Free Larger Than Lyfe by Cynthia Diane Thornton Page B

“pound” in that cool way that Black men do.
    They said their goodbyes in the parking lot and went their separate ways. Mars had no plans for the day and was headed back to his condo. Jason was headed to a lunch date with his beautiful, pregnant wife.
    Mars slid behind the wheel of his Mercedes and picked up the phone to check his voicemail messages at home. There were several, business-related calls, a message from the housekeeper about his dry cleaning, and a final message from Portia Foster.
    “Hi, sweetheart. I’m back in town. I’ve got a bottle of Perrier Jouët, some food from our favorite, little spot, a purse full of condoms, and I’m coming your way. I hope eight o’clock is okay. Bye.”
    Mars shook his head as he hung up and pulled out of the parking lot into the busy, Saturday afternoon traffic. He was growing increasingly annoyed by the presumptuous way that Portia conducted herself with him. She acted as if the two of them were involved in an exclusive relationship. It was high time that he removed any possibility of confusion about what the two of them really were to each other. He needed to establish some easy-to-comprehend parameters in regard to their dealings immediately.

    At 8:15 that evening, Mars’s doorbell rang. Portia Foster had arrived.
    “Hi, sweetie,” she said, planting a kiss on Mars’slips and breezinginto his apartment on a cloud of Christian LaCroix perfume.
    Portia Foster had a very strong resemblance to the model and actress, Kenya Moore. She was thirty-two years old with deep, flawless, mahogany skin, smoky, bedroom eyes, beautiful, jet black hair that usually cascaded down her back in huge curls and she currently wore in a short, funky, pixie-type cut, and legs that went on for days and days.
    She was six feet tall, yet possessed an affinity for four-inch heels. She’d been a runway model for Yves Saint Laurent and Emanuel Ungaro in Paris and Milan prior to establishing a successful interior design firm in Beverly Hills. Mars and Portia had been seeing each other off and on for nearly two years since meeting at a book signing for Tavis Smiley at the Beverly Center.
    “So, where’ve you been for the past couple weeks?” Mars asked.
    “I went to Ghana to pick up and purchase some art work from my contacts there.” Portia grinned. “It was beautiful. The people are beautiful. We have to go there together. What? Did you miss me?”
    “Yeah… somethin’ like that,” Mars said, smacking her on the butt.
    She set the food on the living room’s huge, abstract-shaped, cracked-glass table and went out to the kitchen to get plates and silverware and flutes for the champagne she’d brought. Mars turned on
SportsCenter
and steeled himself for the evening ahead.
    Portia returned to the living room, kicked off her Gucci heels, went over to the stereo, perused Mars’s carefully organized CD collection, and put on Miles Davis’s
Bitches Brew
. Mars looked at her back as if she was losing her mind.
    “Portia,” he said, “I’m watching the highlights of the game.”
    “Yeah, yeah, sweetie,” Portia said quickly, turning down the volume on the television set, “and those highlights will be on atleast three more times before the weekend is over. How can you possibly say no to Miles?”

    She turned up the stereo volume, lit some freesia incense, and poured Mars a glass of champagne. Then she hiked up her skirt, sat down Indian-style on the floor at the cocktail table, and commenced to roll a joint from the ounce of premium, Indonesian marijuana she pulled from her purse.
    “I brought you something back from my trip,” Portia said.
    “Oh, yeah? Where is it?” Mars asked, his attention never leaving the basketball highlights.
    “It’s a piece for your bedroom. You can pick it up from the gallery sometime next week or have the housekeeper or your secretary arrange to pick it up.”
    “Thanks,” Mars said absently.
    He gulped down his champagne, and then poured himself