“And . . . you didn’t notice anything different?”
Profit frowns. “Different? Different how?”
Romil and I exchange another look. I fuckin’ hate secrets.
“What the fuck?” Profit says with a combination of frustration and irritation.
“Look. I got a voicemail from Ta’Shara asking that I bring her stuff to her new address out in Germantown.” I eye him. “I think maybe you should be the one to take her stuff to her tomorrow.”
55
Cleo
Kalief and I are making love. I’ve forgotten how good we are together. This time however, we are a little hotter. He knows where to put his hands and mouth before I even know I want them there.
Moaning, I lower my hand between my legs and place them against the side of Kalief’s head.
Kalief’s head game has never been better. My mind spins as I struggle to breathe.When my orgasm hits, I toss around with abandon, but when Kalief crawls up my body, his scent is different. He’s not wearing my favorite cologne, Polo Black.
Everything is different.
Kalief is heavier, his shoulders and back bigger.
I run my hands along his sinewy muscles, swept up in the moment. I struggle to open my eyes, but they weigh a ton.
Kalief lifts my legs and I obligingly wrap them around his waist. Only—his waist is wider—taut. Everything goes all fuzzy again. I feel . . . wonderful and strange at the same time. It goes on and on until I wake with sunlight warm against my face. I moan, stretch, and even smile before I successfully open my eyes. However, I’m confused when I don’t recognize anything around me. I sit up and gasp at the unfamiliar bold décor and silk sheets. I scramble to remember the previous night, but keep hitting a brick wall. The more I hit it, the more frustrated I become. Seconds before my head explodes, I whip back the sheets.
I’m naked. Fuck! What did I do? What happened?
I pound my fist on the side of my head. I jar a few images loose. The club. The shooting. The police. Kalief.
I gasp at the bloody images. I fly out from my nest of silk sheets, then drop like a stone when my rubbery legs refuse to hold me up. When I hit the hardwood floor, my knees, elbows, and chin explode with pain.
When I hear padding feet, I push myself into a sitting position and snatch the top sheet from off the bed. I manage to get it around me before a smiling Nefertiti breezes into the bedroom.
“Oh. You’re up. That’s good.” She marches over to the nearest window and opens the blinds all the way.
The thin slices of light are now each a full laser beam, penetrating my skull and rendering me insane with pain. “Close it! Close it! Please!”
Nefertiti closes the blinds again and the pain goes away. “My goodness, girl. Are you all right?” She appears at my side and places her cold hands against my shoulder to help me up.
“Yes. I think so.” On my feet, I lean against her, not trusting my own strength. “What time is it?”
“It’s past noon,” she answers.
“Jeez. I slept the whole morning away.”
Nefertiti stops walking.
“What?”
“Actually, you slept all day yesterday and this morning.”
“What?” I pull away from her, but my wobbly legs threaten to drop me. I hold on to her for dear life. “That’s impossible. I just . . . what the hell happened to me?” I float the question before I become aware of a strange soreness and wetness between my legs.
“I’m not sure,” Titi says, smiling. “You showed up quite upset, ranting and raving about some boyfriend.” She stops and gives me a hard look. “You made some horrible accusations that I hope now, in the light of day, you are ashamed of. You need to apologize to Diesel.”
I frown at being scolded like a child. Then the memory of my drive to Diesel’s house plays in my mind. I attacked, wrestled with him, and even scratched his face.
“Then what happened?” I ask.
Titi shrugs and flashes that weird smile again. “We tried to calm you down but you had worked yourself up into such a state that you got sick and started throwing up everywhere.”
“I did?”
Nefertiti nods. “Don’t worry. Diesel carried you up here, but I was the one to strip you out of your clothes and clean you up. I sent your dress to the cleaners yesterday. I’ll run out and pick it up in a few minutes.” We make it to the door of the adjoining bathroom and push it open.
I don’t know what to say, so I just say the first thing that comes to mind. “Thank you.”
Titi’s smile widens. “Don’t mention it.”
I’m embarrassed that she has to help me all the way to the toilet, but once I’m sitting on the porcelain throne I tell her, “I can handle it from here.”
Titi takes her time pointing out where I can find everything—towels and toiletries—before backing out of the bathroom and shutting the door. When I’m alone again, I speed through the recovered memories of the previous night.
Have I really been here that long?
It doesn’t seem possible.
I run through everything two or three times while I piss like a racehorse. Clearly, they made sure my ass stayed hydrated. I wipe, then look down at the toilet paper and frown at the mucus-like substance. Why the fuck does it look like . . . No. I toss the toilet paper into the bowl and flush. When I stand up, bracing myself against the wall, my attention focuses again on the dull ache between my legs.
My tears are instant despite my brain trying to reject my suspicions. It didn’t happen. It couldn’t have.
Lastly, the memory of making love to Kalief replays in my head, but I know that couldn’t have happened. Kalief is dead. He’s been dead. The image of Kalief is replaced by one of Diesel. The muscular shoulders, the broad chest. The powerful ass . . . and the larger dick.
“Oh my God.” I spin around and throw up into the toilet bowl. Only I don’t have that much food in my stomach, so it isn’t long before I’m dry heaving and cramping.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Are you all right in there?” Titi calls.
I slap my hand over my mouth as horror creeps over me.
“Cleo?”
The doorknob turns and I’m able to say, “I’m fine. Everything is fine!”
The door doesn’t open, but there is a long pause. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!” I flush the toilet and hurry over to the shower to turn it on. “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I shout above the water spray.
“Okay. I placed some clothes on the bed. I’ll go down and make you something to eat before you go. You must be starving.”
“Yeah. Great!” I cover my mouth with my hand again to stop a sob from bursting out. I wait a minute until I’m sure that she has moved away from the door before rushing over and locking it.
Now what?
I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror and am completely horrified by what I see. My thick mass of natural curls are standing straight up on my head, as if I placed my hand into an electric socket. My three-day-old mascara makes me look like I have two black eyes. I’m pale and my lips appear abnormally swollen.
Again. Horrifying.
Despite my ass wanting to bolt out of here, I’m also overwhelmed by the need to scrub my body clean. That’s exactly what I do once I jump into the glass-walled shower. I set the water as hot as I can get it and I scour every inch of my body until I am in pain.
Somehow I push the trauma of my rape aside, shut off the shower, and towel off. I twist two plaits in my hair, unlock the bathroom door, peek around the corner, and dash to the clothes lying on the bed.
I’ve never dressed so fast in my life. I’m still sliding into a pair of tennis shoes as I rush out of the bedroom and fly down the stairs. The scent of brewing coffee and frying bacon is enough to make my stomach lurch. But when I get ready to bolt out of door, I don’t have my clutch, my gun, or my car keys.
More tears pool in my eyes when it dawns on me that I’ll have
to ask Nefertiti for my shit. I don’t know if I can handle facing that smiling bitch again. She’s gotta know what had happened to me. Was she in on it?
While I’m contemplating what to do, the front door bursts open and Beast steps into the house with a large Doberman pinscher. He takes one look at me and drops his gaze. “Hello, Cleo.”
“My purse and keys,” I say simply.
“They are in the study on the coffee table.”
I turn and race to the room where Diesel carried me the other night. When I rush inside, I remember lying on the sofa and Titi handing me a drink.
My stomach clenches. I slap my hand back over my mouth and wait for the wave of nausea to pass. Once it does, Beast is standing before me and handing me my purse.
“Are you able to drive?” he asks, looking sorry for me.
I snatch my purse from him. “All of you can go to hell!” I spin and run out of the house. The drive speeds by in a blur—a watery blur. Once the tears start, I am helpless to stop them. I cry the whole way to the police station.
56
Hydeya
“I’m pregnant,” I tell my reflection for the thousandth time. Still, neither it nor myself believes the words that are coming out of my mouth. But the doctor and the dozen home pregnancy tests I’ve used are all telling me the same damn thing. “I’m pregnant.”
How in the hell am I going to raise a kid all by myself?
The idea of wrangling up a babysitter or finding a decent day care short-circuits my brain. But then, I have a part of Drake growing inside of me. In about seven and a half months, I’ll see his eyes and smile again, in our child’s face.
There. That flutter of excitement again. I smile at my reflection. As I dress for work, I start humming. I opt for hot tea instead of coffee and take time to make oatmeal and cut up some fruit for breakfast. Eating three balanced meals a day has never been my thing, but that will be the first in a long series of changes.
I’m uncharacteristically late when I arrive at the department, but nobody else notices or cares. Another name is added to the murder board: Kalief Cummings.
When is the tide going to turn?
“Your dad posted bail this morning,” Fowler informs me, popping up at my door.
“Good for him,” I say without looking up.
“Happy? Sad?”
“I don’t give a damn,” I say. “Don’t you have cases to work?”
Silence.
I look up and he’s looking at me strangely. He seems to be torn between answering and cursing me out.
I lift one eyebrow in amusement. “Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a yes.” Fowler pushes himself away from my door to find something that will keep him out of my hair. But once he’s gone, his sidekick Hendrix arrives. “A Pastor Hayes came by looking for you. He waited but then left ten minutes ago,” she informs me.
“Pastor Hayes?” I remember him from the Power of Prayer Baptist Church. “I wonder what he wanted.”
“He didn’t say.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I look up as Hendrix backpedals out of my office.
I got them spooked. Good. Once she’s gone, I shake my head and wonder how I’m going to root out the bad cops who were in on Captain Johnson’s criminal network. On top of a modern urban city burning down around me, daddy issues, and preparing to be a single mom, it will take a Herculean effort on my part.
I toss down my pen and pinch the bridge of my nose. The beginning of another headache is coming on. I whip open my top drawer and retrieve my bottle of Excedrin—but then stop. Am I allowed to even be taking these?
I stare at the bottle, unsure. I don’t even want to think about the damage I may have caused before I knew that I was knocked up. I toss the bottle back into the drawer and pick up the phone. Of course I ignore the red flashing light that’s alerting me that I have messages, because I know that ninety-eight percent of them are from the media. Everyone wants a quote or progress report about what the city is going to do to stop Memphis’s fast descent into chaos.
Since I can’t tell everyone that there is nothing that can be done as long as the drug and gun laws are what they are, I’d rather avoid putting myself into situations where I’m forced to lie to the tax-paying public.
Now completely frustrated, I pick up an envelope on my desk and remove the disc inside it. It’s a surveillance video from a store where the owner was murdered. I pop it into my computer. I’m only half paying attention when I look up and recognize a familiar face.
The singer. Cleo Blackmon. I stand up from my chair to get a better look through my glass walls. Yeah. That’s her. I wonder if there’s something else that she’s recalled from the Club Diesel shooting the other night and rush out of my office to greet her.
“Ms. Blackmon,” I call out.
When Cleo faces me, I’m taken aback by her morose expression. I drop my smile and reach for her. “Is everything all right?”
Ms. Blackmon’s eyes well up and her bottom lip trembles uncontrollably.
“Come with me,” I instruct, then lead her toward my office. I open my top-drawer pharmacy and remove a travel-size pack of tissues.
Cleo snatches out a few sheets, wipes her eyes and blows her nose.
I wait until I she has reasonable control. “What can I help you with?”
Big mistake. Another wave of gut-wrenching sobs racks the young girl’s body.
“It’s okay. Take your time.” I rub her back and hand her more tissues. Ten minutes later, she’s springing up out of the seat and mumbling, “I can’t do this. This is a mistake.”
“What?”
Cleo rushes toward the door.
“Wait.” I race after her, and before she clears the threshold I latch on to her wrist. “If you know anything more about the club shooting—”
“No. This is a mistake. You can’t help me.” She snatches her hand from my grip and sprints across the department as if her life depends on it.
“Damn.”
57
Cleo
“Well, look who’s decided to bring her ass home.” Granny lights into me the moment I enter the house. “I know that you’re moving up to the big time, but while you’re staying in my house, you will abide by my rules. And the number one rule around here for you grown kids is to call and let somebody know if you ain’t resting your head here at night.”
I drop my head and close the door behind me. “Sorry, Granny.”
“I don’t care about you being sorry. I care about you not doing it no damn more.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’m rooted next to the door, fighting the urge to race to take another shower.
Granny looks at me. “What’s wrong with you? You look pale. Have you had anything to eat?”
I shake my head, tears slide down my face.
“Oh, baby. What’s the matter?” She rushes over. By the time she wraps her arms around me, I’m a sobbing mess.
“Granny, why is Cleo crying?” six-year-old Kay asks.
“Don’t y’all worry about that right now. You and Jamie go and play in your rooms.”
“But—”
“G’on now!”
My li’l cousins drop their heads and shuffle off toward their rooms. “Yes, ma’am.”
Granny tucks me under her wing and pulls me into the living room. “Now you c’mon in here and tell me what’s wrong. Did you and Kalief get into another fight?”
I cry harder.
“Aww. Now. Hush, baby. Everything is going to be all right.”
“No. It isn’t, Granny. He’s dead!” My thoughts twist and turn, laying Kalief’s death at my feet. My head knows that what my heart is saying is bullshit, but in this moment, it feels true.
I can hardly believe I could’ve saved Kalief from Diesel when I couldn’t protect myself from him. The tears flow faster, harder.
“Oh, my baby.” Granny sits next to me on the couch and proceeds to rock me back and forth. “You go ahead and let it all out. I know how much
you loved that boy.”
Yes. Most of the tears are for Kalief, but a fair amount of them are for me, too.
“What’s going on?” Kobe asks, entering the living room. Behind him is his usual clique. No doubt they were coming to play their video games like they do most afternoons.
“Kalief has apparently passed away,” Granny informs him, still rocking me. “Y’all go in and play somewhere else.” She shoos them away much like the cousins, but Kobe doesn’t move.
“Are you going to be all right, Cleo?” he asks.
Silence.
Kobe turns to his friends. “Look. I’m gonna catch up with y’all later.”
“Yeah. Sure. No doubt,” one of them says before they all exchange dabs and then bounce.
Once they are out the door, Kobe joins me and Granny on the couch. “What happened?”
Sniffing, I pull away from Granny to level my tear-brimmed gaze on him. “I’m not sure. I went to his place after the club shooting.”
Granny clutches my arms. “So. You were there that night? Lawd have mercy.”
“Were you hurt?” Kobe asks, his face more serious than I’ve seen it since Essence’s passing.
“No. I wasn’t hurt—then.” Damn. That feels like a lifetime ago.
He frowns.
“Since Kalief’s been ignoring my calls and texts, I went over there to talk to him. I let myself in and then . . . I found him in the bedroom. There was blood everywhere.” I turn back to the comfort of Granny’s arms and sob.
“G’on, fix her some chamomile tea,” she tells Kobe. “That should calm her down.”
Kobe hesitates, but then bounces up to go do what he’s told.
The tea helps. By the time I work my way halfway through the cup, I’ve calmed down.
Kobe speaks. “I heard about Kalief’s death yesterday. I had no idea that you were the one who found him. Did the cops keep you for questioning?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t call the cops.”
Both he and Granny look confused.
How much of the story do I tell them? Lord knows I don’t want to upset Granny. She isn’t exactly in the best of health, but I’ve kept a lot of shit from them regarding Essence’s true murderer; and now possibly hiding my own rape.
Queen Divas Page 24
