was ripe. Her perfectly proportioned breasts filled that halter top nicely. Damn it but those long, shapely legs deserved to be wrapped around somebody, preferably him. He wondered how come he hadn’t run into her before. He would have remembered. When he smiled at her, she did not smile back.
It dawned on him it had to be the new tenant. He’d seen the moving truck pull up and unload a pitiful few pieces of furniture; mostly antiques though, so at least she had good taste. Sheer nosiness had forced him to inquire of the moving men where they were taking them. They’d told him they belonged to the occupant of 5C.
“Is there something you wanted?” Tre asked, staring at the woman. She’d folded her arms across those luscious breasts and now they threatened to spill from the low-cut halter.
“Your music is driving me crazy. I can hardly think. Much less work.”
“Who am I turning my music down for?” Tre asked, his glance sliding over her body again.
She seemed conscious of his assessment but not at all self-conscious. Yet she backed off, putting space between them. “I live in 5C,” she said, pointing up the hallway. “Next door. Show a little consideration. I’m surprised 5A and D haven’t called security.”
Tre narrowed his eyes, giving her the look that usually made women’s legs buckle. He’d been told often enough he had bedroom eyes. He swept his gaze over the tempting piece of flesh standing in front of him, letting his eyes linger for a second too long on the woman’s cleavage, then focusing on those long legs again. And what legs. He’d always been a leg man.
“No one’s ever complained about my music before, baby,” he drawled. “I’ve lived here two years. You’ve been here how long?” One eyebrow arched upward. He was at his most intimidating.
“About six weeks,” his pissed-off neighbor supplied.
“Long enough to listen to noisy altercations in the hallway and develop headaches from that obnoxious stereo of yours. I work at home a couple days a week.”
Tre draped an arm across the doorsill. “Who am I supposed to be shutting down my boom box for? You got a name?” On purpose he’d slipped into the dialect of the street.
5C actually had the grace to look embarrassed. She thrust a toned arm forward. She must work out with weights, another point in her favor. Toned arms with just a trace of muscle were sexy.
“Jen St. George. And you are?”
“Jen?”
Tre let the name wrap around his tongue. The last name was definitely foreign. She might be from the islands; Haiti quite possibly. He’d always had a thang for island girls. They were feisty and knew exactly who they were. She waited for him to tell her his name.
“Trestin,” Tre said, skipping his last name as he often did. Once women found out he was WARP’s music director, and popular radio personality, D’Dawg, they began acting like fools. The name was rightfully earned from his “poon hound” days.
“Well, Trestin,” Jen said, “can we come to an agreement? Can you at least lower your tunes so I can get back to work?”
The door of 5A located directly across from Tre pushed open. Ida Rosenstein stuck a head decorated with pink curlers covered by a net through the opening. She called in the loud croaky voice of a smoker, “You could at least invite this one in.” Looking from one to the other, she sniffed. “How come your girlfriends never wear clothes?”
“I am not one of his girlfriends,” Jen snapped. “Like you, I’m his next-door neighbor.”
“What was that?” Ida shouted, lighting a cigarette and blowing a perfect smoke ring.
Jen pinched her nose. “Must you?”
Tre’s palm cupped Jen’s elbow. He propelled her in the direction of the smokestack. “This is Jen St. George,” he said. “Jen just moved in.”
“John, did you say? Why does she have a man’s name?”
“My name’s Jen,” Jen carefully repeated. “Doesn’t his music bother you? How come you’re not complaining?”
“I’m too old to complain. It doesn’t do any good. I just take action.”
Tre tried to discreetly whisper to Jen that Ida was severely hard of hearing.
“His music,” Jen shouted. “Doesn’t it bother you? It’s too loud.”
“I like his music,” Ida boomed back. Good for her. “It makes me feel alive.” She began mimicking urban dance movements she must have seen on TV.
Jen was stunned.
Tre smiled brightly at Ida. She was taking up for him. He’d always liked the old lady and gave her credit for being so open-minded at her age. She’d told him she refused to move when the building was remodeled and the first influx of black upper-middle-class tenants moved in. According to Ida, she was the first resident to move in after the building was constructed. She’d be there until it was torn down or they took her out in a box.
A head poked out from 5D. “Can you keep it down?”
Camille Lewis was the last person Tre wanted involved in his business. Her mouth ran like there was no tomorrow. She thrived on gossip or made it up. Tre would have to convince Winston, her husband, to help put a lid on Camille’s mouth. That would cost him a handful of new CDs.
“This is Jen St. George, our new neighbor,” Tre said smoothly, forcing a smile. “Camille Lewis.”
“We already met.” Camille turned her attention back to her cell phone.
She had a heavy West Indian accent that came and went depending on whether she was talking to a relative or not. She waggled the cell phone at him. “I’m trying to talk to my girlfriend. Can you at least go inside?”
He was being ganged up on. Camille Lewis normally didn’t care about how loud he played his music; just that he made sure some of the disks came her way. She’d mastered the art of multitasking and knew everything there was to know about everyone in the building. They usually got along fine and Tre had learned to ignore her monitoring of his comings and goings.
“Fine. We’ll take our discussion inside,” Tre agreed. He held his apartment door open hoping Jen would come in. “Night, y’all.”
Camille grunted at him and slammed shut her door. Ida stayed put.
“Tomorrow this entire building’s going to hear about the threesome we had in the hallway.” Ida cackled loudly and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray she held. Examining Jen through rheumy eyes, she continued. “You’re a step up from his usual. His taste is improving.”
“I am not his usual. I am nothing to him,” Jen answered before stomping off.
Tre said good-night to Ida Rosenstein and slipped inside his apartment.
Jen St. George wasn’t going to be easy. He’d have to plan a strategy, maybe take a bottle of wine over to her later in the week and turn up the heat.
With any luck, he’d
