“I’m Kiana.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Evelyn said. She sipped her vodka and raised her eyebrows while staring at Kiana over the rim of her glass. Her eyes were hazel with green flecks that glimmered every time the bar lights transitioned from yellow to orange. “You’re a friend of Michelle’s. A special friend.” She giggled, the tip of her tongue flicking out to meet her top lip.
Kiana nodded. “I suppose you could say that.” She looked over at the group of chairs. She didn’t see Michelle or Genevieve. She searched the lounge, finally spotting Genevieve and Michelle standing among the women from the bridal party. Everyone stood in the center of the sectional, shaking hands and talking animatedly. She drank from her glass, feeling light-headed but heavy at the same time. She blinked slowly but drank quickly. She needed balance.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Evelyn said.
“It’s all lies,” Kiana said, sipping from her glass.
Evelyn threw her head back and laughed. She put her gimlet on the bar and clapped her hands together once then folded them in front of her. Her skirt, a band of red leather that cut across her thin, pale white thighs, rode up as she lifted a leg up on the rail running along the bottom of the bar. “You don’t even know what I’ve heard.”
Kiana looked at Evelyn, really looked at her. Her sharp nose and deep-set eyes made her look severe, ravenous and exhausted at the same time. She tucked a curl behind her ear and adjusted the spaghetti strap of her black silk shirt, tiny sheer stripes exposing her red, strapless bra underneath.
“Was it good?” Kiana asked.
“Was what good?” Evelyn said, biting her lip.
“What you’ve heard.”
“Yes,” Evelyn said. She tilted her head in challenge.
“Then it’s like I said,” Kiana said. She sipped her drink and turned her attention to the sectional. Some of the women had been seated; others, Genevieve and Michelle included, remained standing. “All lies.”
Evelyn chuckled. “Michelle was right about you. You are charming as fuck.” She picked up her gimlet and drained the last of her drink. She motioned for the bartender. “Do a shot with me,” she said, placing a warm hand on Kiana’s arm. The heat radiated through the sleeve of her shirt.
“I really shouldn’t,” Kiana said. She pulled her arm away. She shook her drink, mixing the magenta drink with the clear, perfect cubes of ice in the glass.
“That won’t get you very far in life,” Evelyn said. “I should. I shouldn’t. No fun in that.”
Kiana smirked. The drink, which turned out to be a semi-sweet, beguiling mixture of whiskey, black currant liqueur, lemon juice, and red wine, went down quick and easy. She drained her glass and ordered another with a raise of her empty glass.
“Besides, it’s usually the things that you shouldn’t do that are the most fun,” Evelyn said. She flipped a few errant curls out of her face, and when the bartender appeared, setting down another Whiskey Seduction for Kiana, she ordered two shots of Cuervo.
Kiana sipped her new drink and shifted toward Evelyn. “Cuervo?”
Evelyn smiled, her eyes shining in the yellow light. “I have it on good authority that tequila is a good choice for you.”
“Nah, buddy, I don’t really like tequila,” Kiana said. She drank her cocktail, deep swallows that eased down her throat, soothing and smooth. She felt hands wrap themselves around her waist. A body pressing up on her from behind.
“That’s not what we heard,” a voice whispered into the nape of her neck.
Kiana spun around. The cinnamon-skinned woman with the big eyes and wide mouth smiled at her, still pressing forward.
“We’re going to need another shot,” Evelyn said.
“I’m Iman,” the brown-skinned woman said, her breath hot against Kiana’s face. The smell was familiar but unpleasant, menthol, burnt leaves. She rolled her body against Kiana’s and planted a quick kiss beneath her ear.
“What the hell?” Kiana pushed her arms out, shoving Iman back. She stumbled then laughed.
“You need to loosen up,” Iman said. “Evelyn, get them shots over here. And see if…you know…” She bucked her eyes at Evelyn, who, as if just remembering something, dug into the curly, messy pile of hair on her head and pulled out a tiny baggie filled with a small white tablets.
Kiana shook her head before Evelyn even offered. “I don’t do drugs,” she said. She reached out and grabbed Iman’s wrists whose hands were constantly rubbing on Kiana’s body.
“You are being a party pooper,” Evelyn said. The bartender lined up two more shot glasses and poured them to the brim with tequila.
Iman scrunched her nose. “Cuervo?” She stuck out her tongue.
“Yeah, but it’s 1800!” Evelyn said.
“True!” Iman said. She and Evelyn slapped hands and burst into laughter. They each grabbed a shot glass and looked at Kiana expectedly.
Kiana stared at the shots then looked at the two women. Iman, sensual and full in ways Evelyn was not, blew her a kiss.
Kiana shook her head. “I don’t know what you two think you’re doing, but—”
Iman cut her off by placing a slender finger across her lips. “Stop. Just stop.” She leaned forward and kissed Kiana on the mouth without moving her finger.
“Tequila. Cuervo,” Evelyn said. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”
Kiana searched her brain, rifled through memories of parties past. Nothing came to her. She frowned, reaching across her body for her drink. She sipped it. The cool, dry whiskey charged with tart lemon, berries, and wine. Iman smiled at her and licked at the rim of her shot glass. Kiana thought of the tropical party on that cold Chicago winter’s day, she and Michelle dancing to reggae in their underwear until, apartment chill be damned, their skin was slick with sweat. She drank again. She looked at Evelyn, her eyes glowing yellow, orange, then green. Her gaze fixed, her thin lips curled into a grin; she poked her tongue out. A single tablet sat on the tip of it; she flipped it into her mouth. Kiana looked away and set her drink down. She tried to look through the two women and find Genevieve. She needed Genevieve.
“I haven’t been able to forget it since she told me about it,” Iman said. Her hand caught Kiana’s face, gripping it at her chin, short, sharp nails digging into her jaws.
“Apparently, you are quite good at what you do,” Evelyn said.
“Good with plenty to go around.” Iman smiled. Kiana gasped at the pinch of nails against her face. The nails scraped down to her chin. It hurt. She remembered.
Kiana’s hair had been shorter then. Much shorter. Cropped close, small curls and tiny waves. Nails scratching at her scalp. Another pair of hands tugging at her pants. She wore button-fly jeans; the fingers moved deftly, unbuttoning one by one, slow and fast at the same time. Her T-shirt yanked up over her head. Her bra pushed off her breasts. She had reached up and found skin, hot, smooth skin. Michelle’s thighs. She reached around. Michelle’s ass. She had cupped it and pulled Michelle forward. Kiana had opened her eyes, shaved pussy inches from her nose. Michelle’s. A moan. Someone else’s. Michelle’s mouth on her nipples. Someone else’s mouth on her clit. Michelle’s nails scratching across her stomach. Someone else’s nails digging into her thighs. All of them too hard, too sharp. Pleasure halted by pain, slices and pricks against Kiana’s skin like knives and needles. She didn’t want it. She couldn’t breathe.
Kiana’s eyes burned at the flashes of memory; everything about it had felt wrong. She hadn’t wanted it. She had told Michelle she didn’t want it, not like that. Kiana looked frantically from Evelyn to Iman. She held her breath, unable to exhale, afraid of having to inhale. Drowning.
“I’m sure it wasn’t 1800 then,” Evelyn said.
“Two broke bitches on the South Side of Chicago?” Iman laughed. “I highly doubt it.”
Iman and Evelyn slapped hands again, the tequila in their glasses sloshing over their fingers.
“We doing these shots or what?” Evelyn said. She
lifted her glass. “What we drinking to?”
Iman stepped closer to Kiana, raising her glass, her menthol cigarette breath made Kiana gag.
“Get off me!” Kiana said, shoving Iman back.
“Don’t be like that, Key,” Evelyn said. She grabbed Kiana’s arm.
“Yeah, Key,” Iman said. “Don’t be like that. Fuck, a toast then,” she said. She threw her shot back and swallowed with a shiver that shook her braless breasts against the wrap of her silk dress.
“Don’t call me that!” Kiana yelled.
“Oh, Key, relax,” Evelyn said. “We’re all friends here.” She shot her tequila too, but instead of swallowing it, she held it in her mouth. She grabbed Kiana’s face and smashed her thin lips against Kiana’s. She stabbed her tongue into Kiana’s mouth and pushed the tequila between her lips. The liquor, mixed with bitter chunks of Ecstasy, gurgled against their mouths and dripped down their chins. Iman laughed and moved closer to them both, her hand cupping Kiana’s pussy through her pants before sliding around to her ass.
Kiana bucked both women off of her and spun around wildly to get free of them. Her arms swiped at the bar. Her glass of whiskey and Evelyn’s gimlet crashed to the floor. The bartenders rushed over.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” Kiana said. “Get the fuck off me!”
“Key,” Iman said, her face suddenly concerned. Evelyn doubled over in laughter.
“Don’t call me that!”
Everyone stared at her. Genevieve and Michelle rushed over to her.
“Kiana, what happened?” Genevieve asked, trying to get close to her. Kiana pushed her away.
“Key, what’s the problem? What happened?” Michelle asked. She glanced over her shoulder at her friends. “Evelyn? Iman? What the fuck?” Neither woman said anything. They shrugged and huddled together, linking arms and exchanging innocent looks.
“Key,” Michelle said.
“FUCK YOU!” Kiana shouted. She whipped around and ran out of the lounge. She burst through the door so hard, she nearly knocked the bouncer over. He dropped his clipboard and grabbed Kiana by the collar of her shirt.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he said through clenched teeth. His green eyes cold and hard.
“Let me go!” Kiana yelled. She slapped at the bouncer’s meaty hands then kneed him in the crotch.
“You little bitch!” he said, one hand flying to his crotch, the other catching Kiana around the neck.
By then the women from the VIP area had come to the door, holding it open and crowding around. Genevieve pushed her way through the collection of wide-eyed, drunk women.
“Let her go!” Genevieve said. She ran up on the bouncer and pulled on his forearm, trying to yank his hand from around Kiana’s neck.
“Let her go, Sam,” Michelle said, sliding between two women in black catsuits, chunky belts hanging low on their narrow hips. “Let her go!”
Sam cut his eyes at Michelle and grunted. He loosened his grip and backed away. Kiana crumpled to the floor, hacking and holding her neck. Tears streamed down her face, but she didn’t wipe them. Genevieve knelt beside her. She rubbed her back.
“Come on,” Genevieve whispered. “Stand up. Come on.”
Genevieve helped Kiana to her feet. Kiana ran her arm roughly across her face. Her chest heaved. Her lips trembled. Her fists, clenched at her sides, throbbed against her thighs. She stared at Michelle. Michelle dropped her head then it lifted as if to speak. Kiana shook her head. There was nothing she could say, nothing Kiana wanted to hear. She imagined the sound of Michelle’s voice making her ears bleed. Genevieve put an arm around her, and Kiana let her lead her out of the club.
Chapter Fourteen
Kiana sat at the desk. She glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even midnight. She stared at the bottle of Cuervo and swallowed the acidic bubbles that repeatedly rose in the back of her throat. Her eyes burned. She had cried all the way to the hotel, silent tears rolling down her face, Genevieve holding her hand in the cab, also silent. Now she sat on the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress, staring at her bare feet, her silver stilettos leaning against each other near the door.
The bottle of tequila was practically full. The couple of shots Kiana had before she left for the club hadn’t put a dent in the bottle. Her eyes went from the empty glasses to the sliced lime, from the sliced lime to the bottle. Tears stung her eyes; she blinked and they fell. She ran her hands over her hair, finally resting her head in her hands. She sobbed.
“What happened, Kiana?” Genevieve asked. She didn’t move from the bed, only leaned forward, her eyes soft and mouth turned down. She looked worried and uncertain.
Kiana blew out a loud, heavy breath. She sniffled and wiped at her face, drying her hands in the bunches of curls and naps at the top her head. She reached for the bottle of tequila.
“Kiana, don’t,” Genevieve said.
Kiana squared her jaw. She gripped the bottle and stood. She held it, stared down at it, then whipped it against the wall. Genevieve gasped. The bottle burst, bits of glass flying and golden liquor running down the wall.
“There’s so much I don’t remember, Genevieve,” Kiana said. “So much I don’t remember that I should remember.” She dropped into the desk chair. She leaned back and stared at the wall where the bottle had burst. The stain like a Rorschach. Kiana saw a million images, a billion shapes. Faces and bottles, hearts and houses, clouds and hands.
“We block out the things that hurt us the most. And depending on what we use to do the blocking, we throw the baby out with the bath water,” Genevieve said. She looked at Kiana, concern showing itself in her light eyes.
Kiana shook her head. “Mrs. Joyce, the woman who raised me and my sister, if you want to call it that, told me that my mama was a dope fiend. I asked her about my mama, and that is what she told me. She said she was a good-for-nothing junkie that died of an overdose in front of her babies.” She wiped at her eyes. “I called her a liar and she slapped me. I told Karyn what happened, what that fat old bitch said, and she hugged me so tight.” Kiana smiled through the pain. “She hugged me and told me that the old fat bitch was a liar and that our mama wasn’t no dope fiend.”
Genevieve watched Kiana from where she sat. She slid her hands under her thighs.
“Later, shit, I had to have been thirteen, I asked Karyn what mama died from. And I was already a mess at that point. Drinking, skipping school, and running through best friends based on whether or not they would let me finger them.” Kiana chuckled without a trace of humor. “Anyway, Karyn came to pick me up from Rainbow Beach. I was damn near drunk off Boone’s, my drink of choice at the time. I asked her about how mama died while we walked to the bus stop. She lied to me about it. She told me she died in her sleep, an aneurism or some shit. I didn’t even know what the hell that was.”
“How did you know it was a lie?” Genevieve asked.
“Because I remembered seeing her. I remembered seeing my mama on the floor, convulsing or something, I don’t know. But it wasn’t in her sleep. I remember seeing her on the living room floor, shaking, and my sister pushing me back into the kitchen. For a while, when I was way young, I used to tell myself it was a dream. I would wait for her to come get us from Mrs. Joyce’s house. Shit, I hated her old fat ass, and she didn’t like me, so I just prayed and wished and hoped all the time for my mama to come get me. When she never came, I knew then that seeing her on the floor like that wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t even a nightmare. It was a memory. My last memory of my mama.” Kiana stood. She fidgeted with her shirt, which she had pulled out from her pants. She unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. She felt Genevieve’s eyes on her.
“I drank to forget it. Drinking was the only way to forget it. It was the only thing I could trust. When my sister lied to me on the way to the 87th street bus, I knew I could never fully trust her either.”
“She was trying to protect you, Kiana,” Genevieve said.
Kiana shook her head. She p
ushed the empty buckets aside and reached behind the lamp. The bottle of Southern Comfort was warm and heavy in her hand. She licked her lips and twisted off the small black cap. Her back to Genevieve, she slowly brought the bottle to her lips. Shame burned under her eyes, and she felt tears building. She took a deep breath.
“Kiana, what are you doing?”
Kiana glanced over her shoulder, panting, lips quivering. Genevieve pushed herself up from the bed, sidestepping the broken glass and wet carpet near the nightstand. She crept closer to Kiana, holding her hands up as if Kiana had a gun.
“Kiana, don’t. You don’t need to do that.”
Kiana bit the inside of her cheek and turned away from Genevieve. She brought the bottle to her lips and drank, eyes closed and throat gulping.
“Damn it, Kiana!” Genevieve yelled. She pushed Kiana in the back.
Kiana lurched forward. She caught herself on the back of the desk chair. It leaned back and swiveled. Kiana lost her balance and fell to the floor. The bottle snapped from her lips, hit the carpet, and started to roll beneath the bed. Kiana caught it. She balanced herself and sat up, planting the bottle between her legs. She leaned on the neck of the bottle. She struggled to catch her breath from the hungry gulping and the shock of the fall.
“You don’t get to do this,” Genevieve said. She walked around the foot of the bed to face Kiana, who sat on the floor, cross-legged in front of the windows.
“Do what?” Kiana said.
“This…” She held her hand out, gesturing at Kiana and the bottle of Southern Comfort between her legs like a post. “Tell me these things. Burst open and rain down all this sorrow and pain and…you don’t get to drown me in your tragic stories.”
Kiana looked at Genevieve, incredulous. “But this is what you wanted. You wanted me to crack open. I can talk in poems, too. Metaphors and shit. All you’ve been doing is trying to bust me open like some overstuffed bag of garbage, so you could clean up the mess. Well, here I am, V, clean me up.”
Genevieve blinked back her tears. She bit her lip and turned away from Kiana. “That’s not what I’ve been doing,” she said.
Let the Lover Be Page 14
