by Meesha Mink
Maybe a little nap will shake off this high so I can think straight.
Just before I feel myself falling to sleep, the words of a stranger float in my head.
“You look like you could use some company for the night.”
14
Molly
I’ve been calling Junior’s cell phone for the past two hours. Each time I get his voice mail I hang up. Here it is, one of the worst days of my life and my absentee husband is nowhere to be found.
“Are you ready to go, hon?”
I flip my cell phone closed and glance up at Miz Cleo. Not only did the old lady beat a crackhead off me today, she was also kind enough to drive me to the emergency room after Geneva and that bug-eyed bitch broke my arm.
“Yeah. I’m ready.” I drop my gaze to avoid her piercing one.
“Don’t fret,” she says, sliding an arm around my waist and giving me a hug. “Ain’t no shame in asking for help.”
I try to smile but instead tears burn my eyes.
“I take it you weren’t able to reach that husband of yours?”
I just shake my head in shame. “I’m sure he’s still working at the studio,” I lie.
“Uh-huh.” Miz Cleo reaches over to inspect the cast on my right arm and then tugs me along. “C’mon, hon. Let’s get you home.”
Silence grows between us as we walk out the emergency room and to her old, burgundy Lincoln Town Car. I can feel Miz Cleo’s pity pulsing off her and a part of me wants to shout that Junior is a good man. I love him. He loves me.
For some reason, the words are trapped in my throat.
If Junior loves me so much, why is he never home? Why doesn’t he ever answer his phone?
“I told him if he can’t get what he needs from that fat-ass wife of his that he was welcome around my way any damn day of the week.”
Was Geneva fuckin’ with my head or telling the truth?
I don’t know anymore. I do know that I’m tired of being a prisoner of Bentley Manor where just trying to do laundry can turn into a matter of life and death, tired of taunting children and jealous, black bitches who hate me for no damn reason.
“Honey, are you all right?” Miz Cleo asks as I settle into the passenger’s seat.
Until now I wasn’t aware of the tears streaming down my face. I needed my man today and he wasn’t here.
“Aw, now. Ain’t no need for these.” Miz Cleo reaches over to her glove compartment and pulls out a travel-size pack of Kleenex.
I accept the packet and quickly mop my face. “I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“Whatcha sorry for, chile?”
“I don’t know. Everything, I guess.” How can I begin to explain how much I’ve fucked up my life? What am I doing? Where am I going? How much longer can I go through with this?
“Honey, where’s your family at?”
I start to answer, but just thinking about them now tore at my heart. “Can you please just take me home now?”
Grady Memorial Hospital isn’t far from Bentley Manor, but with Miz Cleo’s unwillingness to get on the expressway or drive faster than thirty-five miles an hour, the short ride takes forty-five minutes.
“Thank you,” I say as she finally parks the car in front of her building. I unsnap my seat belt with my good arm, turn and climb out. Though I want to race to my apartment and cry into my pillow, I force myself to be patient and walk Miz Cleo to her apartment. This seems silly to me since the seventy-plus-year-old woman can take better care of herself than I can.
“Good night,” I say when she finally turns the key in her lock.
“Molly,” she says kindly before I’m able to turn around good. “You know I don’t make it a habit to butt in other people’s business…”
Since when?
“But if you have a way to get out this place, even if it takes swallowing your pride with your family, take it.”
“What? And leave my husband?” I shake my head.
“Honey chile,” she says reaching over and cupping my right cheek in the palm of her hand. “Open your eyes and see what’s in front of you.”
More tears burn my eyes and blur my vision and I turn and race back to my own roach-infested prison cell. To my surprise Junior is home and toweling off from a shower.
“Where in the hell have you been? It’s ten o’clock.”
Numbly, I lift my cast and feel a bit foolish for jumping to the wrong conclusion.
“What the fuck happened?” He walks over to me and takes a look at my arm. “Don’t tell me you broke it while running from another rat.” He chuckles.
“Geneva broke it,” I admit flatly. I feel his body stiffen as he holds my arm. “Are you fucking her?” My question stuns me and him, too, judging by the look on his face.
He drops my arm. “How the fuck you gonna ask me some shit like dat?”
That isn’t an answer. “Are you?”
Junior turns his back. “I ain’t answering dat bullshit.” He storms to the bedroom.
“Her girlfriends claim you’re fucking them, too,” I say to his retreating back. I need an answer from him—any answer. I follow him to the bedroom scared of what he might say.
Junior whips the towel from around his hips and walks naked over to the tall chest of drawers in the corner of the room. “Why the fuck are you listening to a bunch of jealous-ass bitches for, huh?” His eyes darken venomously. “I’m stressed out to the max, tryna hold us down, tryna get my career to jump off, and you gonna toss a bunch of bullshit in my face?”
“How can I not ask?” I shout back, feeling like I’m having a nervous breakdown. “You’re never home. You never call. You never even answer your damn phone.”
“Who the fuck you hollerin’ at?” He roars back in a voice I’ve never heard before. “What? You think you’re runnin’ shit in this motherfucker?”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Shut up down there!”
Junior moves to within inches of my face. “I’m the head nigga in this motherfucker. You got dat?”
I’ve lost my voice. He bumps me with his chest as if daring me to challenge him. To do so suddenly seems like suicide.
“I ain’t got time for this shit.” He turns and starts pulling out clothes and getting dressed.
Tears leap from my eyes.
“Where are you going?” I ask, struggling to keep my alarm to a reasonable panic.
“Somewhere where I’m appreciated. I finally finish my new demo and I come home to celebrate wit my wife and this is the bullshit I get? Naw. Naw. I don’t think so, partner. I’m rollin’ up out of here.”
Fuck it. I’m in full panic mode now. “No. Don’t go.” I rush over to him. “I-I just didn’t know what to think. They surrounded me and were laughing and teasing. They made me feel like a fool!”
Junior shakes his head. “Naw. Dudn’t matter. You’re my wife. You’re supposed to believe in me and shit. After all we’ve been through? Those bitches don’t know shit dat goes on in this crib. I can’t stand a gossiping bitch. I swear I can’t.” He jams his long legs into a pair of jeans and then grabs his favorite t-shirt. “Yo, maybe it’s time we just break this shit off.”
“What? No!” I reach for him, but he quickly pushes me away. “Junior, don’t do this. I’m sorry.”
“Naw. I need a bitch dat’s got my back, nahmean?”
“I do have your back. I swear,” I cry. Oh God, please don’t let him leave me. Where will I go? What will I do?
Junior ignores me and plops down on the edge of the bed to cram his feet into his sneakers.
I drop to my knees beside him and continue to plea, “Baby, please believe me. I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have never stepped to you like that.”
He stands up and heads toward the door. I grab hold of his leg and grunt through the pain of my broken arm. “No. No. You can’t leave me. I’ll die if you leave me.”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Goddamn it!” the upstairs neighbor shouts. “Shut the fuck
up down there!”
“Mind your own goddamn business!” Junior roars up at the ceiling.
Junior stops and draws an impatient breath. “Molly, let go of my leg.”
“No. Oh God, Junior. Please. I swear I’ll do whatever you say.” I’m sobbing and struggling for breath. Why did I ever doubt him? Why did I let those jealous women fuck with my head?
“Molly, get the fuck off me. I ain’t playin’.”
I can’t let go. I won’t let go. Somehow I got to make him see how much I love him. No other woman can ever love him as much I do. To my surprise, Junior reaches down and grabs a good chunk of my hair and snaps my head back.
“I said get the fuck off,” he growls. “You had a good thing and now you done fucked it up.”
He jerks me back and smacks the shit out my head against the closet door. Still sobbing, I wobble onto my feet and race after him into the living room.
While Junior leans down to snap up the car keys from the coffee table, I race around him and block the front door.
He looks at me as though he’s ready to bounce me off every wall in the apartment. “Goddamn it, Molly. Get the fuck out the way.”
“No. Not until you forgive me,” I croak determinedly. “You know how I feel about you. I couldn’t stand it if you left me. I swear.” I can’t stop crying. “Please, Junior. Please give me another chance.” I don’t know what else to say or do to make him change his mind. “You got to forgive me.” Finally, I just bury my face in my hands and let my hysteria sweep through me.
It’s a long time before I feel the gentle kisses my husband trails across my forehead, temples and even my closed eyelids.
“Shh, baby gurl,” he whispers. “It’s a’ight.” He now kisses my tears. “Shh. Calm down.”
“I-I can’t,” I pant as my chest continues to heave. “D-don’t leave me,” I beg.
“A’ight.” Another kiss. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, li’l ma.”
Our lips finally connect and again I push all pain aside and throw my arms around his neck. As our mouths part and our tongues duel, I try to pour all my emotions into him—drown him with my love.
I swear he’s trying to do the same thing to me because his love overwhelms me.
Our clothes hit the floor in a frenzy and my baby picks me up and rams me against the door as if I weigh nothing. With each smooth thrust his beautiful cock feels as if it’s bouncing off my tonsils and ripping me in half. That’s all right though; I love how my baby makes me feel. I love the way his face twists and how nasty he talks.
“You love this good dick, don’t you, li’l ma?”
“Yes, baby. Yes.”
“You’d do anything for this shit, won’t you?”
“Oh God, yes.”
“Don’t you ever fuckin’ question me again like dat. Ya hear me? I own this shit. I own this pussy. Tell me whose pussy this is.”
“Y-yours.”
“Huh? Whatcha say?”
“It’s yours.”
“Say this pussy is mine.”
“This p-pussy is yours.”
He fucking me so hard some of the pleasure turns into pain.
“I want to stuff this shit in dat tight white ass.”
I tense as he bites at my neck. We’ve only done anal a few times. He’s so big that I can’t take it. He apparently senses my hesitation because he’s suddenly angry again.
“What? You said this shit is mine, so I can do what the fuck I want, right?”
“Yes, baby. Yes.” I kiss him to reassure him that I’m not trippin’. “Fuck me any way you want.” I want him to feel good.
“Damn right.” He pulls out of my pussy and jams into my ass with nothing more than my pussy juice as lubricant. The scream is out of my mouth before I can think straight.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Motherfuckers, don’t make me come down there!”
Tears are streaming down my face and Junior kisses them away while he moans out his pleasure.
“Ooh. Goddamn, baby. Goddamn.”
He kisses me again and thrusts his tongue down so deep it feels as if he licking my clit. That part does feel good. With his dick in my ass and his hand in my pussy, my orgasm pops off like the Fourth of July. Soon after, Junior growls and cream fills my ass.
We’re both a sweaty mess and panting like we just hiked Stone Mountain.
I finally slide down the door until my feet touch the floor, but even then my legs tremble so bad I have a hard time standing.
“Thank you, baby.” Junior grabs my hair and forces my head up. “I love ya, gurl.”
Our eyes lock.
“No matter what,” he adds. “Don’t you ever forget dat shit.”
“I won’t.” I hug the man that is my world and I vow to be a better wife. Next time Geneva start some shit, I’m going to be ready for her ass.
15
Devani
I’m worried.
Ever since the freak episode in the men’s bathroom at The Compound, Tyrik has been acting funny. Was it too much? Had I just pigeonholed myself into the “good fuck” category as opposed to the “marriage material”? Even worse, in one week’s time, I’ve been delegated back to Bentley Manor with phrases like: “I think we should slow down” and “Baby, I need a little more space,” and last but not least “Call before you come over.”
Everything is changing, but I still have my platinum card. And I’m not giving that shit up. Nigga will have to pry that motherfucker out my cold dead hands.
Still, no word about Pittsburgh.
I’m not dumb. He’s tryna dump me—and I can’t have that shit.
It’s Easter Sunday and Tyrik is getting his praise on at Creflo Dollar’s World Changers Church Ministries at the World Dome. I may do a lot of things but I don’t do church.
And I don’t believe in fakin’ the funk—unlike a lot of these heathens running around in the Bible Belt. Drinkin’, smokin’, sexin’ and cursin’ Monday through Saturday and then jumpin’ and filled with the Holy Ghost on Sunday—Negroes kill me with that shit.
Tyrik included.
Of course, Tyrik’s father used to be a minister at some fancy-smancy church in Birmingham, Alabama—until there was some big hoopla about him laying “hands” on a lot of the single women in his congregation.
Typical. Like Momma says: a nigga is a nigga is a nigga. So church niggas ain’t no different.
Since black folks like to stay up in service all day, I figure I have more than enough time to do my specialty roll-by. See, I have a date tonight with Tyrik and no doubt the night is gonna end with a pussy nightcap.
Tyrik made it clear he only uses his own condoms, then I think it’s time I take my little sewing needle and visit his stash in the nightstand by his bed for extra insurance. After a little online research at the library yesterday, I discovered oil-based lubricants could weaken a latex condom. So I made a trip to Starship novelty shop and got hooked up on some Kama Sutra body lubricants that were oil-based.
Now I’m in serious business.
I park in the center of the circular drive and hop out, wearing my pink, low-cut sweatpants, short tee, and an open light jacket. I figure I’ll go work out after this quick job.
I slip my copy of the house key into the lock and turn it. My heart is absolutely racing as I creep into the house and over to the security keypad to enter Tyrik’s birthday. After two beeps the password is accepted.
I’m in.
Turning around, I take in the house’s wide-open space and I swear I feel like a queen entering her palace. This shit is a long way from Bentley Manor. Cathedral ceiling, Italian marble floors, seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and two kitchens.
Why in the hell would anyone need two kitchens?
“All this shit for just throwin’ a damn ball across the field.” I shake my head and climb the stairs to Tyrik’s bedroom. As I walk, I continue to imagine that all this shit belongs to me. Of course, I would fill the place with servants so I could be wait
ed on hand and foot.
My mornings would begin with either breakfast in bed or a few laps in the pool—after I learn how to swim, of course.
I’d shop all day and show up at every hot party and turn every bitch there green with envy, including Aisha Cummings.
I’d show her how a real balla rolls.
The day I move out of Bentley Manor, I’m blastin’ Tupac’s “All Eyez on Me” so the whole joint will know what time it is or maybe I’ll throw one of those old block parties.
That would be a lot of fun.
I slip into Tyrik’s room and inhale the woodsy cologne that still hangs in the air. On top of getting paid and looking good, Tyrik smells like a man’s man—not one of those fruity metrosexuals in suits running around downtown.
The bedroom is decorated in handsome, dark mahogany that undoubtedly cost a fortune. The carpet is so plush I can literally feel myself sinking into it. A baby would be nice—but a ring would be better.
“Mrs. Tyrik Jefferson.” I like the sound of that shit.
I want a house like this. I deserve a house like this.
Finally I pull my big head out of the clouds and get back to my plan of action. I stroll over to the nightstand and open the top drawer. But there’s only two condoms left in the box. There was definitely more than this left in here the other night.
“That motherfucker!” I clench my jaw, wishing Tyrik was here right now so I could sock him in his lying mouth. I bet it’s that damn fake-ass J-Ho I keep seeing everywhere. Yeah, I may be after the nigga’s money and all, but at least my ass has been faithful these last few months. Why do niggas always try to nail everything with a hole?
I sit down on the edge of the bed stunned by how much this bullshit hurts. Do I love Tyrik? I don’t know—but I do care about his ass. How can I not?
Shit.
I wipe my eyes before the tears fall and then punch the sewing needle through the center of the condoms. At a casual glance, the punctures are hardly noticeable in the gold wrappers.
In the distance, I hear a loud rumbling coming up the driveway. I jump up from the bed and race to the window. What the fuck am I gonna say if I’m caught?
