Whos Loving You

by Mary B. Morrison

  “Hello?” I said, trying to speak low so Honey wouldn’t hear me talking.

  “Grant Hill, is this you?”

  Fuck! How’d she know my name? “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Tiffany Davis. Remember me?”

  “Naw, I don’t remember you. Help me out.”

  “Excuse me for being so blunt, but do you remember the cheerleader who covered your dick with peanut butter and—”

  “Strawberry preserves. Goddamn.” My mouth hung open for a few seconds. “No way. Is that what you do for a living now? Are you one of Lace’s prostitutes?” I had to ask her but couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. Was I dreaming?

  “Not hardly, sweetheart. I’m an undercover cop, so I arrest guys who solicit for sex. My undercover name is—”

  Finishing her sentence, I said, “Sapphire Bleu.”

  “Now how did you know that? Don’t answer that. Can you come to Las Vegas? I’ll get you a ticket, and you can stay at my place. I want to see you ASAP.”

  And I needed to see her, too, to get the truth behind what was happening with my brother, Honey, and that Valentino guy. “I’ll make my own reservations. Give me your number.” I gave her my cell phone number, then said, “I’ve seriously got to go,” when the shower stopped.

  “Grant?” Tiffany whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to know, I never forgot the way you respected me back then. It’s because of you that I know there are good black men out there. I just haven’t found one yet. I want to say thanks.”

  “I gotta go.” Fearing Honey would catch me on her phone, I hung up, tossed her cell phone on the bed, got dressed, and left. There was no way I could make love to Honey again tonight. Maybe a different night. But not tonight.

  Cruising out of Honey’s driveway, I mumbled, “Goddamn, Tiffany Davis.” They said bad luck came in threes, but three outstanding dick suckers in a row? That was all good.

  CHAPTER 20

  Honey

  Too much was enough. What sick-ass game was Grant playing? I was not giving him any satisfaction. I had other things to do, and if I met an interesting man, I was adding him to the top of my to-do list.

  Folding three pairs of fitted jeans, three tops, a professional suit, and a few casual things, I packed for my trip to Los Angeles with Red Velvet, her mother, and Ronnie. I glanced around my room, wishing I could dispel Grant’s energy. Hopefully, his scent would dissipate before I returned in two days.

  Six degrees of separation cut in half. What Sapphire had told me was beginning to bother me, but I had other things to do. I’d visit Sapphire on my way back from L.A. I showered, got dressed, then called Onyx downstairs to take me to pick up Velvet and her family and drive all of us to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport.

  Handing Onyx the keys to my car, I said, “You drive.”

  “You good?” Onyx asked, with concern, as she picked up my suitcase. She put it in the back of my SUV.

  “I’m good,” I said, staring out the passenger window. I didn’t want to look into her eyes. She’d see my sadness. Quietly, I took a few deep breaths. Continuing to stare out the window, I told her, “I’m going to Los Angeles, and I’ll be back in a few days. You’re in charge. I want a full daily report on everybody. No overnight guests are allowed. And if Grant shows up here, do not let that motherfucker in, you hear me?”

  Onyx said, “Everything will be okay. I’m sure he has an explanation. Maybe he had a family emergency and didn’t want to alarm you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You just handle your business, and I’ll make sure everything here is taken care of to your satisfaction.” Onyx parked in front of Velvet’s house.

  Getting out of the car, I wanted to scream. How could I fall for this bullshit-ass nigga? Walking up to the front door, I felt like a private investigator instead of the president of my own company. I was supposed to open the doors to my business today. Best not to. I was so pissed off with Grant, my clients would’ve been counseling and consoling me. I was glad I was going across country to L.A. today. I needed to occupy my mind with something productive and get far away from Grant before I seriously hurt him.

  I rang Velvet’s mother’s doorbell.

  An older woman opened the door, then called out, “Ronnie, Velvet, let’s go. Honey is here.”

  This woman actually had faith that I could successfully arrange for her daughter and grandson to meet this Alphonso guy. I sure hoped she was right. Onyx helped them put their bags in the back of my SUV.

  “You,” Velvet said, standing in front of me. “I should’ve known. That’s how my mother found out what went down at the club.”

  “Velvet, get in the car,” Velvet’s mother said. “Honey didn’t tell me anything. Mrs. Taylor did.”

  Stch. “Whatever. I’ll be glad when all of this is over. And I need to stop by and see my agent while we’re in L.A.,” Velvet said, getting in the car. “Ronnie, get in and move over. Sit in the middle. Grandma’s going to sit on the other side of you.” Velvet fastened his seatbelt. “I hope this trip satisfies everybody so I never have to do this again.”

  “Let me speak to you for a moment,” I said to Velvet’s mother, who was standing outside the car. We walked a few feet away so no one could overhear our conversation.

  “What? Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No, no. Before we leave, I just want to make certain you fully understand this trip may not produce the outcome you expect,” I told her. ’Cause I didn’t want her looking wide-eyed at me if shit didn’t go the way she’d expected.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I know. But we have to try. Right? For Ronnie?”

  “Whatever you want to do is right. Right?” I said, reaching into my purse. I handed her the envelope I’d received with Velvet’s name on it. “Open it.”

  “What is it?” she asked quizzically, staring into my eyes.

  “You won’t know unless you open it. Whatever is inside will determine how we approach Ronnie’s father.” If Alphonso had sent the seventy-two thousand dollars, everything was good. If not, he was going to wish he had.

  “Shouldn’t Velvet be opening this? It is addressed to her.”

  “I don’t want Velvet to be disappointed if it’s not what we expect. If she never knows, then she can’t be. Go on. Open it. We’ve gotta go. Please,” I said, looking at the envelope, anxious to find out if my efforts had been successful.

  Sliding her finger inside a hole on the side of the envelope, she carefully tore the seal. She removed the contents. “Oh my God, dear Jesus,” she cried, stumbling into me.

  “What is it? What?” I asked, reaching for the papers she was waving. I read the first few lines of Alphonso’s letter.

  Stay the fuck away from me and my wife. Velvet is lying. I never touched her. There’s no way Ronnie can possibly be my son. I feel sorry for her….

  “Could this be true?” I asked Velvet’s mother. “You think she made this up?”

  A person’s first reaction was usually the real one. I believed Velvet. What I didn’t want was to get to L.A., confront this man, then have Velvet’s mother make me look like a damn fool, the way Grant had last night. In my line of work, many people got a bullet in the head for taking on a fight that wasn’t theirs.

  “You still want to go? It’s not too late to change your mind if you’re unsure,” I said.

  “Velvet wouldn’t lie about something like this. I say we go,” she answered.

  Handing the letter and check back to her, I said, “Go put this inside. And whatever you do, don’t tell Velvet or Ronnie about this check until we return.”

  Alphonso was trying to buy his way out of something. He might not have been sure about Ronnie being his son. Neither was I. But the thing Alphonso knew for sure was he’d raped Velvet. That was why he’d sent the check for seventy-two thousand dollars. There was more to this situation; I still didn’t know the real reason he’d tried to bully us into not coming. I got
in the passenger seat and buckled up.

  “Where’s Grandma going?” asked Ronnie.

  “We’re not leaving your grandma. She forgot something,” I said, looking in the rearview mirror at Ronnie.

  “Grandma never forgets,” Ronnie said. “Huh, Mommy?”

  Velvet seemed preoccupied. She was working her thumbs like crazy, sending text messages. “Who are you texting like that?” I asked her. “Girl, you’re working them thumbs into a frenzy.”

  “Yea! Grandma’s here. Let’s go,” Ronnie said cheerfully. “I’m going to Disneyland.”

  Laughing into her Sidekick, Velvet said, “You are so stupid.” Then she typed some more. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She chuckled. “Just this guy I met the other day. G seems different. But they all do when I first meet ’em. He wants to make up for standing me up yesterday. He’s taking me out to dinner when I get back. Maybe if you’re not busy, Honey, you can join us and give me your take on him. I really like this one.”

  I was the wrong person for Velvet to ask an opinion from. What was Grant’s problem? Damn, he was Benito’s brother. Both of those bastards were missing a few links.

  “Well, he probably is. Different, that is. Just make sure he’s not you know what,” Velvet’s mother said.

  I kept quiet and tried to map in my head how to proceed when we got to L.A. If what we had read was true, our visit could be disastrous.

  CHAPTER 21

  Valentino

  Incarceration was the absolute worst kind of motherfuckin’ confinement for men, not women. Women could cope better with their feelings and shit. They were born that way. For men, being locked up was an emotional fuck. In or out of jail, women enjoyed talking about their problems, but men didn’t give a fuck about hearing another nigga’s headaches, especially if he was bitching about being in love.

  Man, shut the fuck up, handle yours, and keep your bitch-ass problems to yourself, or get your ass kicked or beat down…That was how men were raised, not by their parents but by niggas on the street. Niggas to me didn’t come in colors—black, white, or other. A nigga was any ig’nant motherfucker who couldn’t handle his women, his money, or his business. Like that bitch Benito. Hadn’t heard from his ass since I’d been put in this hellhole. I should’ve been his priority. Let me find out that punk went back to Lace, with his tail tucked between his nuts, and I’d kill him myself. Women weren’t good for much. The shit they called spending quality time was a waste of a man’s time.

  Women liked cuddling. A real man didn’t give a damn about holding no bitch before or after he’d cum. Women looked forward to shopping; men hated that sissy-ass bullshit. I’d slash my wrist before tagging along with some bitch to the mall, holding her fuckin’ bags. So let me get bitches right. I was supposed to spend my money on them and be their fuckin’ gofer? No way.

  What really pissed me off was the women who craved monogamy and voluntarily committed themselves to celibacy. I needed a ride-or-die bitch who was willing to turn tricks to fast-forward my mission of regaining my hundred-million-dollar status. Men just wanted to fuck as many bitches as possible or get paid to let another nigga fuck his bitches. Love the game or hate it, that was the real motherfuckin’ deal. I could find a straight-up whore or a woman who was one paycheck away from prostitution on every, I meant every, damn corner of the world.

  The animalistic behavior niggas exhibited behind bars—they’d shank an Italian, poison a Muslim, put a hit out on a snitch, start territorial gang wars to demand respect, stick a dick in any hole, including another man’s asshole, to bust a nut—was fucking me up. I’d learned you never said what the fuck you wouldn’t do to survive until you’d been in compromising positions. I got tired of beating my shit two, three times a day. That was right. I did what I had to.

  “Bend your punk ass over, and spread your motherfuckin’ ass,” I said to the new inmate.

  My cell mate had gotten transferred to the hospital. He was lucky I didn’t have him killed for watching me jack off every morning before taking my piss. Turned out he’d made several enemies. So I’d chilled and let someone else do additional time for cutting his throat. My intent was to get out on bail. Receiving that letter from Summer was my ticket. The letter I wrote telling her what she had to do was going out in today’s mail.

  I considered myself lucky to have a first timer in my cell. Fucking him first gave me less of a chance of contracting HIV or some other sexually transmitted disease. It didn’t make no fuckin’ sense that these trick-ass guards didn’t pass out condoms when they knew what we were doing and sometimes watched us shit packing. That punk-bitch guard just stood in the shadows outside my cell. I guessed he’d seen so many rapes while working here that he knew he’d have to place 98 percent of the inmates in solitary confinement to prevent us from fucking or getting fucked.

  I swore I’d never do this, but a nigga was tired of waking up under a pitched tent, with his big-ass dick hard as cement. Gurgling up a chunk of spit, I let it drop dead on his asshole, then slid my dick all the way in. Imagining I was making love to Summer, I ignored him. He was yelling like a bitch.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I said, forcing the cum from my nuts. “Damn!” I didn’t want this homo shit to last any longer than it had to. I wasn’t gay, ’cause I’d never been penetrated.

  At least there was a code of ethics that meant this kind of shit stayed inside the prison. Once I was free, never again would I fuck a man. I didn’t trust these niggas sucking my dick. I knew a few guys had, ha! yah!, gotten their shit bitten straight the fuck off alligator and snapping turtle style.

  The second after I finished cuming, I was sick to my damn stomach and started throwing up all over his back. Pushing him into the wall, I became angry with that nigga, angry at myself, knowing I was straight. He’d seemed straight, too, until I’d taken his manhood. I should’ve had the willpower to suppress my sexual urges.

  Lying on my top bunk, I clamped my hands behind my head, then stared at the ceiling. Felt like that cement motherfucker was closing in on me one inch at a time. I couldn’t breathe. Day started feeling like night, and night like day.

  “I’ve got to get the fuck up outta here before I go fifty-one fifty,” I muttered. The outside world had no idea how many niggas committed suicide or homicide in this bitch. Not me. I refused to go out either way.

  Instincts were straight weird. The phone number on that blue sticky I’d received, I’d never called. Obviously, it was some anonymous trick trying to play me…but who? Why? They probably thought that because I was confined, they had the upper hand. I’d find them after I got outta here, and if their intentions were ill, I’d kill them. With so much shit on my mind, I lay awake for hours, until the sun crept through the window and the lights came on.

  Laughing, the eye-spy, bitch-ass guard who had watched me earlier stood outside my cell and said, “Number two-one-three-six-five-four, your balls, I mean your bail, has been posted.”

  “Man, that shit ain’t funny. Stop fucking with me,” I said. Punk ass!

  Pulling out his handcuffs, he unlocked the door. “You know the routine. Get dressed, then put your hands behind your back,” he instructed.

  Slipping into my jumpsuit, I realized I needed to wash my dick, but if he was telling the truth, I could have my dick, ass, and balls in a hot tub of water before sunset. I turned away from him, put my hands behind my back, then waited for him to secure the cuffs. After we stepped out, he locked the cell. I wanted to say bye to my cell mate but couldn’t look him in his eyes. Fuck it. What was done couldn’t be undone. Maybe when he got out, he’d learn to work for himself, instead of selling some other niggas crack.

  I didn’t believe this guard. Something underhanded was about to go down. Constantly checking my surroundings, I put one foot in front of the other, heel to toe “Who bailed me out?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Relax. You’re going home. For a short while, until your hearing. So don’t fuck up, or you’ll be back in here before your hearing
.” Shaking his head, the guard laughed. “Man, you should’ve saved that nut. Why you break down like that, Valentino man?”

  It felt great. Not busting the nut. Hearing him call me by my name. I wasn’t no fucking number anymore? I was a free man? There wasn’t a reason to answer him, but I asked, “Why you didn’t stop me instead of watching?”

  The guard answered, “The best advice I can give you is to make sure you get tested before fucking anybody else, male or female.”

  What? “I ain’t gay, man. You know something I don’t?” I asked, staring at him. “You saw me. I was in and out in less than five minutes.”

  The guard shook his head. “Don’t matter. That shit happened for a reason. And too many black men leave here infected and pass that shit along to women. Get checked. If not for yourself, for her. The beautiful woman waiting out there for you.”

  Beautiful. I smiled, knowing that could only be one woman. The one I should’ve married. Processing out, I thought they were going to give me the clothes I was arrested in, but I ended up with a fresh pair of black slacks, new shoes, and a black button-down shirt that fit perfectly. I took the fastest shower ever before putting on my new clothes. After soaping up the crack of my ass and my private parts, I rinsed off, got dressed, signed my papers, and got the hell up out of there. I yelled, “Valentino James ain’t never coming back up in this bitch!”

  As I exited the gate, my heart stopped. I stood still. What was happening to me? I was really outside. No bars. No handcuffs. Damn. Walking toward the parking lot, I saw a platinum Bentley first. Then I saw her red stilettos, her bare legs, the hem of a red, flaring dress, and her face, beaming brighter than the sun.

  Summer ran to me, and I knew she was the one. Her hair danced in the wind. She jumped in my arms, wrapped her thighs around my waist. The rosy scent of her perfume made me forget for a moment where I was. What had I done to deserve Summer? That shit felt ridiculous. On the one hand, I was the happiest motherfucker. On the other, I was fucked up. Was that her car? Summer was the image of her sister, Sunny. Summer was simple sexy, and Sunny had been spicy sexy. But Sunny was dead, and her death wasn’t my fault. I had to make certain I didn’t get convicted of a crime I didn’t commit. Every nigga in prison was innocent if you let them tell their stories, but my shit was real. Sunny had pulled the trigger and put a bullet in her own head. Not me.