Best Laid Plans

by Brick

  I got out of the bed and trekked across the cold marble flooring. “What, Tone?” I asked without opening the door.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  “You’re lying. I know you, Kenya.”

  I sighed and laid my head against the door. For a moment, I thought about not opening it as Isaac’s words replayed in my head. But after a few seconds, I turned the locks and opened the door. I turned to walk away without looking at Tone as he strolled in. It was after two in the morning. Neither of us would be worth anything once we landed in Texas if we got no sleep.

  Tone locked the door behind him as I crawled back in bed. I finally looked over at him when I got settled in, and I wished I hadn’t.

  I groaned low in my throat. “Antonio, where’s your shirt?” I asked.

  I didn’t need him in my room, in the dark with only the moonlight shining through, in low-hanging jeans. I didn’t need to see the tattoos or the toned chest and six-pack abs. I most definitely didn’t need the wild, thick coils of hair sitting unruly but sexy on his head. And God knew I didn’t need to see the low droop of his eyelids and the sexy way his eyes seemed to glow against the moonlight in the dark.

  “I guess the same place your pants and bra are,” he quipped back at me.

  I shook my head, remembering I only had on Calvin Klein boy shorts and a thin T-shirt with no bra. So I didn’t have a rebuttal for his comeback. I slapped the tears away from my face as Antonio sat on the bed next to me. We both sat there in silence, looking out over the land from the open bay window.

  “We’re going to find her,” he said to me after a while. “And soon. You have my word.”

  As badly as I wanted to nod or say something, I couldn’t. All I had left at this point were my tears. In that moment, I was grateful for him being there as I broke down crying. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I was hurting. My child was gone. Tone wrapped his arm around me then pulled me onto his lap. Just like Jewel could still sit on my lap, I still fit in Tone’s lap like I always did. There was nothing sexual about the way he held me in that moment. He was simply a man, a father comforting the mother of his child. And I needed that. I needed him in that moment.

  The bond between two people who had history the way Tone and I did could never be broken. Even when the love and the sex were gone, even when the lust had gone from a blazing inferno to a simmering coal, the bond Tone and I shared as best friends never wavered. So when he held me and allowed me to cry until sleep overtook me, I welcomed it.

  Chapter 7

  Antonio

  Sleep didn’t come easy that night for me, if at all. The shared pain between Kenya and me, along with the thoughts of Jewel, kept me on edge. There was no way that I could mentally keep my chill on her kidnapping, but I was trying. Momentary flares of aggression that I had against those who would try to keep my daughter’s whereabouts hidden kept me on edge. I let all that out in the privacy of my bathroom, gripping the porcelain bowl as my body shook in response to my sealed emotions; and the sounds of Kenya’s cries added to the agony in my spirit.

  I was a lot of things, but accepting that I could be a natural born killer was still conflicting with my psyche. The part of me that led me into medicine with a desire to heal those in need was fighting with what was in my blood. Even now, as I held Kenya, the doctor in me was at the surface. Once her cries softened and her hold against me became lax, I gently laid her on the bed, got up, left, and came back with a black duffle bag that held my med kit. In it was everything I needed in case any of us were hurt, and extras to use as what I knew best: medicine against my foes.

  Settling back on the bed, I had gauzes, antiseptic, natural aloe gel, liquid stitch gel just in case, and square cotton pads. Kenya had gone ham on that Bella woman, so much so that she had effectively bruised and cut up her knuckles. From how she held me, I knew they hurt, which was why I carefully took her hands and began to quietly work on them.

  “You’re still trouble, baby,” I muttered in Spanish while I cleaned her cuts.

  The light, sweet scent of soap, mixed with her natural honey smell, traveled over my nose. It made me study the way her body had inched toward me and how her thighs peeked from under the bedsheets I had laid over her. In another place and time in our past, how she was right now, how she always was when I was near her in bed, inching toward me, would have me folding myself around her to give her the intimacy and comfort she needed. Or, it would have me waking her up with heady kisses, my fingers playing against her covered slit until moisture dampened the fabric and until her moans created a sweet crescendo in our room.

  Rolling my shoulders, with a grunt, I tried to shut off from running across my mind that quick memory and internal truth that no woman could ever match her moans, but I wasn’t fast enough. Carefully, I pulled the sheet back over her to cover her fully; then I went back to work on her. As I did so, the sound of something vibrating knocked me from my thoughts. Shifting in my seat on the bed, I looked around for that muffled sound until I reached under her pillow to pull out her cell.

  The image of Kenya with her fiancé Isaac standing in front of the bakery they had opened together drew my attention. Considering how late it was, it annoyed me that he was calling, but it wasn’t my business. I just knew that Kenya needed whatever rest she could get, so I tapped her cell and moved the call to voicemail. Nigga might have been upset about it, but it was what it was. He’d get over it.

  Honestly, I didn’t care if he didn’t. This thing going on was about one thing, our child, and I’d be happy enough to explain it to him man to man. No lie. I had no issue with the dude even though I felt at times when Isaac looked at me that he felt some type of way about my presence. It took a long time for me to fully accept him in my daughter’s life. Naturally, I let him know that when Kenya first introduced him to me. I mean, what man wouldn’t question or do a low-key background check on a nigga he knew nothing about but who would be around his child, let alone his daughter? Blame it on how I was raised, but it took me a long time to trust.

  Back then, I still was determined to keep a respectful decorum with the homie because I wanted him to know that if he stepped the wrong way I would not be a very responsible brotha. I also didn’t want him thinking that I was still hung up on Kenya.

  But you are.

  Shaking my head, I glanced down at Kenya then let her hand go. That pesky secret place within me was acting up and I wasn’t about to deal with its BS or its memories. I pushed up off the bed.

  We had a good friendship at one time. I had embraced being a father and husband in the beginning until real life and college, then later her distancing behavior, got us both fucked up. But, in the end, we still were friends at times. We could be cordial.

  Now that the anger was settling down, it kind of felt like we were getting back to being adults. Walking to the bathroom, I washed my hands then studied my face. I was getting a five o’clock shadow. I had a bruise near my jaw from where I was hit in my scuffle with Jesus. Near my ribcage was a similar bruise. Nothing on me was severe but everything was sore.

  It had me rolling my neck until the muscles and tendons stretched and relaxed. I reached in my pocket and pulled out my untraceable cell. Dialing, I waited and moved to sit on the edge of the steel clawfoot tub that sat in the middle of the large basilica-style bathroom. My gaze took in the archway designs on the wall, with its golden touches and Spanish tilework.

  “Mijo, are you okay?” I immediately heard in my ear.

  Sliding my palm down my face, I sighed. “I’m tired, Mama.”

  “Sí, it’s late, but I know what you really mean, my son. What have you learned?” my mother asked in the way that always was an additional healing balm.

  Just the simple sweetness helped put strength back in me and get my head in check. As the son of Satan himself—not the legend that is Lucifer, but the title that is Satan—being weak was not allowed. Not how I was right now. Not with the way my voice cr
acked and my eyes itched with unshed tears. So it was spilling some of my frustrations out with my mother that kept me together.

  “Found pictures of her. She was happy and it pisses me off. It pisses me off that my baby girl could put herself in the type of situation where she’d go with a complete stranger. It’s fucked up, Mama. I mean, I thought I did everything right. Thought I taught her how to pick the right type of person to stand by her side.”

  “Listen to me, mijo. Remember what I told you. A parent can only instill a strong foundation. It’s up to the child to lay the right bricks. You and Kenya took that and elevated it by offering her the first bricks then letting her gain her own footing. Mijo, sometimes those bricks are wrong but you have to trust that she’ll replace them with the right ones,” my mother lovingly explained.

  “Sí, I know. However, I must bring her back alive and unharmed in order for her to continue building,” I replied, gripping my cellphone.

  My mother’s light, sleepy chuckle tickled my ear and made me sigh as she said, “Yes, and you will. Stay strong, mijo. You are my child, but you are your father’s seed. Continue using that to your advantage and be better than he ever could be.”

  Quiet for a moment, I let her words settle in, then I stood. “Yes, ma’am. I love you. Forgive me for waking you up.”

  “No, thank you for calling your mama, and I love you more, mijo. Please come home safely with my grandbaby,” she said.

  “I will. I promise you on that.” I hung up and moved to the sink.

  Turning off the running water, I stepped back into the room. My soul was weary. I watched Kenya sleep while I stood in the middle of the room lost in my thoughts. I felt as if I should leave and I was about to, but her whimpering began. How she was muttering in her sleep reminded me of a time several years back when she woke up in a sweat, screaming. She had come to Miami to visit me and Jewel. I had just tucked our daughter in after reading to her when I heard Kenya’s scream.

  It was one of the times in our then union that I instinctively was ready to pull out my gun and go after an invisible threat. When I made it to the room, she wouldn’t look me in the eyes. She wouldn’t tell me what her nightmare was about. All she said was it was stress; then she lay in bed. Taking her at her word like I always did, I climbed in ready to hold her the way she usually liked; but, instead, Kenya turned her back on me and kept her distance. Back then, that was the start of our emotional and physical separation.

  This time though, without missing a beat, her thrashing had me quickly sitting on the bed. I slid off my black slippers, threw my legs up to lie against the headboard, and pulled Kenya to me. When her arms wrapped around me tightly and she whispered our daughter’s name, I sighed and sent a prayer to the universe until I eventually fell asleep. We both missed our baby girl and needed to get her home safely.

  * * *

  Early morning was our friend when we left after a large breakfast. The sun was blazing as we strolled past the roasting, battered body of Bella. Eyes glazed over looking at the skies, her body had literally ballooned from the heat and internal gasses of her body. Blood caked her skin and, from what I could see, insect bites marred the flesh. A memory of my childhood immediately let me guess what torture Bella had been put through before her death. My father was a very astute type of man, meaning he was a watcher of people’s behaviors. When I was young, he learned that I had a fear of enclosed spaces and dogs due to running from a dog on the beach and getting caught in a cave. One day, my father decided to teach me a lesson. For several days, I was locked up in an old dirt cellar used for his wine.

  From where I sat, all I saw were twinkling stars in the night sky. By the time I was pulled out of the cellar by my furious and teary-eyed mother, I was a changed child. When she managed to get to me, I sat knees pressed to chest in nothing but my underwear with dead dogs and insects around me.

  I’ll never forget it. My usually rambunctious self sat rigid with my body pressed against the smooth dirt walls. I wasn’t really cognizant of the fact that my mother was there. I sat with a blank expression on my sweat-drenched, sooty face. All around me were broken wine bottles, blood, a pool of wine from an empty barrel, dead dogs, and roaches. In my hands were two large pieces of bloody broken glass. My father gave me two guidelines in order to get out of the cellar toward a rope waiting for me: I had to either walk through a makeshift pit of roaches and attacking dogs, or kill them.

  Fear can make a human accomplish the most amazing feats. Thinking back, I still didn’t know how I made it out, but I did. My first attempt had me trying my best to go through them, but the dogs bit me, as did the roaches, which crawled over me. I was so scared, I pissed myself. For several days with no food, just water, I tried to conquer my fear and wade through them again, but fear got the best of me.

  When my father visited me and saw how I soiled myself and pleaded through tears for him to let me out, he stared at me in disgust. The man who was Caltrone, my father, ignored all of that and had me dragged into the pit of roaches and tied down. The dogs were chained back, barking at me as they watched. Eventually, several days later, I was released to the other corner of the cellar but the rope was taken away.

  After that, my young mind decided that enough was enough. I chose to play with fire and used what I had at my disposal to gain my freedom. When my mother got me out of the pit, I had marks all over me. It was my mother’s loving help that healed me, and the way she went in on my father that inspired me to stop being scared. I was eight years old and it was my birthday. That was the day I knew that I wanted to be a doctor, to help kids like myself. It was also when the love I had for my father disappeared.

  Fisting my hands at the memory, I glanced at the bloated body, figuring that she had gone through something similar. The woman had erred by incurring the wrath of this family by lying and keeping the truth not only from us, but from my father. A humanistic part of me was disgusted, but the vengeful father I was felt nothing for the woman. She had crossed the wrong family and she needed to pay for it, and that was the Orlando running through my veins. Though the memory of my childhood and the emotions attached to that scratched at my mind, I hated my father; but, above all else, I feared the man at the same time.

  Arriving in Texas didn’t take as long as I thought it would. We landed on a private airstrip attached to a forty-acre, plus several mules, cattle ranch outside of Houston. After climbing into a blacked-out Bentley, we passed through iron gates that featured the crest of a lion with the name KING MEADOWS RANCH over it. I remembered this place, having come to it only once.

  It belonged to Caltrone as a spoil of war and was run by family allies. I never understood as a child why he hated coming here but wanted to own it. The staff he selected were nobodies and family never came here; only unsubstantial business people came here to rent it out. As we rode over cream-colored bricks, in the distance a grand chateau-style mansion greeted us. Waiting in the blaring heat were several cousins and attendants who wiped their brows on the sly.

  I stared up at a symbol that, as an adult, I knew goaded my father; then we walked inside. From the bad vibes kicking off my father, I knew that the Satan in him was riled up, which meant he was going to be a foul fucker. I slowed my stride to walk in tandem with Kenya.

  “Keep out of his way or keep your language to a minimum, I’m warning you,” I muttered low for her to hear. I watched Kenya open her mouth to question me and I quickly shook my head. “Above everything, trust me in this. This place doesn’t make him as commendable as he was before coming here, okay?”

  Crossing her arms over her chest she nodded. “As long as we get our daughter, I’ll do whatever.”

  “Be careful in how you express that, especially now.” With that I walked forward then was stopped abruptly by my father.

  With his back to me, he stared ahead as if lost in a daze but spoke with a chilling tone in his rough voice. “I want you to head to the back. There’s some things that I feel you need to be schooled on a
gain as a refresher. You are too in your emotions and I will not tolerate that, Antonio.”

  Turning his head to where he stared at us from the side of his face, he grabbed a tablet from Mark, muttered something to him, then returned to speaking to us.

  “Ms. Gates, for as much as I find your raw candor in handling that woman in Mexico intriguing, it is just that: intriguing. You need to learn structure in how you go after someone. Tone will teach you. Get out of my face,” he said with quiet finality.

  I could tell that Kenya wanted to ask about going after Hector, but I shook my head. When my father had handed Mark the tablet, I had noticed a file with the name Hector Sanchez on it. He was already steps ahead, so all we could do was follow his orders. Placing a hand on Kenya’s arm, I pointed and guided her to the back where we stopped in a sunroom.

  “We don’t have time for this. We need to go after Hector,” Kenya urged, her eyes wide with anger.

  She paced back and forth, her feet thumping on the Moroccan tile flooring as I took in the surroundings. Exotic vines swung low like ivy against the brick wall of the sunroom. Several plants blossomed around us giving us shade, and Moroccan lounge chairs and couches begged to be reclined on. Behind Kenya on a large table were clothes: black pants, white tanks, and black kicks. Next to them were several types of guns.

  I stepped up to the table then began undressing. “I know and I agree. But, like I said, we need to do what we gotta do. I told you this wasn’t going to be easy.”

  “How can you say that with ease? This is our daughter,” she said whipping around at me with a turned-up face, her words trailing when she saw me. “What are you doing?”

  “I know. But he’s calling the shots on this part of the game, Kenya,” I said while looking up at her as I unzipped my pants. “I know nothing about Hector, so my own intel is dry at this point and I’m getting dressed. Looks like I’m teaching you gunplay.”

  “Gunplay?” Kenya continued watching me before shaking her head and reaching for clothes. “I have to change too?”