One Safe Place Read online

  The man moving toward me is smiling; he hardly ever smiles at anyone or anything else. When he smiles at me, he melts me. He is what I like and love. I feel respected by Psalms as if I’m his woman, but…in public because he used to be my government-issued protector, so we act like associates. Many will assume he was my lover on the taxpayers’ dime in furnished offices and hotels abroad. Well, he was my lover, and we did do the do. But, I’m here in his place now, after both of us have left high-profile positions.

  I often have to initiate conversations with Psalms, and it is one of the few things I don’t care for. But, as long as I’m close to him, I’m happy. “Psalms, you look good down on the beach working out. Are you sore? How about we take a shower, and I’ll rub you down?”

  He is leaning over into my breathing space. His lips brush against my cheek. His deep timbre hums in my ear like a hummingbird removing nectar. “I thought you were coming to town next weekend.” Before I can respond, he kisses my thick upper lip, and then slips his tongue across my teeth as he removes my empty glass from my hands. It could be the vodka or maybe his kiss, but I’m feeling a bit woozy.

  I bite his tongue and hold it for a count, but not hard enough that he can’t pull it back. “I was,” I say. He slides his tongue in deep and I bite lightly again. I used to have a rather large gap until I was a teenager. I showed him pictures of me from back then, and ever since Psalms has had a fetish about what used to my gap. Every once in a while, he calls me Gabby if he wants to hush me up because I’m running off at the mouth over an intense subject.

  Sometimes he calls me Butterfly, when I make him cum so hard, and he’s about to drift off to sleep tucked against my skin. My middle name is Papillon: French for butterfly. His tongue plays nasty in my mouth like when he’s going down on me, and it sends showers to my pussy. Then he comes back, licks my lips all around and I hold still for him to do that. It almost has the same effect on me when he licks on my plump pussy lips. Psalms tells me I’m a hot butterfly.

  The media glorifies and ridicules the thickness and visual of my lips. Tabloids have mocked me as being Meagan Good’s real mother. We do share the same lip contour and likewise visual lip size, and a slight resemblance facially. The big difference is, she might be a size four and I’m a size—well, it’s in the teens and varies from end to end, depending on my stress level. I’m in the tabloids all the time and my build is parodied on late-night TV. I’m built with curves, lots of breast, and a full, well-rounded ass. A few heads of state were careless, and cameras have caught them gawking. I’ve been glorified for my breasts and ass in a rap song.

  One song remarked:

  “Her hair is fly girl whip appeal

  Her rump is running humpty-dumpty wild and wide

  Her breasts could feed the poor

  If only her conservative mind was fine like her Hollywood face

  The girl looks like a freak

  But that can’t be when she talks like she better than you and me.”

  All I can do is laugh, because little do they know about the real me. I am open-minded. Psalms and I do things others have to go watch pornos to get a clue. Psalms pulls back his tongue, and I act as if I’m going to bite his tongue if he tries to insert again…knowing I won’t. I’ll just melt as I always do.

  “Psalms, I hope it’s all right that I’m here. Henry Kissinger had to cancel a dinner lecture at East Seattle City University. The chancellor thought a former Secretary of State would fill the bill. So, I’m here for four days, if that’s okay with you. I canceled my own classes.”

  “Gabrielle, you know you don’t have to ask, even though you weren’t asking. It must be nice to cancel your classes whenever you want to. All that money they charge those kids to get into UC Berkeley and you, Professor Brandywine, pull a disappearing act, like ‘Oh well.’ ”

  “I have a suite at the Westin if you want to stay there instead.”

  “Gabrielle, I spotted your security detail down on the street.” As always, he doesn’t respond to statements or questions that don’t really need to be answered or responded to.

  “I know they’re not the best security, but the college provided them. I’m okay, babe, nothing will happen to me.”

  “You may not be on the world stage anymore, but people still want to cause you harm. If you are coming here, I want to know so I can put my people on you to protect you, okay?”

  I’m a woman who runs shit, and one of the beauties of being with Psalms is I can hand control to him and completely trust him and his love. I can be a black woman first and foremost and drop all the public image of how I’m an American patriot only.

  I nod my head and let Psalms know I understand he wants to protect me, and I should have informed him I was coming. He’s not trying to keep me away from an unexpected visit. Psalms Black is almost too honest. He will hurt my feelings with his brutal honesty, so he will tell me to go if that’s what he wants.

  I know about his other woman, the one for love with no sex. I know he has protected her from herself for most of her life. She’s no threat to me, but I don’t like it. I could do something about it. I do think about doing something. Maybe I should, but I know who I am. I understand my worth in his world. I know no other woman can do for him what I can. If someone were to think less of me for how I feel—oh well. I love that man: he will be all mine one day, and one day soon. But for now, we lead an almost secret life.

  I worked my ass off to be the most powerful woman in the world, often thought of as much as the president I served under and by some, liked more. At my service and assistance, I had the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA and Homeland Security for certain situations. I’ve met and made connections; I’ve made friends to help me in my endeavors, all for Psalms and I have to have a life together.

  Psalms removes his shirt and is headed to his room. I make myself another morning eye-opener and wait until I hear the shower running. I always anticipate him taking me hard and forceful with very little foreplay. The thought alone makes me almost too wet. I love him sliding in his hardness when I haven’t kissed it or touched it yet it, and taking it and giving it to me hard.

  Some Sunday mornings, I’ve been on different national TV talk shows: Face the Nation, Meet the Press, This Week, and yes, even the Fox Network’s Fox News Sunday. Most people watch and see me as classy, graceful, educated, and skillful in how I answer questions that could cause political wars, or wars period.

  Most never think I have another side that just wants my man to hold and pin me down, and pound his hardness into me as if he is trying to hurt me. I raise my ass to that in a toast. If most knew of the places our tongues go, they would write laws to put me in prison. Bill Clinton slid a cigar into his mistress’ ass. Many think a lady should never do certain things, but this lady does it all and can’t wait until the next time.

  The queen farts with her royal elitist facade, and I love rough, hard-pounding sex, despite what my public wants to think of my persona of gracefulness.

  Right now, I’m stripping down and joining my ex-Secret Service agent in the shower to go help him relax, and for me to get off.

  CHAPTER 6

  Someone Could Get Hurt

  The stereo was loud, but not enough to keep people from holding conversations. Ledisi caressed her sexy voice in to her version of D’Angelo’s “Brown Sugar” through the speakers. Seattle’s morning sunshine ended up fighting with the clouds and lost. Grayness now was the color of the day on the Seattle skyline.

  Holding court at mid-day at Uncle’s BBQ, Psalms sat at a table with Suzie Q and Tylowe. The two guys had sides of red beans and rice, greens, and yams with a beef hot link for lunch. Suzie Q, wiry but strong, and capable of delivering as much pain as any man, devoured her food like a hungry lioness after a kill. On her plate was a half-pound of beef brisket, and sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, baked beans, greens, yams, mac ’n’ cheese, mixed veggies, green salad, and a cornbread muffin.

  “Where does it all go, Q?
A doctor may be in order to see if you don’t have something inside of you eating you alive. It’s a wonder you don’t have the biggest ass anyone could have.” Tylowe shook his head.

  “You black guys like women with large bottom ends, eh? Well, if that is the case, my little skinny, white bottom has a long way to go, eh?” After many years in the states, Suzie Q had not lost any of her Scottish-Canadian intonation. The former Royal Canadian Mountie turned private investigator/security agent, had joined forces with Psalms Black. The two offered much sought-after services. Suzie Q had been a part of the ordeal that had put Elliot in prison.

  A few years ago some friends of Tylowe utilized Suzie Q’s services when she hunted down a man who had tried to kill them. Suzie Q shot the man, badly wounded, and somewhat tortured him. She needed the man to confess to some crimes, and when she was done with him, he did. She then helped that man take his own life after he realized what would happen to him in prison. Her girl-next-door, Drew-Barrymore-face hid her rough character.

  Tylowe chewed on a hot link while staring at Suzie Q. “Q,” he said, “Black men love women with a sizable ass. Hell, white men love some ass, too, but many are scared, not knowing if they can handle it all. But lack of ass ain’t your problem.”

  Before he finished, the three of them were already laughing.

  “Let’s count the ways. You carry a gun bigger than most porn stars’ erections. I think your boxing skills might make a few men run. And you’re faster and stronger than the average fellow. Now your accent might be a turn-on to some men, so that is a plus.” Tylowe laughed at his own joke.

  Psalms chimed in. “But that thing about you don’t have sex with men, only with women, I’m sure that might keep a lot of black men from wanting your skinny, little, white ass.”

  “Oh, I guess that might be a problem for me bottom, eh? Not offering any bun for the beef hot link, eh?” Suzie Q winked, pursed her thin lips, and then sucked on her hot link. Both men put the hot links down and gave her a look of, “Not while we’re eating, silly woman.”

  She tore off a piece of meat with her teeth and chased it with dark beer. For some reason, she spoke louder. “I guess some of the brothers don’t care who I do because they be asking for a chance to bend my skinny, little ass over. They hit me up in public and on my Facebook page, when I clearly state in public and on my page that I have women who love me. So, I send their wife or the women posted on their page a song by my favorite artist, Meshell Ndegeocello, ‘If That’s Your Boyfriend (He Wasn’t Last Night).’ ”

  A man sitting behind Suzie Q spit up his soda. The brother had hit on Suzie Q when she had first walked in ahead of her tablemates. He wore a wedding ring. He regretted handing her his business card.

  Tylowe smiled, but joking around didn’t go too far with him as of late. Psalms changed the subject as he leaned in, and the others did, too. “I have gathered info on our Russian problem. The person running the show for the Russians is the daughter of a so-called mob-boss. Her name is Sasha Ivanov. She has been taking over for her dead father, the man who was married to Elliot’s baby mama. Sasha’s father, when he was living, apparently believed or acted as if the kids were his.

  “These kids are in trouble because they each have bank accounts in the Cayman Islands worth millions, and they can draw them out when they turn twenty-one. The only people who can touch the money before they age out is their mother, who seems to have disappeared, and Sasha Ivanov, if the mother dies and the kids die before they turn twenty-one.

  “Queen, the mother of the kids, could be in hiding or dead. But she has an aunt living in Vegas. This aunt was the sister of the former president of Martinique. The aunt had a different father, so her last name is not Frêche as the President’s was. This may play in our favor if Sasha Ivanov is hunting down the kids as Elliot thinks she may be.

  “I have a man at Homeland Security. Queen’s passport shows she went to Vegas often. Also, known ties to Sasha Ivanov have been tracked to Vegas as of late.” Psalms looked over to Suzie Q.

  She took a swig of her brew.

  Tylowe was amazed at the knowledge that could be had and known, and that he had friends with this kind of know-how.

  Psalms pressed his lips tight before he spoke. “If Sasha Ivanov got to the kids’ mother, all I can say is the Russians I’ve come across know how to torture like Q is ripping meat off that bone.”

  Suzie Q, at that moment, put the bare rib bone down and took her time to suck each one of her fingers with full sound effects, removing the sticky sauce.

  “So you can see the problem we have. I was able to call in some favs to trace some of this info and Gabby used some State Department intel available to her, yet all the information is suspected to be wrong. We need to assume so and plan accordingly. This is not going to be easy. Someone could get hurt. I’m gonna be honest, Tylowe, this kind of situation may not be for you. I don’t doubt you can be a warrior, but getting in to a fray with these people can be pure violent.

  “When we add the fact that this involves Elliot, and what is real or not real, there is no way we can trust his intent and information. Let’s not be simple-minded when dealing with him. You know that. Something didn’t sit right with me when we had our little visit with him. It is my nature to be distrusting, and it could be just that…but that MF.”

  Psalms looked over to Tylowe. “You don’t know, but I had a problem with him back in college and he doesn’t know I know what he did. I wanted to get even, but he was your friend back then, and I was conflicted on a few things I had already done. But that MF is not to be trusted . . .ever.”

  Tylowe nodded, and kept nodding to the beat of the Anthony Hamilton song that played, “The Truth.” There was anger in Psalms’ voice that seemed displaced, but Tylowe kept his mind on everything he had heard.

  The little bell over the entrance door dinged. In came two well-built, white men, ex-military—Psalms knew right away. The two men wore heavy material suit coats, tailored for extra room. Their dress jeans had wide legs. Psalms knew that guns and extra clips were tucked in the coats, and another gun in an ankle holster was hidden beneath the wide-leg jean. Suzie Q’s hands moved smoothly to her weapon as her eyes pierced behind her dark sunglasses. The style of sunglasses she wore was reminiscent of the 1960s Black Panther militant shades.

  The two men scanned the room. Both men locked eyes with Psalms. It was more like Psalms had chains on their eyes and he slowly twisted the chains tight with his golden eyes. Then as if he released them because he was done, they turned away. The two men turned to someone outside and both nodded. Psalms blinked his eyes toward Suzie Q, signaling her to stand down. She relaxed, but kept a hand on one gun in her coat. The two men separated and made a human corridor with their huge bodies like parting the Red Sea for royalty, and the former Secretary of State Gabrielle Papillon Brandywine walked in. A city official and a state official muckety-muck walked in with her.

  Tylowe released a long exhale. He knew right at the moment what Psalms meant. He was not that kind of warrior anymore, if he ever was. Without knowing that those guys were bodyguards, he saw the alertness of a Doberman in Suzie Q, and Psalms turned in to a tuned precision machine like a heat-seeking missile, and sensed the potential violence that could erupt.

  Those two were ready for action. To avoid trouble is to be aware of trouble before you’re deep in it; act first instead of reacting. Tylowe’s eyebrows moved inward, and wrinkles formed on his forehead. Reflecting on how people could find often on the daily news the aftermath of a bloodbath, not knowing they might be surrounded by men and women with guns anywhere, anytime, he laughed aloud.

  “Something funny?” Psalms asked Tylowe with a smile.

  Tylowe had a smirk on his face. “You knew damn well your girl was coming in here. You could have said so.”

  “Would it have changed whatever you’re feeling?”

  “What makes you think I’m feeling any certain way?”

  “Your comment says so. You�
��re no different than we were in kindergarten at Van Asselt Elementary: always overanalyzing everything. Do you need to go write a poem or something?” Psalms smirked and tilted his back as if he was looking down on Tylowe, when in fact Tylowe had at least a good three-inch height advantage.

  “Dude, I’m glad I went to Leschi Elementary so you didn’t bully me the whole year.”

  “Yet here you sit next to me wanting my help.” This time they both laughed.

  “Can you two stop reliving playing Cowboys and Indians, and seeing who can swing higher on the swing while looking under each other’s dress, comparing dick size?” Once Suzie Q’s aggression radar went up, it was up. She was a bit pissed at Psalms for knowing other guns were going to be coming in the room, and he knew it.

  “Q, we good?” he asked.

  “For now.” She glanced over her shades at Psalms, and then the bodyguards, before she gave Gabrielle Brandywine a stiff smile that resembled someone injected with an overload of Botox.

  Psalms and Suzie Q had forged a lucrative and successful security company. Complete trust in each other’s abilities and laying down all their personal demons and what they’d done in the past made them closer than conjoined twins in some ways. They hid nothing from each other, helping them to recognize one would cover for the other no matter what. They knew about each other’s dead bodies and where they were buried. Understanding everything was for the greater good, till death do they part, even taking all you know to the grave.

  Suzie Q and Tylowe knew Psalms Black’s lover. Psalms’ trusted friends, including Tylowe and his wife, Sterlin, Lois Mae, Ayman, Vanessa, Velvet, and a few select others, socialized with him and Gabrielle at his condo or at their homes.

  Right now they all acted like casual patrons. Psalms and Gabrielle made knowing eye contact as she ordered her food. Her bodyguards each took a table on each side of the door, but close to her. Two other bodyguards sat in the SUVs, observing the comings and goings. Other patrons smiled at her, but let her be. The bodyguards knew to cut off anyone who wanted to talk to her—as if she would want to talk about world affairs with strangers. She wanted to eat good barbecue, and talk with her hosts, and watch her man from a distance.