Love's Inconvenient Truth

by Love Belvin

  My eyes flew over to the other side of the bed where I saw Jackson sound asleep on his back. His left thigh lifted into a triangular fold. His pelvis hardly covered by the satin sheet he must have covered us in some time after I’d foolishly fallen asleep.

  I’ve got to get the fuck out of here!

  Slowly—and not for the purposes of furtiveness—I shifted over to the edge of the colossal bed until I was able to swing my heels onto the floor. I walked on my toes, in search of my clothing that were thrown sparsely throughout the floor. In the hall, I dressed quickly, holding off on putting on my booties until I was in the hallway. En route to the door, I heard a growl from behind a closed door, reminding me of Jackson’s ‘bitch’. Thankfully she didn’t take on a full bark, awakening her owner. Seconds later in my exodus, I was calling for the elevator.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” the concierge greeted. “Can I assist you with transportation?”

  “A cab to Harlem, please,” I requested with a dry throat while I massaged my aching scalp.

  twelve

  “Look,” Erika covered my hand on the table with her own, beckoning my eyes. “I’m really sorry. I know I fucked up.”

  That was one of the rare times I’d heard her use profanity. Neither drinking, nor swearing were vices of Erika’s. Needing acceptance was. I’d come to realize that over time since interfacing with her. Would she jump off a bridge at your request? No, but she’d walk you to the edge just to prove her loyalty. Just because. Our motives varied, but they were compelling and morbid if you didn’t rein in control. And because of that realization, I had to convince her to drop it.

  Besides, my head was throbbing, a slow ache for the moment.

  “E, we’re dropping that. Whatever happened on Monday was Monday’s news. It didn’t hit the media, so it isn’t something that requires wasting moments crying over. I’m just glad you’re making yourself a priority. Things are developing well beyond what we planned. I’m proud of you.” I offered a soft smile.

  I meant each one of my words that made Erika blush. I was never one for sentiment, at least not as an adult, but I genuinely wanted this for her. It was a Friday afternoon and I’d met Erika for brunch to discuss the next phase of our roll out for New York Fashion Week. She insisted on it being face-to-face and I knew it was because she hadn’t been convinced I’d dropped it on Wednesday afternoon when she called to apologize and inform us that she was still on board.

  “Hey, Elle, you’ve been rubbing your scalp for the past five minutes, and since you came into the restaurant, your eyes have been straining. You okay, bunny?”

  I recoiled at her faux baby banter. “You sound like a damn mom, E.”

  She giggled. “I know. I can’t help it!” Her beautiful smile came alive involuntarily. One of Erika’s few physical flaws was the groove at the end of her two front teeth. Sometimes she’d unconsciously push her tongue into it. Funny how she similarly picked up my subconscious habit of massaging my scalp.

  “A serious headache is all.” I waved off her concern. “Thinking about our plans totally eases it.”

  I’d been nursing these stupid headaches and sometimes migraines for almost a week now. I’d hoped to have it under control by tomorrow. Anthony and I would be going on our first official date that included entertainment and other people. Jackson had invited the office to Q’s Karaoke Joint. I could use a night out to let my hair down.

  “And you really think we can be done by fashion week?” Erika was caught daydreaming out loud.

  “Yup,” I assured as I signed for the check. “The way things have been turning around, it seems as though you have a guardian angel working on your behalf.”

  I handed the receipt book to the waiter and stood to pull on my coat. Erika followed suit. I had to run. I stupidly forgot my migraine prescription at home. They weren’t a cure all, but if I had any chance of getting ahead of what was working its way up to being a horrible migraine, I needed to get a move on it. I’d started feeling nauseous and had barely eaten my food.

  “Ahhh-ma-zing!” She cheered as she pulled me into a hug.

  “Okay. I’ll call you in a couple of days about the Milk Studios prospect.”

  “Sounds great!” She beamed. “Bye, Elle, and feel better.”

  I parted ways with Erika outside. Of course paparazzi were out, about a half a dozen, snapping away and shouting to get her attention. While she was ushered into an SUV, I hailed a cab and took off for home.

  Once I hit the door, I tossed my purse and briefcase to the floor, kicked off my pumps and headed straight to the bathroom. My headache was now a full blown migraine. I stumbled toward the overhead cabinet in search of the bottle of Sumatriptan. Sighing once it was located, I took off for the kitchenette, poured a glass of water and gulped down the pills. I had a few minutes before I experienced any relief.

  I figured I’d sit on my sofa until it kicked in. So, I unzipped my pencil skirt, feeling the need of relief everywhere, sat down and rested my head on the back of the couch.

  Heavy raps at the door had me shooting up from the sofa, heart damn near leaving my chest and eyes wildly in search of I didn’t know what. My apartment was black.

  Oh, shit!

  I’d slept the afternoon away…and started into the night. More rounds of knocking had me to my feet. The moment the stockings of my feet hit the floor I felt a stab of pain in the back of my head. I coiled, realizing I’d forgotten about the throbbing pain. Still, I fought my way to the door, prepared to cuss Michael’s ass out for knocking on my door like a madman. I unlocked the door and swung it open.

  It wasn’t Michael.

  “Fuck! Elle!” he exhaled, arms stretched in the doorway as he collapsed his head. “We’ve been trying you for hours.”

  The lights from the small hallway flashed shards of rays right into my eyes. I flinched in pain.

  “Who?”

  “The whole team.” I moved to invite him in; and I had to get out of the damn light. “Erika called, saying she had some sub designer from Italy she wants on her design team. She told Bridgette she couldn’t get in touch with you. Bridgette tried calling for hours. You’re never out of touch. Clarice even tried. ” I could hear him sauntering behind me.

  I flipped the switch for the overhead light on the stove, illuminating the small place. I needed to sit down for a minute. Just before turning for the sofa, I caught Jackson taking inventory of my space. I realized it was his first time inside.

  I grabbed my tail comb from the island on the way to the couch and eased my body down to sit and went to parting and rubbing my scalp.

  “I ran home for a pit stop after my meeting with Erika and had planned to sit down for a breather and must’ve ended up falling asleep.” My tone was dry.

  “You more than must’ve.” his tone was curt.

  I peered up and observed him shaking his way out of his coat and placing it on the back of the single sofa next to me. He began removing his cuff links, then rolled up his sleeves. I was too discombobulated to ask what he was doing. The last time I’d spoken to Jackson, outside of the context of work, was three mornings ago after I’d left his apartment in the middle of the night. I’d just hit the pavement for my morning run at 5 a.m. when his text tolled, asking why I’d left.

  My answer had already been prepared in my head when my thumbs rapidly tapped at my phone: I don’t do sleepovers. That’s one condition not even you can fuck me out of.

  He never replied.

  Now he was standing over me and reached behind me to get a pillow. He dropped it to the floor.

  “Sit,” he commanded and extended his open palm, requesting my comb.

  Call me crazy, but I relented instead of ripping him a new one for bossing me around.

  On my way down, I murmured loud enough for him to hear, “You’re in my home, in my living room, throwing my pillow on the floor, ordering my ass on the floor.”

  He didn’t respond to that. Jackson sat on the sofa behind me, placing h
is long lean legs astride my shoulders, positioned the pads of his fingers at the nape of my neck and raked upward, being sure to thread through my wild mane. When he got to my forehead, he pulled back down applying mild pressure and stopped at the center, kneading in circles. My tongue went slack immediately in my mouth. He repeated this process and then transitioned into variations of it. Almost in no time, I felt relief from the throbbing.

  “Hey,” I tried carrying a conversation. “Erika mentioned the prospect of us taking Emily on. She seemed really excited about that.” I knew Jackson wasn’t keen on taking on the Erceg family, but I saw potential in Emily.

  “Have you seen a doctor about this?” he murmured, completely ignoring my soft pitch for Emily.

  “Ye-yeah,” I stuttered helplessly. There’s really no magical pill, just remedies to manage them.”

  “How long have you been suffering from them?”

  “About ten years now. They come every now and then. I can manage. How do you know it’s a problem, anyway?”

  “You woke up in the middle of the night at my place in Long Island when we were troubleshooting Blackboard Scratchers with one. And the afternoon you ran into Bernadette you were rubbing your scalp.”

  Oh…

  That reminded me of how long I’d been dealing with this latest bout. But what kicked it up into overdrive was the conversation I’d had with my mother the night before. She’d been applying unusual pressure about me returning home. It had been almost two years since the last time I’d seen her. But I did return home periodically for other reasons, unbeknownst to her.

  The balance of my relationship with my mother was a delicate one. While my anger with her lingered, my respect for her prevailed. I didn’t like going home; it felt all but. It was the place where she moved us and allowed me to be the imposing party of the residence. I didn’t fit in. My stepsister practically ignored me coming up and my stepbrother manipulated me over the years, making me jump through hoops to be accepted, only I never was. Those hoops only further compromised the miniscule respect my stepsister did have for me. My mother married their father when I was eleven…and vulnerable and unsure of myself. I just wanted to belong.

  It was my mother’s third marriage and I’d been her only child. The first marriage was in my birthplace, New Orleans, to my father—[append fact of me not knowing said father here]—whom she said she’d left right after I was born, and ten years and four boyfriends later she married a man, whom we never saw, claiming he was in the armed forces, something she had no proof of other than his frequent trips out of town. I’d guessed once she grew exhausted of that taradiddle seven long months later, she moved on and us out of town to Charleston, West Virginia where she took a gig as a chanteuse at a nightclub.

  Jackson’s adroit deep-scalp kneading is so calming…

  Believe it or not that’s when all hell broke loose. Prior to that, I never had to fit in or adjust to little people my age. I’d just basked in my mother’s love. But Bishop Eugene Greene II had two children when he married my mother: Eugene Greene III, and Elyssa Greene, now Brown. It was a challenge for me from the very beginning. My stepsister, Elyssa, never paid me much mind outside of telling me to get out of her space and Eugene abused my need of wanting to belong.

  My mother left us to figure it out alone, never defending me or taking a moment to understand my lashing out. She willfully busied herself in her new role as first lady and left it to my stepfather to discipline me. He was brutal, not that he was all that physical with me, but he would occasionally strike me when I’d been caught sneaking behind the church with some guy or underneath the bleachers at school. He would scream how I was possessed by a demonic spirit and that he’d beat it and pray it out of me before he would allow anyone with his surname to pollute it, hence my legal name change back to what it was before my mother married him. Apparently it was my father’s name. Feeling the need to belong somewhere when I left West Virginia, I started with changing my name back.

  Going home dredged up these unfavorable and haunting facts. But my mother offered, once again, to come up and visit me in the city in lieu of me returning home. That shit would only make me happy on my death bed. I’d rather pay a quick visit back there and return to my new, refreshing world. Having my parents visit me would pollute my space and I wasn’t up to sterilizing the memory of it in their wake.

  “Here,” Jackson’s melodic tenor woke me from my reverie. “Lie down here. I want to try something with you.”

  The shooting pain had lightened remarkably, but the ache was still present. Still a bit dazed and mentally preoccupied, I obeyed and lay on my back on the sofa. Jackson sat under my feet and picked up the right one. He pulled and pinched between my metatarsals, miraculously sending shooting sensations up my leg, into my back and then my neck that after a few rounds had the ache numbing. Each pinch, while not brutal, caused my back to arch and then stiffen. It was odd: a bit of discomfort from down below to ease the smarting in my cranium. There was nothing sexual about it, but in that moment, Jackson was a god.

  “How’d you know to do that?” I murmured, controlling my accelerated pants.

  Jackson didn’t reply right away. In fact, at a quick glance, I could see his forehead wrinkled and his lips pursed in deep concentration. Just as I was about to give up on receiving a response, he spoke.

  “There are several non-medicinal ways to cure a headache. They’re temporary and not for the big migraines exactly, but I could sense you loosening while I was massaging your scalp…and wanted to see if this might help at this point. Does it?” He finally peered over to me.

  Jackson was sporting his beard, something I found incredibly sexy and yet still couldn’t decide if I preferred that or him bare faced.

  With my lips parted, I nodded.

  “Good,” he muttered. “Now, about work. Apparently, your idea of contacting the tattoo artist to release a statement about inking Todd and his cousin got the same day worked, but now he’s asking for payment for his service…weeks later.”

  “So?” I felt my body returning to a tense state.

  Jackson continued to knead as he answered. “I wasn’t around when Marie got the email. She panicked and they tried to reach out to you. When they couldn’t, they called me.”

  “And?”

  “And there’s nothing to be concerned about at this point. We sent one of our attorneys to take his statement. We needed it to hold up in court in case Coke ended up terminating their contract.”

  Jackson pulled and pinched again and I went limp instantly. Although Blackboard Scratchers was not my account, I was grateful for his diligence and was reminded of Jackson’s astuteness in this business. He knew his shit.

  He continued to talk more about work and the developments of Dynamic Branding’s roster and transitioned to massaging my feet. He even talked about the happenings of his clubs, which was a first. Jackson was excited about the following night when the office staff he’d invited would come hang out. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be returning, but somewhat excited about bringing Anthony. Anything to deter folks from discovering my relationship with Jackson. The whole sneaking around persona was a reputation I didn’t want to return to.

  “Why are you talking so much about work?” I couldn’t help my brashness.

  “Because I happen to know it’s one topic that you thrive on and doesn’t stress you out.”

  Damn if he wasn’t right.

  “I gotta go.” Jackson’s magical fingers halted and I sulked internally. He tapped my feet, requesting me to let him up. I did. “I have a new band playing tomorrow night and I have paperwork to sign.” He began rolling down his sleeves and settling his cuffs. “The lining around your eyes isn’t as dark.” He observed my relief. “You sure there isn’t anything I can do for you?”

  “No…no.” My response stark opposite of my disposition. “You’ve been great. Thanks.”

  “All right,” he pulled on his coat. He moved swiftly, but I could tell from the wri
nkle in his forehead that Jackson was struggling with something. “I’m out. Turn on your phone, Elle. We’ve all grown close enough over this brief time to be concerned when someone goes off the grid.”

  “I’m sorry. My phone died on my ride home and I didn’t get a chance to juice it before I passed out.”

  From his pause and penetrative glare, I knew Jackson was definitely concerned. But with the way I’d treated him and as closed as I’d been with him, his logical side was probably telling him to let it go. As he should.

  And me, too…

  He turned to leave.

  “Jax,” I called out with just enough calm to have him not jump, but enough dramatics to have him stop in his tracks.

  He turned. There was a tentative pause.

  “I have to go home…to visit.”

  His brows furrowed.

  “My mom called, demanding. I haven’t been home in a year and half.”

  “You don’t want to go.”

  “No. It would be much easier if I don’t go alone.” I fought hard to leave the plea out of my tone.

  “Are you inviting me to come with you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He gave one affirmative nod. “Just let me know when. I’ll clear my schedule. I just can’t do Sundays.”

  Something exploded in my chest. Relief. It also brought back my curiosity about his Sunday excursions.

  “The day before the opening of the Southern Gentleman’s Tour.”

  “I’ll make it happen,” he murmured on another nod before opening the door and leaving.

  The place seemed much bigger this time. Music and a strong bass exploded from each corner of the enormous room. There was something strange—but in a manner of quality. It appeared there was no table left vacant from the front door all the way to the dance floor, near where Anthony stopped to gauge the energy of the place as our hands were laced and I followed his lead inside. The people on the dance floor were not wild in a sense of wall-banging. They moved sensually, maturely and yet very entranced.