Why am I doing this to myself? Lorenzo is leaving in a few hours anyway.
He starts pulling out stacks of cash. “Here you go, Rocky. Every muthafucking thing you’ve ever wanted, you got!”
A brick of cash slaps me in the face. I glare at the dumbest dude I’ve ever set eyes on. If Lorenzo thinks all I ever wanted to do was wait for the muthafucka’s come up, he’s dead wrong. Now he’s in my face, speaking what used to be that sexy Spanish.
“That ain’t enough funds for you, mommi?” he asks, caressing my cheek. “Whatever you want, lil’ mama you got, all you need to do is ask. But keep your fine black ass in ya lane, you got that?”
Lorenzo kisses the tears streaming down my face. Since I say nothing, the nigga takes it as his key to walk away.
~~~
This is how shit has changed for the worst. In the past, I would doubt my nigga’s love on a daily. A bitch walks by; my eyes are plastered all over Lorenzo, making sure he respects me. Damn, he never got out of line even then. I remember this one time he took me to the Chicago Bulls’ game. They were playing the Miami Heat; yeah, I think that was their rivals. Anyway, these chicks were on my nigga tough. But...
Renzo loved me more back then.
Me being me, I doubted our love like a muthafucking fool. Now there’s mad weight on my left ring finger; a flawless, rock hard diamond . And my nigga’s love. My husbands love? It's all dried out.
“Leave him,” Mama Rita has been saying that line since our child, who shall be nameless forever, died. Now, we’re standing in Miguel’s old apartment. I’ve moved in some of my things.
“It’s a two bedroom, but the second has been converted into an office,” Miguel says, carrying in one last box. “I will have to come back with help to get the desk out.”
“Or we could ask those fucking dummies outside,” Rita jokes, as she tips her head toward the front door. Lorenzo’s goons have probably already told him that I’ve moved out the house. I tried to tell them not to say anything but they won’t even speak to me.
“Well, I have a week before Lorenzo returns,” I tell them, “I don’t know how the twins and Junior are going to feel about being stuck in one bedroom.”
“Girl, what you mean one bedroom?” Rita puts an arm around me as we look at my meager items. Lorenzo won’t miss these things; I don’t want to owe him anything.
“It’s just hard starting over, Mama Rita, that’s all,” I reply, knowing good and well that she had all of her children in a tiny place in the past. “I’m going to get a j-o-b and pay y’all back.”
Miguel tells me it’s nothing as Rita waves me away. I can’t believe that just this morning I was telling Lorenzo how I felt; now I’m here. Guess my heart has learned to be alone. Might as well get used to this…
Chuey
Each and every single time my head hits the pillow, my mind wanders to Rockwell and how she’s surviving. But instead of making love to her in my dreams, I now relive the nightmare of the last time I saw my fiancée, Yvonda.
“Caesar, why didn’t you use this phone to call the Lord of the Mendoza De Dios Cartel,” Yvonda exclaimed as if stating my father’s entire title meant something. Shit, it should have meant something. She held up the Fed-issued iPhone that we all used while undercover.
My brain had been quick since I’d made it back to New York alive. I’d been in overdrive, I guess, trying not to think about how Rockwell died and the special ops team saved me. After days and days of debriefing my superiors about what had gone wrong, and how the second in the cartel, the Phantom, wanted me dead, I just didn’t give a fuck anymore. Here was Yvonda holding us together for months, tryna get me to focus on the wedding for a while.
Now here we stood. That manipulative ass Santiago just sent me proof of life. Rockwell was alive, pregnant. I glared at my woman. “Don’t you fucking question me.”
Yvonda’s face reared back as if she’d been slapped. “Caesar, I asked you how deep you are with those disgusting Colombians. You cuss at me? You tell me not to question you?” She placed a hand to her chest in disbelief.
I slipped my cell phone into my pocket. She had never seen me use it before. Caught me slipping now, but she wouldn’t get to see the communication that I had with Santiago. I did an about face, heading back to the bedroom. I wanted to just sit there and stare at Rockwell’s photo. Then? Go see her, of course. While considering why she hadn’t wondered about me, I guessed she had probably thought I was dead too. As I snatched the doorknob to close it behind me, Yvonda gripped the side of the open door.
“No, we need to talk, Caesar.”
“Bitch, I’m not in the mood for your mouth!” I turned around. Yvonda stood in my face, head cocked to the side.
“Bitch? I’m guessing you’ve been hanging around with those Colombian’s too long, Caesar!”
Before I can recall that my alias is of a different Latin decent, I snatched Yvonda by the neck. “Keep talking about Colombianos this and Colombianos that, girl.”
Her legs dangled. Her eyes bucked out as I slammed the back of her head into the cement wall behind her.
“The fuck you gotta say about Colombianos?” I chuckled. Damn, in my country she would have been dead the first time she began to say some shit about Colom—fucking dead.
As Yvonda began to gurgle, she put her last efforts toward embedding her fingernails under my skin. This bitch was tryna have me catch a case. Telltale signs that I had murdered her ass. As blood began to drip down my forearms, Yvonda’s legs began to twitch. Red dots and lines burst in her eye sockets.
When all was said and done, I laid her along the floor. It didn’t matter if I extracted my DNA from this corpse, as her fiancée, I was already the primary suspect…
“So what the fuck happened after that?” Santiago asked, gripping his thick, dyed jet-black hair.
“Then there was a fucking knock at the door,” I sigh, while leaning against the table. We are at the office in his home in Peru. He’s in hiding from Lorenzo.
I glare at him; he already knows what went down. This shit right here is eating me the fuck up. I look down at the scars in my forearms from taking out Yvonda. Then I tell him, “The Feds were at the door. Emerald called me.”
“He and Hernandez are still cool with you?”
“Fuck, nah.” I shake my head; reach over onto the cherry gloss table to grab the shot of Tequila. After taking that to the head, pouring a double shot, and burning that down my chest too, I add, “He wanted to fuck with my mind for a minute. Yvonda was already compromised. She had a wire on her chest. Emerald just wanted to give me a heads up that a team was coming for me. What happened next was like some bullshit out of a Jason Bourne movie, with snipers peering through the windows. I had my escape route.”
“My son,” Santiago patted my back.
“Funny how you wanna show a dude some muthafucking comradeship, when not half a year ago Lorenzo tried to take me out!”
He held up a hand. “My people were on their way. Then we saw some dudes…”
I nod. The Special Ops really know how to mix and mingle. They appeared to be part of Lorenzo’s crew when they came through and saved me. But I glare at my father’s face. My degrees in body language analyses tell me this man is a fucking liar. So I get down to business, “Why’d you send for me?”
He turns to sit back down on the leather chair opposite side of the desk. There’s an aura of pride about Santiago. Though Emerald and Hernandez are now cultivating Lorenzo to take over Santiago’s shine, he still likes to think of himself as king. I cop a half-smile. “You already know that the entire FBI knows I’m not Caesar Cruz. Even if Emerald and Hernandez are the only two shiesty muthafuckas that know all, I can’t help you find Nino.”
“It’s been almost a year, Santi Junior—”
“Don’t fucking call me—”
“And besides the fact that that little gutter snipe has been gone for 297 days, to be exact, Chuey, you weren’t helping me find him before. I sus
pect that your only endeavors were helping the little Miss Rockwell.”
This muthafucka licked his lips while saying her name. I shake my head, “Man, get her name out of your mouth, Santi.”
“She’s off limits?”
I give him a look that lets him know that it’s not even a fucking question. I glance at the wall clock. Rockwell should be moving into Miguel’s old place as we speak. Rita and Miguel are marrying in a few months. She was vague about the moving process. I know Rockwell doesn’t want nothing to do with me. It’s been months since her son died, and I can’t even be there for her. Except for a phone call here or there, the only female I’m helping out is my mother, Mayté.
“Why don’t you take her?” Santiago asks; his fingers stipple together. There ain’t no doubt that he wants a war. He’s been forced into retirement, and has almost as much money as God. Our entire family is set for life, to the tenth generation or more. None of my grandkids, great, great, great, great, grandkids will ever have to lift a finger. Instead of being glad that he’s still breathing, Santiago wants to start some shit?
Instead of acknowledging the fact that my dumb ass dad wants to start some shit. I logically reply, “Rocky has three kids with Lorenzo. How the fuck I look taking her.” Besides, I love her. I want her to be with me willingly.
I leave. Though Rocky didn’t invite me over, I consider what type of housewarming gift to bring her while heading outside the mansion to the fleet of luxury cars.
~~~
After the short jet ride, there’s a gorgeous secretary leaning against a Bentley coup. In her hands is a gold, giftwrapped box so I can head straight to Rockwell’s place. Damn, I rub my hands in anticipation. She’s finally moving from underneath Lorenzo’s thumb.
The apartment is in a pretty safe area, but I observe my surroundings while pulling into the lot. If something seems off I’m gonna, for the hundredth time, offer Rockwell my own apartment in the City. And if she refuses that, I will buy her any home she wants, big or small. But nah, she probably will refuse all options, trying to refuse me.
I grab the box off the passenger seat, and jiggle it while getting out of the car. I hadn’t even asked the girl what she’d bought for Rockwell.
I head for the apartment door and knock. I can hear the faint sound of walking and know it’s Rocky looking out the peephole. She opens the door, dressed in a camisole and short shorts. Her pretty ass toes are delicately painted light pink. Rockwell folds her arms, but those hazel eyes begin to sparkle.
Rockwell
“Chuey, what are you doing here?” I ask, eyebrow cocked.
He holds up a gift. I chew on my bottom lip, and then take a deep breath while grabbing it. After mumbling my thanks, I cock my head and allow him to enter. As I walk down the short corridor to the living room, Chuey’s eyes take to my ass, dragging up and down oh so very slowly. Is it the fact that I haven’t been fucked in months or made love in so many more months? But I’m getting myself in trouble. Nah, bump that. Moving already landed me in deep water. This right here? This shit is going to kill me.
I sink down onto the short couch and fold my legs in front of me. My eyes narrow as I look up. Still standing, Chuey can look all down into my goodies. I glance down at my own breast. I’m not exactly naked. Even in front of Lorenzo and the entire fam, Chuey’s seen me in a bikini.
“Sit,” I tell him. Then I kick my leg over so Chuey doesn’t coming to sit next to me, but instead the raggedy La-Z-Boy that Miguel said has “character.” Rita had promised to burn before putting in the cute little home that they would be moving into. The home had character but it’s whateva.
Chuey leans forward in his chair, watching me intently. My eyes get back to the gift before me. Nobody has paid me any attention for a while. I haven’t gotten a gift, without my mother-in-law’s pity, since Lorenzo actually loved me. No matter the cost of the gift I will be…
“A blender?”
He chuckles, peering over into the gift box.
“Boy, why did you buy me… Nigga you didn’t even buy this, did you?” I pout.
“Nah, not really,” Chuey says, his laughter ends on a sexy sigh that toys with my pussy.
Stop it, I tell myself and look away.
“But I did think you could use a margarita after all the shit you’ve been through,” Chuey adds.
“Nope. I’m not drinking anything.” I shake my head.
“Okay. Dinner?” He shrugs.
“Maybe you should go…”
“Maybe we should eat dinner first?” Chuey asks, his dark eyes are so convincing, so friendly that I can only believe him.
“I can’t go out with you,” I say, folding my arms. I might as well get used to being an old maid. No need getting us both bodied. “We can’t go out. This is Lorenzo’s town after all. What if…”
“Nobody saw me, Rockwell,” he speaks in a soothing voice, as my heart rate rises. “Besides, I don’t want to take you out. Let me cater for you.”
“Stop!” I damn near jump out of my seat. The box falls, the stainless steel blender tumbles out. Chuey stands up before me. Almost a head taller, he’s in front of me in seconds. His hands take my shoulders, thumbs softly grazing over my soft skin.
“I don’t want to do anything that you don’t want to do, Rocky. All I want to do is cook you dinner. Ask of me, I will do it. Request me not to,” he says, licking his lips, “I won’t.”
Chuey makes it sound so simple, but my brain just wants to be loved by Lorenzo. Right now, Chuey looks so fucking good to me. He should become my Lorenzo… I almost break my ankle trying to get back to the door. But when I turn around, Chuey isn’t following me out. I can hear pots and pans in the kitchen. Dang, I turn around and stalk toward the kitchen. My short legs move as fast as they can go.
“Didn’t I tell you that I wanted you to go, Chuey?” I snap, rolling my neck.
“Yeah…” He shrugs out of his suit jacket.
“Okay, classic man, you’re ass just said you were going to do whatever I wanted.”
“The thing is, Rocky,” Chuey says, stepping before me again all suave and shit, “I’ma do whatever it is you really want me to do. So when you ask of me, and it’s what you really, really would like, that’s when I’ma do. Okay, ma?”
Speechless, I lean against the kitchen doorframe.
~~~
Yesterday in the evening, my life seemed just like normal again as I hung out with Chuey. It’s like I was back home in Hoover, chilling with the love of my life Renzo, except Chuey can cook better. And the nigga thought he was too damn funny as we hung out on a rug on the living room floor, eating his homemade tacos. Nothing happened, but we ended up falling asleep.
Chuey left before dawn, but probably visible to my new neighbors. Now I’m standing here with Rita in my tiny kitchen. Even with my toddlers near, my mind is on how Chuey brought me back to life with good eats and good laughs. She is chiding Lola about spilling food as I reach down and wipe Lisa’s face.
Then Lorenzo Junior pushes his chair back so hard that the wood floors make a loud scraping sound. “I’m ready to go home!”
He stalks toward the front door, and I hurry after my son; he’s almost shoulder height to me.
“Nigga, who do you think you are?” I shout. I yank his shoulders, turning him around. Dang, the boy was five when Lorenzo stepped into his life. I haven’t spanked on Junior in so long because he was as well-mannered as one of his uppity ass white friends.
“Why you tryna leave, dad?” he bucks up on me.
Before I know it, I slap him. The plan was to have a heart-to-heart with my son. He’s not even in the double digits yet, so Junior doesn’t need to really know what’s up. I had anticipated showing him and the twins their bedroom today. A new-used crib and twin sized bed is supposed to arrive later on today. But I’m guessing this little nigga won’t want to do half his week here, and half at a mansion that I would never be able to afford.
Not even fazed by the hit, Junior s
talks outside. I try to start after him, but Rita calls me.
“Nah, watch the girls,” she says, stepping past me.
“Mama Rita, but—“ I feel as if I have nothing to give my children. Her look has me on pause. Yet, Rita isn’t staring at me. I’ve lost the words that I need to explain where I’m coming from. However, the glare in her eyes makes me turn around.
The twins are in the kitchen chatting up a storm in their cute little dialect as if they’re of most importance. And my eyes finally land on where Rita’s stopped.
Chuey’s blazer…
Rita stalks over and picks up the jacket. Instantly, I’m telling her that nothing has happened.
“It doesn’t matter your intentions or what you did not do, Rockwell. Chuey is Lorenzo’s brother! You cannot be around him!”
My bottom lip drops. I stare as she grips harshly onto the Italian wool blazer. This shit doesn’t make any sense. Then Rita lets it fall from her hands, as if realizing what she has just told me.
“You’re Chuey’s mom?”
“Hell nah,” she scoffs. “Just forget about it.”
I glance out the open door, since Junior stalked outside. He’s pacing back and forth near the curb, angry to the max. The little nigga is just as hard as Lorenzo, damn. Rita begins to walk back toward the kitchen as if lost.
“Then Santiago,” I begin, gulping back the vomit in my mouth. Rita and her brother…
Later that evening, I still have the storyline in my head as to how Rita’s only younger brother raped her while she was at church praying. The kids didn’t stay, because the delivery service had to come tomorrow. I’m all alone. I pull out a thick, fuzzy cotton pajamas and a big t-shirt that belongs to Lorenzo. It’s all I’ve taken. I hold the white tee to my chest, missing the hell out of the fool. Then I sit my pajamas on my bed and start for the bathroom.
I head into the half-bathroom. Reaching into the shower, I turn the knob to the right adjustment tryna figure out how to get Chuey to leave me the fuck alone. Rita was right; my brain was right from jump. He needs to stay the hell away from me. Now that I know the truth of him being Lorenzo’s brother, it hurts….
Loving a Colombian Cartel Thug 3 Page 10
