Liar's Game Read Free Page B

up and down, let her eyes dance to a rhythm of envy and delight, then made a sexy, humming sound.
    I asked, “What was that all about?”
    “What?”
    I mimicked her scandal-lust humming.
    She laughed. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
    While me and Dana tainted our souls with a strong and smooth French Connections, I played the role and hid from my memories, told Dana I was a black man working hard every day, as single as a dollar bill, no kids, no ex-wives, no problems. With every word I dug my hole deeper. Dana shifted closer, gave me serious eyes, said she had the same résumé.
    Dangerous Lyrics took the stage. A group of five girls. Most of them barely looked legal. All dressed in tight-tight black pants made of that trendy, stretchy-tight material that let you know where a woman’s panty lines are. Colorful halter tops—satin lying across their majestic breasts—made them look like rainbows above the waist. All of them with nicknames like Big Leggs, Goldie, Butter Pecan, Pooh Bear, Chocolate Starr.
    Butter Pecan stepped up like she was the leader of the crew. From her looks, her nickname was based on her complexion. The D.J. kicked on a preprogrammed tape. People stepped back and the group found some space on the tiny wooden dance floor, danced with the same ferocious energy M.C. Hammer did when he had a job, sounded like TLC with a NWA edge and did an edgy song of possessiveness of a lover. They set the room on fire with a catchy melody that praised sex, retribution, violence, pretty much everything wrapped in one tune.
    Gerri was on wearing out the carpet, hands up high, pumping it up and grooving. At thirty-six she danced better, had more choreography than most of the girls in the rap group.
    Dana smiled, bebopped where she stood, shoulders bouncing to the beat.
    I spoke up over the music, asked her, “Wanna dance?”
    “About time. I was wondering when you were gonna ask me.”
    She took my hand, anxiously led me through the heat. We had to settle for the carpet; the floor was only big enough for about ten people. It was awkward because the carpet was worn, held stains that made the fabric sticky to my shoes.
    That stylish native New Yorker had wicked rhythm. She adapted to the carpet, turned up the volume on her rhythm, moved so good that other men tried to sneak a peek and women tried to mock her style.
    After Dangerous Lyrics finished two records, the room applauded loud enough for the girls to O.D. on their egos, then the group went to another room. Gerri and Jefferson were between the fireplace and the exit sign in the back, slow dancing, laughing, talking nonstop, her southern grin gazing up at that roan-colored statue with dreamy eyes. Dana turned down my offer to slow dance, didn’t let me get that close. The music changed.
    Then Gerri vanished with the spring to her summer.
    Dana said, “Gotta go potty.”
    “I’ll be right here.”
    I headed for the narrow hallway between the front of the club and the back, where the loud music from the front collided with the loud music in the back, canceling each other out. The girls from the group came out of the bathroom. Somebody sounded upset, like she was holding back tears with every pissed-off word: “I don’t believe that fucker brought us down here, then was all over that old-ass bitch, dumped me like I ain’t shit.”
    “Why you tripping, Butter? He ain’t your man. He set your ass straight down in Atlanta. Stop playing up on him and quit tripping.”
    “I ain’t trippin’. He the one trippin’.”
    “Well, you need to think about the group. Like he told you, this is business. That other stuff you running off at the mouth about ain’t—”
    They felt me listening. Ten eyes snapped my way at the same time. Butter stepped out, gave me a cold what-the-fuck-you-looking-at expression before she stormed away. Her girls followed their leader.
    As soon as Dana came out of the bathroom, she said she was ready to raise up out of here, so I