Our Muted Recklessness (Muted Hopelessness Book 2)

by Love Belvin

  A sheet of laughter fell in the room.

  When I stepped off the elevator in my apartment building, I saw one long heeled leg stretched out while the other was arched with the foot on the carpeted floor. She lay against the wall next to my door with her eyes closed and duffle bag next to her.

  I jogged to her sitting frame, dropping to my haunches when I reached her. “You could have BBM’d me to arrange for my key.”

  She smelled like apples. Maybe a body spray? I didn’t know, but I liked it.

  Her eyes opened and she smiled, lips tinted from a nude gloss and teeth bright and pretty. This tomboy was so fucking pretty. “Maybe I needed a moment of quiet before a certain bossy human showed up.”

  My face fell. “Am I really that bad?”

  “The worst,” she grunted, standing to her feet.

  “That is all for Mr. Thomas, folks,” a small Chinese-looking guy announced to the crowd through a microphone as Tyler Thomas left the stage. “He’ll be just outside the auditorium where we’re set up for him to do the book signing portion of the event. Thanks for coming out.”

  I sat motionless, trying to collect my thoughts. Why did Ashton bring me here—although I was hella glad he did. Honored, really. I’d never heard of Tyler Thomas before today where I got to hear him speak about his latest book, “Up In Black Arms.” He explained the metaphoric title and compared it to why we, Black people, should be disturbed by the lack of equality here in America. He did a presentation where he compared corporate pay, spoke about racism in professional sports, detailed how our judicial system discriminates and profits from Black guardianship—a term I’d never heard. The man spoke lots of shit I wasn’t familiar with. A few things went over my head, but so many, I caught.

  And he was smart. My god, he used words I couldn’t spell or repeat; they were so big and there were so many. I’d seen lots of well-spoken Blacks at Blakewood, but this man was polished and had a posture of confidence like I’d never seen. Tyler Thomas, apparently an accomplished Black journalist who had traveled the globe covering stories on humanity, had just published a book, telling Black people they should be up in arms over the state of our existence in the United States of America. In about thirty minutes, the man made me proud to be in my Black skin, and feel an awareness to it I’d never had. Was this the type of energy Ashton Spencer was on?

  This is what he’s into?

  “What did you think?” Ashton’s tone seemed nervous as he looked at me from the corners of his eyes.

  “That this was very different from Wet-Wet at “Ebonies.”

  He spat in laughter, and my eyes circled all around us as people—Black, white, Hispanic, Asians, Indians, and those I had no idea what they were—left their seats, forming a line to leave the auditorium. They were going to get signed copies of “Up in Black Arms.” This was…insane. Why wasn’t this man famous? All these people here—hundreds of stiff folks—and I’d never heard of him. But I’d heard of the topics he covered and the places he traveled. He spoke about stories with Oprah Winfrey, Nelson Mandela, John Lewis, some guy named Clarence Avant, and so many others. He shared causes they contributed to with their money and time for Black people. Blown away. I was blown away by this man.

  “I gotta get my shit together,” I whispered, people watching. “That’s what I feel.”

  “Right.” Ashton nodded, brows hiked. “Thomas makes you uncomfortable.”

  “That’s why you like him?”

  His brow line bounced, shrugging. “He makes me feel…hungry. We all have a voice, but the man has an opinion derived from the things he’s seen beyond the U.S. borders. In his last book, a few years ago, he paralleled how Blacks were viewed in different societies such as European countries, Asian countries, and even African countries and compared it to what our experience is and has been here. He’s one of those dudes whose conversation is different because he isn’t getting his material from a textbook. He’s gotten it from sitting amongst the people of foreign lands.” He nodded. “The man knows his shit.”

  I blinked, mind just blown. Next to me, Ashton pulled out his phone and began typing. I took that to mean we’d wait until the line to exit died down before leaving ourselves. Although I couldn’t say it in a way to express what I truly felt, I was happy he brought me here. Tyler Thomas’ shit was above my head, but being here made me feel tall. It made me feel like a BSU student. I cleared my throat, licked my lips, and sat up straight.

  The line was nearly over and we’d soon get up. I wondered if we’d get a book signed. How much were the books? That question had me leaning over for my bag to see how much money I had on me. Since quitting my job, I’d been holding tight to my money, spending very little. There were few things I needed, like tampons and other hygiene products, which helped.

  “Mr. Spencer, you’re beginning to be an expected energy at these events.” My head swung left to the only male voice that close to me that his words were so crisp, even though I knew Ashton wouldn’t address himself. “At least when I’m in this area or that of the NYC Tri-state during the summer.”

  I watched Ashton’s head lift from his phone and his eyes slowly brightened when they recognized someone. Then I looked ahead and there he was, the Tyler Thomas guy in the row before ours, leaning over the chair. There were two men to his left, I guessed a part of his entourage.

  Ashton chuckled, aura shrinking to a child’s size. “Mr. Thomas. Good to see you.” There was more bass in his voice, and so many of his teeth were exposed.

  “The pleasure is exclusively mine.” Thomas turned my way and the first thing I felt was the worldly wisdom in his eyes. They weren’t slick or inappropriate, but kind and inclusive. “What other refulgent pupilage mind do we have here?” I had no idea what he’d just asked, but it sounded rich and warm.

  “This is boxing’s next great sensation, KaToria McNabb.” My spine rolled at the way Ashton introduced me.

  It was with a confidence and accomplishment that made me feel like I fit in this trio. I wanted to knock Ashton’s head off. No attention. I hated attention on me—outside of the ring. Why would he say all of that?

  Invisible, remember?

  Thomas’ eyes lit just as bright as Ashton’s. So bright, I could hardly look at him for more than two seconds at a time.

  His hand reached over to me. “Tyler Thomas, an associate of Mr. Spencer here.”

  At first, I froze. All I could do was stare at his outstretched hand. Why did this have to be so formal?

  “He doesn’t bite, Nabby-girl.” Ashton’s deep tenor had returned, weirdly defrosting my nervousness.

  I nudged him away from me. “I know.” It took every ounce of bravery in me to look the man in his eyes, and even when I did, my face was toward my lap. I took his hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Thomas. I’m glad Ashton brought me today.”

  “You are?” His tone hiked. “Care to share why?”

  I lifted one shoulder at first, eyes going between my closed lap and his face. “Because…” I got stumped at first, not wanting to say anything stupid and embarrass myself. But when my sights rolled over to Ashton, I didn’t see embarrassment or anxiety about getting ready to say something stupid. In fact, I saw shock and…anticipation.

  “You made Blacks seem like an important group of people who should be respected and…expected to give greatness to the world. We’re not…” My palms began to circle each other when I was at a loss for words. “ordinary. You made me see we’re…”

  “Exceptional,” Ashton finished my thoughts, his eyes locked on mine with a gleam that did shit to me.

  I nodded, turning back to Thomas. “Yeah. You made me feel…responsible.”

  Tyler Thomas stood up straight. “Then my job is done for the day. Where do you call home, Miss KaToria McNabb?”

  Shit.

  He remembered my name, my whole name. That’s when I saw the one guy waiting on him handing Thomas a book. It was the same cover I’d seen coming into the auditorium and on
the posters in the building. It was his latest book. Thomas patted his chest covered in a white dress shirt and blue suit.

  I heard him murmur to the second guy, “Pen.” Thomas’ attention returned to me as the guy pulled out a writing pen and handed it over.

  I finally answered, “New Jersey. Millville.”

  “Ahhh! Used to be home to the glass industry.” Thomas’ lips pinched together as he thought. “There were several glass plants there, which was how many made a living. The county is now the prison territory. From my understanding, many are encouraging their children to abandon academic endeavors to harvest life-long careers in corrections, because—” He shrugged, writing into the book. “—well, the job is right there in their back yard and with overtime, one could make a generous living.”

  He was right. A few of my classmates were headed straight to the corrections academy for work. No one preferred the instability of employment the casinos in Atlantic City provided. Working in the prisons was the safer option if you didn’t want your pay interrupted.

  When Thomas was done, his eyes were on me again. “I, personally, would recommend the route you’re taking. There isn’t much industry in some of those southern counties. Lots of culture, but you can find that just about anywhere. Leaving Cumberland County and courting the world at large is probably the biggest investment you’ll ever make for yourself. Your hands may have written the check, but it was your mind that cashed it. Never prioritize your gift over your ability to think. Your mind is the most valuable asset at your disposal.” He handed me the hardcopy he’d just signed.

  Confused, my head shot over toward Ashton. “It—it’s his birthday.” I motioned to give the book to Ashton.

  “Well, that was his book until he introduced me to boxing’s latest sensation.” He winked. “I’ll send Mr. Spencer a signed copy next week.” His attention went to Ashton. “And a happy birthday to you, sir. I’m honored you spent it here, supporting me.”

  Ashton offered Thomas his hand for a shake like a grown-ass man. “The honor has been all mine. Thank you, Mr. Thomas.”

  After shaking hands, Tyler Thomas offered us a final bow before taking off with the two men. And that was it. That was the second important and somewhat famous person I’d been in a room with, thanks to Ashton Spencer. This one actually spoke to me, though. I watched as they left the row in front of us and walked down to a door just off the stage.

  “Are they his security?” I whispered to Ashton.

  “For the next few hours, something like that.”

  Then my head whipped over to Ashton. “That man came all the way out here when all those people left—people who are waiting to see him outside—just to give you what they’re waiting on him to pay for?” My words made sense in my head.

  He shook his head, scoffing, “I’m only known on campus, McNabb. Remember?” I couldn’t decide if that was his typical sarcasm or the truth. Either way, Ashton stood, attention to his phone. “It’s getting late. Let’s get out of here before I get too hungry.” Gathering my things quickly, I shot to my feet and followed him down the row to the opposite aisle. He asked over his thick shoulder, “For your spaghetti, is plain canned diced tomatoes okay, or does it have to be with parsley, garlic, or some other shit?”

  That question threw me. What did spaghetti he’d never had have to do with this Tyler Thomas man? Moody ass human!

  “Plain, I guess.” I didn’t need it seasoned.

  The drive to the hotel was nearly thirty minutes from the signing event. And I was on such a high from meeting Tyler Thomas, someone who I planned to look up once back at BSU, I used every one of those minutes to probe Ashton about him. He seemed like such an interesting man, and what was more intriguing was that Ashton was a huge fan.

  As he drove his Panamera, I shot off so many questions. Ashton kept one hand on the wheel, and his other balled as his head leaned against it. His eyes were mainly on the road, face tight from whatever was going on in that head of his.

  “Did he know your father?”

  Ashton shrugged. “I don’t think so. Not like that.”

  What did that mean? “Did your father introduce you to him?”

  “Nah.” His eyes still ahead on the road. “Somebody my father knew.”

  “Who?”

  Seconds later, he answered, “Divine.”

  Divine? “Who is that?”

  He shrugged. “Another millionaire. He’s pretty popular, but a Keyser Soze type.”

  Kah-what?

  “Where does he live?”

  Ashton shrugged again, eyes squinted. “L.A. now.”

  “Wow!” I breathed in amazement. “You know millionaires and famous people.”

  We pulled into the hotel’s circular driveway instead of a parking lot. A valet walked straight to my door before the car came to a full stop. Ashton unlocked the doors and mine was opened by a white guy with the livery hat and vest similar to what the driver at BSU wore. He touched the rim with the tips of his fingers while greeting me. It was happening all too fast. I wanted to ask more about the millionaire named Divine from L.A., but Ashton was just behind him, holding our duffle bags and offering his hand to me.

  I took it and allowed him to dash me into the big hotel lobby, just as the sun was setting. From the back of his head, I saw Ashton scope out the place. He led me to the counter, where he checked in and received a room key. I hoped he didn’t sense how antsy I was when he murmured something to the guy assisting him. Checking into a hotel with a guy was never a thing for me. Was it even legal? Of course, it was. Right? We were both adults. Speaking louder, Ashton closed the conversation and we took off. I didn’t notice until we made it to the elevator, the group of seven Black guys filing inside after us.

  “Nah,” Ashton grounded out. “Catch the next one.”

  The guys, all dressed in pink sweat suits, marched backward out of the elevator. A couple of them looked familiar to me, and about three had grocery bags in their hands. Just as they were out, two white men got on. One was in a clean gray suit, looking all of Wall Street. The other was an older man with silver hair wearing khakis and one of those old fashioned sweaters with pads on the elbows. I could smell the tobacco from the cigar pipe hanging from his mouth. I knew white people from Millville. These were rich white people; their postures said so. As the doors closed, my eyes swung up to Ashton, whose hand was still clasped to mine, but mind seemed eons away.

  The elevator made four stops before we arrived at our floor. The two men left on their floors, but a couple stepped on for two stories. Finally, we made it to the sixteenth floor. My face was to my feet when I trailed behind Ashton, hands still locked. The shoes I wore today were beginning to hurt my feet. They were the pointy toe Red Bottoms I wore the night Ashton took me out for a ride on his bike. They were fine then, but this evening was a different story. It was too bad; they made me feel so grown-ass-woman’ish.

  I almost tripped on my own feet when I happened a glance ahead. Those pink sweat suits from the lobby were posted against the fancy wallpaper on one side of the hall. All of their faces were to the floor, but eyes wide open. Ashton, feeling my stumble, slowed and turned back to me.

  “It’s okay, McNabb. We’re here.”

  We finally stopped at a door and Ashton let me in. The place was huge: a living room and dining room on the opposite end with big views of the setting sun. To the right was a kitchen, clean and with stainless steel appliances. I couldn’t find the bed, the one thing I was expecting to see, but from this vantage point, I couldn’t locate the bathroom either. I had to quickly remind myself, this was Ashton. I was with a BSU guy with all his money and culture. It was another reminder of me being in way over my head out here.

  “Set them up there,” I heard Ashton order in a voice I hadn’t heard since I began running with him in the mornings. It was deep, rude, and disconnected from anything warm.

  Then I saw the pink suits. They all looked at the floor as they lined against the wall again, except for
the ones carrying the groceries. They were laying them on the table in the kitchen.

  “Who has the receipt?” Ashton asked. A few of them looked at each other with a mixture of confusion and shock. “No, cubs. I’m not gonna have you drive all the way out here, go grocery shopping, and expect you to foot the bill.” A slick smile opened on his face. “I’m not acting DoP. I’ll go easy.”

  A chorus of sighs filled the small hallway, but no one looked up. That frustrated me because I wanted to see who these guys were.

  “Thanks, big brother overseer!” they all seemed to have praised at the same time.

  “You,” he addressed one with his eyes. “Leave that bag there.” It was a plastic bag with something wide inside I couldn’t make out. Ashton took a look at the receipt then glanced at me. “You mind putting everything away?” His tone was tender like we were a married couple in front of our children.

  Without thinking much, I hopped to it, passing two of the guys on the way inside the kitchen. After dumping my blazer, I washed my hands with dish detergent then began taking food out of the bags.

  There was a pack of bacon, chicken, pasta, ground beef, and vegetables like a green pepper and onion. I pulled out a carton of eggs, biscuits, a box of pancake mix, and frozen home fries. My suspicion rose when I saw the brand of tomato sauce I use, Worcestershire sauce, minced garlic, olive oil, and a can of plain diced tomatoes. There were seasonings I’d used; flour, sugar, and other things too familiar to be a coincidence.

  Once all three bags were empty, I found Ashton’s dark eyes on me. “Anything missing?” I chewed on my bottom lip and shook my head, my palms gripping the edge of the counter too tightly. “So far, so good. If there’s a single item missing, I’m going to sic big brother butcher on y’all asses.” Ashton handed over a wad of cash to one of them, and quietly they filed toward the door.

  He followed behind them, closing the door when they were out. When he strolled back into the hall where I could see him, I had to ask. “What’s this, Spence?”