On the Line

by Donna Hill

  She rode the elevator to the third floor, also the top floor of his building. Juice had knocked out the walls between three apartments to expand his living space to the entire left side. He did everything big: oversize black leather furniture, a big-screen television with surround sound, and a huge master bedroom that included a Jacuzzi and sauna. His newest recruit, sixteen-year-old Kristine, opened the door when she knocked. Shalonda handed over the sealed envelope, turned and walked away.

  “Shalonda!” Juice called down the hall after her.

  “What?” she answered reluctantly. The tears were right there just behind her eyes, but she cut them off with the skill of a samurai warrior.

  Juice stepped out of the doorway. “Come on back for a minute.”

  Trudging up the hall, Shalonda stopped outside the door listening to the macho swagger of his wannabe-playa friends in the back room. Her body suddenly went limp. She didn’t feel like dealing with the bullshit tonight.

  Juice stepped closer. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “You don’t want to see me? You don’t love me no more?”

  “I’m just tired, I wanna go back home.” She turned to leave.

  He grabbed her by the arm. “Excuse me, but I’m talking here. Don’t forget I’m the one paying for your home.”

  Shalonda yanked her arm away. “What do you want, Juice?”

  He thought for a moment. “I want you to go to my bedroom, get in the shower and wait for me,” he finally replied.

  When she heard his request, Kristine leaped up from the nearby chair where she was eavesdropping.

  “Juice, what are you doing?” she whined.

  He scowled in her direction. “Sit your stupid ass down and shut up!” Then smiling at Shalonda, he continued. “Go on. I’ll be there soon.”

  Shalonda moved slowly down the hallway, choking back determined tears. His bedroom still looked the same. A custom-made king-size sleigh bed with a brown and mauve comforter, two dresser drawers and a matching chaise longue. It was in this bedroom that she first read The Coldest Winter Ever by Sister Souljah sitting on that same chaise longue. It was in this bedroom that she gave away her virginity to the man she wanted to love forever. It was in this bedroom that her life had changed drastically.

  Shalonda undressed and stepped into the warm shower. The water cloaked her head and back and legs like liquid fire. She watched through the glass as he entered the room, then sucked in a deep breath when the door slid open and he took her in his arms.

  “You need Daddy, don’t you?” he asked seductively.

  Her body shivered, remembering how she used to feel when his hulking muscles engulfed her.

  Juice moaned in her ear. “You want some of this good lovin’ I’ve been saving for you?”

  Before she could answer, he pushed her up against the wall and licked the trickling water from her neck and ears and back. Then, as if on cue, he bent her over and entered from behind. This was what she used to think love was all about: embracing the heat from his pulsating body; absorbing as much as she could of his powerful presence; inhaling the very essence of him. There was a time when she thought all she needed was this man’s love to sustain her, to satisfy her. The head will only hear if the heart listens.

  “You like this? Is this what you needed, baby? Is this what you needed, baby? You like this, don’t you?” he repeated the lines as part of his sexual motion.

  Shalonda told him exactly what he wanted to hear. “I love it, Daddy. You know you’re everything I need.”

  As the water flowed in a steady stream down their bodies, Shalonda tried to resist, but the rhythm of their movement became so succinct that she climaxed with him. Before he left, Juice kissed her gently and whispered, “I don’t want you to ever forget how much I love you, Shorty.”

  Shalonda stood in the shower and cried violent tears when he was gone. She wanted desperately to understand what she did wrong. Everywhere she looked, she saw it. How could she not eventually buy into it? Images of hard, black men and their sexy, hoochie mammas were a normal part of black culture. In music, on television, through movies and magazines, the thug life was the life to choose. With a deep, painful breath, Shalonda realized that she hated that life now, as much as she had loved it then.

  Dressing quickly, she headed to the front door only to be met in the entryway by Juice and Kristine.

  “Your tally is short,” Kristine blurted out.

  Shalonda stepped back. “What? It can’t be. I put it all in there.”

  Kristine spat at her. “You calling me a liar?”

  “I don’t know, maybe you are.” Shalonda turned toward Juice. “I brought over every dollar. I swear.”

  Juice shook his head. “I counted it too, baby. It’s short.”

  Shalonda pointed at Kristine. “Maybe she took some out. I don’t have any more.”

  “You lying bitch!” Kristine grabbed at Shalonda’s hair and wrestled her down to the floor. As Shalonda’s purse was ripped from her shoulder, most of the contents fell out including the extra twenty that Rodney gave her.

  “See, there it is.” Kristine pointed. “I told you the ho was holdin’ out on you, baby.”

  Shalonda’s heart pounded and her body trembled as she stood up. “I didn’t take that from you, Juice. Rodney gave me that twenty, plus the thirty for his appointment.”

  Juice reared back when he heard another man’s name come out of her mouth. “Rodney? Who the fuck is Rodney?”

  Shalonda backed up against the door, realizing too late the huge mistake she’d made. “He’s nobody. Nobody, baby…just that guy who’s been coming almost every week.”

  “So you taking money from some motherfucka on the side?”

  “He…I—” Shalonda couldn’t get it out before Juice’s fist struck her hard across the jaw. She grabbed the aching spot and slid down onto the floor.

  Several of his crew joined Kristine and they watched as Juice demonstrated his title, “Daddy,” in a literal sense. Taking off his long leather belt, he swung viciously, hitting Shalonda across the back, shoulders, legs and behind.

  At first Shalonda held up her arms for protection and tried to crawl to the door, but ultimately she gave up, pulling herself into a ball of confusion.

  “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing!” Juice screamed after one swing and before another. “You don’t take money from nobody but me. Understand, bitch?”

  Shalonda’s head filled with an intense pain each time the tip of the belt struck different parts of her body. She silently prayed for the nightmare to end, and finally Kristine sashayed over and opened the front door.

  “Get the fuck out of here before I kill you,” Juice hissed.

  As Shalonda attempted to drag herself toward the opening, he snatched the twenty-dollar bill off the floor and ruthlessly kicked her in her side.

  “Juice…Juice, man, come check this shit out! Our boys are doing that song on TV, man,” one of his crew called in a frenzy.

  In the midst of the commotion, Shalonda quietly gathered as many of her things as she could. She slowly lifted her body up and limped out the door. Moving cautiously toward the elevator, she allowed the tears to run, wishing she could do the same. Fifteen minutes later she fell into her apartment, spirit crushed, and lay listlessly across the wrinkled cotton sheets.

  When the silence became too much Shalonda turned on the radio and listened as a woman’s soothing voice washed over her. The voice asked listeners to call in and share their problems. “The only way we can discover new oceans,” the voice explained, “is if we have the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

  Shalonda closed her eyes. She could feel each individual welt as it formed on her body. She listened to the inspiring words gently pulling at her soul: advocating change; promising something better; creating hope; encouraging the first step. With a deep, resolved breath, Shalonda picked up a pen and paper and began her story. “Please help me,” Shalonda whispered as the words poured onto the pa
ge.

  When I finish and look up, tears are streaming down Dallas’s face. The audience is stunned into silence. The only sound I hear is the beating of my own heart and the soft sobs coming from the audience.

  My own eyes are filled with tears as I relive those terrible years that was once my life.

  “Shalonda wasn’t some random letter,” I say. I lift my head, no longer ashamed of who I am. “Shalonda was me.” I look out at the stunned faces.

  Dallas gasps. “We’ll be right back after a commercial break.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The minute the cameras are off, Dallas turns to me. “Are you okay?”

  I nod my head. She signals somebody and a tissue is thrust into my hands.

  “Is that story true or some incredible publicity stunt?”

  “It’s true. Every ugly word.” I sniff real hard and wipe my eyes.

  Dallas flops back into her seat. “Good thing this wasn’t live. We’ll have to do some major editing.”

  I take a glance and see Randy standing in the wings. When we make eye contact he turns and walks away.

  “Ten seconds,” one of the cameramen shouts.

  “Ready?” Dallas asks.

  “Yes.”

  She turns to the camera. “I know you all are as stunned and as touched as I was by the revelation made by Joy.” She focuses on me. “Why did you decide to bring your story to the public’s attention?”

  “I’ve spent the better part of my career living off of the pain and confusion of others, and now I’m on the threshold of making a lot of money as a result.” I sit straighter in my seat. “I want anyone who picks up my book to know that I’m just like everyone else. And that maybe what I was doing all these years was hiding behind the problems of others so that I wouldn’t have to deal with my own. I intend to include my story in the book as well. Yes, you heard it here first. And I plan to donate a portion of the proceeds to start the Joy Newhouse Foundation that will help those who are in need of counseling and support services.”

  A roar of applause fills the room.

  “And if there is anything that I can do to help with your cause, I’m here for you,” Dallas says. She turns to the camera. “This has been an eye-opening show. I want to thank Joy Newhouse for being our guest and for being so brutally honest about her own life. Be sure to pick up a copy of The Best of On the Line when it hits a bookstore in your area.”

  The red light of the camera goes off. Dallas gets up from her seat and comes over to me and gives me the biggest hug. “That was a brave thing you did. I wish the best for you. Your book is going to be a blockbuster.”

  “We’ll see. Thanks again.” I walk offstage where Macy is waiting. She puts her arm around my shoulders.

  “You okay?”

  I look into her questioning eyes. “For the first time I really think I am.”

  We head for the exit and Randy is standing at the door. I can’t begin to imagine what must be on his mind. I walk up to him.

  “I won’t blame you if you never want to speak to me again.”

  “Why wouldn’t I want to speak to you again?” He tilts my chin up with the tip of his finger. “That took guts. I don’t know if I could have done it. Our skilled PR staff couldn’t have done better. The minute you were done, my cell started ringing like crazy. They want you in the office tomorrow so that they can get the story added to the book immediately. Tanya can’t keep up with the requests to have you on as a guest on every radio and television show in the English-speaking world.” He starts to laugh then looks me fully in the eyes. “We all have a past, Joy. Some are more drama filled than others. What happened to you happens to so many other women every day. And now that they’ve heard your story, maybe they can find a way to free themselves, too. I am so proud of you.”

  I don’t mean to start crying, but I do anyway. “You don’t hate me?”

  “How could I hate you?” he whispers. “I’m in love with you.”

  My heart feels like it’s exploding into a million tiny pieces. No one has ever loved me. Well, except for Macy. I’m not even sure if I know how to give it in return. But I want to try. I want to try and see what it’s like to give of my real self and have someone know and accept me for who I am. And maybe I’ll even get up enough nerve to tell Randy how I feel about him, too.

  With Randy on one side and Macy on the other, we step out into the warm afternoon sunshine. Life is good, ain’t it? And a fat bank account sure helps!

  “Hey, Joy,” Macy says as we walk to the waiting car. “I was thinking for your next book…”

  Me and Randy look at each other and crack up laughing.

  ON THE LINE

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-1088-6

  Copyright © 2008 by Donna Hill

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