“The Things We Do,” Part One

 Guest Writer: Mark O. Estes 

     “I’m so drained, Evan,” Derrick mumbled to me through his meaty palms. “I’m so fucking drained with no semblance of an end in sight.”

     I sat across Derrick at a seemingly swanky restaurant (until they brought out the oxymoronic monstrosity of gummy, stale pasta) as he spilled his frustrations onto the table like a tall glass of the finest southern tea. His puppy dog expression, complete with a full luggage set under his eyes and the weariness of a two-term president, matched his woeful words perfectly. This pained me. I’m used to gazing hours on end into his brown eyes, and wishing like hell that I could stare into them on an ironclad intimate level. Preferably in one of our bedrooms.

     Instead, the person who sat across from me was a black void in human form. A man who has ran the marathon of life so roughly to only get towards the next level and have the finish line lunge out of his grasp. Again, I’m not used to this version of Derrick Kent. The Derrick Kent I know (of admittedly a short period of time) was more jovial, yet comically twisted, and all around inspiring. Exuberating a nice balance of sheer intelligence and criminally sexiness, Derrick was pretty much sex personified and left men and women weeping in his path, both sexes yearning for more of his intellectual prowess.

     “Man, what are you doing to combat your fatigue?” I asked, taking a sip of my rum and coke. “This is the worst time to let the doldrums of life interfere with your winning streak of achievements. I mean you killed it tonight during your acceptance speech. The crowd loved you. Will always love you, actually.”

     The crowd in question was the throngs of people who came to congratulate Derrick on being published by a major publishing house with a six-figure deal for his first novel through the company right out of the stables. The novel, “Timeless Paramour,” wasn’t Derrick’s first novel by far, but it was the one that managed to snatch the attention of a well-renowned editor and manager for Macmillan Books. His writing stood on the boundaries between classic thriller and modern satire, with a twinge of irony thrown in for good taste. His unique blend of those top genres garnered a lot of support over the years, even before I knew of his existence. His fan base continues to grow weekly, if not daily, and some of the people who were in the audience tonight had traveled as far as New York City, Florida, and even London to see Derrick in his moment before he became a national best selling author.

     Derrick shook his head wearily. “No, that’s not what I mean. There’s a lot on my mind and it’s sucking the life out of me. Plus, work isn’t exactly being a grand help either. I just need space and a break.”

     “But you have this promotional tour coming up…”

     “That could serve as the break that I need.”

     “A break from what? Derrick, you’re on top of the world now. There’s a six-figure writing contract for a book that’s going to eventually become and international bestseller and a movie within the next two years, you have a bulldog of a manager, a twenty-city tour across America to promote said book… Your future is bright, Dee, so… Excuse me for drawing blanks on why you are not doing the backhand bounce while drinking from a bottle of the finest champagne on the planet?”

     “It’s my job, man. It’s killing me. This tour will be heaven on a bus. No nagging ass calls about collections. No shity ass lunch breaks. No triple necked bosses monitoring what I’m doing and when I take a shit. For two whole months, it can just be me and my brain and a whole host of crazy mothafuckers waiting for their time to shine in the pages of my upcoming books.”

     I nod in agreement, despite not believing one word he was saying.

     “You don’t believe a word that I’m saying, do you?” Derrick always managed to read me like a skilled, literary professor.

     “No, I don’t,” I replied, not blinking an eye. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that there is some heavier mojo at work besides daily tiffs with the corporate establishment. But I’m not going to force whatever it is that’s ailing you until you give me the green light to do so. I’m sure this isn’t the night that you want to go into detail over something dark. In fact, it’s neither the night nor the time for any detractions from your happiness and the good luck bestowed upon you. So let’s just focus on the positives now. The dreg of “the work force” can be dealt with on another day. Preferably in a later novel, perhaps?”

     Derrick chuckled after my lame speech. He knew it came from the heart. I could tell. It was the first time he had smiled genuinely since we sat down to talk in the restaurant. Knowing that I had managed to conjure that heart-stopping smile, which only he could pull off with an up tuck at the corner of his lips, sent my soul on a satisfying victory lap throughout every inch of my body.

     “You’re so good to me,” Derrick said, his eyes piercing into mine. “Do you know I’ve always wanted to tell you that? You have the sheer knack for knowing how to talk a man off a proverbial ledge. So many nights I doubted myself in every avenue possible and you have always been there to slay the Procrastinator, the Doubter, and any other Writing Demons that prowl my mind. I truly appreciate you, Evan. And everything that you do.”

     On the surface I only blushed a little and smiled graciously in return. But on the inside… My mind had the biggest orgasm it had ever experienced since learning the existence of the excess check while in college. It took strong will power to not lean over the table; casually, but tenderly, grab Derrick’s face; and gently kiss those pink luscious lips of his. Instead, I silently cursed every force in nature keeping us from becoming one big happy gay existence. Or rather why he never saw me in the same light as I saw him…

     “Thanks, Derrick,” I managed to sputter out. “That means a lot. Really.”

     Derrick nodded. “And I want you to know that the green light is yours.”

     “The green light to do what?” asked a syrupy voice that sliced clean through my calm demeanor and sliver of happiness.

     Severing our connection to acknowledge the happy-go-lucky intruder into our conversation, Derrick smiled as a stacked female doused in white Chanel-everything (possibly panties as well) with long black hair teased to the salon gods stepped into our sights. “Hey, babe,” Derrick greeted, standing to kiss the woman lovingly. I nearly barfed all over the table.

     Meet Asia Wainright. AKA Derrick’s fiancée. AKA one of those forces I silently cursed only moments earlier.

     “I thought you were sleep,” Derrick cooed to Asia. “I didn’t want to wake you up, so I called up Evan and we decided to grab a bite to eat.”

     “I was asleep, but the guests in the room next to us decided to rehash an argument from ten years ago. I know the date because they continued to refer to it ad nauseam to the point that I woke up, tried to figure out what exactly what I was doing on May 23rd, 2005, and eventually gave up. I called your phone. Did you not get my messages?”

     Derrick patted his pants for his phone and pulled it out to check it. “Must have forgotten to take it off silence. Yep, I see two missed calls and one voicemail. I’m sorry, babe.” He kissed her again for emphasis on his regretful lapse of judgment on not checking his phone. I continue to sit and look like a doofus while playing with the rubbery pasta in front of me.

     “It’s fine, Derrick. I figured you were down here eating, anyway. If you weren’t, then I would have had an APB put out immediately. No officer in Memphis was going to rest tonight until you were safe in bed with me.” She paused and turned to me as like I was a bothersome afterthought. “Oh, hey, Evan.”

     “Hello,” I replied.

     “So, what was this green light you were talking about?” Asia asked Derrick. “Hopefully it’s green light to something special you’re cooking up for me…”

     Not missing a beat, Derrick took the chance and followed through with his prepared lie. “Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. You’ll just have to find out. In fact, I was actually just bouncing ideas off of Evan over some bad pasta and drinks.”

     “Oh, Derrick, you didn’t have to bother Evan for that,” she chuckled. “I’m sure he has something to do other than sit here and listen to you babble all night like a human springboard.”

     Um, wrong. I was enjoying myself quite immensely being Derrick’s “human springboard.”

     Hell, in fact, if I could I would morph into an actual cork board for Derrick to place his ideas on, because it would have been the only sort of way for his fingers to brush against my body. But I remained calm and collected as Asia continued to dismiss my existence and purr into Derrick’s ear like an alley cat in heat.

     “Well, he didn’t seem to mind. Did you, Evan?”

     I was about to concur when Asia pulled Derrick a bit closer to her, reached into his pocket and pulled out a few twenty-dollar bills and laid them on the table.

     “Well, whether if he didn’t mind or not, I’m releasing him to go live his life on this beautiful Friday night while it’s still young. Maybe you can snag you a boyfriend, Evan?” 

     “He already has one, Asia,” Derrick reminded her. “Remember you met him? His name is Juan?”

     Asia blinked before casually placing her hand on her forehead in a fake ass “Duh!” expression. “Right! I totally forgot about him since I never see him with you, Evan. Is he really busy or something?”

     Bitch.

     “Actually, he’s not into big crowds,” I stated as calmly as my reserve would let me. But even then my reserve was way past ‘empty.’ The gall of this bitch…

     Sensing the tension forming, Derrick pulled out another twenty-dollar bill and placed it on the table. “Well, I guess we could mosey on upstairs. I have to start work on the next chapter of Massive Heat anyway.”

     “Can’t wait to read it,” I chimed in, thankful for the interference.

     “Not before I finish the book in its entirety,” Asia interjected as she sauntered off, not even offering a half-assed wave.

     Derrick stood watching her for a moment before he broke his gaze long enough to look at me and say, “Sorry about that, Evan. The green light still stands. I’ll call you.”

     Then he stalked off to catch up with Asia.

     I continued to sit at the table and sip on my Long Island Iced Tea, replaying what just transpired over in my head a couple of times. It was apparent that Asia knew how I felt about Derrick. That was as abundantly crystal clear as the numerous work she’s had done to her face.

     She sniffed that fact out ages ago, like a true bitch guarding her territory would. That’s not what was playing through my head though. At least not the full culprit. I was pondering about Derrick’s gaze before he offered an apology for Asia’s behavior. He was pissed. And I don’t mean ‘pissed’ in an “I can’t believe you embarrassed me” pissed, but in a “Bitch, I can’t fucking stand you” pissed.

     Trouble in paradise? Possibly. Despite her confidence in putting together a fashionable outfit to go along with her sadistic (and unnecessary) penchant for reading people for filth, Asia seemed to also carry the characteristic of those people on Instagram who constantly post pics and quotes showcasing their sickeningly sweet love affair and reminding the unfortunate bystanders that they’re simply pressed to not have a “bae” in their lives. But in reality, those very people are fighting tooth and nail to retain said ‘blissful relationship,’ because it’s simply ‘pathetic’ in this day and age to not have someone cuffed to your side at all times.

     Although, I’m sure Asia could effortlessly pull someone else if she and Derrick were to take a one-way trip to Splitsville without blinking any of her carefully applied eyelashes.  I would also wager that her Venus flytrap type of personality has a reputation that transcends her sexual partners. Her caramel piece of ass may be considered the Louis Vuitton of Asses in the Mid-South, but the price to even sample her snatch had to be too rich for any sane man’s blood. Which brings me to the puzzling query of exactly what the hell did Derrick see in that woman? Class? Beauty? Great head? Whatever magic Asia possessed between her legs, it obviously wasn’t hitting enough home runs to clear the funk that was haunting Derrick as of late. So what gives?

     One thing was for certain: twice tonight I’d seen two new facets of Derrick Kent that I never knew existed, and they both intrigued me to no end. As if he wasn’t already intriguing enough…

     I had downed my last glass of Long Island Iced Tea (fourth in all) and was prepping my mind for the ride home when my cell phone began singing the chorus to Kid Cudi’s “Heart of a Lion” — Derrick’s assigned ring tone.

     “Hello?” I answered, wondering how he’d manage to wrestle Asia off his neck.

     “Hey, Evan. Are you still up for that green light?”

     Slowly, a goofy ass grin spread across my face…

     Of course I was.

To Be Continued….

Mark O. Estes is a writer, editor, columnist and librarian, who earned his Bachelor of Arts (B.A.) degree from the University of Tennessee at Knoxville.  Mr. Estes is a writer and editor for both The Big Boy Project and The Male Media Mind, dynamic and cutting edge infotainment sites that are specifically designed for larger men—and those who have an affinity for them.  Also, Mark is penning his debut novel.  You may reach Mark at buildingmysteries.wordpress.com; Twitter, @theanticritic; Instagram, markoestes.