Head Games

by Mary B. Morrison

  The officer hoisted his belt to his navel. “This won’t take long. We need your statement now. Let’s go inside.”

  They had no right to be inside my establishment. “My club is closed.” I shook my head in protest. “I’m willing to fully cooperate, but, respectfully, I have less than thirty minutes to get to my appointment,” I pleaded.

  “What’s the appointment?” one of the officers inquired.

  Wanted to answer, “None of your damn business.” Didn’t want the situation to escalate and I end up a statistic on the ten o’clock news. I’d never been to jail for any reason. Wasn’t sure what would happen if I were a no-show for court, but I knew a few guys who ended up doing time for non-payment of child support. Prayed this cop understood.

  “Come down right after you’re done with your appointment,” the other cop said. “Don’t touch the car.”

  * * *

  Locking up, I scheduled an Uber. The driver dropped me off in front of the courthouse. Mentally prioritized today’s urgent matters. My car. The IRS. Custody.

  “Thurston versus Bartholomew,” the judge announced.

  I stood. “Here.”

  Harold and Ramona spoke. “Here.”

  Taking a long deep breath, I exhaled. Ramona had on a loosely fitted tangerine dress. Her makeup was toned down. Harold had on a tan suit. I was dressy casual. Tan slacks and a printed buttoned-up, short-sleeved shirt.

  “Paternity is confirmed,” the judge announced, flipping through documents. “Mr. Bartholomew, you are the father. Have you contributed to the welfare of William Bartholomew?”

  Dang, she jabbed quicker than Ramona. “I can explain, Your Honor.”

  She cut me off with, “That’s a yes or no.”

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s a no, Mr. Bartholomew. Children are not free. Your son is a decade old. How much do you make?”

  Probably nothing now, if I couldn’t get the Feds off of my back. “I’m not sure what my revenue will be.” That was the truth.

  “I didn’t ask you how much it will be. How much does your Kash In & Out net annually? Mrs. Thurston has submitted supporting documentation that shows you own two businesses. Is that correct?”

  Sounded rhetorical. I explained. “Yes, but—”

  “I’m going to issue an order that you pay one thousand dollars a month until you provided verification of your earnings,” the judge said.

  Heck, I may never submit verification. Wanting to smile, that was less than what I used to contribute to my father’s church.

  The judge added, “And another twenty thousand a month for back child support for a total of twenty-one thousand a month.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “Your Honor, I can’t—”

  She cut me off again. “If you can’t afford the court-ordered support, then I’m sure you’ll provide your corporate tax returns soon as possible.”

  “But what about their income?” Harold didn’t need shit from me.

  “Mrs. Thurston is currently unemployed.” The judge banged her gavel.

  My eyes stretched. “But her husband—”

  “His income doesn’t count.” She banged her gavel again, then said, “Dorgenois versus Cagnolatti.”

  My life was almost not worth living. “But—”

  She yelled at me, “Get out of my courtroom, Mr. Bartholomew! You should’ve hired an attorney.”

  Wow! With her attitude, I could catch a case without trying. I was definitely lawyering up next go-round.

  Three days remained in a challenge I started chasing with a dream. If I won, I could still lose everything I owned.

  CHAPTER 32

  Kohl

  Day 29

  “Damn!” Big Gurl 96—shoulda been 69—was putting in overtime eating my bologna.

  She held my dick in one hand. Three of her fingers meshed together was bigger than my shaft. Gurl 96 fast jacked me three times. Switched hands, stroked, then sucked three times. Guess that was her or my lucky number. She switched. Fast jacked again. One. Two. Three.

  I’d brought her home from my club around six o’clock this morning in my rental car. Was going to take sixty days and a deductible of $29,000 to get a new customized Bentley.

  We’d enjoyed an early breakfast. Flattering her with, “You are so beautiful and brilliant,” got me spread out like a stick of soft butter.

  Next thing I realized, I was lying on the dining table adjacent to the foil pan of fried chicken from Manchu Kitchen.

  Watching her perform witchcraft, and pull out two additional inches of introverted dick, my penis was the biggest I’d ever seen it. I asked Gurl 96, “Where did you learn how to do—”

  “Oh, no. Oh, no.” Methodically she continued. “No talking allowed. Save your strength, Hercules. You’re going to need it to eat every inch of me. Think about whether you want to eat barbecue, sweet and sour, or hot sauce out of my pussy.”

  Eating every inch of her would be the equivalent of digesting 600 seven-ounce rib-eye steaks. I’d lick her juicy vagina. She earned that. No hot sauce.

  Opening wide, she reached for a drumette, shoved the whole thing in her mouth. After she eased it out, the skin was gone. She inserted it again, pulled it out, meatless. Cracking the bone, she extracted the marrow. Quenched her palate with an entire twelve-ounce lemon-lime soda.

  Burrrrrp.

  She didn’t bother covering her extended release of air. Better out of that end.

  Gurl 96 circled the base of my shaft, squeezed tight, then wiggled the tip of her tongue wicked turbo speed on my frenulum.

  “Oh, Jesus!” My nails scratched against the mahogany wood. Whosoever discovered oral sex, God is good was all I thought. Had planned on making encores a no-no, but I was locking Gurl 96 into my favorites.

  “Aw, sweet Jesus, have mercy on me!”

  Sweat streamed down my temples, into my ears. My toes curled. I swore my eyeballs did a one-eighty ’cause everything went black for a moment. I raised to a sitting position, but she pushed me back on the dining table. I did not have the strength to come up again. Was about to lose my nuts.

  Talking out of my head, I mumbled, “I’ll feed you fried chicken every day if you keep sucking me off like—”

  Her hand squeezed tighter at the base.

  “Yelp!” I hollered like a pup.

  Her other hand slid up and down my shaft real slow. While she gently covered my head with the inner parts of her lips, felt hot, soft, and wet. Unexpectedly, her tongue wiggled.

  “Ohhhh! Ohhhhh! Ohhhhhhh!” I could not stop coming and screaming. Just when I thought she’d swallowed all my seeds, she placed her lips around the eye of my penis, suctioned long and slow, drawing out the last nut in the sack.

  Maybe I shouldn’t feed her again. Another one of these beyond-paradise orgasms and I might end up in the ER. I caressed her arm, an extra layer of flesh covered her elbow. She had to pull me up. I rested on her fluffy shoulder.

  Gurl 96 rubbed my back in a circular motion. My eyelids opened and shut. I felt my weight pressing down on her body.

  Zzzzzz. Inhaling, I choked. Woke myself up.

  I was still on her shoulder. She hadn’t moved from the table.

  Sun shining through my windows was five shades brighter than when I’d ejaculated. Gurl 96 picked up the last leg, stuck the whole thing in her mouth. The bone came out clean.

  I sat up on the table. “What time is it?”

  “Noon. You ready for round two,” she asked. “My turn.”

  Taking the bone out of her hand, I waved it high in the air. Sang, “I surrender all.” Pivoting on my butt, I exited off of the opposite side of the table. “Rain check, please. I’ve got to get dressed. What’s your address? I’m ordering you an Uber. What’s your address?”

  “You asked me that twice already,” she said, sounding upset.

  Picking up my cell, I’d missed a call from . . . William. The voice mail was “Hey, Dad. I have a debate at ten this morning. I’ma text you the addres
s. I’m inviting you. Not my mom.”

  “Damn!” The first time my son reached out to me, I failed him. “What’s your damn address?!”

  Her neck jerked backward. “No worries, sweetness. I got it, Kohl.” Gurl 96 tidied herself up, got her purse, let herself out.

  Being new to this parenting thing, I was clueless. Was I supposed to call my son and apologize? Go to the location, hoping he was still there? For sure, doing what I’d always done was not the solution to my newest problem.

  My son had one more reason to hate me.

  I dialed Ramona’s number.

  She answered, “I’m so sorry. You have my condolences.”

  “It’s me. Kohl. I—”

  “I know,” she paused. “Oh, you haven’t heard,” she said, sounding sincere.

  Hesitantly I asked, “Heard what?”

  Calls came in from Dallas and Blitz. If anything had happened to our child, Ramona would be hysterical.

  Realizing that wasn’t it, I asked, “Heard what?”

  “The House of the Lord burned down this morning. Two unidentifiable bodies were discovered inside. Presumed to be the Reverend and his wife. They didn’t do right by me, but they were legally William’s grandparents.”

  Ended the conversation with Ramona before I cursed her out; sounded like she was digging for dollars prematurely. I dialed my dad, praying it wasn’t true. Got his voice mail. Tried contacting my mom. No answer. Got Eleanor’s voice mail.

  My dick smelled and felt like chicken. I quick washed at the bathroom vanity. Dressed. Left the house. En route to the tabernacle, what if Gurl 6 was responsible? All these headaches from sexing her and she wasn’t half as good as Gurl 96. My heart pounded. What if the Harrison brothers were expecting me to show up at the church?

  I made a U-turn. Went home. Turned on the news.

  CHAPTER 33

  Kohl

  Day 30

  Yesterday, after Gurl 96, and after watching the news, after hearing who’d died inside the church, I had a ménage à trois in my private room at Kash In & Out. No one was in a position to financially assist me. Wasn’t inheriting any money from my parents. Had to do what I had to do. My club was packed and I was in the back releasing my frustrations inside of random females that were taking tequila shots and competing for my seeds.

  Today was a continuation. Not at my club. At my house.

  “You’re my new man, Kohl,” Gurl 101 claimed, wearing a huge smile. The side of her face rested on my pillow as she stared at me.

  I felt another warm body pressed against my back. I frowned. I had enough problems. “We’re not a couple,” I told Gurl 101, then said, “Y’all can put your clothes on and get out of my house. I . . . I . . . please leave. Thanks for a good time but I have business to tend to.”

  Staring at the ceiling as they exited opposite sides of the mattress, I cried on the inside. The bodies recovered from The House of the Lord were those of Mr. and Mrs. Lewis. Strange that I hadn’t heard from my parents. Almost thirty years of rearing me, I had to mean more than an offering. Tried calling them again. My attempts all went directly to a voice mailbox that was full.

  Dallas texted, Understand if you can’t make it this evening.

  I replied, I’ll be there.

  Why not go support D? Wasn’t anything I could’ve done to change the Lewises’ situation. Clearly, my dad didn’t want me anywhere near him. The Feds weren’t going away; my accountant confirmed the notice wasn’t in error, but we’d dispute the amount. Might lose my assets and end up behind bars for tax evasion.

  Hadn’t heard the front door shut. It was too quiet. Bypassing putting on underwear, I stepped into a pair of slacks.

  “Hey, thanks for cleaning the kitchen,” I told Gurl 101. Gurl 100 peeled back a sheet, sat up on my sofa.

  Damn! Who else was in my crib? I roamed my other rooms. Checked my office. Returned to the kitchen.

  “You were fun,” Gurl 101 said, kissing Gurl 99. “We should get together next weekend. No offense, Kohl, but just us girls.”

  “I’m definitely down for whatever.” Gurl 100 included herself, then powered on the vacuum. Smack! Gurl 101 hit me in my face with a wet, dirty dishrag.

  Reaching back far, I swung, aiming for her cheek.

  “Oh, no you won’t!” Gurl 99 snatched me from behind.

  The vacuum cleaner stopped. I wasn’t in the mood to fight three women, especially not three healthy ones.

  Gurl 101’s hand was on her hip. Water dripped on my floor from the rag. “That’s not what you told me when I was sucking your dick.”

  What is she talking about?

  “She’s right. I heard you say you were her man,” Gurl 99 vouched.

  Lord, why me? How’d they pull a relationship from what I said?

  “I apologize, ladies. I got too much alcohol in my system. My fault. Now, please just leave.”

  “Uh-uh. Don’t blame it on the alcohol. You wouldn’t have said that if you didn’t want me to be your woman.” Gurl 101’s voice escalated. “I am your woman.” She resumed washing dishes.

  Gurl 100 said, “Honey, he’s low down and dirty. You should leave Kash alone. I’m out.”

  “Me too.” Gurl 99 followed Gurl 100.

  “This house needs a woman’s touch. I love decorating. I’m going to need three hundred dollars to shop for new things.” Gurl 101 started humming.

  One way or another, 101 had to get out. Thought about what Dallas said about women when the crewe was at Drago’s. What part of “leave” didn’t this woman get? I went into my bedroom, called the police. “Yes, I have an intruder that refuses to leave my home willingly.”

  “We’ll send someone out immediately,” the dispatcher said.

  “No sirens, please. Don’t want to alert them or alarm my neighbors.” I ended the call, returned to my kitchen. It was spotless.

  Gurl 101 held her palm in front of me, wiggled her fingers. “Three hundred, Kohl. I’ve got to get to the stores early to choose the best items for our house.”

  If the cops didn’t arrive soon, I was shoving her out the front door. “This is not your house. We are not a couple. Please leave,” I asked her politely.

  “You weren’t saying all that when I sucked your dick.” Gurl 101 was bold as hell. And certifiable. “You not gonna use me for your pleasure like I’m some kinda ho!”

  “Your purse is on the couch. I’ll get it for you.”

  “Don’t touch my purse!”

  There was a knock at the door. I exhaled. Opened it. “Thanks for coming, Officer. I don’t want to cause a scene. I’ve respectfully and repeatedly asked this young lady to leave, but she refuses.”

  “I’m his woman. I have a right to be here,” she protested.

  “Ma’am, is this your residence?” the officer asked.

  “No,” I said.

  She said, “Yes. It. Is.”

  “May I see your driver’s license?” the officer asked her.

  “No. What’s that going to prove?” she protested.

  “How’d you get here?” the cop questioned.

  She pointed at me.

  “I really don’t have time for this, Officer. My father’s church went up in flames yesterday. I have business to tend to. I—”

  “So you’re that guy?” The cop stared at me.

  Frowning, I questioned, “What guy?”

  “The letter?” he said.

  “What letter?” I called him to get 101 out, and he was giving me the third degree.

  “The letter that’s online. The letter from Assistant Pastor Eric Lewis telling how he was going to kill his wife in the church because she slept with Pastor Bartholomew’s son. You just confirmed, you’re his son.”

  Gurl 101 told the police, “I wasn’t going to say anything, but he raped me.” She cried, but her eyes were dry.

  I desperately wanted to call her out of her name for telling that lie.

  The officer stared at me. Then told Gurl 101, “Miss, you need to le
ave.”

  Gurl 101 backed into me, whaled her arms. “Don’t touch me, Kohl! Officer, I want him arrested! You have to take my report,” she insisted.

  “Ma’am, if you’re lying, I’m locking you up,” the officer said.

  “Kohl, I need twenty dollars to get home,” Gurl 101 demanded.

  Gladly, I went inside, returned, handed her a Jackson. “Don’t contact me or come to my place of business again. Stay away.” Women were treacherous.

  The police escorted her away. I went online in search of that letter. Read it once.

  “Women talk too damn much. Why did Mrs. Lewis tell Mr. Lewis the truth? Why did Mr. Lewis set the church ablaze? With him and his wife inside? Weak!” I yelled. “Infidelity is no justification for suicide and homicide.”

  I showered, put on my tuxedo. Had to make it to Dallas’s wedding.

  “Y’all suited like somebody died,” Dallas said. “This is a celebration.”

  Soon as the ceremony was over, I got in my rental car, went to my club.

  What I saw as I parked across the street from Kash In & Out made my blood boil like a sack a crawfish with a pound cayenne was in the pot of water. I couldn’t move. “Are you fucking kidding me!” I yelled.

  First my dad’s church. Then my Bentley Bentayga. Now my club was going up in flames.

  Hadn’t God heard anything I’d prayed for?

  CHAPTER 34

  Dallas

  Day 1

  “Drop it, Private!” the drill sergeant yelled. Spit flew from his mouth, landed on my lip.

  The skinny black kid, who was literally born in a one-bedroom apartment in the Magnolia Projects, shouted back, “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “Pick it up, Carter!” the burly man in fatigues, wearing a Smokey Bear hat, hammered the command down my throat.

  I exhaled into hot waves floating in front of my eyes, “Sir, yes, sir!”

  This was my first day of boot camp. Lifting 120 pounds, I realized my duffel bag weighed only thirty pounds less than I did.