Free Liar's Game by Eric Jerome Dickey

lethargic, I took advantage of the mood. I lit candles, turned on the music, turned on the shower, closed the door so the hot water could steam up the room, made it my own private sauna. The moment I stepped in, the phone rang.
    Vince or Gerri, had to be one of them.
    I held my breasts, hurried, dove across my bed and grabbed the cordless phone before the call rolled over to my service.
    Happiness reeked in my voice. “Good afternoon.”
    “You left me hanging, Dee Dee.”
    “Claudio?”
    My lungs filled with tears. That husky Brooklyn voice filled my apartment, thickened the air.
    “Yeah, it’s Claudio.”
    His voice was crisp. I could see him, every detail of his face, even the little scar behind his right ear. I was butt naked and he was in the room, all around me. I pulled the comforter down over my body and said, “How did you . . .”
    “Get your number?”
    “Yeah.”
    He chuckled.
    I said, “Renee?”
    “You know it.”
    My eyes went to my black lacquer dresser, IKEA-STYLE decoration that came with this condo. A picture that me and Vince had taken down at Del Amo mall was set high on top. That new love gave me strength.
    “What do you want, Claudio?”
    “I’m gonna be in L.A. soon.”
    “L.A.? Los Angeles or Lower Alabama?”
    “From what people tell me, most of the nigs out there are from lower Alabama. I hear clubs close before two in the morning out there.”
    “Look, Claudio, I’m busy and—”
    “Your area code is 310 and I’m gonna be kicking it in the 310, so I guess that’s not too far from you, right?”
    “What difference would it make if it was?”
    He paused long enough for me to hear HOT 97 on his radio.
    “You left me hanging, Dee Dee. Thought we were gonna try again.”
    “Changed my heart.”
    “Well, can I change it back?”
    I wanted to sound mean, but my voice was soft. “Don’t do this, Claudio.”
    “You had me getting my funds right, bags were at the door, had the tickets on Tower Air in my pocket, then you changed your number. That was cold-blooded.”
    “I’m hanging up, Claudio.”
    “You really hate me, don’t you?”
    “I don’t do hate. Can’t heal when you hate.”
    “Dee Dee, I’m gonna be honest. This ain’t easy for me. Being without you night and day has been rough. Look, I thought that after a while you’d call me up. I didn’t sweat you because you know the old saying, if you love something set it free. Let’s hook up when I land in L.A.”
    He started telling me about his company, TNT.
    I asked, “Why you name it TNT?”
    “ ’Cause I’m blowing up.”
    “Corny.”
    Everything he told me, all of those were our ideas, our plans when promoting was my hustle. Working temp jobs in the day, doing everything from bill collecting to phone solicitation, then hustling at night.
    “I saw Steve Harvey last week,” he said, talking in a soft tone. “Brother is completely off the hook. We vibed; I hit ’em with a larger plan for hitting up sponsors and doing a major comedy tour starting on the West Coast, and his boys gave me the hookup out your way.”
    I said, “Thanks for the reach out and touch, but I gotta go.”
    “Wait, wait.”
    “Don’t hold me host—”
    “Hold on, just give me a sec. I was at Nell’s last night. Saw our old crew. Everybody asked about you. Made me miss you more than I can stand. What I’m saying is, I’m doing all of this, I’m motivated and on the right track because of you. Everything is jumping off, I have my own Web page—”
    “Ten-year-olds have Web pages. Hell, I have a Web page.”
    “Hold up, gimme a minute.”
    I listened and paced, chewed my thumbnail. I stopped moving and leaned against the wall, halted in front of my black-and-whites of Harlem: Eddie Rochester at the Theresa Hotel, a snow-covered Central Park at nighttime, a World War II food-ration line outside of GE Votings Employment Agency.
    I went back to pacing and said, “Sounds like you’re back on your feet. You still living on Park