Can't Get Enough of Your Love

by J. J. Murray

  Number 39 needs a life, and when I get the chance, I’m going to knock the life out of her.

  I feel a hum deep inside me during the national anthem, and it sure isn’t from our fans. The class A baseball team next door, the Salem Avalanche, is also having a game, and they have a nice crowd that is actually singing the national anthem. Not ours. I don’t look at the crowd and don’t take my eyes off the flag because it symbolizes the white-wench quarterback I’m going to be sacking, the blue welts I’m going to put on anyone who tries to block me, and the red blood of number 39 that will be flowing out of her steel-toothed mouth. Those can’t be gold caps.

  When we win the coin toss and elect to receive, the crowd behind me cheers. Figures. This may be the only thing we win all day. I want to tell them that we’ve won every opening toss this year except for that of the game we won.

  Deron Lee, our one and only coach, steps up to me. “Feel like returning the kickoff?”

  Son of a bitch! He knows no one is supposed to talk to me before a game! He’s messing with my mojo!

  “Lana?”

  Maybe I can nod. That’s not talking, right? I nod, and tear off to the ten-yard line. Now I feel the hum, now I feel the energy, now I feel the power from my crusty toes to the top of my peanut head.

  Let’s get it on.

  A whistle blows, I see a leg swing, and I lock in on the ball fluttering through the air. “Ball first, ball first,” I whisper. I run to where I think I can catch it with my hands and—

  Oh, it’s on now!

  Ground’s slippery, run north and south, the Super Sugar Crisp bear says in my head, and I take off, cutting right, staying right, waiting for the block, waiting for it—

  “Move your fat ass!” I yell.

  My teammate crumples to the ground, I step around, and I’m in the clear down the sidelines with nothing but daylight and—

  Oof.

  Tweet.

  D-damn! That was a helluva hit! I have got to get me some more of that and return the favor!

  I look up at the legs of some Burn players on the sidelines, a heckling voice saying something about my mama again. I’m sure number 39 is up there somewhere. I toss the ball up to the ref, lean on my left hand, and get to my feet. I take two steps—

  Oh shit! Ow!

  I fall to the ground holding my ankle. What the hell? Shit. It’s already swelling.

  “You all right?” our trainer, Tina, asks once she gets her fat ass across the field.

  I pull off my helmet. “What do you think?”

  She straightens out my leg and holds my heel in her hands. “This hurt?”

  Oh damn. “A little.” Flames of pain shoot up my leg.

  She turns it from side to side, and I bite my lip. Damn, this shit hurts!

  A ref comes over to us. “Can she continue?”

  “Can I continue? This ain’t no boxing match, ref! Shit, Tina, get me a little ice and I’ll be just fine, just fine….”

  I’m not fine. I’ve really gone and hurt myself this time.

  I thought I’d be in great shape for today’s game after a long week of night practice with Roger, and I was more than ready to knock some damn heads today. But here I am in the locker room with ice bags on both sides of my right ankle from a vicious but legal hit by number 39 of the Baltimore Burn. So now, I have a tricky left ankle and a bruised right ankle. They had to carry me off the field on a stretcher—my only standing ovation so far in my career! And now I’m waiting for—

  There he is.

  “I brought your car around,” Roger says. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the emergency room?”

  I swivel off the bench and grab some crutches. “I’m sure. It’s just a bruise.” A bruise the size of a damn grapefruit on steroids. I am going to have stretch marks from this injury for sure.

  “I can drive you home.”

  I start to the locker room door, one swing of the crutches at a time. “I’ll be fine. Just follow behind me. Oh, and get my equipment.” I point at the pile on the floor.

  “I’m glad you don’t wear all this when we play,” he says, gathering my gear.

  “You’re the one who needs it more.”

  And when we finally get to Jenny’s dollhouse, I realize something: If I didn’t have three men in my life, I would have no one to take care of me tonight, when I really, really need it. With Karl who knows where and Juan Carlos working all the damn time, at least I have Roger.

  And that scares me even more! If Roger is the only one I can count on in the clutch, what does that say about Juan Carlos and Karl? And what does that say about me for picking those two?

  Roger practically carries me up the stairs to the bathroom. “This could be an interesting bath,” he says.

  And it is, in the most painfully erotic way.

  After giving me four Motrin, Roger runs the water and adds some bath oil beads.

  “No funny stuff,” I say.

  He winks.

  “I’m serious, man. This shit hurts.”

  Roger helps me into the tub, pulling my right leg out of the tub so I can keep it propped up. This, of course, gives him an excellent view of my stuff. And then he bathes me. Slowly. Carefully. Sensuously, lingering a long time where my hands keep him lingering. Without me asking, he joins me, oh so careful to keep my right leg in the air … then my left leg is in the air … and then …

  Then we need another bath, and I need four more Motrin.

  Though I can limp just fine, I let Roger carry me to the bed. I even let him dress me in some shorts and a T-shirt. Then I let him lie next to me until I fall asleep, dreaming, of all things, of little milk chocolate babies …

  And in the morning when I wake up, my ankle throbbing like a drum, Roger’s gone. I feel his side of the bed, and it’s still warm. I sniff the air. Is that coffee I smell? And what’s that rumbling outside?

  I slide on my booty across the bed to the window. Outside, on a little yellow tractor, sits Roger, cutting my grass. He spent the night?

  Damn.

  He spent the night.

  The first man to ever spend the night with me, and I wasn’t awake for it? He cuddled with me all night long?

  This is serious.

  I slide open the window, waving my hand. Roger sees me and waves. No, fool, I want you to turn that thing off. I mimic turning a key, and he gets the idea.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “Mr. Wilson dropped it off.”

  Cool. Jenny must have told him. Thanks, Jenny. Maybe with all that grass cut down, the bugs will find somewhere else to live. If I had a bug light, the bugs would have overwhelmed it by now, their sheer weight dropping the bug light to the ground.

  “Your coffee’s ready,” Roger says. “Want me to bring it up?”

  “I can get it.” I think.

  “Okay. I should be through soon.”

  I close the window as the rumbling begins again. He spent the night, and now he’s cutting my grass because the ghost of the lady who used to sleep in this room told her husband to drop off a tractor.

  I’m sure shit like this happens all the time.

  Luckily, the upstairs hallway in the cottage is narrow enough that I can press my hands on the walls for support. I make it halfway down the stairs when I hear my cell phone ringing somewhere in the house.

  I bounce down the stairs to the kitchen, where I find the phone on the table. “Hello?”

  “Where you at?”

  It’s Karl.

  Shit.

  After nearly a month, it’s Karl.

  Which means he’s back in Roanoke.

  “Where am I at? Where you at?” I ask with attitude. “I’ve been paging you for a damn month, man. Why didn’t you hit me back?”

  “It would have been a long-distance call.”

  Cheap ass.

  “What you want?” I always get Ebonic with Karl. We from the ‘hood and shit. I can’t speak Ebonically to
Juan Carlos or he’ll learn English wrong.

  “What you think I want, girl? I want you, Peanut. I’m driving around town looking for your ass. Didn’t you get my message? I left you one last night.”

  Shit. Well, eight Motrin and splashing water will keep anyone from hearing a phone. “I didn’t get it, and how come you just decide to call me last night?”

  And why now?

  Why now, when I have a man I need to reward just outside my house on a tractor delivered by a man who still talks to his dead wife?

  “I’m back from doing my thing. You miss me?”

  I hop over to the counter and drink some coffee. No adding hot chocolate mix this time. I need the real stuff. “I don’t know. Did you miss me?”

  “You know I did, Peanut. So, where the hell are you?”

  Hmm. Roger’s almost done…. Izzie’s coming over around two…. It’s only ten or so now….”I moved.”

  “I could figure that out. I drove by your crib and didn’t see your car on a Sunday morning, and we both know you aren’t a church girl, heh-heh.”

  Heh-heh. I hate that laugh. “I’m in Bedford County, Karl.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve gone country while waiting on your ass.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where in Bedford County?”

  I give him the directions and purposely tell him to turn left at the big oak tree, just in case he makes good time. “Take your time,” I add. “I need to take a shower first.”

  “So do I,” Karl says. “See you in a few.”

  I finish my coffee and pour another mug, my ankle throbbing worse, my head spinning. This is going to be a close call.

  Roger comes in smelling like all outdoors. “How’s your ankle?” he asks, kissing me on the nose.

  “It hurts.”

  “Want to ice it?”

  Karl drives like a maniac. Even with the wrong turn, he’ll be here in thirty minutes or less. Shit. “Maybe later. Uh, listen, Roger, thanks for taking care of me last night.”

  “I enjoyed it.”

  So did I. I should get injured more often. I fake a long yawn. “But I’m still really sleepy, and I’m sure you have things to do.” Take the hint.

  “Not really.”

  Now what? “Well, um, I think my, um, friend is on her way, you know?”

  He doesn’t get it at first, and then … “Oh. That friend.” He looks at the ground. “I could stay and rub your back.”

  Which would be heavenly! “It’s okay. She’s feeling pretty vicious today.” Take that hint.

  “I understand. I’ll call you later.” He kisses my cheek. “Should I put the tractor in the barn?”

  “Yeah. Oh, and could you turn on the generator? I’m sure we used up all the hot water last night.” And Karl wants a shower.

  “Sure.” He kisses my lips. “I hope your ankle feels better.”

  “Thanks.”

  As soon as the door shuts, I take stock of the situation. We did it in the tub, so the sheets are clean. But my stuff is kind of sore. Maybe Karl won’t want to …

  Of course he will. It’s been almost a month.

  Shit.

  Maybe he’ll look at my ankle and take pity on me.

  Well, Roger didn’t take pity on me, but I didn’t let him take pity on me, so …

  Shit.

  The phone rings. “Peanut, I’m lost.”

  Unlike most men, Karl admits this—often. “Did you turn right at the tree?”

  “You told me left, not right.”

  “Sorry. Go back to the tree and turn right this time.”

  “All right.”

  I look out the window and see Roger’s car still parked outside. What’s taking him so long? Oh shit! He’s having trouble with Sheila.

  I crawl up the stairs, get my crutches, bounce down the stairs on my booty, and hit the door, crutches clawing the air in front of me. When I get to the barn, I see Roger shaking his head.

  “Is there an on button in here somewhere?”

  I slide around him as best as I can and flick the correct switch, which for some reason Mr. Wilson mounted on a piece of wood under a bench. Sheila starts up, noxious smoke filling the barn. Both of us leave, hacking and coughing.

  “Does that happen every time?”

  “Just about. Um, drive safely.” Just leave!

  He kisses me again, this time with tongue, which I’d really like under normal circumstances. “Get well soon. It’s supposed to rain some next week.”

  I look at my ankle.

  “Oh. Yeah. I forgot about that. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Maybe we can just play catch.” I lower my voice. “You know, you pitch and I catch.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Now get on! My first friend with benefits is coming!

  “Bye.”

  I watch him go to his car … he starts it up … he waves … he backs out … he’s leaving … he’s gone.

  Whew.

  What? He’s coming back. I crutch my way to his window. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just realized that I’m going cowboy. I must have left my boxers in the bathroom.”

  Think fast! “I’ll, uh, I’ll wash them for you.”

  “Okay. Just don’t wear them.”

  I smile. “I might.”

  He winks. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I hear a car approaching.

  Think fast, Lana! “Oh, um, is that my brother? You better go.”

  “You have a brother?”

  I should have said “cousin.” Damn. “Um, he’s my half brother, and, uh, he doesn’t know about you, and he has this thing against white people, so …”

  “I understand.”

  Roger leaves again, and my heart sinks. Their cars will pass each other, and Karl will say something and …

  Shit.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  I moved out here so that what’s happening would never happen!

  But here it is … happening.

  Chapter 13

  I’m still standing there on my crutches when Karl rolls up. Here we go. Smile pretty.

  Show a little of your good leg. Lick your lower lip.

  Act as if you haven’t had any in a long time.

  And stop sweating so damn much!

  As soon as he gets out of the car, I say, “Hey, boo.”

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  I try to raise my leg but fail. “My ankle.”

  He squats and looks at it. “Damn. Is it broken?”

  “Feels like it.”

  “You been to the doctor?”

  Just Roger and his gentle bedside manner. “No. It’ll be okay in a few days.”

  He stands and looks past me to the house. “This your house, huh?”

  “Yeah.” And thanks for sounding so concerned about my ankle. Geez.

  “You been cutting grass?”

  “What you think?” Oh yeah. “The, uh, the owner, Mr. Wilson—”

  “The guy I passed?”

  Well … It’ll have to do. “Um, yeah.” It’s just a little lie.

  “He makes you call him ‘Mr. Wilson’?”

  “Uh, no, but anyway, he just came out here this morning—”

  “And on a Sunday morning?” Karl interrupts.

  “Yeah. He woke me up.” Damn, I just told the truth and shit.

  He grabs my booty and releases it slowly. “I been thinking about this a long time, Peanut.”

  Whew. I’m so glad he didn’t press me about Roger, but as soon as Karl gets his mind off something and onto booty, there’s no turning back.

  Shit.

  My stuff is going to hate me.

  Should my friend arrive for Karl, too? That would be so mean. Maybe I can delay him just long enough—

  “I got you something,” he says, and he rushes to his car, coming back with two little fake Coach bags and a stack of DVDs, including Denzel Washington’
s latest, one I’ve already seen with Juan Carlos and Roger at the movie theater.

  “So,” I say as we go inside, “how’s business?”

  Thankfully, Karl is content to talk about his trip to New York while I prop up my leg on a kitchen chair and rest my stuff.

  “It won’t be long, Peanut, it won’t be long,” he says, holding my hand in his.

  “For what?”

  “For when I can stop traveling and just be a distributor or even open up a store down here. I’ve been trying to make some connections up there that will keep me in one place.”

  Which is what I’ve always wanted, but things have changed. What would one of those white actresses in the movies say to this? “This is all so sudden, dear.” Something like that.

  “I got it all worked out. I know a few truckers who go up and down the East Coast all the time, and we’ve been talking about forming a partnership, you know? They go up, get the stuff, I pay them wholesale, and charge retail. It’s a perfect setup.”

  “Perfect.”

  Shit. And it actually makes sense.

  “So, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me, Peanut.”

  “Yeah.”

  Shit.

  “And, you know, maybe I can use that barn back there to store some of my merchandise.”

  He thinks he’s going to store fake Coach bags and bootleg DVDs next to Sheila? “The barn gets pretty smoky when the generator’s running.”

  He points to the storage room door. “What’s back there?”

  I can’t tell him “storage.” Shit. He’ll look anyway. “It’s a storage room.”

  He gets up and goes in, coming back a few minutes later. “You got plenty of room in there. It’s perfect.”

  Perfect.

  Gee, Juan Carlos, I don’t know how all those fake Coach bags and bootleg DVDs got back there. One morning I woke up, and there they were. Maybe, Roger, maybe Mr. Wilson has a business on the side, and I’m sure he’ll have some explanation.

  Because I sure as hell won’t have an explanation!

  Think! You can’t have a man leave his shit and not leave himself! It isn’t right! “But it’s so far from your customers, boo. Aren’t most of your regular customers in Roanoke?”

  He nods. “Yeah. You’re right, Peanut. But at least I know I could use your place if I needed to, right?”