Sophie scrunched her body as her skin made contact with the floor’s cold surface. Her momentary discomfort was soon forgotten as Peter disappeared into her, quickly developing a taste for her sweet nectar. A series of moans escaped her lips. Her legs trembled, crossing behind his neck, restricting his movement.
Lost in the inferno between her legs, neither he nor Sophie noticed the pair of eyes watching through the oval glass pane of the door, leering at their private moment, fist raised, tempted to interrupt their session with a knock on the door.
Chapter 8
Sweat beads formed small waterfalls across his brow. He took a deep breath and invited the rank aroma of cheap perfume and other musty odors to fill his lungs. The air was thick and sticky with remnants of his alcohol-driven sexual escapade carried out just hours before. The scene was so familiar he didn’t even need to open his eyes to recount it in detail. Empty liquor bottles and faceless women had become a part of his living décor. Same shit, different day. The silk sheets clumsily draped over his chiseled six-foot frame clung to him so tightly he could barely move. The red-head lying across his ankles didn’t help matters. He kicked his leg abruptly and watched the young girl’s naked body tumble awkwardly to the floor.
“Ouch!” Rachel screamed as her head collided with something sharp on the carpet. She reached a shaky hand underneath her head and found the small piece of metal responsible for the blood oozing from the fresh cut in her temple. She picked it up and inspected it. It took her a second to focus her eyes and corral her mind before she realized the spiral object she held was a corkscrew. “Damn it.”
“Wake up.”
She sat up with her back against the bed for support, intentionally avoiding eye contact with Micah, who had managed to turn over onto his back but was still lying in bed. Her vision was blurred as she struggled to manage the battle of the bands contest going on in her head.
“My head hurts.”
“Stop all that damn screaming.”
Rachel rolled her emerald-green eyes and grunted her frustration. She was in no mood to deal with his craziness. “You kicked me, Micah.”
“And? Do I care?”
She didn’t want to argue with him. Besides, there was no winning, no negotiating with him. He was tripping, and her challenging him would only make things worse. Micah was controlling as hell. She had learned that if she just kept her head down and her mouth closed, she could get what she needed and move on. So, she remained silent.
Micah had little, if any, concern for her pain. He wanted quiet, time to gather himself in preparation for the day. “Rachel, come here.”
Rachel gingerly rose to her feet, instantly regretting the preceding hours spent emptying the bottles of wine. She climbed onto the bed and slowly, seductively inched her way to across Micah’s body until her face meshed with his. “Yes?”
While grabbing a fist full of her cherry-red hair, Micah sucked her lips so hard it left them itching and tingling. She took an audible breath as he released her, guiding her face to his lower region. While her mind was spinning from the sudden movement, he grabbed his girth with his free hand and shoved it into Rachel’s mouth.
Rachel cringed as tears fell from her eyes, mixing with the blood still dripping from her temple. She fought the urge to throw up the steak and lobster from their night before, relaxed her throat, and took his inches until she felt his scrotum against her chin. If the pounding in her head were not bad enough, the salty taste of his manhood surely made the act even more unbearable. Rachel could not move under Micah’s grip. Her bulletproof love ballad joined the madness in her head.
He groaned as his manhood made contact with the soft, wet tissue inside her throat, imagining that her lips held power enough to deliver him from the swelling ache of his heart. He wished the warm, moist feeling would be enough to distract him from the irreconcilable sadness this new day was ushering in.
Micah lifted his head and looked down at Rachel. Tears were streaming down her face. He struggled to maintain his erection as his heart splintered and crashed into hers. Broken and demoralized, Rachel was a soul-churning reflection of himself. It was not purely her hurt that shook him; it was more so the acceptance of the situation. Despair and hopelessness were very clearly drawn into the outline of her small face, and it rocked him to the core. Rachel was once a vibrant, strong, determined woman, but for the first time, he noticed that woman was no more. Micah was responsible for her heartache. What had he done to her? What was he doing?
Throwing her off of him, Micah rolled onto the side of the hotel bed and sat up. Lacking the courage to face her, he grabbed the sheet, covered himself, and walked into the massive bathroom, skulking with a sullen look etched on his face.
Rachel lay on the bed, curled up like a small child with her arms holding her legs in the fetal position, crying silently. Reality tore through the silence, announcing the call for change.
“I am sorry. You need to leave.”
Though Micah spoke gently through the closed door, his words rang loudly in Rachel’s ears. She slowly gathered herself and prepared to leave. Into her overnight bag, she threw the few outfits she had brought with her: her red-bottoms—a gift from Micah—Summer’s Eve Lotion, and her perfume. A plain white V-neck T-shirt and a pair of gray warmup pants were the only things she kept out for wear.
Even with the pounding in her head and Micah’s horrible treatment of her, Rachel was not eager to leave. Some part of her wanted him, loved him. She scanned the room to look for anything she may have missed, and her eyes settled on the bathroom. She sighed heavily, wishing she could fit Micah into her bag and take him with her.
On her way out of the room, she stopped briefly by the door. “I love you, Micah.”
Micah opened the door once he was certain Rachel had gone. He was completely disgusted with himself. Rachel was a good girl, and she deserved better. He had known for some time how she felt about him, but the feelings were not mutual. She could never have his heart, and she would have been better off had she never met him. He grabbed a few things for the shower, but he knew not even the scalding hot water would cleanse him of the guilt eating away at his soul.
Chapter 9
Brianna loathed the idea of having to endure another forty-five minutes with “Dr. WonderBra,” but the lenient judge her uncle had lobbied for must have had a stick up his ass that day in court when he made her sessions mandatory for the next year. The silver lining was the train ride downtown. Brianna would have never ridden the train before. It both amused and saddened her to see how much her world had changed in such a short period of time. One measly little second had completely changed everything. Her beautiful, powder-white BMW convertible sat untouched in her garage since her trip to Cancun. Either Armand or Michelle took her where she needed to go, or she used public transportation. Fortunately, DART, a decent city bus system, made getting around Dallas fairly simple.
Brianna had never glanced at anything remotely public before the events of last month, not even the library. Besides, with the convenience of having access to any and everything from her home, she viewed public facilities and resources as beneath her. Those things were for poor people, people in search of what she had, not an educated, sophisticated woman such as herself. She never took the time to attempt to connect herself to the plight of those she assumed were less fortunate, but in the wake of all she’d lost, she found herself trying to do exactly that. She was running from who she was, from the life she had lived—that privileged, proper woman she used to be.
The artificial train light danced around, carving its own picture with its passengers. Brianna felt at home there, comforted by what she perceived to be a solemn atmosphere of people searching for what she was trying to elude. That comfort, however, was temporal as her mind betrayed her. Every glance, gesture, or acknowledgment from a fellow passenger turned into a symbol of their disgust and rejection. The self-inflicted judgment wrapped itself around her psyche, further damaging her fragile self-
image, relaying to her that somehow, she did not belong there, either. That even without her expensive heels and designer threads, she was an imposter. Her external presentation did little to reshape the internal impression; the ache of not belonging anywhere imbedded in her. She wanted to desperately to fit in, to be wanted, loved, and appreciated for the woman she was. The problem was, not even Brianna was sure what that meant. She was looking for herself.
The train screeched as the tracks whined under its weight. She closed her eyes and let her head rest gently on the window to the right of her.
Now Arriving at the West End Station. Doors will open to the right. Please remember to take all your personal belongings. Thank you for riding DART.
The announcement signaled the end of her ride. She made her way down the short metal steps off the train and headed toward the Bank of America building on the next block. Cars and people alike zipped around her as the city roared to life.
She arrived at her appointment at 10 a.m. on the dot. Dr. Shepherd’s assistant greeted her warmly, her bright fiery red hair seeming a little lackluster this morning, but Brianna didn’t give it much thought.
“Ms. Mason, good morning. Dr. Shepherd is a little behind schedule. Please take a seat, and I’ll let you know when she’s ready.”
Brianna returned the smile but did not speak, taking a seat on one of the two vanilla love seats in the waiting area. The false limitation created by the lack of open space made Brianna uncomfortable. She nervously ran her fingers through her hair, trying to keep her marbles in the jar. Something about Dr. Shepherd rubbed her the wrong way. She hadn’t dealt with her inappropriately, but Brianna had a hard time trusting her. The assistant had a tendency to pry, asking Brianna random questions, fishing for details about her life, and Brianna did not feel like playing dodge ball with her.
Beep. Beep. Beep. The intercom buzzed.
“Yes, Dr. Shepherd?”
“Rachel, please send in Ms. Mason. I am ready for her.”
Rachel swallowed hard, trying to pause the concert in her head long enough to follow her boss’s request. “Yes, Dr. Shepherd.”
Rachel did not need to say anything. Brianna stood and walked into the good doctor’s office. She grinned and winked at her as she passed by her desk and entered the office. She closed the door behind her.
Dr. Shepherd stood to greet Brianna, walking around her desk to close the space between them. “Brianna, how are you? Please, sit wherever you’d like. I’m going to take my regular seat in the chair over by the window.” With that, Dr. Shepherd, with her pen and pad in hand, took her seat.
Brianna again chose not to speak. She stood for a moment, with her back against the closed door, and observed the good doctor. Noticing the silk V-neck blouse that barely covered the 38 DDs propped up on display, and the skirt so short that Brianna could see that the good doctor hadn’t bothered to cover her garden, Brianna smirked. Chuckling to herself, Brianna took her attire as a good sign, figuring the good doctor must have plans immediately after work. Dr. Shepherd was generally more pleasant when she had something to look forward to.
“Brianna, are you going to sit?”
Brianna took a seat on the couch across from Dr. Shepherd, closed her eyes, and prepared for the minor interrogation.
“I’d like to begin with what happened at your mom’s. Do you mind if we start there?”
“Yes, I do, actually. I don’t want to talk about that.” Brianna did not want to dredge up anything that had happened at her mother’s that day.
Dr. Shepherd removed her glasses and toyed with the plastic handle in her mouth. She did not want to push Brianna too hard. She was on the verge of shutting down, as it were, but she needed to talk.
“I must insist.”
Brianna rolled her eyes. This woman drove her crazy. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
“How do you feel about it?”
Brianna did not know how to frame her sentiment. She felt a plethora of things, but she also felt nothing. Her guilt was accompanied, and in some ways overpowered, by her indifference. She loved her family, but she was desperate to get back to her core. That desperation afforded her the ability to compromise her moral center with little regret. She was not devoid of emotion, but she had not yet learned how to operate from such a sensitive state. Everything felt bigger than life and grossly affected her. Having lived such a pampered life prior, she was not equipped to handle that degree of emotional activity, and her indifference was an act of self-preservation. The reaction was not something she did consciously, and although it was a defense mechanism of sorts, it was simultaneously causing her irreparable harm.
“Brianna, I understand how difficult and uncomfortable this may be. This is a safe environment. Anything you say here stays between us.”
Brianna did not believe that for a minute. She scoffed and rolled her eyes again, indicating to Dr. Shepherd how she felt about her statement.
“I am bound by law.” Dr. Shepherd was losing her patience with the little girl. “Your words will stay between these walls. Let me help you.”
Brianna considered the good doctor’s words. She was bound by law, and Brianna knew she needed help. She could not stop or make any changes on her own. She had tried many times and failed. She may as well give Dr. Shepherd a real try. She had nothing to lose.
“Confused. I felt confused.”
“That’s good. Can you pinpoint what may have caused it?”
Brianna contemplated the events of that evening, uncertain of her ability to label the source of her confusion. Charlie’s unexpected visit hadn’t really bothered her, and her mom did not seem rattled in the least bit. She had handled herself with the kind of grace befitting a woman who was once known as one of the most prominent Southern belles in the city. It was the usually poised Michelle who had flown off the handle.
Out of nowhere, the light switch turned on. “Michelle responded the way I would have expected my mother to.”
“What do you mean?”
Brianna hadn’t given it much consideration at the time. The situation had escalated so quickly that she really hadn’t had time to think about it. “My mother was calm, eerily calm. She did not seem surprised by Charlie.”
Dr. Shepherd nodded her head to signify her understanding. Brianna was hesitant to say it aloud, but the rumbling in the pit of her stomach forced the words up and off the tip of her tongue.
* * *
Brianna swallowed hard. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. Their relationship was still in the developmental stages, and she didn’t want to entertain anything that may threaten it. She had spent twenty-three years without her mother, and she was unwilling to give her up.
“She’s keeping something from us.”
“Are you certain?”
“Of course not.” Brianna stared at Dr. Shepherd. That was an idiotic question. “How could I possibly be certain of anything? All I have are questions. Suspicions. My life has become an elaborate, extensive version of Clue.”
“I did not intend to offend you with my question.” Dr. Shepherd put her glasses back on, made a note, and decided to move forward.
Brianna rolled her eyes and rubbed her temples. She hated that Dr. Shepherd could so easily get beneath her skin.
“Anything else stand out to you about the evening? Aside from your mother’s demeanor?”
Brianna shook her head.
“Speaking of your mother, how is that going?”
“I don’t know. I’m on autopilot. I am trying to adjust, but it’s awkward.”
“What’s awkward, exactly?”
“Her melanin deficiency.”
“Ah, I see.”
“I struggled to love my blackness. My money did not protect me from ignorance. I had to deal with the hate, learned to shoulder it. Being black and female has not been easy. Sometimes having money and being well-spoken made it worse. I didn’t belong anywhere. My mother, Lisa, helped me to sort through my pain with that. She had n
o problem being proud of who she was, and I emulated her.”
“Do you feel that embracing your biological mother negates that somehow?”
“I cannot identify with her. I look at her, and I see someone who could not possibly empathize with my path. I see someone whose life profited from a system that consistently tries to destroy me. Her father was one generation removed from the Klan. Her family owned country clubs. She is the embodiment of white privilege.”
“She left that life, correct? For you and your sister?”
“That is the story.”
“Michelle is your twin, and from what you’ve shared, she’s a strong, emotionally-mature woman. Does she have any problems identifying or relating to black culture?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“Does she identify with one more than the other?”
“Talk to Michelle. I cannot tell you.”
“In your opinion.”
“People tend to center their conversations on things they have in common. So, I really wouldn’t know. I don’t even know what things white culture would lay claim to. Golf? Country music? What is it?”
Dr. Shepherd stifled a laugh. “I am only asking because I wanted you to see that Michelle is just like you. If she can live as she is, you can do the same.”
“Michelle has not known anything else. I have, and I am at a loss. Will Sophie be offended by my black power card? If I tell her I fully support the petition for Assata Shakur to receive a pardon from President Obama, will she have an issue with that? Can she understand my love and adoration for Angela Davis or Nikki Giovanni? Michelle Obama?”
“Brianna, those things have nothing to do with skin color. A black mother could take issue with your decisions, too. I am a white woman, and I admire Michelle Obama.”
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