by Kenya Wright
I was introduced to sex too young. Too wrong.
By the time I was old enough to love, my heart was a little bag of poisonous fear. Paralyzing fear. Fear of love. Fear of men. Fear of them getting too close. Fear of them seeing invisible bruises.
“Girl, I told you I could introduce you to some nice guys in my classes.”
“I’m good.”
Kennedy gazed around. “Do you think Darryl arrived yet?”
“Nope.” I rolled my eyes at the mention of my brother. “I doubt he’s here. I don’t hear the cops or any other signs of trouble.”
“You’re so hard on him.”
That’s one way to look at it.
Darryl kept me in trouble. It was normal for me, my cross to bear. But I wasn’t a fan of how he treated my best friend. He should’ve never started dating Kennedy when we were teens. Since then, they’d been off and on forever. They were a never-ending cycle of dysfunction—he fucked around, and she waited until he got bored and returned to her. In these recent years, she’d taken on a maternal role, closing her eyes to all his sexual adventures, yet always being his ride or die chick—as if that even meant anything to him.
It didn’t matter if there was video footage of Darryl sleeping with another woman broadcasting in Times Square. He would dance his way out of it. And he was a ballerina when it came to escaping breakups. He could plié and relevé with the best of them, but the true skill was in his leaps over reality and the ways he was able to balance himself on the tightrope of delusion.
Basically, if he hadn’t been my brother, I would’ve cut off his penis for what he’d done to her.
“I’m going to call Darryl and see if he’s on his way.” Kennedy rushed off without my response.
It might be better if Darryl stays over whatever chick he’s found this evening. Then he could keep his butt out of trouble.
I passed by a couple talking about my art.
“Extraordinary.” The man pointed to the painting and gestured toward the lion on the canvas. “I’ve never seen a more astonishing creature. The use of light and shadow. The mixed media.”
The woman with him nodded. “I feel like the lion is going to jump off the canvas and rip my head off.”
I walked further down and neared a critic. I’d seen him at other artists’ showings. I was happy he’d showed up at mine.
He spoke into his phone, probably using a recorder app to gather his notes. “. . .Emily is one of the youngest artists to be included in the Met's new modern art collection celebrating Harlem.”
Yes! He’s doing an article on me. I hope it’s good. Shit. It doesn’t matter. He’s talking about me. That’s good enough.
My other bestie, Maxwell stood back from the group of exhibit attendees, nursing a flute of champagne and surrounded by gorgeous women. He’d take one or two home this evening.
Maxwell had those panty-dropping looks. Light brown skin. Hazel eyes. Tall, with a body to die for. Huge arms and a rock-hard chest. To most, Maxwell was hot. But for me, we remained in the friend zone.
We shared too many dark memories. Loving each other wouldn’t wash the filth away. And even if we didn’t share a haunted past, Maxwell was a man-whore after all.
Not that I was an angel either.
What happened last night? Just forget about it for now. Enjoy the moment.
I walked around, doing my best not to creep anybody out as I listened in on conversations. Many were enthused over the dozen large paintings displayed on the gallery walls. Others tried to guess why I’d chosen a lion as my subject matter.
A man with huge glasses on his head spoke to a group of four. “The lion must symbolize Africa and her journey back to her roots. Do you see how the shape of this lion’s pupils are the shape of the African continent?”
Wow. They are? That damn sure wasn’t intentional, but I’ll take that.
“Yes. Yes.” The woman next to him nodded. “I see. Remarkable. Tribal. I can hear Mother Africa humming.”
The others nodded.
The man with the glasses continued, “She’s telling us that we can never forget our heritage, no matter how much it was ripped away from us and covered in blood.”
Really? It’s just a lion on a cliff about to take a nap.
I continued toward the center and caught more conversation.
“This is so erotic.” A man held the hand of another. Both were tall.
The other kissed his cheek. “We have to get this one. It’s all about independence from the social constraints that society puts on sexuality.”
“Tell me about it.” He gestured to the lion’s long, thick tail. “And that is an obvious phallic symbol. This would go great in the dining room. Sexual, but not overt.”
I was glad no one stopped me to ask about the art. I was still new and unrecognizable in the art world, just trying to rise on the ladder. Anything to get out of Harlem. Anything to stop shoveling dirty money for dirty people. Plus, I wasn’t a fan of praise and attention. Anything more than a “Hey, that’s a cool painting,” and I would be stirring nervously and trying to get away from them.
My phone buzzed.
Maxwell had texted me.
Why didn’t you just walk over here and tell me what you had to say?
I read the screen and typed back.
Maxwell: We’ve got a problem.
Me: What?
Maxwell: There’s a bunch of shady characters in here.
Me: How shady?
Maxwell: Check the back of the gallery but be careful.
My heart hammered. Anytime Maxwell said be careful, it was a good time to run.
But why would something be dangerous tonight?
This was our night off from our usual activities.
Three years ago, Kennedy, Maxwell, and I had opened this gallery at the young ages of eighteen. Many said we were talented go-getters and a highly motivated youth.
But the ones on the street knew the game. The art gallery was meant for something else. We’d basically opened a laundromat in the hood, but we didn’t wash clothes. We cleaned money for a percentage. We dealt with dangerous people, but none of them were too big to fear our life. Low time gangsters.
What’s going on now? Can’t I get a break from the streets tonight?
I headed in that direction and drank in the people around me. While it was true that many appeared like the typical hipsters, there were some shady characters sprinkled throughout the crowd. Large, muscular men here and there were dressed in black suits and standing by the wall, not looking at the art, just scanning all the faces. Some had tattoos on their necks. Others had a few scars here or there.
None of the faces were recognizable, but all screamed one thing.
Russians. What the fuck are Russians doing here?
If one looked up the definition for gentrification, they would find two people-friendly meanings. The first would say that gentrification is the process of improving an area to conform to middle-class taste. The second would say that it was the process of making a person or activity more refined or polite.
But the street said that gentrification was about pushing minorities out of their homes to make way for affluent whites.
Regardless, gentrification had come to my neighborhood.
Harlem was a large area in the northern section of the New York City borough of Manhattan. These days, there were two types of people that lived in Harlem—the kind that rode the gentrification train over the George Washington bridge and the ones that had lived there all their lives. I was the latter, but I didn’t complain like my friends. Many wanted Harlem to stay the Black Mecca. Others embraced the change. I just wanted to sleep without nightmares and not worry about bills. I’d spent long nights in the library reading about the history of Harlem.
This neighborhood had always changed and was destined for continued transformation in the times to come. It had been formed as a Dutch village in the 1600s. After the Civil War, poor Jews and Italians dominated the area. The
1900s brought the Great Migration of blacks, sparking the Harlem Renaissance in the 20’s and 30s.
Recently, Harlem’s population of blacks had gone down to 40 percent.
And Harlem’s crime world was also experiencing a major shift. Gentrification had hit them too. The Russians were moving deeper into Harlem. Many of the Jamaican gangs were getting nervous and talking about war. I just hoped I’d be out of Harlem before things got hot.
But, why are Russians here? What do they want?
A few of the men remained scattered throughout the gallery, but every now and then they glanced to the back—right where I headed.
What’s going on?
And then I spotted the center of their attention. A man dressed in a crisp designer suit that was worth so much money, I bet twenties fell from the hems as he walked on by. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t see a trail of bills as I followed him.
Who is he?
Slowly, he walked around, drinking in the art.
I matched his speed and lingered five feet away.
He walked by each painting, stopping for a few seconds, and then moving onto the next.
Art enthusiast or here to start trouble?
I continued to keep my distance. When he stopped, I paused and turned in another direction. When he moved on, I inched a little closer.
I had no doubt that all his men knew I was watching him. But they didn’t stop me or say anything. There was no reason to see me as a threat. Where he must’ve been close to 6’4, I was 5’5.
I know one thing. He’s the boss.
He walked like one. Like he owned the ground his feet stepped on. Like he owned the air that we all breathed. Like he could eat up the universe, if he wanted to.
His presence was quite the experience, hitting me with feminine awareness. And speaking of models, he had a perfectly structured face that was ready for fashion, and not the commercial stuff people saw when they stood in line at a grocery. He could’ve been an editorial model—edgy and high-end. Shoulders a mile wide. Dark hair cut with style. A sleek jaw.
His eyebrows were two dark slashes above thick-lashed eyes that glowed blue and deep. Those eyes were moving liquid, but so fucking cold. His lips were tilted at the corners as if he was composing a dirty joke.
He inspired sex. It was an instant shot to my brain and probably to all the other women that watched him walk by. A few licked their lips. Delicious sex. Ungodly, primal sex. The dirtiest kind. Up in a filthy alley getting pounded into the brick wall sex. Fucking your boyfriend’s best friend sex as he sleeps in the other room. Rough, sheet-clawing sex. Nasty. Grimy sex. And it radiated off every part of him. His face. His presence. His shoulders. His eyes.
My phone buzzed.
I ignored it.
It was probably Maxwell telling me to be careful, but this man was intriguing.
I took a chance and got closer, barely two feet away. We both stopped at my focal painting—the one I was most proud of. But I didn’t glance at the painting, I drank in the man as he studied my art with an extreme intensity.
Yeah. Smoking hot. Maybe late twenties or early thirties at the most.
And he continued to study my painting with a fierce indulgence. It was like he was two seconds away from pulling it off the wall and taking it home.
And because of that intensity for my art, it made me want to fuck him. Not that it took much these days. I wished he wasn’t this mysterious Russian guy, radiating terror. I wished he was just here for the art. A regular man. If he had been, then I would’ve fucked him—right on my desk in the office, on my bed at home, and the dirty alley right next to the gallery where I’d taken others for a few minutes and then left them with their pants down, when we were done.
But he wasn’t here for art or sex. He’d probably come for something else.
By now, he knew I was next to him. A man like that would’ve probably known I was following him minutes ago.
Then, let him say something. Let’s get this over with.
I edged closer.
This near, the suit looked even more expensive. Where I thought it was hundreds of dollars, I now knew it was thousands. And there was quite an energy under that fabric as he wore it like a second skin. Already, I could make out an impressive muscular frame.
He didn’t look my way. Instead he spoke, his voice a deep lovely tone riding a heavy Russian accent, “Why do you paint lions?”
The question shocked me.
He turned my way and centered all his attention on me.
Stunned, I whispered, “I like lions.”
“You don’t.” He put his attention back to the painting. “Your art is captivating. But, it’s not until you get to this painting where I realized you were holding back. This one you love. This one you enjoyed creating and it’s not because of the lion.”
I turned to the image and tried to see what he saw.
A labyrinth of ropes covered and trapped a lion to the ground. The lion was massive—huge muscles, sharp claws, fangs that protruded out of his mouth. Rage blazed in his eyes. Revenge dripped from his lips, but still, the lion remained trapped to the ground. I’d made the creature in tiny crystals and used oil paint for certain details and the outlining of him. I’d used threads from actual rope to painstakingly place a confusing labyrinth on him. It couldn’t just be a trap. It had to be more. The lion looked exhausted. One could tell that he’d struggled for a long time, trying to get out.
Lucky for him, a little mouse sat in the corner, nibbling away at the rope, ready to free him. It had taken me weeks to work on that little mouse. In some ways it was 3D, pushing out from the canvas—mink fur, ruby eyes, a tail of gray roped crystals that trailed beyond the image.
“You don’t like lions,” he said. “But, you do like mice. That’s the best mouse I’ve ever seen.”
“I do like rats and mice,” I admitted. “They’re crafty and hard to kill.”
He looked at me. “And so smart they can even help lions.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a talented artist.”
I felt weird about the compliment, but I forced a smile. “Thank you.”
“Nice to meet you, Emily.” He extended his hand, and I slid my fingers into his warm grip. “My name is Kazimir.”
Maybe you can mention why you already know my name.
I couldn’t breathe. I tried to pull away my hand, but he kept his fingers firmly around mine as he studied me. After a few seconds, he let go.
I recovered. “Are you a big fan of art?”
“My mother named me after the famous artist Kazimir Malevich. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Yes, but only a little. He was one of the originators of the avant-garde movement, pushing for nontraditional art and creative innovation. He liked to break the rules.”
“Yes, he did.” Kazimir smiled at me. “Did you go to art school?”
“No.” I looked away. “You could say that I was homeschooled.”
“Hmmm. There’s a story behind what you said.”
“A small one.”
“Tell me, unless it’s a secret.”
“I don’t like secrets and besides, I’ve talked about this to a few journalists.” I sighed. “My brothers and I had some rough times during our childhood.”
He nodded. “I definitely know about rough childhoods.”
I gave him a half smile. “We. . .lost our home and our parents, when we were young. Neither of us were a fan of foster care so we would run away and meet up at the library. It was the best place to sleep during the winter. All we had to do was hide around closing. Once all the staff left, we would spend the night reading to each other.”
“You said brothers. You have more than one?”
“I have one that is my blood and one that’s basically a brother from another mother.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Basically, we’re so close we’re family.”
“I like your story. You’re a survivor.”
; “Most are. Who really has it easy in this world?”
He gestured to the lion and mouse. “This painting is like our situation.”
My voice lowered. “Our situation?”
He inched closer to me and smiled. “Like the lion in this painting, trapped by rope and other things, I need your help. I need you to be a little mouse and nibble away the problem. And when you do this for me, you’ll find there will be many rewards.”
I knew killers and powerful men, and he wasn’t just one of them, he was the one. I doubted many men were above him.
Granted, he had the model perfect chiseled angles and beautifully masculine face, but those eyes screamed death. Most had normal windows to the soul. Kids had innocence and adventure pooled along their pupils. Older people had this weariness in theirs. But his eyes. There was no warmth. They were cold and lacking humanity.
He smiled. “Do you think you can help?”
I doubt it, but I’m totally down to help you not kill me.
I swallowed. “How can I help you?”
He studied me so intently, I felt stripped bare. “Let’s go to your office and discuss it.”
“Okay. Let me just let my partners know.” Maxwell, get the guns just in case. Kennedy, call my brother. “They’ll have to take up the slack for hosting my event.”
He nodded and followed me as I walked off.
Maxwell was already heading my way. We met in the center of the gallery.
Watching Kazimir the whole time, Maxwell stepped to my side and whispered, “What’s up?”
I whispered back, “I don’t know. He wants to talk. He’s Russian.”
“Obviously.”
“His first name is Kazimir. Look him up and ask around. It also wouldn’t hurt to get a gun or two.”
“Okay.” Maxwell eyed Kazimir behind me. “Where are you two going?”
“My office.”
Maxwell frowned.
“I’ll be fine. If he wanted me dead, I would be dead. This probably deals with the Jamaicans.”
Maxwell shook his head. “Or it deals with your brother.”
My calm shifted to nervousness. It was one thing to have the Russian mob at my art showing. It was another thing to have them there due to Darryl. Anytime people came knocking because of him, I had to do bad things.
