A House Is Not a Home by James Earl Hardy Page A

sexier with gray hair.”
    â€œNot as sexy as you.”
    Mitchell blushed.
    Montee shook his head. “ Damn . . . it is just so good to see you.”
    They gazed some more.
    â€œWell,” Mitchell began, glancing at the brothers Montee had been conversing with before he interrupted them, “I don’t want to keep you.”
    â€œOh, no, don’t go.” He squeezed him a little tighter and drew him a little closer. “I was about to blow this joint in a minute. Have you eaten?”
    â€œI have.”
    â€œWell, how about watching me eat? I know how much you enjoy to.”
    He has a jood memory . . .
    â€œThis’ll give us a chance to catch up on the last eight years.”
    Actually it’s been eight years, three months, and five days—but who’s counting . . . ?
    â€œSure, why not,” Mitchell agreed.
    â€œGreat. I’ll just wrap this up and meet you at your table in five minutes.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Montee wouldn’t let him go.
    â€œUh, the only way you’re going to meet me over at my table is if I am over there, too.” Mitchell glanced down.
    â€œOh.” Montee reluctantly released him. “Sorry. See you in a bit.”
    Mitchell returned to the table and faced the third degree from both B.D. and Gene.
    â€œSee, you go to the restroom and end up in the arms of some man,” Gene chastised.
    â€œOh, but it’s not just some man, dearest—it’s Montee ,” B.D. emphasized.
    â€œHe looks jood ,” remarked Babyface, leering at Montee (or, rather, at his ass).
    â€œUh-huh. And we know you are not talking about the cheeks on his face ,” quipped B.D.
    â€œHa, you know I ain’t. That ass defies logic.”
    â€œOh?” B.D. snapped.
    â€œYeah.” Babyface pulled him closer, sliding his hands down to his rump. “But yours defies the laws of nature, physics, and gravity.”
    â€œOh, my Shnookums . . .” B.D. cooed, wrapping his arms around his neck. They tongue-danced.
    â€œYeesh,” Gene shrieked, disgusted by the smooching. “Why don’t you two take that shit home.”
    â€œThat sounds like a very jood idea,” agreed B.D., rubbing his man’s nose with his own. “The youngun will be gone until Sunday night and I intend to take full advantage of that. Like Mz Ann Nesby, ‘This weekend, I’ll be makin’ love to my man’.”
    â€œYou know it,” Babyface affirmed, snacking on his neck.
    Gene cringed. His eyes then fell on Mitchell. “And it looks like someone else will be going buck wild this weekend—or, at least for one night.”
    â€œAre you still touring with Me’shell?” Mitchell asked Montee as they turned the corner at Greenwich Avenue and walked down Seventh Avenue.
    â€œYeah. I’m opening for her tomorrow night at B.B. King’s spot at eight. Why don’t you come and check us out? I can getcha a front-row-center seat like before.”
    â€œJust a seat. What if I wanted to bring someone?”
    Montee stopped. “Now, you know I ain’t inviting you and some other brother to come hear me sing to you .”
    Mitchell giggled. “I’d love to, but I’ll be chaperoning a party.”
    â€œOh? Is Gene havin’ another one of his famous bashes?”
    â€œNo. It’s my godson. He just turned fifteen.”
    â€œMph. You gonna have your hands full.”
    â€œAnd you’ve certainly had your hands full, mister big-time producer. I love the songs you did with Carl, Joe, Donell, and Kelly. And I hear you’re working with Alicia, Jagged Edge, Usher, and Jilly from Philly.”
    â€œUh, yeah. Hmm . . .” Montee rubbed his chin with his right thumb. “You still stalkin’ me, huh?”
    They grinned.
    â€œSo, how you livin’ these days? You the editor-in-chief of your own magazine yet?”
    He remembered.