"You okay?" Shanna asked Vivian.
She could only nod, her heart had just now moved from her throat back to her chest.
"You two, done picked, two of the most crazy ass, white men on the face of this goddamn earth! That ain't no lie! You got all kinds of white men out there, got your white man lawyers, got your white men doctors, got them white men, that all they say is—yes dear—anything you say dear—got your white nerd men, all them white men out there—you two gone get these two! With they crazy ass!" Sheila announced, in case Vivian and Sylvia didn't know.
"Excuse me—my brothers are not crazy!" Shanna defended them.
"Sweetie pie, I ain't got nothin' against you, nothin' personal against them—but they ass is ca-ray-zy!" Sheila reaffirmed.
Vivian didn't want to hear it. She finally took a chance and looked up at Jake. He was peering right at her. Even though he was looking at her, he said something to Dennis, she wondered what.
"Man—what the hell am I doing with her? I'm too old for this shit." Jake muttered.
"Man, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but fact is, when you got a woman that look like that, ain't but two options." Dennis began.
Jake turned to him, "What?"
"Let her go, turn her loose—or—put a baby on each hip, and one on the floor, pulling on her skirt, crying, "Mama, mama, mama..." That's gone knock 75% out the game, right there. 75% won't even give her the time a day then, not with a baby on each hip and one on the flo. Those are your options."
Shawn had to wipe his chin from laughing and spitting his beer out on himself. He wiped it from his shirt, with Dennis going further, "Better take a leaf out your brother's book, see Sylvia's ass knocked up, don'tcha?! That's the only sure-fire way to stake your claim...babies. Big ass belly out front—don't matter how nice her ass look from behind, the minute she turn sideways and they see that baby belly—they ass get struck blind! Ain't that right, Shawn?!"
"Do you need to see me in any more trouble tonight, Dennis? I'm not sayinganything - I'm staying out of it."
Jake smiled, but he was in no mood to laugh. He'd stayed close to his brother and Dennis to calm down. As he stood there staring at her, he had absolutely no clue what to do. Dennis words, "Let her go—turn her loose..." Easier said than done. If he could turn her loose, he would have done so a while ago. He turned to look at Mundo, back behind his mixing table. He walked over to him, looked into his face and smiled. "I appreciate what you did." He said for his ears only.
"Right is right, wrong is wrong. I'm sorry about what happened."
"You're not responsible for what other people do."
"I know, but still—I invited him here. And, uh, by the way—before I forget—a letter came for you, weeks ago. Across the street. It's been moved around all over the place. I found it again, within all the stuff we moved over here."
"A letter for me? From who?"
"Vivian—it says, Vivian Cooke on it, with a Chicago address. I been meaning to give it to you for the longest. But every time I remember, you wouldn't be around. Then it got buried, and I found it again today. It's in Shawn's office now, to make sure it wouldn't get buried again."
Jake grasped his shoulder, gave it a squeeze and then a pat on the back. "You know what, you're a good son—you really are. You make your mother proud, and Shawn as well."
Mundo smiled, looking towards Shawn, he was watching them. He'd heard, smiled and winked at him. Proof positive that he agreed.
Turning away from them, Jake looked back at Vivian. She was watching him with wide unsure eyes. With a sigh, he winked at her and smiled. "What the hell." He walked up to her, as she stood amidst the others, by then, Crystal and her friends were standing with them. Stopping before her, he looked at the general crowd of them, "If you'll excuse us, ladies." He put his hand around her tiny waist, pulled her to his side and guided her away from them.
Quiet, Vivian let the thrill of him grabbing her like that course through her body. They were both quiet as they headed for Shanna's; suddenly he asked, "You still wantin' them babies?"
"Huh?!" She asked, stunned.
He grinned down at her, "You heard me. You still wantin' a couple of babies?"
Vivian grinned now as well, leaning away from him she informed him, "Not right this minute. Down the road after things are in place—"
"Hell with that, I'm 39 years old! I'll be 40 in November, do you know that?"
"So, I've heard." She put her arm around his back, hand on his waist, giving it a gentle, affectionate squeeze.
"So, you've heard. Well, then, I figure this way, they need to be born soon, if I'm gonna be young enough to deal with them. Daughters looking like you—"
"Daughters? Did you say daughters?"
"Daughters! Don't want no more sons! Boys are a pain in the ass. I want girls—girls have always loved me." He bragged.
Vivian started laughing, "You crazy, Jake, I want at least one boy."
"Nope, no boys—girls only. I've got plans, you see—for girls. Want at least two—maybe three."
"Girls?" She asked again, unable to believe it.
"Yep, only problem, when boys come around. That's why we have to start now, wait too long, I won't be able to chase the little fuckers and break their necks."
Vivian laughed as they walked, at Shanna's porch, "You can't catch me, now! How you gone catch them, then?!"
Remembering all too well, Jake had to laugh as well, "That's true. Ah—now I understand...that's what the shotguns are for. Because they sure as hell can't outrun the blast of a 12-gauge."
"Oh, no you not gone be like that!" Vivian stopped to put her hands on her hips.
"Bullshit! My daughters!? Looking like you? You better believe it." He sat on the steps, and pulled her down between his legs. Leaning over her, he wrapped his arms around her, his face in her neck, his whiskers scratching her soft skin. Vivian squealed. "Ja-a-ake!" Giggling and scrunching up, he tickled her, holding her in place while she laughed and tried to escape him. "Please, please, please...no!" She cried out. "Your whiskers hurt, Jake." She whined. He stopped tickling her, and held her there. He grew quiet, but his hold tightened. Vivian could feel the change in him.
"You ever—get scared—of anything?" He asked her.
"Of course I do. Of lots of things. You ever get scared?"
"All the time ... I'm scared now. Scared of you. Scared of what it will mean, being in love with you. Scared of what's to come. Scared that I might not be able to make you happy. Scared that you'll wake up one day and look at me, and think—what the hell I ever see in this loser."
Vivian turned in his arms to look up into his eyes. "Are you serious?"
"Yes. Very. I can't..." He stopped and ran his hand through his hair, feeling a bit frustrated.
"Go on."
"I better not. I don't wanna argue with you. I don't wanna fight."
"Finish what you were about to say, Jake." She prodded him on.
"Vivian..." He stopped again, staring at her. "...I'm not cut out to live in the city. I can't do it. I don't know what I'm gonna do. But—here it is; you have bills in Chicago, correct?"
"Yes."
"I have bills here. That truck, I owe Shawn for. And other bills as well. I'm willing to accept, that either I have to find a way to get higher pay, or—find a job with higher pay. But it has to be here. I cannot do Chicago. It's okay for visits. For the occasional weekend. But—I cannot live there - I won't."
She stared at him, and took a deep breath. She didn't know what to say. She was thinking, looking down between her legs. His index finger bent beneath her chin lifting it up to look into her eyes. He was about to say something more, but looking at her, with the light from the porch shining down on her face, to see it so closely, took his breath away. "Jesus Christ, look at you. Look-at-you - never seen any woman, so beautiful in all my life - I swear t'god." He leaned down and their lips met. Hers soft, willing and pliant. His strong, firm, hot and sure. She felt his hand come behind her h
ead, pressing her mouth to his, tighter, closer, so he opened it fully and inserted his tongue. His hand left the back of her head, went down her back, onto her waist from the back, as his other hand took hold of her pulling her up against him. Vivian wrapped her arms around his shoulders, one hand in his hair, the other squeezing him against her, smashing her breasts between them. The kiss was long, gripping, passionate and heated. They were breathing hard and fast, neither wanting to break it. Jake wanted her. He wanted to lay her down, untie the strings to that dress, and slid it from her body. His hand cupped her rear, bringing her even higher up the step and onto his lap. The size of his hand, made it possible for him to almost completely cover one entire cheek of her butt. His hand rubbed and squeezed, thrilled by its firmness. "Can I...take you home...tomorrow?" He panted, short of breath, then attacked her mouth again. She broke away to say, "Yes! Please...take...me home...tomorrow." Then back to the kiss again.
Back at the barbecue, slow music played, Mundo spun a special song for Sylvia and Shawn, they were dancing.
Sasha was going around asking where her mom and dad were. She and Angela finally made up. As it happened, she ended up liking Thomasa and the three girls were getting along just fine. Sasha was looking for her parents because she needed to know if it was alright to go with Crystal and Angela, Crystal was taking Thomasa and Vincent home. She couldn't find them anywhere and was on the verge of a temper tantrum, Crystal was about to go.
The reason she couldn't find them was that Derrick made up his mind to surprise his wife again. While no one noticed, he grabbed her hand and pulled her off across the road. Into Shawn's almost empty house, into the bathroom there, to lock the door and...
"Oh, my god! Derrick, what are you doing to me! Dios mio! Dios mio—aiy, aiy, aiy—ssssss—" She panted, holding on to the sink as he thrust into her from behind.
"Am I hurting you?" He asked, breathing hard - he had her bent over the vanity, penetrating her moist heat with controlled thrusts, withdrawing with the same agonizing pace, so she could feel every inch of him against her tunnel walls, it was making her insane, throbbing around his thick trunk until the entire length of it disappeared within her, "Oh..."
"Hurting?" He panted, refusing to rush it.
"Just...a - oh - my god, you're so big, oh..."
"I don't wanna hurt you..."
"just a bit oh - Oh but - it - oh Derrick —Derrick it feels so good, oh papi what are doing to me - what are you doing to me..." she gasped.
He reached down in front of her, rubbing her wet and tender nubbin, working his hips a bit slower, feeding her so much length and then withdrawing. The sensation of it was incredible for him. His lust was upped by the daring boldness of the act. They could get caught, both knew anyone could come there to use the bathroom, and didn't care - he was screwing his wife from the rear in his brother's bathroom; every stolen moment felt amazing, something about it made him crazy with eroticism. It felt wicked, sinful - wonderful. He remembered the key to the magic. That was, nice and slow—easy— does it; letting her feel, every thick, throbbing inch of him while he rubbed and caressed her creamy mound. He pushed slow and decided to rotate his hips a bit and gently stimulated her swollen clit, stroking with just enough pressure to drive her into madness. She was so wet, his fingers were drenched, gliding over her throbbing folds. He pushed as far as he could, panting, she took him in, letting him go all the way.
"FUCK! Derrick! FUCK - oh, my god! Derrick!" Her head shook from from the shock to her lower body.
He smiled, and slowly pulled himself back so far. He could feel himself so close to the edge, right on the precipice. He needed to distract himself. She was feeling too good, her tunnel tightening, flexing around him, squeezing and sucking at him as if to get him to erupt. If he didn't think of something else, he was going to cum. He thought about all the violence, the fighting, yelling, the craziness...it wasn't working, he felt himself grow that much harder. Something or someone was blessing him, because his wife was making that panting, on the verge noise. If he could just hold on, for just another moment, just long enough for her to reach that edge, and then, he could push her off, send her on a screaming fall into climax oblivion, maybe...just maybe, they could come together. He pushed forward and added more pressure to her clit...
"DERRICK! DERRICK!! DERRI-I-I-ICK!!! PAPI - OHHHH, OHHH, OHHH!"
"YES! Ohhh, yes!" He groaned out. They were being catapulted to the stars together. Both shivering, shaking—tremors racking their bodies simultaneously, as his poured his essence within her. Derrick's head shook, it felt so good. They were noisy, locked into an orgasm that held they both, refusing to let either go and then, finally—he fell forward on his wife's back. They were breathing hard. He pushed himself up and laughed because his legs were shaking, then stepped back, withdrawing his length.
As if she'd been put through the washing machine spin cycle, Meribel turned around, her body quaking on unsteady feet, her legs felt like jelly, her sex was throbbing from the pounding he'd given it, the room spun before her as she tried to focus on her husband. He had the sexiest grin ever on his face, flexing his brows, he asked. "How ya'like me now?!"
She exploded with laughter, speaking in rapid Spanish about the state of her nether region.
Derrick was all smiles ordering her, "Step aside, gotta wash up and get ready for the next episode..." Warning, "Who knows when, or where that's gonna be."
Meribel whimpered.
Chapter 177
Los Angeles
"...I walked into a church—I passed along the way—I got down on my knees—and I pretend to pray..." The Mamas & the Papas California Dreamin', blared from the radio someone had brought along and stood by on the dam of the Lake Hollywood Reservoir; from powerful speakers, the song filled the air. Also wafting about in the air, just about everywhere you went, were the smells of Memorial Day barbecuing. The sun was riding low in the western L. A. sky. To the millions of residents within, everyone saw Memorial Day differently. Until 9/11—few young people actually gave the day a thought, except for being off work and a time to meet at the parks, throwing big barbecues with family and friends. Despite that, parades were the norm and side viewers filled the street to capacity. Veterans from World War I and World War II still showed up, military-clad, medals and badges in place upon their chest. Some mourning the wars of the past, other's mourning the war of this day—so it was heralded, brought about by 9/11—the young now understood the ravages of war, so it seemed, that few generations would escape it entirely.
Oscar T. stood on the dam facing east, wondering why the idiot with the radio didn't know that walkmen, CD players and the increasingly popular mp3 players, were the accepted tool of choice for on-the-road music entertainment. He'd been out jogging, and pulled over to the side to view the lake from one of the best Los Angeles advantages. While surrounded by landscapes of nature, blended with man's touch, which was indeed breathtaking, nature and its glory was the last thing on his mind. Standing where he was should have given him a modicum of peace, a moment's pleasure. Yet, none was there to be found for him. Everything, absolutely everything—all of his expensive and careful planning had gone totally off the rails; every avenue he thought, covered.
Standing as he was, he suddenly erupted with laughter, which was quickly wiped from his face when the laughter of a female blended with his own. He looked around with his heart pounding. It was a young woman jogging along with her lover or friend. He turned back and relaxed. For a startling moment, it had sounded like—her—laughter. He gulped. He didn't believe in ghosts. He didn't believe in the dead living on beyond the grave. He didn't believe in restless souls hovering about with living humans, waiting for their moment to right the injustices done them. He didn't believe in them. She was dead. Dead and gone. Years gone. The night sweats and panic attacks that brought him from his disturbed slumbers were just the result of his fears. Paranoia. Oscar T. wiped his hand over his face—he was sweating.
He didn't believe in
ghosts! And they sure as hell couldn't come back to haunt you.
"Bea—damn you to hell!" Oscar T. muttered to no one in particular. Then the laugh happened again, her laugh. He turned around to see the jogger, yet no woman was there in sight. He wiped his hand over his face again, and looked back over the dam. His heart was beating like mad in his chest. He didn't understand it. Why now?! Why all of a sudden now, was she coming to mind. Haunting him, as it were. He knew why—damn them—damn them both! It had taken him years to rid his mind of her, of his deed.
He was brooding.
Contrary to that, he had to laugh again, laugh at the irony. Who would have ever thought—the very one—he tried so hard to ignore—hide—deny—his bastard son—would be the very one, to destroy his plans. The one—who would, out of the blue—save Deidre's life.
He didn't care how ludicrous his thinking...he knew—while standing with eyes shifting to and fro—nostrils flaring, heart pounding, hidden deep in his mind, the coming out at night, all of a sudden now to haunt him, and now—this day, in broad daylight, this Memorial Day weekend, she was coming out—to get him.
He felt a soft flutter like caress against his neck. Panicking, he swiped at it, turning to look behind him. It had only been a fly landing there. Again, throaty, deep laughter. Gulping, Oscar T. turned and started jogging again. He needed to stop this. He was losing his cool. He needed to get a grip. He was exhibiting the insane behavior that he was slowly building a case, to prove that Georgiana was. Jogging, Oscar T. shook it off. He would not think about her another moment. Not one more moment would he give over to letting Bea Rose Franklin—haunt his mind. Yet even as he made the bold declaration, his mind, had a will of its own. Without willing her forward, Bea Rose Franklin's young, beautiful face appeared strong and true inside of his mind. It was like someone had opened a well-locked door, creaking sounds and all—as if the opening of Dracula's coffin—to a place—a time—a woman—he worked hard and long, to forget.
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