“Hello,” I said.
“Rhapsody?”
My heart skipped two beats at the sound of his voice.
“Who’s calling?” I knew who it was.
“Oh, so now you don’t know my voice?”
Since Malcolm had pissed me off that morning, I was more than happy to return the favor. “Anthony?”
“No, this is not Anthony.”
“Robert?”
He exhaled. “Try Malcolm.”
“Malcolm? I’m sorry. I don’t know anyone named Malcolm.. . . Oh, Malcolm, from last night. Now I remember.”
“Now you remember?”
“Uh-huh. What’s up?” I tried to be calm, cool, and collected, but I was so excited to hear his voice.
“Well, I was hoping you could tell me what’s up with the bogus message you left on my cell this morning.”
Dang, he sounded sexy as heck, but I had to be strong. I had just asked God to forgive me for messin’ with Malcolm. I needed to kick him to the curb.
“What’s your primary language, Malcolm?”
“What?”
“What language do you generally speak?”
“English.”
“The message I left on your phone was in English, and it’s self-explanatory. But tell me what part you didn’t comprehend and I’ll try to break it down in more basic terms.”
“I don’t understand why you’re giving me this attitude. We just met yesterday.”
“And we knocked boots yesterday. Maybe you’re used to hopping from chick to chick, but I don’t flow like that, Malcolm.”
“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I don’t hop from chick to chick.”
I knew Malcolm was lying to me. He was too fine to play it straight. “Humph. I can’t tell by the way you hopped out of my bed early this morning, talkin’ bout how you had to go home and get some sleep to be at work early. You lied to me, which meant you left my bed and got into someone else’s.”
“Yeah. My own.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, Malcolm. You’re busted, okay? Ain’t no need for you to keep lying, ’cause I really don’t care. Remember the voice mail I left you? You don’t owe me nothin’. I’m done with it.”
“Look, Rhapsody, I’ma tell you the truth.” He paused, then sighed. “My mom is a paraplegic, and she can’t do a lot of things by herself. One of those things is getting up and into the bathroom in the morning. And she gets up pretty early, so I need to be home.”
I was all set to hear some lame crap come out of Malcolm’s mouth, but not that. There was no way he could be lying. No man would lie on his mama. “And you felt you couldn’t tell me that?”
“I don’t like to talk about my mother’s condition, because folks want to know what happened to her and how it happened, and I really don’t wanna relive that day.”
“Well, I think taking care of your mother is honorable, and I’m sorry for leaving that message on your phone.”
“So, we’re cool?”
I wasn’t mad anymore. “Yeah, we’re cool.”
There was a pregnant pause before Malcolm spoke. “What do you have on?”
I glanced at myself in the mirror above my dresser. Talking on the telephone with Malcolm, I’d completely forgotten I was naked. “Baby oil.”
“You want some comp—”
“Yes,” I said immediately. All that I had begged God to forgive me for and keep me from not even half an hour ago had gone out the window quick, fast, and in a hurry.
The area between my thighs was already pulsating when Malcolm drove his car into my driveway. “I’m not gonna have sex with him, Jesus. We’re just gonna talk,” I said out loud.
My mother had once told me that God knew that we were going to sin even before we knew it ourselves. Of course, I knew that I was gonna have sex with Malcolm that night. I knew it when I first heard his voice on the telephone. So why was I standing in my living room, dressed in lingerie, looking out the window at Malcolm as he exited his car, already sinning in my mind about what I was gonna do to him, while trying to convince God otherwise? I was kinda hoping that God would cause Malcolm to have car trouble, or maybe he’d suddenly get called in to work. I needed Jesus to intervene and keep me from doing what I desperately wanted to do. But then again, I didn’t. I craved that young man that night.
I opened the front door before Malcolm had a chance to ring my doorbell. “Come on in.”
Malcolm stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind him. “I see you’re ready for me,” he said, admiring my attire. He was so young and fine.
“The question is, are you ready for me?”
Malcolm stood in front of me and unzipped his pants and let them fall to the floor. His mouth didn’t need to answer my question. Just looking at him told me he was ready. Malcolm had a great body, which an unexperienced woman might be afraid to even go near. But I refused to be intimidated. I knew Malcolm had to be home in a few hours. That gave me just enough time to show him what a cougar could do.
Chapter 10
Wednesday morning Lucille was on her way into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She rolled her wheelchair past Malcolm’s bedroom and saw him struggling to put his uniform shirt on. She noticed that Malcolm was wincing in pain with every move he made. He was looking in the mirror, facing away from her, when she yelled out to him, “What the heck is that on your back, Malcolm?”
Malcolm closed his eyes, hung his head, and exhaled. He didn’t offer his mother an answer, but he knew she was referring to the passion marks that had been branded on his back.
“It looks like somebody slashed your back with a rake,” Lucille fussed. “Were you in a fight?”
Malcolm knew that there was no way he could tell his mother what had really happened to his back. He conveniently forgot about the pain and quickly put his shirt on and buttoned it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about those long marks across your back. Take that shirt off,” Lucille demanded.
She rolled her wheelchair into his room but stopped two feet from the door. Malcolm unbuttoned his shirt and walked over to his mother.
“Turn around.”
He hesitated, then turned his back to Lucille. As she reached up to pull his shirt down, Malcolm held his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut when his mother shrieked.
The scratches started at the bottom of Malcolm’s neck and traveled downward to the middle of his back, taking the shape of an almost complete letter A. It had happened at the height of orgasm.
“What the heck is this?” Lucille shrieked. “Who did this to your back?” Her eyes were blazing.
Malcolm was pissed with himself. In the past he’d been at the top of his game when his mother charged him with questions like “Where have you been?” or “What were you doing?” He had always been prepared with a good answer, but he hadn’t expected her to see him get dressed this morning. He couldn’t fabricate anything that could explain the marks on his back. When Malcolm was sixteen, Lucille slapped his face because he’d allowed a girl to put a hickey on his neck. She’d told Malcolm never to allow a female to put marks on his body, under any circumstances.
There were eight long, deep scratches, and Lucille saw dried blood along each one. She grabbed Malcolm’s left arm and forcefully turned him to face her. “How did this happen, Malcolm?”
It happened last night,” he said.
“Don’t play with me, boy. I didn’t ask when it happened. I asked how it happened.”
Malcolm refused to tell his mother the truth; he didn’t part his lips to speak.
Lucille looked into his eyes. “You’re not gonna say anything?”
For a long thirty seconds Malcolm stood in his bedroom, looking down at his mother, who was sitting before him. Lucille knew how the marks had got on his back, but she wanted a confession, which wasn’t forthcoming. The fact that he wasn’t intimidated anymore by her stares pissed her off. He was a grown man, and although Luci
lle had never wanted Malcolm to reach manhood, it was inevitable and she had to accept it. She turned her wheelchair away from him and left his bedroom.
“Take that darn shirt off and come into the bathroom,” she called from the hallway.
Malcolm hung his head and followed his mother.
Lucille wheeled her chair into the bathroom, positioned herself next to the sink, then grabbed a cotton ball and isopropyl alcohol from a cabinet. “Turn around and kneel down,” she demanded after soaking the cotton ball with the alcohol.
Malcolm did as he was told and moaned loudly each time Lucille pressed the burning antiseptic against his open wounds.
“Is this how you sounded last night, Malcolm? Does this feel good to you?”
Malcolm groaned loudly when Lucille purposely allowed a drop of alcohol to run along the length of the last scratch. “Ma, can you please hurry up?”
Lucille bandaged his back with gauze and told Malcolm to get out of her sight. He was happy to oblige. In less than ten minutes, Malcolm was dressed and out of the house. Through the living room bay window, Lucille saw Malcolm drive away from the curb.
“Lord, I wanna kill him.”
On his way to his physics class at Richard J. Daley College, Ivan’s cellular telephone rang, and he recognized Malcolm’s number.
“What’s up, fool?”
“Man, a whole lot of crap,” Malcolm complained. “Where you at?”
“On my way to class right now. I got about ten minutes, though. What’s up?”
“Rhapsody, dude,” Malcolm sighed. “She got me in trouble with my mother this morning.”
“What did she do?”
“She messed up my back. I got scratches all over. My mom caught me gettin’ dressed this morning and went off. I thought she was gonna kill me.”
Malcolm couldn’t see Ivan shaking his head from side to side. “Dude, why you let that broad do that to you? I told you she wasn’t wrapped too tight.”
“I didn’t let her do it, Ivan. She just did it.”
“How did you end up at her house? You told me you were just gonna call her.”
“Ivan, I called the girl and explained why I couldn’t spend the night with her. She understood about my mom, then apologized for leaving that message on my phone. So I asked what she had on, and she said she was wearing baby oil.”
Ivan knew where Malcolm was going with the conversation. “And you just had to go over there, right?”
Malcolm chuckled. “Yeah, but I was in for a big surprise when I got there. Rhapsody answered the door darn near naked and smelling good. But check this out, man. She took me to her bedroom and tied me up to the bedpost.”
Ivan shrieked, “What?”
“Dude, Rhapsody ain’t no amateur.”
“Malcolm, are you nuts? Never let a woman tie you up. I can’t believe you allowed that.”
“I think I was hypnotized, Ivan.”
“If you were tied up, how did you get the scratches on your back?”
Malcolm thought about the question Ivan had just asked him. “Man, to be honest, I don’t even know.”
Ivan shook his head from side to side again as he pulled into a parking spot. He couldn’t believe how careless Malcolm was. “I gotta get to class. This is too much for me. But let me give you some advice before I go.” Ivan put the car in park. “Something ain’t right with this Rhapsody chick. From all that you told me about her, I think she’s bipolar or even schizophrenic. And I can’t say for sure, but it sounds to me like she may have scratched your back on purpose.”
“Why would she do that?”
Ivan exhaled loudly. Sometimes Malcolm acted as though he was fifteen instead of twenty-one. “Dude, are you that naive? Rhapsody did it to mark her territory. Aren’t you supposed to be scoring with Alicia this weekend? How are you gonna explain the marks on your back?”
Malcolm hung his head. “Aw, man. I ain’t even think about that.”
“Trust me,” Ivan said. “Scratching up your back was Rhapsody’s way of blocking you from gettin’ your freak on with anybody else. Because if another chick sees those marks, she ain’t gonna mess with you.”
Chapter 11
When I punched my time card at work, I found out that I was gonna have a great day. Mr. Duncan was scheduled to be in meetings all day. He’d be out of the office, and I’d have the whole day to do nothing. Mr. Duncan had left a note clipped to my time card, telling me to update some files. I ripped the note into shreds and put the scraps in my purse to throw away when I got home.
No, I didn’t see a note, Mr. Duncan. Are you sure you left it on my time card? I already had my lie together.
I was glad he would be out of my hair that day because I needed to balance my checkbook and catch up on my reading. Anastasia had recommended I Ain’t Me No More, a novel written by best-selling author E. N. Joy. Anastasia was a huge fan of E. N. Joy, and I was looking forward to relaxing with my coffee and my Kindle Fire. I’d get to sit at my desk and peruse the novel while I waited for a train or a bus to either derail or run into something.
I went to the employees’ lounge to prepare myself a cup of coffee. As I poured a packet of sugar into my white Styrofoam cup, I heard, “You don’t need sugar in that coffee, girl. You’re sweet enough.”
I recognized the raspy voice before I turned to see Willie Boston. A motorman with thirty-two years under his belt, Willie was literally a thorn in my side. Almost every morning he brought his behind upstairs, to my office, which was nowhere near the train platform, his work location, just to get on my nerves.
“Good morning, Willie. How are you?” I didn’t know why I didn’t say, “Good morning,” and leave it at that. Asking Willie how he was doing made it seem like I was interested, when the truth was, I really didn’t care.
After making my coffee light and sweet, the way I liked it, I threw the stirrer in the trash can and headed for my desk, with Willie on my heels. He was so close to me that had I stopped, he’d have bumped into my butt, which I was sure he would have enjoyed.
“Girl, you look like you were born in those pants.”
I sat at my desk and exhaled loudly to let him know that he was two seconds away from getting cussed out. “What do you want, Willie?”
“A date.”
I was on the verge of telling him that he couldn’t afford me, but he actually could. With the amount of overtime he did each year, Willie was banking in the ninety Gs easily. But he had a wife and grandchildren; plus, he had at least fifteen years on my father.
“Willie, I don’t date married men or men who can be my daddy’s daddy. I tell you this all the time.”
“What are you talkin’ about? I don’t look my age.”
He was right about that. He didn’t look his age. Sixty-six years had treated Willie very well. I could’ve counted the number of gray hairs on his head. His goatee was always trimmed to perfection. He had natural charcoal-gray eyes that would melt any woman. And I had to admit, Willie always smelled good. If it wasn’t Hugo Boss, it was Issey Miyake or Prada.
But Willie had a flaw. He had so much gold in his mouth, if he stood ten feet away from a third rail, he’d get electrocuted. And with every other tooth longer than its neighbor, he looked like a vampire. If I allowed Willie to pleasure me, he’d probably give me a hysterectomy.
“And you know I can buy you anything you want,” he continued.
Willie was starting to make me think about how I could benefit from his request. It would be really nice to have my mortgage and car note paid, ’cause Malcolm’s minimum-wage-earning behind sure as heck couldn’t pay them.
I considered spending time with Willie, but not on a date. I raised the stakes high. “Willie, there’s nothing that you can buy me that I can’t buy for myself, but what can you do for me in the bedroom? I’m a freak, and I need a man who can hang with me.” He was so old, I imagined myself having to blow dust off of him before I touched him.
“Girl, you ain’t said nothin’ but a
word. Willie Boston can throw down at least twice a week,” he bragged, pulling his pants up on his waist.
Did he say, “Twice a week”? Out of respect, and because I didn’t want to embarrass Willie, I didn’t laugh in his face. Twice a week didn’t cut it for me. I got hot just about every day. I sat and thought about my options. A sixty-six-year-old who could perform only on Mondays and Thursdays, with a bonus of living mortgage and car note free, or a twenty-one-year-old who could literally have me howling at the moon every night, with me paying my own bills.
I chose the latter. “Sorry, Willie. No can do.”
“Oh, well. I tried,” he said, glancing at his watch. It was almost 8:00 a.m., time for him to get a train into service. “You don’t know what you’re missin’, girl.”
Willie left my office, but he would be back before the week was over with the same crap. As far as what he said about me missing out on something, I wasn’t missing out on a darn thang. I pulled my cell phone from my purse and dialed Malcolm’s number. I wanted to know if he could meet me in my bedroom that night.
“Hi there,” I greeted in a high-pitched voice when he answered. I was excited to hear his voice.
I noticed hesitation before Malcolm responded to me. “Hi.” His voice was dry.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m cool.”
He didn’t sound cool to me. “Are you sure?”
Malcolm sighed. “Thanks to you, my mother is pissed with me.”
I didn’t understand. “Why? You left my house in plenty of time to get home.”
“She saw what you did to my back, Rhapsody. She’s mad as hell.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.
Not only was his mother pissed, but apparently, Malcolm was pissed too. “I gotta go,” he said.
“Um, what are you doing tonight?” I asked, hoping for a rerun of the night before, minus the fingernails.
“Nothing. Why?”
I was hopeful. “I thought we could hook up again.”
“I’ll have to get back to you. I might have plans.”
A second ago he didn’t anything to do. “Malcolm, how do you go from not having nothing to do to all of a sudden having plans?”
The Ugly Side of Me Page 7
