I have it in my mind to slap some sense into this nigga. He’s never called me a bitch before, and it won’t become the norm. Yet, Lorenzo’s tension toward my son has my mind on other things. When I try to reach around Lorenzo for my child, Lorenzo keeps me at arm’s length, pushing my chest. Junior looks at me, and then at him.
My son is prideful as he replies, “Almost five.”
Lorenzo’s dark eyes burn through me as he calculates the age is just right. The front door chimes. I look at my diamond-encrusted watch. “Junior, go show um… um Lorenzo your baseball bat.”
“Rocky, is this my–!”
I cut Lorenzo off. “Please, just go in the back.”
I hurry to the front of the store. My husband’s uncles, Vido and Tony Sica, are here. Don’t ask why I didn’t tell them about Lorenzo. Especially when dude just called me out my name. That shit is unacceptable. Lorenzo wants to act like I ain’t got nobody checking for me. But this nigga hasn’t seen me in over five years so he doesn’t know. Vido and Tony are two of the scariest Italian mafia thugs I know.
“Uncle Vido!” I hug him first, then Tony. “Hey, guys, um Junior kept asking to go with Rita. You know my friend? She’s always babying him...”
“Aw, man, thought you wanted us to take him to play catch. How else he’s gonna learn?”
‘If Raphael finally has time for his son, that’s how!’ I place my hands on my hips and smile, “Now, y’all know I asked you to come by earlier. Around three.”
“Ah, we got… detained.” Vido smiles. He never says those lines in the dark Mob movies about knocking somebody off. Somehow, he thinks I don’t know about death. My uncle Marcel used to have the city… I know about murder. More than I’ll ever want to know.
“And my husband?” I fold my arms. “Can y’all see to it that your nephew knows his way home tonight?”
They exchange glances.
“Raphael’s stuck at the airport in Houston, due to some bizarre plane malfunction,” Tony says.
My eyebrow raises as I consider the lies they tell for their nephew. My husband is a traveling salesman of different pharmaceuticals. The wintertime is the best time for him to come up with stories about being stuck in snowstorms or the likes. But it ain’t that cold yet.
They ask for a rain check to come back and play catch with Junior. Just asking about my foul ass husband has these mafia goons running away.
I smile as they leave. Soon as the door closes, I lock it and rush toward the back. My chest is tight, wondering what Lorenzo has been doing. He stared at my son so hard as if he wanted to give Junior the 3rd degree…
~~~
I was 17 the first time Lorenzo made love to me. I’d gone to a house party with Elisha, because I was mad that Lorenzo talked about going back home. Back to Colombia. Fuck that. Hoover was home. I was home. For the first time in my life, I didn’t believe that nigga. Lorenzo had never put any hoes over me. Even before I wasn’t fuckin’, if I called and Renz was at some bitches house. He came straight to me because we were best friends first.
But what the fuck did he have to go back to Colombia for? Mama Rita said that their entire family died in a storm. So at first I didn’t even understand what Colombia had that I didn’t for my nigga. At the time, I guessed it was because I hadn’t given Lorenzo any pussy yet.
I was bobbing my head at this house party, it took a while for dudes to even check for me. Niggas was too afraid to even dance with me because of my uncle and that damn, crazy ass Renz! But I was looking too damn good that night to pass over, even though my face was set in a frown at the thought of Lorenzo leaving for Colombia soon.
As I was twerking on one dude, in my tight ass Bebe jeans, I had that dick on point. My ass was rolling all over the pipe, my pussy was wet, but I didn’t know shit about smashing. And I was pissed, so was twerking and mean-mugging. I could see a lime green Chevelle through the front door hopping over the curb and onto the grass. I kept grinding on dude, knowing what was up. Had to be Lorenzo, because I wasn’t answering my cell phone. The music was so loud that nobody got to scattering until Lorenzo came into the tiny house with a burner in his hand. Shit, I woulda still been twerking on this irrelevant lame, had the dude not run. Before Lorenzo busted off a few shots in the air, my partner got ghost. I stood tall as I could at five feet even as muthafuckas got to scattering.
For a minute, we stared at each other as people ran between us scrambling to the front and back door. Then nobody was there. My nigga still had the gun in his hand. It was like a stand down between me and my best friend. Yeah, I was scared. This nigga’s face was twisted up. But I held my ground.
“Getcho ass over here,” Lorenzo shouted.
I folded my arms, with nobody to dance with. He snatched me up by the wrists and I almost stumbled over my Manolo’s as he pulled me outside.
We’d gone back to the projects, where his mom had an apartment back then. Lorenzo and I snuck in, but Mama Rita woulda been cool either way. I often spent the night but, like I said, Lorenzo and I hadn't fucked yet. Shit, I even had snuck him into my room at my house. I knew I could die for this as a kid. He could too. But we always had to be around each other no matter what.
In his room, Lorenzo pulled a bottle of Cuervo and one of the many shot glass off the dressers. He filled it up. I took it. With just one sip of the tequila, it burned my chest.
Lorenzo’s Colombian accent was smooth and sexy, as he commanded, “Toss it back.”
“Renz, you tryna get me drunk?” I smirked.
“Shit, you bad. Ain’t you bad, grinding on any ol’ nigga?” He glared at me.
“Man, this shit ain’t about me.” I waved him off. First, I tried not to give a damn, but then I got to telling him the truth, all up in my emotions. “After all these damn years, you’re going back to Colombia, so you don’t even know what the fuck I’m about to do.”
“Nah, I know exactly what you going to do. Keep it tight for me, Ma.” Lorenzo’s index finger grazed the bottom of the shot glass, and I was forced to take it to the head. After I set the empty shot glass on the dresser, Lorenzo poured another.
I sighed. Shit, this nigga poured me a double shot. “You know I don’t like drinking, Renz.”
“Get comfortable.”
“I am,” I murmured, mouth watering but not as fast as my body was feeling all kindsa tingles.
“Ever since we met, you flirt and play your games. Every time I tried to give you the business, ya mind gets to wandering. You done thinking yet, Rocky?”
My hazel eyes were all over his thick lips just imagining them all over me. Lorenzo wanted me to make the first move. He always harped on how scary I was. But I couldn’t move.
“No games. Jump on it.” He made it sound simple.
My hands grabbed the collar of his button up, and I pulled him toward me, matching the energy in his kiss. Just as quickly, my legs flew in the air as I jumped onto his waist. Lorenzo grabbed my ass hard and his dick called on my pussy. We were out of clothes in two seconds flat. I admired his buffed, naked body. Always got drunk from just looking at it. Finally, my bad bitch persona took flight and I pushed Lorenzo’s chest until he fell back on the bed. His big, caramel dick bobbled as he went to lean against the headboard.
“Damn, Renz,” I say, biting my lip. Like a tiger ready to pounce, I moved over to him slowly. Lorenzo’s buff arm was around my waist as he quickly turned me over. My eyes widened as my pussy stretched for the pipe. That shit brought tears to my eyes, but I didn’t want Lorenzo to go back to Colombia. I didn’t want him to leave, so I gave him all of me…
~~~
Standing in the kitchen of the mansion the next morning after seeing Lorenzo for the first time in five years, got me wondering why I’m thinking about another nigga. I can’t even cook breakfast because my mind has been on Lorenzo all morning. I gave it up to that nigga and he still left me as a senior in high school. He had sent me back a diamond necklace with L&R emblem. He would do me like that. Leave and co
me back. All through college, I’d take it. Ciara’s “Sorry” became my anthem for all the times Renz apologized for returning to Colombia. Before my mind can get back in that mentality, wondering if it was over another bitch, I sigh taking eggs and turkey out for my breakfast.
I left him a voicemail about our son a few months after the biggest argument we ever had. My tummy was just startin' to show and that last argument had been so bad, that I wanted to make him pay for leaving me to go to Colombia. I’d always put my life on hold for him, even the first time he left while I was still in high school. Then this one time–out of a hundred fucking times– Lorenzo came at me like I had done him dirty. He had to know all I did was intern as a fashion designer, if not doing that, my life revolved around his ass, whenever he came back to me! I would never cheat on him. He broke my heart so bad that I didn’t tell him I was three weeks pregnant during that argument.
Nah, I was on one for months. I’d already gotten with Raphael and allowed him to think we were pregnant when I was already a tad bit pregnant anyway. Raphael could take care of me, besides my uncle Marcel was pissed the fuck off when finding out I was pregnant by Lorenzo. I tried to tell Marcel that it was Raphael’s baby just so my uncle wouldn’t trip on my ex. Shit, I was tryna take up for Lorenzo’s fucked up self even then. Especially when Lorenzo wasn’t working for Marcel anymore. So, I’d been about five months along when I called Lorenzo and left the voicemail. If he would only come home, I’d have said deuces to Raphael and went back to my first love, my first everything…
I look down before me, and realize that I haven’t even broken the eggs into the bowl. My mind is just stuck right now. I’m not pissed that Raphael didn’t come home last night, because I’m too busy wondering how life is going to play out. Lorenzo looked like he hated me last night at my shop, so I guess I shouldn’t be concerned about him tryna fuck. Besides, why the fuck did he ask if Junior was his child? Yeah, I named him after my husband because, after nine months, the nigga never came back for me and our son. So I guess I’m glad Lorenzo wants to act brand new as if I’m the one that did wrong in our relationship. Yeah, Lorenzo won’t touch me. He ain’t going to try the same tactics that he used to do when he came back. I’m married into a muthafucking mafia, with a … ‘half’ Italian kid if he asks me again. Because Lord knows I had lied quickly last night.
With all the time away in the past, Lorenzo and I would always get back together and that shit would be beautiful. But I guess it’s been so long this time. Damn near five years.
“Ma… Ma?” Junior says. Finally my son brings me back to the present. Shit, I hadn’t even known he was sitting on his little chair-table area. He’d been chowing down on Cinnamon Toast Crunch since coming down. Now that he’s done eating, every few seconds talking about his baseball tournament this Saturday. “Ma, Lorenzo comin’…?” …“ …“Ma is Lorenzo…”
I sigh. Soon as I returned from getting rid of Vido and Tony, my son and Lorenzo were playing catch in the storage room and my child– my child was telling Lorenzo all of our business. Raphael never gets a chance to go to any of his games. I get it. He “works” hard. Raphael is too scared to go to the hood to see Junior play ball. Anyway, Lorenzo promised to come. Something in me is telling me to shut this shit down. I’d met Raphael while at a fashion event. Now, I’m not a hoe or anything, but I was still interning and Lorenzo had just nutted up on me for no reason. I had my eyes on this flashy white boy. He had two models at his side and I knew he came from money. Didn’t know dude came from mafia money. Now, me getting “pregnant by Raphael” and marrying him is how I’ma have to stay. So I’ll let Lorenzo come see Junior, Raphael Junior, but if Lorenzo thinks he’s going to somehow get over that amnesia about my missed voicemail, oh well. He lost his chance at being a father the day he didn’t respond to my call.
“Yes, Junior. Lorenzo is going to come to one of your games. Just one, okay, baby?” I say, leaning against the granite countertop.
“Mom, I am not a baby! I’m almost five.” He pushes away the empty bowl, with his feelings hurt.
“I know, Junior. Didn’t I tell you already that Lorenzo might come? But he’s not the type of person that you should take seriously.” I step away from the eggs and bacon that I probably won’t be cooking today, and go crouch down near my son’s chair. Damn, every time I look into my son’s eyes it's like looking at Lorenzo. But Lorenzo didn’t want us, so I’ll be just nice enough to let him get to know Junior, just maybe…
“Listen Junior, if Lorenzo can’t come, don’t be sad.”
“He’s busy like Dad?”
“Yes,” I reply quickly. My Lorenzo used to be so damn reliable. When he came back from Colombia the first time, while I was in college, I knew shit changed. But the love we had for each other should have stood the test of time.
The look in Junior’s eyes has me praying that Lorenzo comes, but my brain is telling me that it isn’t a good idea. And it had been too late to tell Lorenzo not to come, since they were already learning some type of pitching technique.
“What else did I tell you, baby–Junior?”
“Don’t mention Lorenzo to Dad?” Junior asks, grinning like we have a secret.
“Yes...” I pat the top of his curly hair. Seconds later, I’m cutting up strawberries and mangos for a smoothie instead as Junior asks more questions about Lorenzo, but when the front door opens, my son’s lips are sealed.
Raphael steps into the kitchen wearing the same Armani suit from yesterday.
“Hey honey.” He pulls me into a hug as if nothing else in the world matters. And Junior begins to tug on his jacket, but Raphael won’t let me go. It’s his way of apologizing for not coming home. Too bad he put so much energy into it; I could give a fuck anymore. If it weren’t for Junior, Raphael could just disappear forever. My son is the only reason I breathe.
“Yes…Yes…” Raphael barely even hears Junior talk about learning how to throw a curve ball because my husband is addicted to my lips.
“Are you coming to my tournament, Dad?”
“When?” Raphael finally notices our child.
“Raphael,” I snap, pushing him away, “We told you about it weeks ago.”
Raphael’s green eyes narrow for a second as he thinks. “Aw, well Saturday is… I’m...”
I just save my husband telling my son a lie, “Junior, get ready to go to Rita’s house.” My son hurries out and I glare through Raphael.
He’s pulling out a jewelry box, with the insignia of his family’s jewelry store on the velvet top. So I snap. That shit was cute when we first met. Shit, I had tricked him into being a dad, but now… “Don’t even fucking open it. You lame ass!”
I try not to stare into his green eyes, as he pouts and makes a puppy dog face. “Babe, we have to celebrate. Last night–”
“Don’t.” I could give a fuck how many hospitals around the nation have given in to Raphael, as a pharmaceutical sales representative.
“Rockwell, listen to me.” He pulls me into his arms. “You know how hard it has been selling this new line of depression pills, especially with all those competitor commercials…”
Like usual, I tune out Raphael’s story. He doesn’t even have to work. His father owns Bella Jewelry store and his mom is a mafia princess.
Junior jumps back into the kitchen with his mitten and his baseball. “Dad, are you coming to my game?”
“No, I’m not going,” Raphael snaps. He starts to undo his tie, knowing that I don’t believe the hype.
“Give your child some attention, asshole,” I whisper while walking toward the pantry.
“I am.” Raphael reaches over and pats the top of Junior’s head. “I’ll go when you make it to the championships. If you have a little kid, uh… Super bowl, I’ll be there son.”
My husband is so fucking stupid. Baseball and Super bowl? What the fuck!
Chapter 3
BLU
4 YEARS AGO
Barely nineteen and my tummy is bigger th
an a watermelon. At eight months, I’m ready to bust in a hot pink, laced negligee tryna look cute for my husband, Popeye. I had fallen asleep last night while we were watching a porno.
In our tiny bedroom, I untie the straps of the negligee, exposing my frame. Well, what’s left of my sexy, physically fit dark brown legs. I take it off. Half Black and Colombian, at least I have that sexy allure being all preggers. Popeye is curled up under the covers like a baby, hugging a pillow. Now my nigga stays hard in the street, but in bed, my chocolate lover, with his sexy dimples and smile. The good dude. It takes a minute for me to move the pillow from his buff arms. He smiles in his sleep and my eyes narrow.
Yeah, I can get jealous. But is this nigga dreaming about fucking some hoe?
The baby kicks me and my mind goes back to being lovey-dovey, since Popeye has been taking good care of me. I pull his rubbery dick from his basketball shorts and lick it with my minty mouth. Like magic, my dude grows for me: 8 inches, 9 ... 10! The hammer is on point.
“Blu, bae...” Popeye begins in a sexy, groggy voice. “Nah man, you got my little girl in your belly. You ain’t finna make a nigga nut.”
My pink, plush lips work double time. I suck harder and faster. His toes curl. He begs again, but that nigga ain't trying too hard.
I moan and lick at the thick veins up and down the side of his dick, and then continue with a deep throat. The taste of his pipe is better than the finest chocolate. It’s been a cool minute since I’ve sipped on that sweet cream, so I’m handling my shit like a beast. Finally, Popeye grabs me up.
“Kiss me, Blu.”
“Nah, you just don't want me to suck ya dick!” I pop his ropy, lean arm and sit Indian style.
Popeye props up on pillows. His top row of ultra white teeth bites down on those sexy ass lips of his, but I can hold a grudge forever. “Nigga, you think I'm ugly and fat,” I snap at my husband.
“Bae-Bae? Blu, you all belly. Them boobies getting big and that ass stays fat. I’m the luckiest muthafucka in Hoover; quit tripping.” He tries to laugh, but I ain’t feeling it. “Blu, we had sex last night. I just don't want my little girl…”
Loving a Colombian Cartel Thug Page 2
