Free Smooth Operator by Risqué Page B

giddy with some random motherfucker wasn’t cuttin’ it.
    “What’s the silence about?” Lyfe interjected into her thoughts.
    “It’s just …” Arri voice trailed off and her words became dead in her mouth before they could reach the air.
    Lyfe gently turned Arri’s face toward him and said, “True story, no game, and no politics. I’m enjoying being myself around you, and not having to hear about what we made last quarter. I promise you I haven’t laughed and shit like this in a minute. But if you feel funny, or awkward, or maybe you have a man peeking out the window, it’s cool and I’ll see you in the morning, no harm, no foul.”
    After a moment of deciding to toss caution to the wind, Arri said, “I hope you like to dance.”
    Sounds of live singing and steel-pan playing eased onto the street as Arri and Lyfe parked in front of Dextra, a small club on Flatbush Avenue, surrounded by twenty-four-hour West Indian restaurants and apartment buildings. Though Dextra sat in the heart of the hood, people from all walks of life loved the atmosphere and frequented the club like it was a tourist spot.
    Dextra was nothing fancy; it was a simple storefront with a hand-painted Trinidadian flag on the front door. A banana tree sat by the entrance and people poured shots of rum punch onto it for good luck. The walls were covered in electric-teal paint and decorated with only two pictures: one of a bowl of fruit and the other, a large map of Trinidad. The map provided the backdrop of Dextra’s makeshift stage, where the world-renowned Wild Head, a reggae and soca band, performed every night. Small card tables and folding chairs littered the room, and most people were either drinking, eating, or working the dance floor.
    “Let me know,” Arri said sarcastically, “if this is too much for you. If so we can leave and five-star dine at Mr. Chow’s.”
    Lyfe smiled, “Too much for me? Whatta gurl like you know ’bout dis?” He put on a fake and extremely unbelievable West Indian accent.
    Arri chuckled, and released an authentic Trinidadian accent.“But what de bumbeclot dis yankee boy call heself doin’?” She sucked her teeth long and hard. “Leave de Trini to me and you just be ye self.”
    “And who’s that?” he looked into her eyes.
    “A rude boy.”
    “You like rude boys?”
    “A little too much.” She relaxed her Trinidadian accent and returned to her natural flowing American one.
    Before Lyfe could comment the bartender asked what they were drinking. Lyfe looked at the bartender and said, “Give the lady—”
    “A Shandy,” Arri said.
    “And I’ll have a Guinness.”
    The bartender handed them their drinks and as Lyfe slid backward onto the bar stool, Arri eased between Lyfe’s legs and he placed his left arm around her waist. “Ah”—he smiled as the stroll lights hanging above their head illuminated the shape of her ass—“an Island girl. No wonder.”
    “No wonder what?” Arri said as Lyfe took a swig from his beer.
    “No wonder you’re so beautiful.”
    “Plenty of all-American girls are beautiful too.”
    “I never said they weren’t. And stop that,” he said seriously.
    “Stop what?”
    “Stop tossing back my compliments,” he said, as he completed his hold on her waist, placing his right arm on the other side of her hip.
    Arri became silent and Lyfe said, “And stop that too. Think tomorrow at the morning meeting, not tonight.”
    “You’re right.” Arri placed her Shandy on the counter and grabbed Lyfe by the hand. “Let’s dance.”
    Arri and Lyfe moved to the center of the dance floor and started to groove. They melted into each other as Arri fit her ass perfectly against Lyfe’s shaft as she wined, making it all too easyfor him to imagine her screaming while he tossed it up doggy-style.
    Lyfe moved to the West Indian beat, but he was no match for Arri’s movement—and he didn’t really want to be. He wanted to watch her throw her voluptuous hips with a