Fearless 2

by Amarie Avant

  We walk across the street, and I’m hesitant for the first time. Each of my domestic violence cases in the past has given women a voice. Helping them seems like I’m paying penance for not serving my own father the bear down he deserves. But the Loco Dios Gang? What about Natasha? She’s my priority now.

  Rosemary peeks over at me from her mother’s arm and my heart swells with a wish to keep her safe. I have to help.

  While pressing the pedestrian button, I wonder if the Noriega’s are here illegally due to Felicidad’s scattered speech. Yet, Juan seems like he has a very strong head on his shoulders, he met my eyes and introduced himself in perfect English.

  Well, at least we are in a predominantly black neighborhood. So, I can’t see any cholos, Loco Dios or not, attempting to start anything.

  There’s a strong oil frying scent coming from Hot Chilly’s as we enter. The restaurant has a seating area with old dusty red vinyl booths. But with no servers to bus tables, we all glance up at the backlit menu on the wall to determine what to purchase.

  Juan goes for the chilly cheese hamburger Tyrese recommended and it takes prompting for Felicidad to choose two street tacos for herself. I opt for a wedge salad while Tyrese subtly convinces Rosemary to try what he and Juan are going to eat in a kiddie combo version.

  It’s a quarter to seven when we return to the law firm. True to form, Tyrese has not made any moves to leave me to lock up. I settle Rosemary in the toy area, in my office, across from the table.

  “Juan, I don’t have too many toys for a boy your age—”

  “Toys,” he shrieks, not an ounce of testosterone in his tone, “I am too old for toys.”

  Felicidad glances back and forth from us, something I noticed that she does when not comprehending.

  Rosemary is predominantly Spanish speaking like her mother, but with hand movements and other gestures, she’d caught on at the fast food joint. So, I try out my high school Spanish, asking, “Toys… uh… yo quiero—you want. Uh… ¿Quieres jugar con juguetes?” I finally allow each word to slowly slip out asking if she’d like to play with the toys.

  Her mother offers the most humble, beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, as she appreciates my attempts.

  Rosemary moves in trepidation. She unwinds her arm from around Felicidad’s waist and then takes tiny steps to the toy chest before something of interest must catch her eyes because she zips the few yards and hunkers down to play.

  “Juan, I have a Nintendo Switch somewhere around here,” I begin, sitting down and opening my left file cabinet. “And a whole lot of new games for you— “

  “But I know everything you want to ask,” Juan assures. “I have to help my mother say what she needs to say.”

  His mother eyes him as if attempting to read his lips. She’s aware he’s talking about her.

  “Buddy,” Tyrese leans against my file cabinet along the back wall. “Some of the stuff we’d like to ask your mother might not be appropriate for your ears.”

  I almost smile at his response. What can I say? That was a perfect age-appropriate rebuttal.

  “But I know everything. My father beats my mother as you can see,” He states matter-of-factly. “I’m too old to allow him to hit my mother anymore.”

  Tyrese and I exchange glances. For a man I can’t pinpoint in time, we have an entire silent film conversation in less than a second. The few interpreters on payroll unattached from the world of work when off the clock. No cell phones. No calls. No nothing. This is time sensitive. We need to be aware of what Mr. Noriega has done. It’s imperative to her welfare, and maybe even her children as well.

  “What happened?” I hesitantly ask.

  “My father hit me, too.” He rubs a hand underneath his left eye. Upon peering closely, there’s a grayish half-moon that I previously assumed was due to lack of sleep. “My teacher harped about being a mandated reporter. She called CPS. They didn’t come. My mom is afraid to go to the cops. Yes, she’s illegal, Rosemary is too. But we cannot go to the cops because some of those cops are friends with my father.”

  “Are you illegal?” I inquire.

  “Nah, my father snuck my mother over here a long time ago, they had me. Mom got caught working at a cleaner, she was sent back. But I think my dad is the reason those people—I don’t know the names of them—come and get illegals.”

  In his haste to speak, I decipher that he means ICE or another immigration official came to get his mother at his father’s request.

  “Why would your father rat out your mother?” I inquire, hoping my friendly jargon keeps him speaking. Much of what Juan has divulged can be verified.

  “He had just beat up my mom, I was five. He had another woman on the side. Mom tried to fight him, that was the first time and last time she did that.” He huffs.

  “So, you’ve stayed with your father while your mother lived in Mexico?”

  “No, I stayed with my abuelita. My father’s mother. Then my father went to see my mother. She got pregnant with Rosemary.”

  I want to ask a question but can’t get a word in edgewise as Juan continues to tell the story of how his father snuck his mother back to California after promising life would be better, and he would be better.

  “Where’s your grandmother?”

  “Dead.”

  Shit, I keep a straight face. “I’m sorry to hear that. Does your mother have any other family in the states?”

  “No. Her family isn’t in Mexico either, they’re dead, too. Or maybe they don’t want to see my mom because of my dad. Sometimes I wonder.” He licks his lips. “I’ve never been to Mexico and I ain’t trying to go either. Can you help my mom and sister stay? Can you keep them safe from my dad?”

  His dark brown orbs plead with me to work wonders. Which is harder? Our current president doesn’t give a shit about Mrs. Noriega or keeping her near her son. Her husband, clearly, doesn’t give a shit about her in general. And he has an entire dang family to assist with apprehending his wife and punishing her as he sees fit.

  “We’ll speak with an immigration attorney about your mother and sister.”

  “Thanks. That would be great,” he says.

  I text Vassili that I’ll be home late tonight, and mumble to Tyrese, “Can you call the Four Seasons and see if there’s a vacancy?”

  His eyes sparkle with hope. Did this fool think that myself and him would be frequenting the establishment?

  I redirect his ass with, “We might not be in Noriega’s neck of the woods, but let’s have his family stay somewhere he’s even less likely to frequent.” With the other half… rich white folks.

  “But we have vouchers for the general area.”

  “Unless you’re on your way out for the evening, I would be so grateful.”

  “We will lock up together,” he mumbles under his breath, hopping off the file cabinets and exiting the room.

  ***

  It’s past nine when low and behold, I end up at The Four Seasons with Tyrese Nicks. Felicidad is wiping away tears as she takes in the double bed with clean sheets.

  “Can you tell your mother that you all should head to the welfare office tomorrow?”

  “She won’t go,” Juan replies, truly parentified—a term I learned in child development, which indicated that the youth held on a parental role. He makes a good attorney in her defense.

  “Please and thank you.” I smile.

  He starts off in Spanish. She makes scissor movements with her hands, saying “No, mijo, no.”

  “I told ya.” Juan huffs.

  “You have the right to have food stamps, Juan. Your mother and sister are undocumented and therefore won’t be calculated into the amount. But you have the right.”

  He continues to shake his head. “No. I don’t care. We will go hungry.”

  Tyrese tries. “It’s against the law for the eligibility technician to— “

  “But these are my mother’s words. She’s paranoid. Thinks my dad knows everybody in Cali.”

  “Alri
ght,” I say, dishing out a few dollars. I don’t keep change around. Tyrese pulls out a money clip and gives them three crisp twenties.

  Dang, I can agree with her paranoia. The Loco Dios has gained notoriety in recent years. They’re even more infamous than in the past because of the new ties they made while resurrecting themselves. They’re a ruthless, rowdy bunch backed by cartel connections. I need some intel as to how deep Noriega is with this gang.

  I know exactly the person to apprehend that information from… my father.

  Vassili’s

  My entire day went to shit. You’d think all the trouble Malich endured to get a message for Danushka might make the situation more settling. But the logic behind what my half-sister is gunning for, while in my court, is still over my head.

  Natasha is asleep, and I’m seated on the chair in the master suite, watching a recap of the fight from Vegas. Though there were no title matches last night, each one is enough to keep my eyes focused on the pound for pound bricks being tossed from each competitor. Shit, my very own fight held enough damage to fill an entire fight card. Karsoff and I went for blows, but as suspected, I came out the victor. My hands are clenched into fists at my side. There was a moment in the second round in which my knee started to knot up on me. Karsoff didn’t use that to his advantage, but then again, the fire in my eyes made it seem like a grenade could’ve been tossed at me, and I wouldn’t have given a fuck. Wouldn’t have felt a thing.

  My cell phone vibrates on my left leg.

  ZARIAH: I’ll be home in 15. No thx for dinner.

  Is she texting while driving? I call her instead of replying.

  My wife’s voice is cheerful as she speaks, “Hey, baby—”

  “Girl, are you driving and playing with your phone?”

  “Boy, you love to check in on me every few minutes when I’m out late.” Her voice is filled with laughter, then she switches up her tone to attempt to sound like me. “Vassili, you texted, ‘girl what’s keeping you,’ I respond about a client. You offer to have borscht on the table when I get home. Vassili, you have better luck adding a line of sugar to your cock and having me lick it up for a late dinner. So yes, the last few messages I replied to, may have been while I was driving.”

  “Are you hungry?” I ask her, eyeing a roundhouse kick, on the screen, from the main event that sent the loser into a frozen state before he fell back.

  She cackles. “I love you, Vassili. You keep me safe, I’d never go cold or hungry, so I think I’ll keep you around. And no, I’m not hungry for the last time.”

  “Shit, salad is not a dinner.”

  “Humph, coming from the man who tortured me with raw juice and roughhoused me enough to be afraid of entering a Jamba Juice within a hundred-mile radius.”

  “That fucking stuff isn’t healthy, smoothie my ass.” I quip, hearing the sound of the garage in the background.

  “Whatever, Vassili,” she says. The faint sound of music is cut off. “I swear, I may have enjoyed the green machine with Kale more than you know what.”

  “That so?” I chuckle, rise from my chair, go down the hall, and shuffle downstairs. “There’s probably one bite of kale in the juice. That shit is full of lime sherbet.”

  “For taste,” Zariah says, her voice echoing as she rounds the corner near the laundry room. “I had a long day at work, why are we arguing?” She asks into the receiver, twenty yards away, glancing me up and down like she’s really ready to lick a line of sugar off my cock.

  “Nyet, I’m not arguing with you, beautiful.” I hang up the phone and get an eyeful of my wife. How does this happen? Every instant I lay eyes on her, she’s more beautiful than before. My hands brush over her shoulders as I remove the floppy sweater thing she calls a cardigan, and let it fall to the floor. Yeah, that’s what I think about those stupid little sweater thingies. They cover the roundness of her ass, the fatness of her hips and pussy. Sometimes she’s holding the knitting over her chest and I’m not even a breast man, but I still want to snatch it off of her.

  My mouth goes to her forehead, and I brush a soft kiss there. I needed her softness to settle the anxious rage within me. Her essence filters through my nostrils, and I bestow soft kisses to her neck, my nose nudging into her skin, getting an addictive whiff of her. I fall to my knees. My hands clasp her ass, and I prod my nose at the apex of her thighs, breathing in deeply. And she smells so sweet like…

  “Brown sugar,” I groan.

  “What?” Zariah licks her lips, her chocolate gaze glancing down at me.

  “You had this on during our first encounters. You were at Vadim’s Gym, and then again when I came to see you at home.”

  “More like breaking and entering. Yes, Vassili. It’s my favorite from Bath and Body Works.”

  “Shit, girl, then why haven’t you worn this in a while?”

  Zariah shrugs. “I usually wear perfume these days. Just being a little more sophisticated, I guess.”

  Instantly I’m standing, and I’ve swept her off her feet. My wife lets out a fearful yelp before laughing and kicking her legs. “Can I get a little pre-warning, Vassili, dang!”

  “Okay, I’m going to feed you,” I kiss her mouth, “then I’ll eat you.” My tongue weaves around hers in a breathtaking kiss. “Then you tell me what caused you to return home so late. Da?”

  “Nyet.” Zariah sounds too cute telling me no in Russian. She presses a hand against my chest, though her face is beaming from ear to ear. “How about we skip part one. Oh, and part two is confidential as well, Vassili. Let’s just finish the evening with you tasting these sweets.”

  I carry her upstairs. “Confidential my ass,” is all I say. There’ll be no arguing about it. I’ll compromise about her dinner since she says she’s not hungry. But family law or not, I prefer my wife in the kitchen and pregnant. It’s the safest place for her. So, I’ll eat her tonight, and ask about the new case assignment come morning. If it was an emergency to her, then it’s a concern to me.

  ***

  Only one of her gorgeous brown eyes is visible. Zariah has masked much of her face with the pillow. Her tone is delectably sultry, and groggy, “Why aren’t you working out?”

  “I meet with Vadim at 11 am. You know the drill,” I tell her.

  “Humph, I’m referencing your work out before your quote-unquote workout?” She finally pushes the pillow away enough to give me that look of hers which tells me she’s about to toss a bomb my way. “Vassili, I am aware of your entire day. You’re in our home gym at 5 am. Then you cart Natasha around Venice Beach to eye some hot ass, and I do mean hot as in stinky, funky asses swallowing up thong-kini’s, before going to the gym. What a convenient location for all you guys. And if another fighter is behind schedule, you become a big bully.”

  “Stinky thong-kini’s you say?” I arch an eyebrow.

  “Um hmm!”

  I lay back against the pillow and roar with laughter.

  My wife straddles me and issues an assault of hooks and jabs against my ribs. “Oh, so you do check out scantily clad chicks? I hate you, Vassili.”

  “Fuck,” I growl, my chuckles fading out enough to allow me to grab the bulldozers she has for fists. She isn’t that strong, but my broken rib has a few more weeks to heal. “My rib, girl, my rib.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your rib.” She pouts. “You were supposed to deny looking at those hoes. Deny it vehemently!”

  I reach up and kiss her poked out bottom lip. Then my tongue soars into her mouth, my hand claims the back of her neck and I send this kiss to soaring heights. Zariah’s breasts rise and fall rapidly against her tight negligee as she catches her breath. My eyes connect with hers, and I decree, “There’s only one woman for me. I put that on my life.”

  “Okay…” she pretends to cave, as I wrap my arms around her in a bear hug.

  “And I resent your statement, beautiful. There’s only one girl I know in the entire world, whose thong can be perfectly eaten by her ass.” My hand slams down on Za
riah’s butt.

  “Oh, so you’re calling me a –”

  “I’m calling you my little kholodets,” I bounce my hands over her ass cheeks.

  “Wait a minute, boy did you just say Kholodets?” Her eyes peel in thought. “That revolting Russian meat jelly?”

  “I love it. That was Natasha’s favorite when she first got a few teeth.”

  The smack against my face sends me into another hard laugh and I lay back again. Zariah pretends to lean down and choke me out for a second. “Meat Jelly? Can’t you think of anything sexier? I know my ass is fat, you can see these cakes from the front,” she says, her legs squeezing around my waist. Zariah glances back at her fatty and then her ponytail whips over her shoulder as she looks down at me again.

  I rest my hands behind my head and lift my hips. My cock pierces the inside of her thigh, a reminder that too much playing in the bedroom leads to other things. I love these happy moments of joking with my wife, but really, with her straddling me, those breasts of hers are about to spill out.

  Her eyes darken with desire. Zariah rocks her hips, letting her pussy slither over my cock. There’s only one problem with our current dynamic. I slept in boxers and basketball shorts. She has on panties. I don’t like friction.

  “Stop playing, girl. I want to fuck.”

  “Humph, you better be glad I let you have something good to eat last night.” She dips her tongue out and licks her lips.

  “Dah, I ate this succulent pussy all night, eh? Now that sweet tasty cunt of yours can eat my cock, okay.” I press my hips up again, searing the inside of her thigh with my stiff erection.

  She reaches toward me, her hands go to the headboard, and her mouth goes to mine. Zariah licks my jaw as she works her lower body like a snake. My dick is swollen with hunger. I clasp her hair. “Take your panties off, girl.”