Changing Stiles Read online

  “Oh, my gosh. I’m Deidra,” she laughs over her introduction. “Can we take a picture?”

  “Yea, of course,” I reply. I dig my cell phone out my purse, ready to “selfie” us.

  “Can you wait one minute?” she inquires, holding up a finger. “Babe!” she calls out, leaving the aisle in search of her companion.

  My cell begins to ring, and I answer because if I don’t, my mom will call right back. “I’m on my way, Mom,” I say idly, looking at Muscle Magazine’s man of the month, some mouthwatering creamsicle.

  “What are you doing?” she interrogates.

  I pray that they don't make an announcement over the loudspeakers as I lie, “I’m leaving the hotel right now. I’ll be there soon, Mom,” I tell her.

  “Ok, be safe. Love you,” she happily adds.

  “Love you too,” I reply, turning back to face the woman.

  There aren’t enough seconds in the span of the ten years that have passed that would allow me to formulate one coherent thought.

  I stare at him unblinking, not moving.

  I can’t.

  Frozen. Eyes wide. My heart stopped momentarily and then sped up, its pace so rapid that I could hear it beating in my eardrums. I breathed in and his scent wafted my nostril. It was a mix of my favorite scented oil, amber white and CK Eternity. It was all him.

  I can’t even focus as she comes to stand beside me after pushing her phone into his hands. It’s like a bad movie playing in slow motion.

  The woman sucks her teeth. “Babe, take the picture,” she whines, posing, holding the book up in front of us.

  He’s as motionless as I am.

  “Carter?” she huffs.

  “Alieas,” he murmurs, still staring me directly in my eyes.

  “Carter,” I return. I know it sounded breathless when it came out, but how else was it supposed to sound? I had once loved the shit out of this man and had lost him.

  In fact, the last words he’d spoken to me all those years ago had been, “Fuck outta here, Alieas.”

  Part One…

  Sometimes, we're destined to learn the hard way…

  One

  May 2002

  Alieas

  “SMILE GORGEOUS,” a man, sitting in a fold-up chair next to a dinged up rust bucket and who appears old enough to be my damn father, tells me as I walk by him and a group of others who seem far into the bottle to take notice of the beauty when they see it passing by. I frown instead. I hate it when perverts have the nerve to open their mouths in my direction. The man has to be hitting sixty and has aged very poorly, based on appearance. He has a hole in his dome and all the remaining hair has turned that dull, yellowish gray. He has a small, scrawny, rundown body and a nasty-looking mouth. I can smell his breath and his mouth ain’t even open. Makes me want to say wanna say, ‘Yuck’. Peasants don’t speak directly to the royal family; hell, why should drunks speak to me? Niggas of all ages go crazy when they see my ass, though.

  Dirty ass, I think to myself but then the good-natured side of me takes over and tries to reason. Maybe he’s not trying to hit on me. I contemplate that thought for a good minute while I steal another glance at him and go straight back to my initial thought, Yeah, he’s definitely a pervert.

  I'm cool about it, though. I'm too high to trip, a natural high, of course. I just came from a fashion show rehearsal/preview for my very good friend, Briannah, who's introducing her signature clothing line this fall. My girl got it going on for someone so young. Her hustle game strong. The last year has been amazing, and she is reaping the benefits. And it never hurts to know the right people or have a connect. She has a joint venture in the boutique business with her fiancée, my older and favorite cousin, Tyree, and her grandmother who already owns a boutique. And to top it all off, she's getting married in December. This is the most important year of her life, and I'm really happy for her.

  No- I'm fuckin' ecstatic. For her.

  “You sure you don’t need a ride, cutie?” Another hack driver offers.

  I roll my eyes and begin to speed walk as I pass the corner of Broad and Susquehanna, trying to dodge all the invitation for hacks I hear.

  I can’t wait until I get my Blazer out of the shop. Tired of the bus and train ish. Although, it is a great way to meet people. My mood changes when I notice two fine guys checking me out and of course, I’m loving it. So, I go into flirt mode and lay my feminine charms on both of them. They both respond like flies to honey and the smaller of the two nudges the one I’m eyeing.

  This man is FINE, do you hear me? And just my type physically. His good-looking ass should have a sign around his neck that reads 'Just drop the drawers’. Quickly, I scan him from head to toe to make my appraisal. He's brown-skinned, about six feet and a couple inches tall and weighs about two-hundred easily, give or take a couple pounds, but he’s as solid as a rock.

  All muscle and mouth-watering.

  I glance down at his hands first, for they tell you a lot. They look as if they've seen some manual labor, and I'm all about a man who works with his hands. Still, his nails are clean and that says that he takes care of them and himself. He has a square face that is boyishly handsome, amber eyes, the color of Hennessy, and extremely white teeth. I admire a man with white teeth; it is such a turn-on. Anyway, his hair is braided straight back in a simple design, and he has a freshly trimmed goatee. Another turn-on. Do you know how facial hair feels scraping the inner thighs?

  Damn good, that’s how. I smile one of my seductive grins that display my own pearly white teeth, knowing that’ll keep him wanting more.

  I continue walking. If he wants me, he can come get me.

  “So, it’s like that?” I hear a deep voice ask from behind me. I turn and see Mr. Can I Have Some walking to catch up with me.

  “Like what?” I ask nonchalantly.

  “You gon’ flirt and leave a brotha hangin' just like that?”

  “So, I’m supposed to approach you? I’m sorry, but that’s not how I do things.” I smile and decide to continue giving him a preview of my attitude. “And besides, my plan worked well; you did follow me,” I say, aware of his amused gaze. He laughs to reveal a set of dimples.

  His smile is beautiful. Shit, he is beautiful.

  “How far do you have to go?” he inquires.

  I look him up and down again, for his benefit, and respond, “Just up the street.” Ahhh, maybe it is for my own benefit cause brotha man is foiine.

  I want him. I’m going to get him.

  “Can I walk you to where you have to go?” he asks.

  I nod my approval.

  Why he doesn’t ask me for my name is beyond me, but he better hurry up so I can give him my number.

  As we’re walking, I ask him for his name because he’s taking entirely too long to request mine.

  “Carter and yours?”

  “Alieas,” I inform him.

  “That’s a very beautiful name.”

  “So, I’ve been told.” I’m mesmerized already and it’s only been a second. It must be the eyes. All dreamy. Not quite hazel. Like a lion’s, the same color as mine but they look different on him.

  Dayuuuum.

  “I can tell now that you’re going to be a lot to handle,” Carter tells me.

  I laugh. “Who says that you’re going to get a chance?” I inquire with a little sista attitude.

  “Damn.” He rubs his heart playfully and teases, “I see you’re hard on all the guys.”

  We arrive at my destination entirely too quickly. I’d like to talk with him some more. “Nawl, just the cute ones.” I watch him smile as I stop walking. “You think I could get your number so we can finish our conversation?” Carter looks a little shocked that I’m so forward. I shrug. Can’t get what you want if you don’t ask for it. “I’m going in here,” I point out. He nods.

  “Only if I can get yours,” he responds as he pulls a pen from his back pocket. I take a piece of paper from my pocket and scribble down my number and give i
t to him as I wait for him to give me his. After receiving it, I make a note that it is his cell phone number because it starts with 267. To be honest, I’d rather have his home number, so I know that if I call him at two a.m. and he answers, he’s probably in the bed and not in the streets.

  Oh, well. I shrug. What should have I expected when I gave him my cell number? That’s just for precautions, though. Some dudes turn out to be stalkers.

  “I almost forgot to ask if you have a man.”

  “Nawl, I wouldn’t call any of them that. Just friends,” I let him know. I have a couple guy friends, and I don’t need another who’s going to be crazy and uneasy about the situation.

  “We gon’ see about that,” Carter replies quietly. “You know Gray?” he asks, indicating the barbershop next to the hair salon I am going into.

  I nod and catch the gleam in his eye. He’s disappointed. Probably thinks I’m one of Gray’s girls. I decide to put him out of his misery and tell him, “He’s my brother.”

  “So, you’re the princess of the Stiles family?”

  I haven’t been called that in such a long time that I smile at the memory and answer, “Yes, I guess I am. You know Gray?”

  He nods and says, “Yeah, we went to school together. I kick it with Ty and his boahs sometimes too.”

  “Oh,” I murmur. I don’t remember him, so for a minute, I think that maybe they’d been in jail together and that would be a definite no-no on my part. I don’t date convicts or guys that hang with Gray. In any case, he would never let me. Tried that a couple years ago and he went the fuck berserk. So now, he kind of fends off all his friends who want me. Just like an older brother should, I imagine.

  “So, what do you do for a living?” It’s probably a question I shouldn’t have asked, seeing how this is the first time I'm talking to him, but I’m twenty-two, and I don’t have time to get involved with wannabe thugs. I want a man with a good, secure job and one who can and will provide me with the security and love I need. And if he can’t do that then he’s wasting his time—and mine. Don’t get me wrong, I can and do provide for myself, but I deserve a good man. I have my shit together.

  Alieas Zonnai Stiles emits an aurora that shouts high maintenance. If I look unattainable to a guy at first glance, then it’s probably because I am. I’m a recent graduate of Howard University, have been working for my parents as a real estate agent for the past year, and I am basically the shit. Plus, all of my friends are getting married; I wanna get fuckin married too.

  “Construction and contracting.”

  Good money, I think but don't dare say. Instead, I let out an amazed, “That’s dangerous.”

  He takes hold of both of my hands and for the second time, I get lost in his golden-eyed stare. “A lot of things can be,” he seductively replies.

  This cannot be real. It’s almost like something out of one of my sappy-ass romance novels and so far from the approach I’m used to. The feel of his hands on mine is driving me crazy. I find myself wondering how they would feel against the more intimate parts of my body.

  A girl’s mind is allowed to wonder.

  Shit, I haven’t had IT in a minute.

  “I’ma let you go ‘cause I have to get back with my man over there,” he tells me, looking down the street.

  “Wouldn’t want him to leave you,” I half-heartedly reply, a little disappointed. “Whenever you want to talk, don’t forget that you have my number,” I tell him sweetly. “So, don’t forget to use it,” I add on.

  “You can bet that I'll call you. It was really nice meeting you, Alieas.”

  Of course, I know that he’ll call because they all do, call that is. I'm convinced it’s a combination of my looks and my smart mouth that catches their attention in a way they just have to “We’ll see.” And then he turns away from me and starts walking toward towards his friend. I watch and wonder why I'm acting like a dumbass over an initial conversation. It isn't like it was special or anything. But it was a refreshing break from the oldest line ever: “Hey, sis, you are looking too good, and I was wondering if I could be your man.” Please. I don't even respond to dickheads like that.

  Carter’s ass is fine.

  While stepping inside of my best friends’ hair salon Unique Stiles, I notice that he’s coming back toward me. I stand in the doorway, waiting from him.

  “Wait; I just thought about it,” he announces, once we are face-to-face. “You didn’t ask if I had a girl,” Carter adds with a grin.

  “I assumed since you approached me that you didn’t have one. But if you do, it can't matter that much if you trying to get with me.” I can tell that he’s digging me. He can’t take his eyes off mine.

  “I think I’ma really like you.”

  “Oh, you will,” I promise. “I do prefer to know if you have somebody, though,” I add because I‘m trying to secure a man of my own, and I don’t share.

  “Nawl, I’m single.”

  Considering how fine he is, I have to ask again, “You sure?”

  “Yeah, why?” Carter asks.

  Being completely honest, I reply, “'Cause you fine,” with a smile. “And where there’s a Mr. Fine, there’s always a Mrs. Fine.”

  He chuckles and murmurs, “Thank you. But there’s no Mrs. Fine. Dudes probably tell you the same thing all the time.”

  They do. “I wouldn't mind hearing it from you, though.” I love having my ego fed.

  “You look good,” he compliments, appraising me from head to toe. He licks them sexy-ass lips before he adds, “Damn, for a big girl, you carry yourself really nice and you pretty as hell.”

  The smile drops from my face and red flags go up. I hate that bullshit. And yes, some niggas are dumb enough to say it. Damn is all I can think as I mentally cross his ass off my list of potentials.

  I just don’t get it. Because I'm big, I'm supposed to be sloppy, ugly, and tore the fuck up? It burns me up. Flames and fury.

  I've seen more skinny girls who look like mud ducks than big girls being tore up, but I guess it's okay to be ugly as long as you have a size zero waist.

  Irritated, I look right through him and say, “I thought you didn't want your friend to leave.”

  “I just had to tell you that I dig your whole package,” he tells me as if saying that is a huge compliment.

  Considering the fact that I'm angry as hell, I still manage a dismissive “Thanks.”

  Carter tells me goodbye and starts walking off again.

  “Bye,” I murmur with a roll of my eyes. A man that damn good-looking would know how to fuck things up with just one word.

  Yeah, I’m a big girl and I don't deny it, but damn, do I have to be reminded on a daily basis? One day, I just want to hear a cute guy say, “You cute, ma,” even if he's not tryna holla. For once, I want these dudes to forget the “for a big girl” shit.

  I’m brown-skinned like those Sugar Baby caramel drops. And at five feet nine inches tall and two hundred thirty-four pounds, I'm a knockout if I do say so myself. My face is the classic heart shape; my brown eyes are symmetrical ovals separated by my small nose; my lips are full in the way only black women are blessed without having them enhanced with chemical fillers. My body is adorned with feminine curves. My thighs are shapely and thick; my booty is fat and all-natural, and I have a sculpted waist and average size breasts. I’m well-toned and not flabby. I work out every day to train my body and keep my ego in shape. But still, in the eyes of others, I’m just a big girl. Fuck that. I’m a woman and I look good, no matter what the scale says.

  Sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.

  Despite his unintentional offense, I still want him but I also know that I'm never going to call him. I’m easily turned off when a guy refers to my being clean and good looking as if he's surprised because I'm not supposed to be. He must be some kind of exception, though, ‘cause by the time I get inside the shop I feel a vague sense of disappointment and loss.

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that eve
ryone in the shop had been eyeing Carter and me while we were outside talking. I get the usual stares from the skinny girls who can't believe that I can pull a nigga like him. The regulars know the deal. Smart people recognize competition when they see it. And those who don't are in for a rude awakening. Most of them see me often enough and know that I'm just as worthy as most of them.

  My two best friends, LyNesha and Tiffany, are business partners and run a hair salon. They both have thirty percent interest in Unique Stiles while my brother, Gray and I share the other forty. As a friend, silent partner, and non-hair stylist, I stay out of the day-to-day operations of the shop and only worry about the bottom line: how much I have to contribute and how often and when I’m getting my cut.

  Tiffany comes out of the back office with a huge grin that would put models to shame. Tiff has a slim build and is what my mom likes to refer to as “tall and lanky” like a supermodel. Since getting married, she’d put some healthy weight on filling out more in the hips and booty. Her milk chocolate skin is always glowing. She swears it’s because of her daily skin care regiment which she has yet to share but it’s been like that since we were kids so, I’m always saying its natural and in her DNA to be friggin’ flawless. Her mom is a carbon copy of Naomi Campbell, and she kind of favors her. So, go figure; her genes are impeccable and she knows how to accessorize the shit out of anything and is hands down one of the best stylists in the city.

  “So?” Tiff starts, after waving her left hand that displays her three-carat diamond engagement ring and wedding band. She’s so incredibly happy with her high school sweetheart. It makes me sick with envy. Just enough to make me wish that I have what she and Tim have when my time comes. Their relationship is just beautiful.

  “Yeah, what happened?” Nesha chimes in. She, on the other hand, is not living the beautiful family life, although she has a beautiful four-year-old son Gray, who just happens to be my nephew.

  They both want to know what’s going on between my ex-boyfriend, Tony and me. “Some guy trying to talk to me,” I respond jokingly, trying to divert the subject.