by Mason Dixon
“We all have secrets,” Pop loved to say. If that was the case, it was only a matter of time before Bathsheba’s secrets came to light. When they did, Raq planned to be the one shining the spotlight on them. Then maybe Ice would realize he’d be better served by having her give orders instead of taking them. Ice and Dez might be the brains of the outfit, but she had ideas, too. All she needed was the right ammo to get Ice to take her seriously.
When people saw her, they thought she was all muscle. But she had a brain, too. And also, unfortunately, a heart. A heart that had started to warm to Bathsheba but was ready to turn cold in an instant. Loyalty was never-ending, but love had its limits. A lesson Raq had learned only too well.
She had never trusted her heart to anyone. Not after watching her friends give theirs away and get nothing but pain in return. Bathsheba had tempted her to go down that road, but she was glad she hadn’t veered from her well-worn path. The route was lonely at times, but at least the ground beneath her feet was sure. She didn’t have time for uncertainty. And Bathsheba was anything but a sure thing.
“That was pretty ballsy what you did,” Zeke said as Bathsheba threw a flurry of punches at his padded hands. “What did Ice do to repay you?”
Raq, cooling down after spending thirty minutes on the speed bag, moved closer to the ring to hear Bathsheba’s answer.
“Nothing.” Bathsheba’s eyes remained focused on her target as she threw a left-right-left combination. She continued to move forward as Zeke backpedaled, stalking him just like she would an actual opponent. Cutting off the angle, she pinned Zeke in a corner and unleashed a flurry of punches. Zeke was right. Bathsheba was rusty, but she had mad skills. “He didn’t have to pay me,” she said, backing off to catch her breath, “because he doesn’t owe me anything.”
“He owes you his life,” Raq said, resting her weary arms on the ring ropes. “Do you really expect anyone to believe he didn’t offer you any kind of compensation in return?”
Bathsheba looked at her over her upraised gloves before she tucked her hands under her chin. “Just because someone offers you something doesn’t mean you have to accept.”
Raq couldn’t tell if the comment was directed at her. It couldn’t have been because the only things Ice had ever given her were money and respect. And they weren’t given freely. She had put in the work to earn both.
“True that.” Zeke adjusted the pads designed to protect his ribs from body shots. “Now Ice owes you a favor. Around here, that’s worth more than a thank you any day. You have a fight this Friday night, right?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Then show me what you got.”
Bathsheba tapped her gloves together, a sure sign she was loading up for a big right hand. Raq had picked up on the tell during Bathsheba’s first fight. If Bathsheba didn’t break the habit soon, other fighters might notice it, too, and devise a strategy to counter the punch. Raq already had one, but she wasn’t about to share it. Not even with Bathsheba. In the ring, it was every woman for herself. Outside, it wasn’t much different.
She looked around the gym. The room was filled with sweaty bodies learning the secrets of a dying art. Business was always steady, but it seemed to be picking up. Most of the boxers in the room were months behind on their weekly dues, but Zeke, like Pop before him, didn’t have the heart to turn anyone away once they showed they were serious about making something of themselves.
“So I guess you’re Ice’s fair-haired girl these days, huh?” Raq asked after Bathsheba climbed out of the ring and another boxer took her place.
Bathsheba grabbed a water bottle and drained half of its contents before she answered Raq’s question. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“What would you say?”
In court, people on trial were innocent until proven guilty. On the streets, the opposite was true. In her mind, Raq had already passed judgment on Bathsheba. The only thing left to do was hand out the sentence.
Bathsheba wiped her chin with the back of her hand while she gave Raq the same suspicious look Raq saw on her own face whenever she caught a glimpse of her reflection. “I’m saying it wouldn’t feel right for me to jump ahead of you in Ice’s crew. If anyone deserves to move up, it’s you. You’ve put in the work. I’m just getting started. I’m willing to wait for my turn. It gives me more time to learn from the best. That’s you, isn’t it?”
“Some might say that.”
Raq wasn’t modest, but she wasn’t one to brag, either. She slowly chewed a fingernail, an old habit she always reverted to in times of stress. Bathsheba seemed to have an answer for everything. Even though she said all the right things, did she really mean them?
“Are you ready for that steak?” Bathsheba asked as she unwound the protective tape on her hands. “I was thinking we could check out the restaurants downtown or along the Inner Harbor. I know a lot of tourists hang out there, but I hear the food’s off the chain. What do you say?”
She smiled, showing off the dimples that always made Raq’s stomach turn somersaults.
“No, thanks.”
“What’s the matter? Did you lose your appetite? I’ve seen you eat. I know that can’t be the case.”
“No chance of that.”
Raq didn’t go downtown unless she was low on cash and she was looking for pockets to pick. Even then, she didn’t stay long. She chose her marks, fleeced them, and hit the nearest pawnshop before her victims realized they had been robbed. But it wasn’t the proposed venue that gave her pause. It was the person inviting her to it. A week ago, she would have loved nothing more than having a fancy sit-down dinner with Bathsheba. Getting cleaned up nice and watching people’s mouths drop when she walked in with Bathsheba on her arm. Now, though, she didn’t think she could stomach it, no matter how good the food.
“Save your money,” she said. “There’s no reason for you to drop three figures on a meal we could make ourselves for twenty bucks.”
“Then let’s make it ourselves.”
Raq snorted a laugh. “Who’s going to do the cooking, me or you? I hope you don’t expect me to do it because my culinary skills are limited to things that come out of a can or go in the microwave. Unless you want your steak to taste like charcoal or shoe leather, you don’t want me in the kitchen.”
“No, I don’t want you in my kitchen,” Bathsheba said with a laugh of her own.
“See? I told you.”
Raq felt herself begin to loosen up a bit. She hadn’t been able to relax around Bathsheba since Bathsheba had come back to town. She didn’t want Bathsheba to know she suspected she was being less than honest about who she was and what she was doing in the Middle East, but she couldn’t convince herself to act like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t seen what she’d seen in Bathsheba’s apartment. Like Bathsheba was no longer a friend but an enemy. An enemy she needed to deal with, one way or another. Ice’s way would be more permanent; hers would cause more pain. Pain was something she knew well. How to take it and especially how to dish it out.
Bathsheba moved toward her. “I don’t want you in my kitchen because I’d rather have you in my bed.” She trailed her fingers down Raq’s arm, leaving sparks in their wake. She was standing so close Raq could feel her breath kiss her skin. Raq forced herself to stand her ground. To stand firm. Hard to do when she knew how easy it would be to give in. “My place tonight at eight. How does that sound?”
Raq’s clit twitched as desire raced through her like a wildfire. Her head told her Bathsheba was bad news—that Ice was right not to trust her—but her heart said something different. Her heart begged her to take a chance. To allow what she and Bathsheba had started to reach its natural conclusion, regardless of outside influences. But she refused to listen. Unlike Ice, she wasn’t going to let herself be distracted by a pretty face. Not when there was work to be done. And truth to be discovered.
When they first met, Bathsheba had played hard to get. She had made a big deal about Raq earning the crumbs
she threw out. Now she was offering to give her cookies away after one night at the club and a couple of lunch dates? It didn’t add up. Unless she was trying to throw Raq off the scent by tossing a little sex her way. Could Bathsheba tell Raq had doubts about her? Of course she could. Even Stevie Wonder could see that.
Raq wasn’t doing a good job of hiding her suspicions, if Bathsheba’s guarded expression was any indication. The way she saw it, there were two things she could do: confront Bathsheba head-on with what she had found or sit back and wait for her to trip herself up. There were problems with both. If she asked Bathsheba about the computer, she’d have to explain how she knew about it in the first place. And if she waited, there was no telling what kind of damage Bathsheba could do to Ice and his organization in the meantime. Waiting could put her out of a job, behind bars, or both. She didn’t like either prospect.
She had to find out what Bathsheba was up to without letting Bathsheba know she had broken into her place and without Ice finding out she had kept her initial discovery from him. Guaranteed to lose either the respect of a man she looked up to or the affections of a woman she was beginning to care for, she was fucked either way.
There was only one person she could turn to for help. Pop Walker. The man who had saved her years ago could do the same now.
Pop was one of the oldest residents of the Middle East. He had watched multiple generations grow up before his eyes and could dish the dirt on all of them. Bathsheba had said she had lived in the Middle East all her life, but Raq had never seen her around. If Bathsheba was lying about her past—or anything else—Pop would know. He and Raq weren’t as close as they used to be, thanks to her dealings with Ice, but she knew she could always count on him to give her the straight dope.
“I can’t come to your place tonight.”
“Why not?” The look of disappointment on Bathsheba’s face seemed so genuine Raq almost forgot she might be acting. “Do you have to work?”
“No. I’m supposed to eat at Pop and Zeke’s place tonight. It’s something we do every week.” At least they used to before she started working for Ice. But Raq didn’t think it would take much work on her part to convince Pop and Zeke to turn back the clock and reestablish their old tradition. “Would you like to join us? Pop and Zeke don’t get much company. It’s just the two of them most nights. I think they’d enjoy having someone to talk to besides me.”
“I’d like that.”
Bathsheba’s smile was tinged with relief, an emotion Raq doubted she would feel any time soon. All she expected to feel for the foreseeable future was regret.
“Cool. Pop and Zeke live above the gym, so we won’t have far to go. I’ll meet you here at seven.”
And if Pop was his usual nosy self, Raq would know everything there was to know about Bathsheba Morris by nine.
*
The signs were subtle, but Bathsheba could tell Raq suspected she was something other than what she was pretending to be. She had known as soon as she’d walked into her living room and noticed the magazines on her coffee table were in a different order than she’d left them. That her gun, instead of pointing north and south, was directed east and west. Everything else, including her computer, was in place, if not undisturbed, but she had been able to tell someone had been in her apartment. Not someone. Raq.
Bathsheba was the reason Raq had been asked to stay behind when Ice and his inner circle went to New York. She had done something to raise Ice’s suspicions and, just like at the copy shop, he had sent Raq to her apartment to check her out. Though Ice’s concerns had been assuaged, Raq’s obviously had not. Tellingly, Raq had kept her reservations to herself instead of sharing them with Ice. If Raq had confided in him, Bathsheba would be sitting in front of him refuting Raq’s claims or pleading for her life, not planning a dinner date.
Unless Raq had guessed the password to her computer, which was a long shot but not impossible, she wouldn’t have been able to gain access to the files stored on the hard drive. Which meant that odds were in Bathsheba’s favor. Raq didn’t know she was a cop. Good. Bathsheba had time to win her over before she lost her altogether.
She picked out an outfit that was sexy without being too obvious—tight jeans that fit her like a second skin and a lavender silk blouse that was one button away from being extraneous. Raq’s eyes bugged out when she saw her, letting Bathsheba know she had chosen wisely.
“I hope you like seafood,” Raq said after she regained her composure. “Zeke told me he was making a pot of Maryland blue crabs. When he seasons them just right, they’re so good they make you want to slap your mama.”
Bathsheba had felt like doing that every day since she was a teenager, but she didn’t feel like sharing that part of her life with anyone, though she knew she might have to at some point for the sake of the case.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had homemade blue crabs.”
In truth, it had been a while since she’d had homemade anything. When she walked a beat, she and her partner used to hit the same diner so often the waitress had their orders ready even before they walked in the door. When she rode in a patrol car, fast food places were her best friends. After she became a detective, she learned to live on day-old coffee and leftover pizza. Now that she was undercover, she was more focused on solving the case than finding her next meal.
“Then you’re in for a treat.” Raq opened the door for her and gallantly stepped aside. “After you.”
Bathsheba’s heart hammered in her chest as she stepped inside the darkened gym. She didn’t like having someone on her six, especially when she didn’t know if it was someone she could trust. She slowed so Raq could draw ahead of her instead of trailing behind.
“Pop and Zeke’s apartment is this way.”
Raq pointed across the room toward a set of narrow stairs behind a small practice ring. The wood on the oak railings was worn smooth from use. Bathsheba let her fingers slide across the railings’ shiny surface as she followed Raq up the stairs. Word on the street was Raq never carried a gun, but that didn’t stop Bathsheba from performing a quick visual inspection to make sure.
Raq’s jeans and hooded sweatshirt were loose, as was her norm, but Bathsheba didn’t see any telltale bulges under the voluminous material that would indicate she was hiding a concealed weapon. Raq might not be leading her into an ambush, but she definitely seemed to have something in mind besides food and fellowship.
As Bathsheba passed a tapestry of the Last Supper in the foyer, she hoped she wasn’t about to attend her own version of one.
The apartment smelled like an extension of the gym—the aromas of sweat and various balms meant to treat sore muscles permeated the small space. Pop Walker sat in a faux leather armchair whose seat had molded over time to fit his shrunken form.
Pop was in his nineties now and he had been a senior citizen for as long as Bathsheba had known him, but she remembered when he was the biggest, baddest man on the block. Though he was slight in stature, the sculpted muscles that were holdovers from his days in the ring had made him appear larger than life even in his sixties. How things had changed. Pop, a shell of his former self, was locked in a losing battle against the one opponent who was destined to remain undefeated: time.
“It’s good to see you, Raquel.”
Raq glanced back at Bathsheba as Pop opened his arms for a hug. His warm greeting confirmed Bathsheba’s suspicions that tonight’s dinner was more of a ruse than a ritual.
“Does your presence tonight mean what I think it means?” Pop asked.
“No. I just—” Raq shifted from one foot to the other. She looked like she had disappointed someone she longed to impress. “I just missed you, that’s all. I was hoping we could put the recent past behind us and go back to the way it used to be. At least for one night.”
Raq rubbed the back of her neck as if she were embarrassed by having her emotions on display. Bathsheba found the move oddly endearing—and utterly captivating. One of Raq’s duties was to provid
e protection for drug dealers as they plied their trade. At the moment, however, she seemed to need looking after far more than they ever did. Bathsheba wanted to go to her and offer comfort, but Pop made the move before she could.
“Yeah, baby girl,” Pop said, taking one of Raq’s large hands in his smaller one. “We can do that. You brought company, I see.”
“I’d like you to meet Bathsheba Morris.”
Bathsheba stepped forward to shake Pop’s outstretched hand.
“I thought you got out.” He looked her in the eye as he gripped her hand hard. As if he wanted to tell her something he couldn’t say in words. “What are you doing back here?”
“You know her?” Raq asked.
“Are you serious? Of course I know her. I watched her grow up the same as I did you.” He turned back to Bathsheba. “How’s your sister doing? Did she get herself sorted out?”
Bathsheba felt an all-too-familiar disappointment. “Mary’s trying, but it’s hard, you know?”
“I know.” Pop patted her hand soothingly and released his hold. “Once that narcotic gets hold of you, it doesn’t want to let go. I’ve seen it plenty of times but never experienced it firsthand, thank the Lord. Did you come back to try to save your mama like you did your sister?”
An unexpected lump formed in Bathsheba’s throat. The only emotion she usually felt for her mother was anger, not empathy. “I’ve done all I can do. I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”
“She wants help. She just doesn’t know it yet. She has to hit rock bottom first.”
“I’ve heard what she does just to get another hit,” Bathsheba said. “She’s already at rock bottom.”
“Does your mama live around here?” Raq asked. “What’s her name?”
“Ask your friend Half Pint,” Pop said contemptuously. “He can tell you everything you need to know.”
