Smooth Operator Read Free Page A

Payton pointed to the clock, which read eleven twenty-five. “Besides, this is not a meeting. It’s New Year’s Eve!”
    Lyfe clinched his jaw. “You better watch—”
    “No, you better watch
your
fucking post.”
    “And where is that?”
    “Behind mine.” She squinted her eyes. “I make the decisions around here, not you. Now, you have a choice: you shut the fuck up, stop acting like a li’l bitch, or you go back to Crenshaw and rep for a set. Now, like I said, it’s New Year’s Eve.”
    Instantly, Lyfe’s chiseled jaw tightened and a road map of bulging veins ran along the sides of his neck. At that moment Lyfe knew he’d been too understanding, accepting, and too easily changed into the junkie she wanted him to be—addicted to rearing his shoulders back, perfecting his poise, and pretending to be the happiest man in the world, all while he felt the opposite. A counterfeit reality where Payton’s prominence, stamina, and beauty all went in for the kill; and now the Lyfe he knew, the man the streets raised, who preached to his friends about what he would and wouldn’t accept from anybody—especially awoman—no matter what, that Lyfe had died and been buried in this manhood-stripping bullshit.
    “Let me put this to you real quick,” he said evenly. “Whatever motherfucker you’re used to dealing with and speaking to like that, you need to go and find him, ’cause I ain’t that niggah. Now, unless you lookin’ for me to completely spazz on your ass and act like the fuckin’ goon that I can be, you’ll step the fuck back.” He paused and looked her over. “Now, don’t push your goddamn luck. And I meant exactly what I said, in the dialect and the incorrect grammar that I said the motherfucker in, so don’t try and restructure my sentences.” He walked toward the bartender, leaving her standing solo on the dance floor.
    “Let me get a Hennessy and Coke,” Lyfe said, unbuttoning his black tuxedo jacket and loosening his bow tie. He leaned against the glass bar and the blue light that shone beneath the countertop reflected streaks of indigo on the side of his chocolate face.
    “Lyfe,” Quinton called out to him as he walked over and gave him a brotherly hug and handshake. “Wassup?”
    Lyfe stroked his beard, a nervous habit he had when he was upset. He looked at Quinton and for a passing moment Lyfe thought it would be in bad taste if he told Quinton what had really pissed him off. After all, Quinton was their Chief Investment Officer, the one who—after Lyfe met with the clients and secured their business—maintained their corporate (and individual) wealth by making the hard sales, investing the clients’ money into the most profitable stocks, and managing their portfolios.
    But Quinton had also become one of Lyfe’s closest friends. He accepted him without question when Lyfe became a part of the company. Quinton never snickered behind his back, never passed judgment, and he always seemed to understand that although Lyfe’s higher education came from the streets, Lyfe wasintelligent and capable of the career that everyone else had questioned.
    Lyfe arched his eyebrows and a thousand creases ran across his forehead. “I’m mad as hell.”
    “Why?” Quinton sipped his Ketel One martini, lifting his eyes over his drink. “We need to go run up on somebody or somethin’?”
    “Nah.” Lyfe shook his head. “No shit like that.”
    “So, what’s the problem?”
    Lyfe squinted and his lips melted into a frown. “Did you know I was going to the New York office for a month?”
    “Nah.” Quinton sipped again. “Why are you going to the New York office?”
    “To bring in new clients, secure bigger deals, and to assure our existing clients that although the Dow and the NASDAQ may be south, there is no need to worry because, as the board says, we are wealth builders.” Lyfe shook his head. “I don’t believe I just said that shit.”
    “And verbatim too.” Quinton laughed. “That