Sex on Flamingo Beach by Marcia King-Gamble

independent. More importantly they spoke their minds. No such thing as communication issues with them.
    Emilie with her pale skin and long, curly red hair wasn’t typically his style. Although she was definitely a go-getter and sharp as they came. She didn’t mince words, either. What he really liked about her was that she made it known up front exactly who she was and where she stood. The fact that she did not play games made him want her more. He was bound and determined to have her and not just in a sexual way. They’d already straddled that hurdle and damn they’d been good together. With time they’d get even better.
    What he needed to do was get those two brothas on the phone and talk them into coming to Flamingo Beach. Emilie would then be suitably grateful and he would gain a point or two. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know Twenty Cents, whose real name was Willy Corbitt, and Ice Cube, otherwise known as Dwayne Ramos. They’d grown up in the hood together. They’d been brothers in every sense of the word. Growing up, he’d kicked butt for them and in turn had his own kicked. And even though the men were now mega rap artists, they were still good friends and hung out when time and geography permitted.
    Rowan was forced to leave a message with Twenty Cents’s publicist after he’d called the rapper’s private line and got voice mail. He’d left a message on the recorder as instructed but wanted to hedge his bets. He had better luck with Dwayne. After a rigorous grilling by a suspicious-sounding female, he was put through to Ice Cube.
    â€œHey, Dwayne,” Rowan greeted. “It’s been a while, man. You’ve been on the concert circuit, I hear.”
    â€œHey, R.J., I was beginning to think you were dissing me.”
    â€œOh, come on, give it a rest. I’ve been in Florida for the last couple of months juggling more projects than I have hands, trying to make some money.”
    â€œGimme a break. More like living the life, enjoying the sun, fun, women and beer.”
    â€œNot me. I’m too busy working.”
    The men began a friendly ribbing and then Rowan decided it was time to get down to business.
    â€œI need a favor from you,” he said.
    â€œName it. It’s yours.”
    Rowan explained what he needed.
    â€œYou say this is a beachfront community on its way up. If we’re talking fine young ‘thangs’ in thong bikinis then baby, I’m there.”
    â€œI’m talking about more exposure for your newest CD. I know just the right person to make sure you get air time. My friend D’dawg is an up-and-coming radio personality. He’s going to host this venture we just discussed. I can guarantee the hotel will treat you like the VIP you are.”
    â€œSounds tempting. I’ll check my schedule and get back to you.”
    â€œHow about you get back to Emilie Woodward, the director of leisure sales. She’s the one putting the event together.” Rowan gave Dwayne Emilie’s number before hanging up.
    He overheard Derek in the outer room talking to Blanca in stilted Spanish. Rowan wondered what they were yakking about. The only words he understood of the language he’d learned on the street, and they weren’t fit to be said in decent company.
    â€œHey,” he said to Derek when he emerged from his office. “Have you been waiting long?”
    â€œNah. I just got here. I was considering going to the Haul Out to shoot pool and wondered if you wanted to come along.”
    â€œI might. I keep meaning to grab a beer and check out the place. It draws a local crowd, right?”
    â€œYes, a hardworking crowd. People who like to keep things real. It’s one of the few hangouts that rarely sees tourists.”
    â€œI’m in then. I could use a cold brew.”
    Blanca, who’d overheard them, added, “Mr. James, you sure you want to go to the Haul Out? You’re going