Role Play

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  “I know that!”

  “Then what the hell are you coming after me for? Look around, Monty, I’m here helping you burn this shit. You know, evidence.”

  Silence.

  “You need to stop accusing me and listen to me,” Dominic said.

  “And why should I do that?”

  “Because I’m trying to keep you out of prison, ’cause my black ass ain’t going. Now, if you want to stand here and question my loyalty, that’s on you, but I’m telling you we don’t have time for your paranoid tantrums. We have to move this shit out of here. We can deal with what you really think of me when we’re done.”

  Monty paced again. He thought about what Dominic had just said to him. Perhaps he was right. He did have just as much to lose. Maybe he could trust him . . . maybe. He looked over at Dominic. “I’m just stressed as hell. I just, you know, I’m on fucking edge. And my fault for handling you like that, but—”

  “Like I said, you need to trust me. I wouldn’t dime you out, and I damn sure wouldn’t snitch on myself. But one thing I will do, if you put your hands on me again, is whup yo’ ass, and you can believe that.”

  Dominic fixed his collar. He cleared his throat and pushed his attitude to the side. “We got a lot of shit in here to clean up and get rid of. Let’s get started. Go to the basement and dump this shit in the furnace.”

  Monty nodded. They each grabbed a handful of files and stepped onto the elevator.

  They stood silent. The mirrored elevator doors closed, pulling their reflections into full view. Monty ogled at his, taking in the files in his hands, the bags forming under his eyes, the red blotches on his cheeks.

  This shit can’t happen again. You gotta lie low for a while. Do only what you’re supposed to do.

  The investigation—.

  It’s nothing. No probable cause. No charges. Just a noisy motherfucker on your dick. That it. The lawyer said everything should be fine.

  You gotta get out of bed with ICC and rid yourself of this motherfuckin’ Dominic as soon as you can.

  And Elle . . .

  She’s a good woman. A little insecure. But she’s good to you. Good mother. Good wife . . . Loyal. You need her.

  And as far as that bitch, Brooklyn. You gotta get her out of your mind and out of your system. She’s got your head all fucked up, that’s why your mind hasn’t been in the game.

  So, fuck her.

  She was a fat piece of pussy.

  And pussy that hangs around too long is a liability.

  Plus, after all of these years together, she turned on you. She ain’t worth shit. You gave her too much of your time, your money, and your attention. You did. Now you gotta step off. She was a piece of ass, no more, no less.

  She was more than that.

  The fuck?! No, she wasn’t.

  “Monty! What the hell is wrong witchu, boy?!”

  “Governor! Governor—”

  Monty blinked away his thoughts and looked over to Dominic.

  “We need to get off,” Dominic said, with his back pressed against one side of the elevator’s pocketed door to stop it from closing.

  Monty looked over Dominic’s shoulder and gathered his bearings. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He stepped off the elevator, lightly brushed Dominic’s shoulder as he walked past him and over to the furnace.

  By the time they were done and Monty had made it home, he desperately wanted to take his chances and ease into the bedroom, talk to Elle, and see where they stood. She always had a way of making him feel better and easing his fears, even if she didn’t know what frightened him.

  He and Elle’s bedroom door creaked as he pushed it open.

  Elle sat in the chaise lounge, sleeping.

  He took a soft step into the room, doing his best not to trip over his clothes scattered about. He couldn’t believe the room was still a mess.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and whispered, “Elle . . . Elle . . .”

  Her eyes peeled open; the corners wrinkled.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  She stared at him. Drew back a snarl. “What?”

  “Baby, please, we need to talk.”

  “Baby? Please? We need to talk? After everything you’ve done? After the fool you made of me? And now you want to talk? Talk about what, the weather? Or talk about your bitch? The one you took from rags to riches, on my dime, and my time, and fucked me over for? If so, then let’s talk. Where should we start, with how she’s fucking some other motherfucker on the bed I’m sure you bought for her? And not just any other man, but the reporter who’s slapped a noose around your neck and is doing everything he can to choke the shit out of you.”

  “Enough, Elle.”

  “No, motherfucka, you wanted to talk. Let’s chat.” She reached for her pack of cigarettes on the end table. Lit one. And took a pull. “I’m listening.”

  Monty swallowed. He knew she was seconds from jumping out of her seat and flying at him. And he was in no mood to wrestle with her again.

  He stood up. And as he walked backward out of their bedroom, Elle snorted, “I didn’t think your bitch ass had shit to say.”

  Chapter 30

  Brooklyn

  Brooklyn opened Meechie’s front door and stepped in, causing Meechie’s boyfriend, Luck, to crane his neck over the couch and shoot her a nasty look. “Da fuck? You realize this is Oakland, right? You can’t just be coming up in here like that, all times of the night. There’s a bell out there—use it.” He looked over to Joy, who clutched her purse to her chest and followed close behind Brooklyn. “And who the hell is that?” He stood up.

  Brooklyn gave Luck a once-over. He towered at six foot four and had golden brown skin, a slim build, cornrows braided straight to the back, and a goatee. He wore gray thermal long-johns, white sweat socks pulled up to his knees, a white wife beater, and a beltless, brown corduroy robe and matching slippers. He looked over at Joy. “You can let up off your bag, cuz.”

  He looked back to Brooklyn. “Anyway, I heard you were talking shit about me.” He stroked his goatee. “Said I was a broke ass. But my baby got that ass straight.” He popped an invisible collar.

  Joy and Brooklyn blinked in unison.

  He continued, “Seems you always got something to say. Had my baby spending her good coin just to make you happy. And I heard you still showed your ass.”

  Brooklyn pursed her lips. The only reason why she hadn’t gathered Luck’s collar in her hands was because she couldn’t reach it. She rolled her eyes, and instead of responding to him, she and Joy walked into the kitchen, where Meechie stood at the stove, frying fish.

  “Demetria, why would you tell your man my business?” Brooklyn’s voice boomed.

  “Is that nigga-ese for hello?”

  “Hello. Now,” Brooklyn snapped, “answer my question. And don’t deny it because he told me everything you said.”

  “That was a bit much, Meechie,” Joy added. “Luscious was really out of line.”

  Meechie tossed a look over to Joy. “First of all, his name is Luck, short for Lucky. Second, this is me and bae’s house, ain’t no lines over here.”

  “Tell ’em, bae! Get their asses together,” Luck yelled from the living room.

  “You know how we do, babe!” Meechie yelled back. She blushed as she placed a piping piece of fish on top of a steamy stack, then dropped another into the frying pan. “I don’t know about you two tight-ass broads, but over here me and my bae be bonding. He asked me how last night went, and I told him.”

  “You don’t have to tell your man everything, Demetria,” Joy insisted.

  “And I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Joy twisted her lips.

  “For example,” Meechie said, “I didn’t tell him how—when Brooklyn was over at the bar—your drunk ass confessed to me that Thomas was married when you met him. And that you went to the juju lady and laid a goddamn root on his old ass to break his marriage up. Then you burned a penis candle so he would leave his wife and co
me to you, and now that you got him and his money, you don’t want him. I ain’t tell him that.”

  Brooklyn looked at Joy in disbelief. “Bitch, you ain’t even tell me that. You’re over there conjuring shit? Is that the real reason Thomas suddenly lost his hearing? The fuck—”

  “Demetria is exaggerating!” Joy insisted, “You know she was drunk.”

  “Yeah, I was drunk, but did I lie? Huh? Where is the lie? Which part?” Meechie asked.

  Joy responded, “It wasn’t a penis candle—”

  “Then what was it?” Brooklyn and Meechie asked simultaneously.

  Joy pinched her thumb and index fingers together. “Just a small skull candle—”

  “Skull!” they said, shocked.

  “So he would constantly think about me and make the right decision.”

  Brooklyn gasped. “I don’t even know who you are any-more.”

  “Tried to tell you about that ho,” Meechie said. “Now look at her, a goddamn root lady!”

  “Listen,” Joy said, “I had to do what I had to do. And anyway, this isn’t supposed to be about me. This is supposed to be about you, and all the while you were sucking ole boy’s dick!”

  “What?!” Meechie screeched, as she carelessly dropped a piece of fish into the frying pan, causing specks of hot grease to pop into the air. She stepped back from the stove and a few seconds later resumed cooking her food. She said, “Repeat that. Sucking whose dick? Pretty boy from the dance floor? That’s why he took you home? You nasty bitch.” Meechie smirked. “But since you sucked it, what did it taste like?” Meechie finished cooking her food, turned the stove off, then fixed Brooklyn, Joy, and herself plates of fried whiting, collard greens, and candied yams.

  Brooklyn picked up her fork and said, “Don’t listen to Joy, it wasn’t like that—”

  “Then what was it like?” Meechie asked lifting a forkful of collards. “Did you suck his dick?”

  “We were intimate.” Brooklyn ate a piece of fish.

  “That means you ate his ass too!”

  Brooklyn practically spat out her food. “Bitch, I didn’t eat his ass, what is wrong with you?”

  “Couples do what couples do,” Joy said, taking a bite.

  Brooklyn gasped and said to Joy, “Who are you?”

  “Don’t turn this back around on me, show Demetria what the fool texted you.”

  Brooklyn showed Monty’s text to Meechie.

  Meechie coughed. “Wait.” She gasped for air. “Hold up.” She took a napkin and dabbed the corners of her mouth. A smile bloomed and she tapped the phone with her index finger. “Is that what ole boy is working with? Dayum! You were gon’ just pretend that that motherfucker ain’t out here turning vaginal canals into tunnels with that fifty-five-inch stroke and heavy-ass scrotum? This is something you should’ve called and informed me of! Oh, you’s a nasty, freaky bitch!” She looked over at Joy and gave her a high five. “We need details. How long, how wide, how many strokes, how many back shots, how’s his stamina? Is he worth a second round? Did he suck the whole pussy, like a ma’fuckin G? Or did he just circle the clit, like an immature punk ass? And is this a still, or a video, ’cause if it’s a video, then, bittttttch, text it to me!”

  Brooklyn frowned. “Eww, what the hell?”

  “What do you mean, eww? Me and Luck got a video where he is all up and through this big ass I got. He was like, ‘Yum, yum, yum!’ And I was like ‘eat it up, Buttercup’” Meechie paused. Zoomed in on the pic. “Damn, sis. I know you recorded this.”

  Brooklyn snapped, “No, I did not! I don’t do that.”

  “Then what is this?” Meechie asked.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. That’s a picture Monty’s crazy ass took when he broke in to my house!”

  “What? Broke in to your house?”

  “Yes!”

  “When? How?”

  “Last night when Lorenz and I were sleeping. I guess he used the spare key.”

  Meechie blinked. “The governor?”

  “Yeah, his ass,” Joy said.

  “And I think he’s following me too,” Brooklyn added.

  Meechie smirked. “Following you?”

  “His truck was parked in front of my house this morning.”

  “He’s crazy!” Joy insisted.

  “Oh this nigga done lost his whole shit! Joy, we need some candles. You ain’t said nothing but a word!” Meechie carried on, “I can’t believe this! He stood you up on your birthday, left you home alone. Didn’t give a fuck about you when he told your ass he wasn’t taking you out. Now he’s pissed off because you went home with another man? Meanwhile, he’s got matching wedding bands and paying footsies with his wife, that retarded bitch!”

  “Nuts!” Joy shook her head. “I pray you changed your locks, Brooklyn.”

  “I did.”

  “Good. Now you need to go to the police,” Joy said.

  “I went before I met up with you, Joy.”

  Meechie rolled her eyes. “So, what the police say?”

  Brooklyn said, “I showed them the picture. Told them he broke into my home and I needed a restraining order. They were nasty to me, gave me the rundown about how Monty was the governor, and asked was I ready to be dragged in front of the media, as if they were going to be the leak.”

  “They should not have given you a hard time. They were supposed to simply take your report,” Joy said, agitated.

  “They took the report. I just don’t believe they’re going to do shit with it.”

  “Why not?” Meechie asked.

  “Did you forget who he is?” Brooklyn snapped.

  “He should remember who he is, and not be breaking into your house! We’re going back to the police,” Meechie insisted. “Maybe you had a dumb cop and we need to explain it to him again. Make sure this time they get the fucking message.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Brooklyn said. “Besides, I don’t want to be dragged through the press. Can you imagine the effect that would have on Alani?”

  “If he does anything to my niece—”

  “He won’t. I just need to figure this out.”

  “It’s nothing to figure out. You’re moving in with me and Luck—”

  “Whoa, bae,” Luck yelled into the kitchen. “Slow down, I know that’s your sister, but we can’t all live together.”

  “Okay, bae,” Meechie yelled back. “I understand. Here’s what to do, call your brother and see if you can occupy his spare room—”

  “Meechie, listen to me,” Brooklyn said. “You and Luck shouldn’t be arguing over me. I’m not leaving my home. I know how to handle Monty.”

  “Do you really?” Joy asked.

  “I tell you what,” Meechie said. “Bae has some crackhead cousins who, for twenty dollars, will go up to the State Capitol and whip Monty’s ass. In broad daylight too. Caption that shit. Breaking news: ‘California governor got his ass kicked!’”

  Brooklyn chuckled. “As tempting as it is, it’s not a good idea.”

  “Sister, you are all I have, and I will not sit back while he harasses you! Bae!” Meechie screamed.

  “No! Wait!” Joy intervened. “Let’s really think this through. Now, Brooklyn, are you sure it was him? He’s the governor. He has a whole state to run—”

  “Do you read the paper?” Meechie asked. “He ain’t running shit, unless it’s illegal.”

  “Doesn’t make him guilty of this,” Joy said.

  “It’s him,” Brooklyn insisted. “He texted it to me from his phone remember.”

  Meechie shook her head. “Sister—”

  “Don’t worry. I got this.”

  Chapter 31

  Monty

  Eight a.m.

  “The citizens’ group People for People filed a complaint with a California court citing Governor Montgomery Fields for official misconduct in the opioid treatment center scandal. The controversial 2016 deal for which Governor Fields contracted and paid ICC one hundred point five million t
axpayer dollars to build a brand-new, state-of-the-art opioid treatment center and hospital in Oakland has yet to begin . . .

  “Sources close to the governor say there is proof of shady back-door dealings and unorthodox financial practices between Governor Fields and ICC . . .”

  “Enough!” Monty said to his communications director, Carmen, who held the morning edition of First Look Journal in her hands. Monty motioned for her to give him the paper.

  He flung it across his office, sending a few pages flapping into the faces of his chief of staff, communications director, and two of his top aides. The rest of the paper sailed across the blue carpeted floor, meeting the feet of his lead security officers, Van and Johnson, who blocked the closed double doors. “Fuck!”

  Monty’s cell and office phones all rang simultaneously, as his head pounded, adding even more fury to his anxiety-fueled tirade. This was not how he’d penciled his day together. After burning files and spending the night at his hideaway, it should’ve been:

  Coffee—black, avocado toast, and soft poached eggs by eleven.

  Mid-morning meeting with his staff by eleven thirty.

  One o’clock meeting with a lobbyist, as a political favor.

  Home for lunch at two, to work things out with his wife.

  Make every effort to reconcile with Brooklyn at 3 p.m.

  And by seven, prepare for his reelection campaign rally.

  Not this.

  Not front-page coverage riddled with slanderous accusations, questioning his moves and his motives.

  Yet, here he was, being tried and damn near convicted by the newspapers and cable TV talking-head circuit, courtesy of the most unneeded, unwanted, and unwarranted bullshit of his political career.

  “Who. The. Fuck. Is responsible for this shit?” He tossed a look over at Dominic, who led Monty’s eyes to one of his top aides, Sheldon Gonzales. Monty soaked Sheldon in, from his salt-and-pepper widow’s peak to the silver paperclip he nervously fumbled with.