Whos Loving You

by Mary B. Morrison

  She was nineteen; I was thirty. Maybe this was all a façade, and all Girl Six needed was to be held by someone who cared about her. Maybe our connection had nothing to do with me or my emotions. Maybe I was the one with abandonment issues. It didn’t matter. I sincerely enjoyed her as much as she appreciated me. Kissing her lips, I said, “Lie here and relax. You’re going to be all right.”

  Gently, I removed the dildo, went into the bathroom, placed it on a towel, sprayed it with sex-toy cleaner, scrubbed it, rinsed it, then dried it off. I’d been sidetracked for a moment, but it was time to get back to business. I put on a pair of shorts, then sat on the sofa in the living room, holding my cordless phone.

  Lace had taken her deceased sister’s name, Honey Thomas, to escape the morbid prostitution arena, and I’d selected the identity of Sapphire Bleu when I was hired as an undercover cop. My new name best described my personality. Sapphire fit because I was hot-tempered, and I had no problem shooting a rapist between the eyes if I had to. Bleu suited me because I had never known the meaning of the word love. Next to Sunny, Girl Six was the closest I’d come to caring for anyone. Sunny and I had shared a different kind of love. We’d been emotionally intimate, with no desire to become physical.

  The time to make my phone call to Lace was now. The difference between us was Lace’s mother had kicked her out the day before her sixteenth birthday, whereas I had tired of crying myself to sleep at night and had left home, refusing to return to parents who’d fought and argued more than they’d displayed affection—that, and the fact that my stepfather, Alphonso Allen, had raped me more than he’d had sex with my mom. Running away from home hadn’t allowed me to escape the haunting memories I fought daily to suppress.

  What had made him do that repeatedly to me?

  After I ran away from home, I learned that I was one of several million teenagers that had run away that year. I was certain each of us had had a valid reason—primarily abuse of some sort or depression—that most of our parents had ignored us until we’d left or turned up dead, and that our parents were then the depressed ones. Did my mother miss me at all?

  How had Girl Six ended up in this lifestyle? What was her story? Every woman had one. I peeked in the bedroom. She was underneath the covers. Her eyes were closed. The covers were up to her shoulders. Quietly, I turned off the light.

  I went back into the living room and replayed The Pimp Chronicles. As a teenager I’d been trapped in a society that was apathetic to my generation, unwilling to embrace our freedom of expression, and unable to recognize, and protect us from, sexual predators in our own homes. I couldn’t believe how many mothers had allowed their family members, boyfriends, and husbands to rape their daughters—until I’d seen the stats.

  My parents had been chronic complainers, had lacked effective communication skills, and had seldom talked with me. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up? Don’t say another word,” my mother would say. “I’ve heard enough.” Nothing could have been further from the truth. Problem was my mother hadn’t heard a word I’d said when I’d cried to my stepfather, “Please don’t rape me again.” That was enough of thinking about my childhood. What I was really doing was procrastinating about making that call.

  I reached for my cell phone, and I dialed Lace’s number.

  If my mother had listened to me or tried to understand me, maybe I would’ve felt safe telling her the truth. I was too young to protect myself. Once my mother married Alphonso, he changed, acting as though he owned everyone and everything under our roof, including my mom’s house, her car, her money, and me. Their certificate of marriage was more like his fake-ass license to manhood, making his spine straighten and his voice escalate with authority as he looked down upon us. Because of my stepfather, I swore I’d never get married or have children. Did I have any sisters? Brothers? Only if my mother had more kids. I had no idea who my real father was or where he was. I sure as hell wouldn’t lay claim to any children Alphonso or my father had.

  Lace eagerly answered. “Hello. Grant, is this you?”

  Did she respond that way to all blocked callers? “No, it’s not. It’s Sapphire Bleu, and, bitch, I’ma kick your ass, and then I’ma kill you.” I knew I’d caught her off guard by sounding crazy, but that was my intent. Most people were easily manipulated.

  “Say what? Who the fuck you think you talkin’ to? I’ve been trying to reach you. Where the hell are you?” Lace asked. “We need to talk.”

  Addressing the real reason I’d called, I said, “I need you to chill on spending my money until I get to Atlanta. I’ll be there as soon as I finish handling Valentino.”

  “I don’t have any money for you,” Lace countered.

  “The fifty-million-dollar cashier’s check I asked you to hold. That’s mine. Not yours. I hope you didn’t deposit it.”

  “Deposit? Wait one minute. I never asked you for anything. I’ve spent half. Put a few million into my business, and I have eleven girls living in my house with me, and I have plans for the rest of the money, too. We need to live—”

  “You’d better think and think fast, because you were the one who bought their airline tickets from Vegas to Atlanta before I gave you the money, so obviously you had that part covered, right? I know that after working an entire year for Valentino, you have your own money stashed. Where is it? In your North Las Vegas house? I could go over there right now and find out. And don’t forget you are an ex-madam and a murderer. Don’t force me to have you arrested. I can have Atlanta PD all up in your ass in a matter of minutes.”

  “Arrest me? Your lying ass don’t work for the police department. Who in the hell are you?” Lace yelled.

  She shouldn’t be upset. The point of being an undercover cop was to keep my real identity a secret. “Better question. Who in the hell are you, Lace?” I replied calmly. “Oops, I mean Honey. I’ll call you when I’m on my way. And, bitch, you’d better have my money.”

  Ending the call, I smiled. Actually, I liked Lace. She wasn’t afraid of me, and I knew that. I wished more women were like Lace: not afraid to shoot an abusive man, yet caring enough to support other women. That was enough of a threat to keep her guessing about what she needed to do next and what my next move was. Didn’t she know? Cops craved control.

  My threat wasn’t about the money; it was about maintaining power.

  CHAPTER 13

  Honey

  Every woman needed a sabbatical for reflection. A day, a week, a month, each morning or night, at some point she had to make time to revisit her childhood, her adolescent period, turning twenty-one, and beyond. Her nectar, sometimes bitter, often sweet, lingered in eyes that she seldom looked into. Her own. A glimpse in the mirror to wash her face, brush her teeth, apply her lipstick, and she was on her way out the door to please everyone except herself.

  Did she enter a room with wide strides that showed those watching her she was confident? Or did she drag her tired feet, not even noticing her heels were worn to a slant? Were her shoulders straight? Was her head high but her self-esteem low? Or was her body slumped, leaning toward a pit she found the strength never to fall into no matter how weary she was?

  Driving along West Peachtree, heading toward downtown, I passed the Fox Theatre. One block beyond Gladys Knight and Ron Winans’ Chicken & Waffles, I observed groups of homeless black men. On one side of the street, some gathered at the bus stop; on the opposite side of the street, others stood in line, waiting for a handout. Those men sure as hell weren’t the pick of the litter, but they were part of the litter black women had to choose among. Had their fathers forsaken them? Had their mothers given up on them? Did those men have children? Wives? Girlfriends? Family?

  Glancing through my windshield, I saw a small-framed woman cross the street, shoeless. Her blackened feet were covered with scabs. What was her story? Was she on crack? In search of food? Sex? Shelter?

  Beep. Beep.

  Motioning to her, I pulled over, then stuck my hand out the window and said, “Come here. T
ake my card.”

  “Is that a dollar?” she asked, slowly approaching me.

  “Call me tomorrow. I want to help you,” I said, handing her the card and a fifty-dollar bill. Not knowing her situation, I didn’t tell her what to do with the money. The tears in her eyes spoke the words thank you, and that was my satisfaction.

  Hmm, obviously, that woman and I had taken different paths, but I bet we’d overcome similar obstacles. Rape. Molestation. Abandonment. Did she have children? A lot of women had experienced some form of abuse. Some worse than others. Maybe that was why women didn’t take time to stare into their own eyes. Best to leave the hidden pain dormant behind each beat of their heart. Besides, who cared about abused women, anyway? Most men were preoccupied with their problems or focused on their personal gain. Women preferred to turn their heads rather than say, “Hi. How are you?” to a woman they didn’t know. But their heads would linger in the direction of a man, and they’d hope he’d acknowledge them.

  I merged into traffic, continuing to my destination. Forgiving my past, I realized there was nothing to atone for. Sapphire didn’t scare me. Guilt held women prisoner in their minds. It was time for women to stop apologizing for things that weren’t their fault. Certainly, some of the decisions I’d made were heartless, cold, insensitive, and ruthless; I didn’t deny that. But the suffering I’d endured had allowed me to forgive myself, my mother, my father, all the people that had abused me, including the men.

  Parking in my personal space, I smiled. “Yes! I did it. This is my business, and no one is taking this away from me except over my dead body,” I declared.

  Glad I’d come in a day early, I stood outside, staring at the embossed gold lettering of SWEETER THAN HONEY on the fuchsia awning. Preparing to launch my company overwhelmed me. I felt like Whoopi Goldberg in The Color Purple, when she inherited that money. I didn’t dance on the outside, but my insides were doing flips.

  Unlocking the front door, I locked the door to my heart. I’d dialed Grant’s number almost twenty times. Not once had he answered. He knew what he was doing when he called me. Grant was trying to fuck with my emotions. I refused to let him.

  You are, resounded in my head. I’m done with Grant.

  Sitting at my desk, I listened. There was silence. When was the last time I’d been physically alone, with no one under the same roof? Certainly not when I’d been on my patio, having an orgasm. When I came, I think I awakened all of my neighbors and the girls, too. Turning on my computer, I opened the results to my background investigation of Alphonso Allen and dialed the first number listed.

  “Yes, bitch. What do you want?” a woman answered.

  Ooh, somebody had mad drama in their household. “Hello, this is Ms. Thomas. I’m trying to reach an Alphonso Allen. Is this the right number?”

  “So now you tryna sound all professional and shit. I know it’s you.”

  “Let me reassure you, this is business. Is this the right number or not?”

  She screamed in my ear, “Alphonso! Another one of your bitches is on the phone!”

  The next voice I heard was that of a man. “Who is this?”

  “If you want to avoid a warrant for your arrest for nonpayment of child support, you’ll listen carefully.”

  “What!” He laughed nervously. “You must have the wrong number.”

  “Are you Alphonso Allen?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, that’s me, but there’s lots of Alphonso Allens, you know?”

  “You work for the transit department? You live at thirteen twenty-four…Los Angeles, California? You drive a black Benz with the license plate number 6UF…?”

  He never repeated the reason I was calling. I imagined whoever the woman was who had answered the phone was standing near. I went on. “You remember raping a young lady by the name of Velvet Waters on Venice Beach about six years ago? She called you and said she was pregnant.” I wanted to curse that motherfucker out. He knew damn well it was him. That was why his ass got quiet.

  “Uh, I can’t talk right now, but I am interested in the supervisory position. Call me on my cell in about an hour. It’s three-one-zero…,” he said, then hung up.

  Oh, he was definitely getting a call back and a visit from his son. I called Velvet’s mother and told her to prepare Ronnie for a trip to Los Angeles. Hanging up the phone, I began developing a blueprint of my life. Column one was my past, column two was my present, and column three was my future.

  Prostituting for eleven years (past), and being a madam for one year (past), I was eager to settle down and become a supportive wife and a loving mother (future). I wanted happiness, and I needed to surround myself with happy people (present and future). I was tired of the invincible shield encasing my heart (past and present). What was I truly afraid of? Rejection? I’d been there before, and I prayed Grant didn’t take me there again.

  In my first two marriages, I wasn’t a wife. I was a licensed whore, a human sperm bank, and a built-in maid. That was my past, but it wasn’t my future. Thanks to Officer Sapphire Bleu, I had money, which I wasn’t giving back to her or Valentino. Were Sapphire and Valentino trying to set me up?

  I typed thirty million under ASSETS in my present column. I had a seven-figure stash of my own, but I didn’t need to list that. The only picture I had of Sapphire was etched in my memory, but I could definitely spot her within seconds in a crowded room. Sapphire Bleu was stunningly beautiful.

  I didn’t have any woe-is-me stories, but was this the life God had planned for me or the life I had chosen for myself? Either way, I was fucked up, pissed off, disappointed, hurt, and lonely. Finding my way back to the front door, I stood staring out the window, wondering what tomorrow would bring. The day was clear.

  How in the world could I have possibly fallen in love with a man I’d spent only two weeks with? Before we’d had a chance to really get to know one another, Grant was gone. Actually, I was the one gone after he’d dismissed me. Couldn’t say I blamed him. I was gonna tell him the truth…eventually. On my terms, turf, and time, I would’ve said, “Grant, there are some things you need to know about me.”

  No man wanted to marry a former prostitute—once a prostitute, always a prostitute. Ignorant men believed that. I didn’t. I’d changed for my personal best. I hummed, “Silly of me to think that I could ever have him for my guy. Hm, hm, hm, hm.” I’d prayed Grant was the one man who wouldn’t judge me. If I had a chance to give him all the facts, I knew he wouldn’t hold against me the promiscuous things I’d done before meeting him. Especially when I told him my mother had kicked me out of her house when I was sixteen, so I’d married the first man I’d met. What about the things Grant had done? Was that important?

  Hurrying back to my computer, I continued categorizing my life. It wasn’t my fault both of my ex-husbands had beaten me worse than my mother had. Prostituting had been more about survival than a desired occupation. Maybe I had drawn the abusive men to me. Back then they didn’t love me. I didn’t love myself. What was worse?

  Given all the unspeakable things men had done to me, I had every reason to hate them, and a few women, too, but I didn’t. Hating people meant I hated myself. Instead of hating others, I suppressed my hurt, ignored my feelings, and numbed my pain by having sex for money. Some of my johns had sexed me good, but taking their money had made me happy. No matter how great I fucked my johns, at the end of the night, I wanted a man of my own to hold and to love. While other lonely women dried their eyes with tissues, I wiped away my sorrow with hundred-dollar bills.

  Glancing at my watch, I said, “Oh, damn. It’s been an hour already.” I dialed the number Alphonso had given me.

  He answered right away. “Hello.”

  “Yes, Mr. Allen. What I have to say is straightforward. You owe back child support in the amount of seventy-two thousand dollars, and your future monthly payments are a thousand dollars. You can take out a personal loan or a line of equity on your home if you have to and send the full amount to this address. You read
y?”

  “Bitch, you crazy! Stop playing games. I thought you were serious,” he complained.

  “Oh, I’m very serious.”

  “You don’t even know how much money I make, and you already got this shit figured out on what I’ma pay that sleazy bitch.”

  That’s it! I snapped. My patience was done with this bastard. “Look, motherfucker, the choice is yours. I can have the police on your motherfuckin’ ass in two minutes. I can have you arrested for rape, then have your fuckin’ ass raped before you close your bitch-ass eyes tonight…or you can have a cashier’s check in the amount of seventy-two thousand dollars delivered to three-two-one…Atlanta, Georgia, in two days. A rapist never rapes once, so I’ll dig up every female you’ve ever stuck your nasty-ass dick in without her permission just to make sure you die in jail, motherfucker! Oh, and your son is coming to Los Angeles to meet your sorry ass, so you’d best figure out how you’re gonna tell that crazy-ass wife of yours the truth. Your forty-eight hours start right now, motherfucker.” I hung up in his face. That nigga didn’t know who he was fucking with.

  How many women’s lives had that one man ruined?

  I took the good along with the bad; I wouldn’t trade a single moment of my life. Well, that wasn’t completely true. Even if it meant no one in the world loved me, I wished my mother had loved me. I wished my father hadn’t shut the door in my face when I confronted him about whether he was my real dad, and it bothered me every day that my sister was dead and I’d killed my favorite prostitute.

  I didn’t pull the trigger, but I might as well have. Instead of showing up on time for work, I’d been laid up with my deadbeat, throw-back ex-quarterback boyfriend Benito, who’d lived in my North Las Vegas home for years. His jealous ass had set back the time on my clock, because he wanted me to put him first.