolate body languidly lounged against outsized pillows in pastel shades of yellow, pink, orange, blue, purple and green. Her mind thought, Queen of all she can see, including me. I want more of that ownership. I need it today. She shimmied out of her boxers and dumped her backpack on top on them. At the same time, she watched Imogene open her legs and run lazy hands up and down, stroking her own