An oldie came on, The Jackson 5’s “Lookin’ Through the Windows.” Gabrielle smiled at Psalms.
Tylowe, Suzie Q, and Psalms finished their meals while debating about and finally agreeing on how to find and rescue the kids. Tylowe explained he could not let his stepdaughter have siblings living unprotected in a harsh world. He had saved Mia from Elliot, her biological father’s evil, and he had to do the same for her brother and sister.
Tylowe said his goodbyes and started to leave, but stopped by Gabrielle’s table and they spoke briefly. Psalms and Suzie Q put plans together for the security of the Paramount Theater’s private concert video shoot. They also covered how to protect Tylowe. The family man was not a warrior like them. The job ahead: to protect Tylowe the best they could from what could be a high dose of potent ugliness—the bloodshed brought on by the forces of good and evil.
CHAPTER 7
Happy Hour
Evita waited impatiently to make a left turn. The after-work traffic made her turn up the volume of her music with the hopes of it having a calming effect. She wanted to be inside Friday’s happy hour at Jay’s Lounge, a live and jumping place for good drinks and to mix cologne and perfume with the so-called known, hip folks. It was her every Friday, after-work pit stop.
She revved her engine as if that would signal to the oncoming traffic to let her through—no such luck. “Sweeeeeeeeeet, sweet sticky thing,” the Ohio Players sang crystal glass-breaking, high-pitched harmonies through the car stereo. Evita bopped her head as traffic kept her stuck in the turn lane. Sitting behind the wheel of a nice car like the Audi R8, a rare expensive sports car, the common people—normally with less—will act as if they don’t see you. When you’re unusually noticeable and possibly made so by high income, some will admire what you have, but most simply want out of the Northwest gridlock. A rare vehicle can be despised by the have-nots without any consideration given to how one might have achieved his or her gains. Cars may have full gas tanks, but the people were most likely running on empty, in need of a coffee refill.
If anyone knew the life and times of Evita Quinn Rivers, they would run and jump in the cold water off a Seattle pier, as if trying to wake from a bad dream. Finally, a break in traffic allowed Evita to wheel her two-toned black and red car into the parking lot and stop at the valet. She revved the motor, loving the manly feeling of power it gave her.
The car was a gift from Psalms. She lived in his house. She had made her own money, but even that came with Psalms’ help. Evita arose from the cold, cold world of a hard life some ten years ago, and Psalms always took care of her. Since their days as teenagers he had protected or saved her.
Evita wanted to give instead of taking, and chose to work with kids. While she lived the fast life on the streets, she encountered many troubled youth. They lived troubled lives after they had become emancipated from their parents or guardians and struggled. Evita wanted to help that segment of society.
With Psalms’ money and her direction, they started a foundation: True Essence Humanity, helping kids get on the right path and stay the course of independence. Gabrielle Brandywine was the foundation’s spokesperson. The two women each had troubles of their own—a good man they shared, but in different ways, and a good cause. They didn’t deal with each other, but each knew of the other.
With a high-profile person, such as the former Secretary of State, at the forefront, the foundation brought in major sponsorships. Even nationally known coffee and software corporations joined in. Many of the children who transition through the program lived alternative lifestyles and dealt with sexuality issues as they tried to figure out how they fit into society.
The valet, a masculine-looking girl, sported short-spiked, dark-burgundy hair and wore a parking valet tux. The valet’s back was turned to the entering cars, as she texted and stuffed her face with a huge hamburger. She had a fast-food bag around the burger, but sloppily bent forward to avoid the extras in the burger from falling on the uniform. Evita revved the motor and got the attention of a former, almost graduate of her program. The girl ran over and opened Evita’s door while licking her greasy fingers. Evita immediately thought a car detail would be needed soon.
“Ms. Evita, I could put your car under the cover in the parking garage. If not, I have a spot right over there in the first outdoor slot; you won’t have to wait when you come out.”
“Thank you, Phoenix, and as always, please put my car under the cover. Keep it under a hundred if you take it out.” They laughed and came close to hugging, but shook hands instead. She remembered Phoenix could be inappropriate and Evita didn’t play. Phoenix, a naturalized citizen from Canada, had been a runaway at an early age and became prey to pimps and drugs. At first, Phoenix thrived in the program, but it became a revolving door of problems. Other kids became targets for Phoenix’s sexual conquests and preying on the weak-minded, until Evita evicted Phoenix from the program. It took a few short prison stays, but Phoenix finally broke free from the streets, and Evita helped out by finding her this job.
With each step leading to the entrance, Evita felt her behind moving under her tight skirt. It couldn’t be helped. Her large behind and swayback put on a show under her clothes. Evita wished she could wear heels and expose her shapely calves, but scars distracted from the toned features. If she wore heels, she’d wear pantsuits. The only time her legs were bare was in the house, or when she and Psalms visited a foreign land. All her clothes looked classy and sexy, but were also designed to hide cuts, burns, and scars. She had pretty, perfect feet with no scars, but could only expose them when she wore pants.
A few times in public, she wore sheer dark stockings with a thick line up the back. The tattoo work on her legs had colors to distract away from the scars. All her life, someone else had dictated her clothing, her sexuality, and her impression of her own beauty. Evita had bits and pieces of her ideas of outward beauty ripped off her mental bones.
Young Evita dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl to the point that even Catholic nuns would have forced her to release a little sex appeal. Growing up, her abusive father made her dress extremely conservative. Even on Saturdays, she dressed as if she were a nurse in a 1950s mental asylum.
She owned three skirts: tan, blue, and plaid. Nowadays, it was rare if she wore blues or tans, and for her, plaid had the same effect as someone swallowing sour milk. The sad child had three blouses: white with a frilly collar, white with short sleeves, and white with ruffles. Even old ladies shook their heads in disapproval at a teenage girl wearing patent-leather shoes. She always wore black or white patent-leather shoes, or brown or blue oxfords that were two-toned with white uppers and looked to be polished with dull nurse’s shoe polish. She had one Sunday dress and she wore it every Sunday.
Evita’s mother was a timid little lady with African-American and Native-American blood, and hair so long she could sit on it. Most thought she was Filipino. Her father, a black man, was a dock worker who drank and stayed high on painkillers. When he couldn’t get enough painkillers for an old work injury, he would become like a hungry wolf—crazed—and he would whoop his wife with switches from a tree that he forced Evita to go pull off. Evita would offer herself as a sacrifice to protect her mother, but that sometimes resulted in mother and daughter both receiving a whooping and other abuse. As with all the families living on 38th Avenue South, life seemed subdued and uneventful, but, behind many closed doors, monsters lived.
Evita’s homely clothes caused her to be bullied, and she became cautiously shy, and awkward. Ugly-souled children, and some adults, verbally tortured Evita with many unpleasant incidents. Psalms beat down males who mocked her, and gave thug girls sinister stares that said, “I dare you to bother Evita.”
From birth, life for Evita was different levels of hell. Hell One was her bipolar daddy who dictated her life with hellish deeds which led to Hell Two, Daddy pushing Evita too close to the ledge, ’til someone pushed Daddy over for good. Hell Three was the drunken rage of another evil man
who left her with physical and mental scars—mutilations that ended with Psalms Black sending the evil man to hell. These hells, the ones she lived, and the ones men died because of her, haunted her soul. Another part of her soul seemed to sleep well, knowing she had power to create demise.
Evita walked through the glass doors into an instant social scene. Glasses clinked, and laughter rose to the mirrored ceiling. TVs replayed old Supersonics game highlights in honor of the NBA team that would hopefully come back to Seattle. Suits and skirts played themselves sexy and the “Hey what’s up, girl?” game was in effect. It was the weekend, and folks were here for the potential hook-up.
Ex-pros fronted like they were still relevant with a few current bench-sitting players. Skirts batted their eyes and pursed their lips at men built to destroy other men in games. Everyone else came to have a good time after work, and to watch the expensive sleaze and tease. Hip folks!
Evita checked her coat and walked past the bar. She recognized a few faces in the crowd, some welcomed and a few best to ignore. She spotted her coworker at a bay window booth overlooking the Lake Union moored yachts. Time to unwind, have some laughs, and sip on a Chocolate Cream martini: 1 oz. Vodka or Vanilla Vodka, 1 oz. Chocolate Liqueur and 1 oz. Irish Cream.
As she got to the table, a man patted her ass. Her streetwise peripheral vision triggered action. Evita didn’t turn around. Instead, she lifted her boot high off the ground and angled backward and downward. The thin heel ripped down the leg of the man, and in quick succession Evita grabbed a table napkin, then turned and stuffed it in the man’s wide open mouth. Before a wounded dog sound left him, she beat back his howl by almost choking him with the table napkin. Almost in that same move, Evita slipped her hand behind the man and acted as if she were hugging him to fool those who might have looked up, but it was actually the point of her nails he felt, like a knife about to push through his skin. The man had double trouble. Evita was getting high on the torture she was putting on him.
The man and Evita had exchanged long glances when she walked in, but apparently in his head he thought he had hooked her. The sound that squeaked through his stuffed mouth sounded like a weak seal wanting fish to eat. Evita released her fake hug and the man turned quickly, and headed outside to hide his embarrassment. Evita’s co-worker wasn’t sure what had happened, yet knew well enough that Evita was dangerous if provoked. Living the street life and growing up in foulness, you learn to live and survive by being ugly when needed. The problem is, sometimes you go over the thin line.
“Let’s drink. Whoever he was, he had to leave and look for another party. Some people shouldn’t drink and be around others.” Evita sounded calm, but she wasn’t. Her coworker, Jamie Bubble Booty, walked her out to the patio. Despite a few others being out there, Jamie fired a joint up, and Evita took a long, burning drag. She held her mouth open in a circle as she ran her tongue around her lips while holding the smoke in her lungs. She exhaled after the charge of bud altered her cerebral stream; she pursed her lips and whistled the smoke out. Shortly thereafter her drink came to the table. She relaxed for real then, and told Jamie what happened.
“You’re so hard and sweet, like rock candy,” Jamie teased. “I always have to deal with men putting their hands on my butt. It protrudes into two rooms when I come through the door, so men see my ass as a playground for their ignorant shit. They think I’m okay with them putting their hands on it. I wish I was a bad-ass, but I’m not, so I give them the best ‘That’s fucked-up’ stare I can give.”
“Bubble, I wish I was more ladylike, but after living that hard life, being a lady is something I always have to work at. It’s not my first nature, or maybe even my second. My mom was so docile that I despised her dainty, gracious ways. I somewhat regret that now, but then again I don’t. My father beat her like a heavy bag, and he slapped me around like a speed bag. It’s one of the reasons I have PB teach basic self-defense to every child who has ever come through the program.”
“I suppose he taught you to defend yourself?”
“Yes, he did, but trust me, I learned a lot on my own. But if I get high or drunk with the wrong person, it might not make a difference. I could have beaten the shit out of the man who cut me up, if only I had thought better of myself.”
Jamie smiled, and reached for Evita’s hand, observing her unflawed, long fingers. Evita’s hands were the rare place on her body that had no tattoos covering scars. Her nails were painted a frosted neutral with black, knife-like, pointed French tips.
“Evita Rivers,” Jamie took a deep breath, “I’ve been in love, but it always ends up hurting in the end…so far. I wish…I dream, of having what you have with PB. He gives you your freedom to do as you please. That makes me want to join a church just to shout, ‘Hallelujah.’ He supports your causes, and you actually never have or have had sex. You have sex with whomever you choose, and he never raises his hand to you…Hallelujah! It makes me want to plot your death so I can see if he’ll like me a tenth of how he loves you. There is only one man I have ever loved…still love. We love defiantly against what others wanted for us. But…but, time and space got in the way, and we let a few people add distractions,” Jamie’s voice trailed off.
“Until your last breath you have time. And Bubble Butt, please don’t kill me anytime soon, I have some shopping to do first, okay? Let’s talk about something good.”
“Evita, you don’t shop all that much, but I’ll let you live. You’re my friend, and if I need to see any woman happy and live through her, it might as well be you.”
The conversation switched to topics easier on the soul for a while, until a news report flashed on the TV. The police in Seattle had killed an innocent Native American man. The man had carved small totem poles with a pocket knife, and the police had shot him for not putting it away fast enough. The man was hard of hearing. It had happened some time ago, but Jamie had Native American blood running through her, and it ran with boiling, busting heat seeing the news. She went outside and smoked another joint.
At the corner of the bar, a man sat staring at Evita. She didn’t know him, but maybe their lives had crossed. She gave him a nickname, Pretty Boy, and chuckled. He saw her laughing alone and looking back at him. She was thinking of leaving when Jamie came back, but knew Pretty Boy would approach her table, and he did.
Pretty Boy, a man most women would call fine, stood at her table and they role played. Evita savored the last of her drink with her face pointed downward, but her pupils lifted high and scanned. She smiled at him, but only because she knew she wouldn’t be stomping her boot on this man. Well, maybe—possibly. She let her mind go into freak zone. Pretty Boy, a man manicured five times more than Prince, was deep in to his metrosexual appearance. He slipped his body into the seat across from Evita.
“So, Pretty Boy, did you pay to sit across from me?” Evita made sure she beat him to the punch and spoke before he had a chance to roll out some bullshit. “You must buy every woman in the bar a drink first in order to sit across from me. That’s an order.”
Pretty Boy, a white man with a slight olive skin tone, had a hairline from front to back that was perfectly trimmed. His facial hair was impeccably groomed, even his brows. His nails shined, polished like the diamonds in his ears and on his pinky finger rings. Pretty Boy’s suit was tailored, a slim Brioni, as worn by James Bond in the 007 movies, and for sure not off the rack. He held up his arm and rotated his fist in the air several times—signaling.
The server made her way over quickly. “Are you buying a round for a select group, sir?”
“No! A drink for everyone in the bar and restaurant.” His accent was not from any region in America that Evita recognized.
“Ah sir, we’ll, ah, have to run your card in advance, if that is okay with you?”
With two fingers from his inside breast pocket, he pulled out his phone, swiped his finger to unlock it and scrolled and pressed a few times. He handed his phone to the server. “Run your scanner across the barcode sho
wing on the screen and it will transfer all you’ll need.”
The server’s eyes widened and left with Pretty Boy’s phone. Evita pressed her lips flat, as flat as she could press her thick lips. She did that instead of shake her head at the man’s game. Men with money did nothing for her. She had slept with rich men and done all the nasty, freaky, and weird things that money could buy.
“Not impressed,” she said to him. What did impress her, were the good looks of a pretty man. The only reason she had not kicked his butt was he was pretty. The toeing of the line of femininity in a man Evita liked, because in her own senses, she wasn’t feminine.
Her attraction to Psalms had nothing to do with his manly body, capable of destruction. Psalms was pure visual machismo, and many women looked upon his powerful, sexual body and it overwhelmed their senses. Evita’s attraction to Psalms was wholly internal to the soul of the man he was. Psalms and the word handsome could be found in her dictionary, but a pretty man—she could eat and drink. In her world, pretty men often were submissive in and out of bed so that she could make them do anything she wanted for her own freaky nature.
The server returned Pretty Boy’s phone. “Sir, do you want our patrons to know who bought their drink?”
“No!” He put the phone back in his inside breast pocket and came out with two one hundred-dollar bills. “That is for you and the barkeeps.”
Evita tried hard to make out the geographical location of his accent, but she was not going to ask and tip him off to her interest in him, yet. He even thought she might have recognized his voice and face from her past, but she gave up thinking about it. The man was gorgeously fine and that was all that mattered. Jamie went by the table and nodded—nothing needed to be said.
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