The Pleasure Zone(83)

He groaned. “Don’t remind me, yo. How you ‘n’ the boys?”

“Oh, no, little daddy,” she said playfully. “I’m fine. And my sons are fine. But you do not get to change the subject.”

He groaned. “Nah, fuck that. I’d rather we did.”

“Not until you tell me. How was it?”

“Yo, word is bond, Pasha. That bitch is deadly.”

And the fucked-up thing was…

He wanted her again.





THIRTY-FOUR


Candles flickered about Nairobia’s living room.

Staring into the flames, she held up the only picture she had of her father. Oba Chukwu. She didn’t know why she’d held on to it. But she had. Taking it everywhere she’d ever been, hidden in a jeweled lockbox in her traveling trunk.

He was the first man Nairobia had had wrapped around her fingers, the man who’d showered her with adoration and kisses and fabulous gifts. Up until the moment he’d turned his back on her, she’d been the center of his universe. Then—snap—he’d disowned her. Just like that. Because she hadn’t conformed to his expectations of what—and whom—he believed she should be.

His dreams for her hadn’t been hers. And she’d refused to allow him to decide her life for her. That had been a defining moment for Nairobia. As a result, she’d carved out her own path in life. Not once, ever, looking back.

She wished more women were like that. Determined. Unyielding. Not allowing a man to define them. Or confine them.

But most weren’t.

She’d forgiven her father a long time ago for breaking her heart. Yet, they still hadn’t rebuilt a relationship. And, deep down, she was okay with that.

Him not being in her life had been his loss, not hers.

And now he was dead.

He’d died over six years ago in a plane crash flying out of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. He’d been there on business. The accident had been ruled foul play. But the authorities had not been able to identify who had been behind the deadly crash.

Though they’d been estranged, the news had still had come as a shock to her. Nairobia had been on stage accepting another Adult Film award when her mother had tried to reach her. It wasn’t until several hours after the plane crash that she’d finally learned of his tragic death.

She’d listened to her mother’s wracking sobs and had tried to console her best she could. But walls had been painfully built, and she’d felt nothing. And there’d been no tears shed.

The only thing she’d felt was relief. She could finally let go of the idea that one day he’d find it in his heart to love her again. His death made it final. He wasn’t ever coming back, wasn’t ever going to welcome her back into his heart again.

So with that knowing came no tears. Perhaps because she’d already buried him the day he’d told her she no longer was his, that he’d disowned her.

He had been her first experience with men. He’d showered her, almost eighteen years of her life, with love. And she’d spent the remaining eighteen years of her life, avoiding it—at all costs, from anyone else.

So why had she dug out her father’s photo of him holding her in his arms. It’d been a proud moment for him, her birth, so she’d been told. Yet, he’d blamed her for breaking his heart, for ripping out his soul and tossing it to the dogs.

She’d never believed that. Not one moment. Thank God. But she could see how some other young, impressionable girl would. He’d tried emotionally blackmailing her. But it hadn’t worked. She’d been too headstrong. Too determined to live her own life. And make her own way.

She had.

And she made no apologies for doing so.

Still, there’d been times when she’d wondered how a father could turn his back on his child, his daughter. Unless he’d never really loved her in the first place. But, then, somewhere along the way, she’d stopped wondering. Stopped caring.

What that experience had taught her was that men were manipulating. And only loved with conditions. She stared at the photo of her father once more, hoping she’d feel something, anything, before burning it.

But she didn’t.

The penthouse phone rang as she neared the edge of the photo over the candle’s flickering flame. She pulled it back, and let it flutter to the table, next to the burning candle. She went to retrieve the ringing phone.

“Hello.”

“Good evening, Miss Jansen. This is Stewart.”

She smiled. “Hello, Stewart. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes. There’s a…” He paused. Nairobia heard him ask, “Sir, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” she heard a gruff voice in the background say. “Just tell her I’m here. And want to see her, now.”