by Zane
ME: DO SOMETHING DRASTIC. START MAKING OUT WITH THE OTHER BROAD OR SOMETHING.
I heard a text chime go off on her phone and she walked over to read the message. Since I was the only other person with that number except for Michael, she realized it had to be from me.
GLAZE: OH, HIS ASS ISN’T GOING ANYWHERE.
“That’s my girl!” I exclaimed.
Right then, Kagiso started rapping on the studio door.
“What?” I yelled out. Then I realized it was soundproof and got up to go to the door. I cracked it open and glared into his eyes. “What is it?”
“Just checking on you.”
“I’m all good.”
“You need anything?”
“Nope. Just some privacy so I can be alone with my muse.”
Kagiso looked concerned and then walked off. I locked the door and put the security bar underneath the knob.
By the time I got back to the split screen on my laptop, things were on and popping. Mission accomplished!
Glaze was in her most comfortable state—naked. Duchess was topless and the two of them were tonguing each other down on the sofa. Michael had dropped his pants back on the floor and was taking it all in.
Duchess started sucking on Glaze’s tits as Glaze threw her head back in ecstasy and started moaning and saying, “Oh yes! Ummmmm, that’s what I’m talking about!”
“You two are some serious sluts,” Michael said. Poor thing was getting angry about the entire situation, but his ass wasn’t leaving, either. “I can’t believe you all are doing this shit in auditions.”
Duchess stopped slobbering all over Glaze’s tits long enough to say, “We’re only sluts because our sexuality scares you.”
Glaze pushed Duchess back on the sofa and started pulling her panties off with her teeth.
“I’m not scared of shit!” Michael lashed out.
“Prove it!” Duchess challenged. “Are you over forty? They say most men over forty can’t keep their dick hard anyway. You probably can’t even handle all this pussy.”
That did it!
“I don’t give a fuck about the role anymore. I’m about to teach you two bitches a lesson.”
“There’s that wildebeest!” I exclaimed out loud in my studio. “Bat-shit-crazy motherfucker!”
The three of them fucked and sucked for the next two hours and I got all of it on camera. Both Glaze and Duchess sucked that rat bastard dry, then got him hard again and one rode his face while the other rode his dick. Then Glaze lay on top of Duchess’s stomach and he ate them out in stockpile fashion with their thighs held open in V’s with their hands, greedy fool. I had to admit, it was an amazing spectacle to view. I could’ve made a ton selling it on the Internet!
After that, he fucked them on top of each other, putting his dick in Glaze’s pussy, pounding her, and then pulling out, lowering a few inches, and pounding out Duchess while Glaze bit on his nipples and stuck her finger up his ass. They really had his ass going. He thought he was doing something, but it was just another day at work for the two of them, especially Mrs. Teasedale. She was a Mrs. because she was actually married, had been for a few years. Her husband was a—get this—epidemiologist, meaning that he was responsible for investigating public health concerns and preventing them from spreading. Hmm, okay.
Before they let Michael go—he never asked about the nonexistent other people who never showed up for auditions—they both stood in the middle of the floor with their backs to each other and leaving enough room between them for him. That shit was my idea! They bent over and grabbed their own left ankles and each other’s right ankles so that it was a tight squeeze as he fucked them in turn. He was balls-deep in Glaze and then struggled to turn around and go knee-deep in Duchess and so forth and so on.
Then that bastard ran out of semen, energy, and he was barely coherent by the time they got done with him. Glaze and Duchess went and lay on the couch, scissoring their legs together as Michael got dressed in silence. What the fuck could anyone say after all that?
As he was leaving out the door, Glaze whispered, “I’ll be in touch.”
That wasn’t true. She wouldn’t be in touch, but those recordings were about to make Michael Vinson the famous actor he’d always wanted to be. All I had to do was edit out the women’s faces, lay some freaky background music to it, and make sure that Cherie was the first one to see it.
I was so fucking proud of Glaze. I shot her a quick text.
ME: YOU’RE THAT CHICK! CLEAR EVERYTHING OUT AND HEAD BACK HOME. CALL YOU TOMORROW.
Chapter Eighteen
Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.” I was sitting on Marcella’s sofa in her cabin on a Saturday afternoon. “I realize that I’m constantly imposing on you outside of your regular business hours.”
“Psychiatrists don’t really have regular business hours, Wicket. I see some of my patients in the office, but I also have some in psychiatric hospitals. Not many, but some, and I do some pro bono work.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“Sure, but it also gets me an opportunity to stay on top of the trends in my profession.”
I crossed my legs. I was casual that day: tan leggings and a button-down white shirt. “There are trends when it comes to being crazy?”
“Of course. A lot of people are affected by illnesses that mess with their brain activities, and those change all the time. A lot of insane asylums first popped up back when tuberculosis was extremely active. The sanitariums were named that because most were near clear, open air, and were constantly cleaned to kill germs. The theory was that if patients were kept in sanitized conditions, it would improve their health.”
“Did it . . . improve their health?”
“For some, it did, but others were too far gone.”
“I never knew that. You’ve taught me something.”
“Initially, most were started in private family homes. I’m talking a century ago and then some. Wealthy families with relatives who were suffering from mental incapacity would donate their homes, or convert them to facilities to house them and others. Searching for a cure.”
“Kind of like a lot of drug and alcohol rehabs are started by former addicts or relatives of those who need recovery?”
“Now you’ve got it.”
“Well, I know one thing for sure. My mother can’t be fixed, she can’t recover, and there is no cure for her crazy ass.”
“Have you even checked on your mother?”
“Why the hell would I do that? Why would I give a flying fuck about someone who never gave a flying fuck about me?”
“Maybe it will give you some kind of closure, if you see her and forgive her.”
“I’m not showing up at that place so that someone can run their mouth to the tabloids about my being there. People are too hard up for cash that relatives of celebrities are selling photos of them on their death beds and in their caskets for six figures.”
Marcella flicked a piece of lint off her lightweight peach sweater. “It was merely a suggestion. At least consider it. As for someone being a whistleblower, we may be able to work around that.”
“I’m not even trying to hear that shit. My mother can kiss my entire black ass. I truly don’t care if she’s alive or dead. Grandma and Hannah are both long gone and she’s still breathing.”
“And how would you know that?” Marcella raised an eyebrow. “You keep a check on her, don’t you?”
I glared at Marcella. I had to hand it to her. She was good at her career.
“It’s not that serious and don’t get things twisted,” I replied. “It’s actually not me. Daddy makes sure that she never has a chance of getting out. It’s about his concern for my welfare, not that bitch’s.”
“From what you’ve told me about your mother, it’s apparent to me that a lot of her issues come from being victimized.”
“And?”
I had told Marcella about the rape and incest during another session and went into further detai
ls about the day Momma slashed up my face, and all the craziness and abuse that led up to it.
“Your issues stem from things that happened to you in your childhood, but you expect people to be tolerant of your issues and your behavior.”
I was heated. “Are you comparing me to that maniac? She is a maniac. You do realize that? She’s violent and she’s dangerous and—”
“Aren’t you violent and dangerous? Intermittent explosive disorder can lead to violent outbursts where you harm yourself or others.”
“Thanks for the update,” I stated vehemently. “I take my meds every damn day. Thank you very much.”
“Good, but psychotherapy is also important. I realize that you’ve had therapists in the past and that Dr. Lamb is still giving you prescriptions, even though she is based in New York. But we need to address the underlying issues.”
“That’s what the fuck we’ve been doing, Marcella. You think I’ve been coming up here because I don’t have anything else to do?”
“No, but I also don’t think that you’re being honest about why you came to Atlanta.”
I stood up and started pacing the floor. “What did Daddy tell you?”
She glanced over her shoulder at me. “What makes you think Mr. Sterling told me anything?”
“Marcella, honesty is always better than sugarcoated bullshit. What did Daddy tell you?”
Marcella sighed. “He’s worried that you came back here to get some kind of retaliation on people who went to Powers High School with you. And he’s also concerned that you may have a violent outburst, or several of them, in the process. He doesn’t want to see you get into any trouble.”
“I don’t plan on it! But they need to pay and . . .”
I didn’t mean to let that slip!
“Who needs to pay and what for?”
I walked back over to the sofa, but instead of sitting on it, I lay down on it and covered my eyes with my right arm.
“You can talk to me freely,” Marcella said.
Part of me wanted to rush out of there and tell Kagiso and Antonio I was ready to go. Diederik was off that day, dealing with some drama. Some crazy whore had shown up at the house, trying to get into the gate the night before, talking about how she was carrying his child. I knew all of their asses were fucking broads in Atlanta. It didn’t bother me, but they needed to keep their floozies out of my presence.
The other part of me said that it was time to be completely transparent. It was all for naught unless I told Marcella where my mind was really going. However, her comments about my disorder leading to violent behavior had upset me. Only because I knew it was the truth. When I was much younger, even prior to the rape, I used to self-mutilate. I would make tiny cuts on my thighs or burn my leg with a lighter or match. Sometimes, I would stick the tips of safety pins into my skin or bang my head against my bedroom wall. It was my way of expressing my emotional pain that I could not put into words. Not that I had anyone to talk to anyway. Grandma was sick and my friends already felt pity on me because of my facial scar.
“Caprice?”
When Marcella used my real real name, it was apparent that she was trying to get me to go back there.
“When I was in Germany a few years ago doing a concert, I saw this beautiful sign in a window. There was a photo of a sunset over the ocean. I asked the escort the label had assigned to me to translate it. It read: ‘Leave the bad memories behind and have faith in a greater tomorrow.’ It was in front of one of the few homeless shelters in Berlin. They do things totally different over there. Their education, health insurance, and all of that is paid for by the state.”
I paused and took a deep breath. “Their constitution, called the Grundgesetz, calls for all Germans to be able to ‘live in dignity,’ meaning that they are guaranteed to have access to all their basic needs. What I noticed about the homeless people that I did see—they only have about six hundred out of three-point-four million people—was that most of them had mental issues.”
I looked at Marcella. “The same goes for a lot of homeless here in the United States, except we tend to discard people who need our help. It’s a damn shame that men and women can go and serve in the military, protect us from terrorists—foreign or homegrown—and then end up eating out of trash cans or pushing all of their worldly belongings around in shopping carts.”
“You’re rambling because you’re trying to avoid the issue. Who needs to pay and for what?” She sat up further in her seat. “Caprice, you can avoid reality, but you can’t avoid the consequences of avoiding reality.”
“I’m just tired of my memories sneaking out of my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. I hate crying, Marcella, and if I go where you expect me to go, I’m going to definitely exhibit my weaknesses.”
“You inspire millions of women and young girls. That’s not a sign of weakness. That’s a sign of strength. My hope for you is to liberate yourself the exact same way you have liberated so many others.”
“I’m fucked-up in the head, so I say unto you: bye, Felicia.”
I got up from the sofa and headed toward the front door.
“Go ahead and leave if you so wish. But know this. You’re only leaving because it’s easier to walk out than fight for what you really want.”
I turned and gazed into her eyes. “And what is it that you believe I really want?”
“Ultimately, love, but right now, you need to prepare yourself emotionally to receive that love.”
I put my hands on my hips and smacked my lips. “I don’t want or need a man. Men want love. I’m incapable of loving anyone. Men want sex. I can’t give them that. Men want commitment. I can’t give them that, either. Men want kids. There’s no damn way I’m bringing any kids into this world.”
“Why can’t you give a man love, sex, or commitment?”
I shrugged. “Partly because I’m a coward and partly because I’m too damn selfish. At least I admit it.”
“Please, come sit back down.” Marcella motioned toward her sofa. “Your birthday’s in a few weeks, isn’t it?”
“The big four-O!”
“Good, then let’s work through this. Tell me who needs to pay and what they need to pay for.”
I stood there in silence for a moment and looked back and forth between the sofa and the door. One meant an escape and not having to deal with all my bitterness and baggage. The other meant taking a huge risk and taking myself into a deep, dark place that I’d never wanted to revisit. But Marcella was right; it was time.
I walked back over to the sofa and lay back down. I concentrated on one of the lightbulbs in her ceiling fan and then closed my eyes. Then I was suddenly fifteen-year-old Caprice Tatum way back in 1987. Not one but two, Ladonna and Wicket, lifetimes ago.
Chapter Nineteen
Saturday, October 24, 1987
9:43 p.m.
Atlanta, Georgia
Spirit Week had gone well at Powers High School, leading up to the homecoming game. Our football team was ranked third in the state of Georgia and everyone was excited about winning the state championship in another month or so. It would mark the first time that Powers took the championship since 1968. Our starting lineup was over the top and it was predicted that all the seniors would end up getting full-ride scholarships to the colleges or universities of their choice.
We were all freshmen—Cherie, Bianca, Herman, Michael, Jonovan, and me—and high school had presented both new adventures and challenges. Well, in my case, making new friends was always a challenge. Outside of the ones I just mentioned, the other kids in middle school had either ignored me completely, made it their personal plight to bully me whenever a chance presented itself, or remained neutral and didn’t give a damn about me either way.
I often read background stories of other celebrities to see if they were popular in school. From what I’d gathered, most merely blended in, and some were bullied, but all of them ended up being at the top of their game when they became celebrities. The major difference betw
een them and me is that they could go back to their high school and college reunions and show off the fact that they were the shit. I could never do that . . . not ever.
Every day of Spirit Week had been themed and a load of fun. Monday was Crazy Hair Day, Tuesday was Twinsie Tuesday, Wednesday was Pajama Day, Thursday was Beach Day, and Friday was School Colors Day, where everyone wore burgundy and gold. Now it was time for the big game. We were playing against Hiram Rhodes Revels, a school named after the first African-American to ever serve in the United States Congress. Their colors were navy and white.
The bleachers in the stadium were overflowing. It was the one game of the season where everyone showed up, including the parents, grandparents, and other various relatives of the players, the kids from the surrounding schools—including all the girls who were sharing players’ hearts and bodies—and even the school outcasts. It was the opportunity to see and be seen, the chance to make hookups with the cuties from other schools in Atlanta, and a way to ensure that you didn’t miss out on any drama that might have popped off when you were out doing something less important.
The game was tied 21–21 with less than a minute left in the fourth quarter. The cheerleaders from Powers were damn near going at it as hard with their cheers as the players were going at each other on the field. Bianca and Cherie were both cheerleaders and were prancing around the sidelines in their skorts and sweaters with PHS embroidered on them.
They were chanting:
You may be good at basketball
You may be good at track
But when it comes to football
You may as well step back.
You may be good at baseball
You may be good in school
But when it comes to football
We’re making you look like fools.
Powers has the knowledge
Powers rules the game
And once we wipe the grass with you
You’re headed home in shame.
Go Tigers! Go Tigers! Go Tigers, Go!
The school band was playing the instrumental version of “Victory” by Kool and the Gang as Jonovan, who was actually the school mascot, danced in front of them. It was hilarious, and I wondered if he was hot under that costume. He had actually asked my advice when they first asked him to be the mascot. He was on the fence about it but didn’t want to play in the school band during high school. He had played the trumpet in middle school and was tired of all the practice time involved. But he still enjoyed participating. I told him that it seemed like being the mascot would be the best of both worlds. He didn’t have to practice with the band—or practice the trumpet at home—and all he had to do was dance and still be able to hang around everyone and get caught up in the excitement at the games. He decided to agree to be the mascot for the football season and then revisit it for basketball in the spring. The good part was that since he was wearing a costume, someone else could take over without missing a beat.
