The Boss

by Aya De León

  Serena and Kim directed her until they had a clear, albeit off-center, shot of the portrait.

  In the ski mask, Marisol couldn’t hear well enough to crack the safe, so she pulled it off and cracked it with the stethoscope, then put the mask back on and simply turned it to the combination.

  When the safe cracked open, she rummaged through the contents and removed a gun in a Ziploc bag. She pocketed the bag, closed the safe, and climbed back out the window.

  Jody closed the window behind her, then left the office, removing the linoleum chip and letting the door close securely.

  Serena caught the robbery on tape while showing the guards a video loop of a quiet, empty office.

  “So that’s it?” Serena asked, once Marisol was back in the van. “Marisol, should I talk you through taking out the hack of the video feed?”

  “Not yet,” Tyesha said. “We need to come back tomorrow night for the second video shoot.”

  “The second what?” Serena asked.

  “It’s a mash-up video,” Tyesha said. “We’re mixing the video of Marisol in the man-suit with an actual man.”

  “It might be better if you don’t know,” Marisol said.

  “Are you kidding me?” Serena said. “If you’re trying to mix two videos, I’m the only one on this team who has the skills to do a decent job of it. So what’s the plan?”

  “We come back,” Tyesha said. “And Heidi gets Ivan to be. . . basically Marisol’s stunt double.”

  “So it looks like he’s the one that robbed the uncle,” Serena said. “Oh, shit.”

  “Oh shit is right,” Marisol said.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Tyesha knocked on the house’s front door. When the guards opened it, they saw a nondescript woman in a chauffeur’s cap and loose-fitting uniform. She demanded to talk to Heidi Honeywell.

  Jody appeared at the foot of the stairs in a men’s shirt and yoga pants. “Claudette, stop calling and texting me. Tell Daddy I’m not coming home tonight,” she said.

  “I have orders to take you home, miss,” Tyesha said.

  “I don’t care what he says,” Jody said.

  Tyesha walked over and whispered something to Jody.

  “Fine!” she said sullenly.

  To the guards she said, “When Ivan wakes up, tell him I’ve been kidnapped by my own family.”

  * * *

  Jody returned to her apartment after the job. She and Kim lived in a cozy one-bedroom in the Village.

  The moment Jody unlocked the door, she kicked off the high heels, and stripped off the dress.

  “Honey, I’m home,” she said, flinging the slinky purple garment onto the couch and padding across the living room in sheer boy shorts and her bra.

  “I’m in the bedroom,” Kim said. “Everything went okay?”

  “Piece of cake,” Jody said. “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”

  She removed the fake pony tail, and washed her short hair, which had been gelled into place against her scalp. She lathered her entire body up three times with unscented soap, trying to get Ivan’s noxious cologne off her skin. Finally, she dried herself and opened the bedroom door.

  In the center of the bed, Kim wore a cheerleading uniform. She was posed in a half-split, with pompoms in the air.

  “Go Jody! Go Jody!” she cheered.

  Jody chuckled and blushed a little. “Oh goodie,” she said. “We’re playing the girl soccer star and the cheerleader.”

  “You did great out there tonight,” Kim said. “I thought you deserved some appreciation on the home field.” Kim did a series of high kicks revealing the fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  Jody grinned and walked slowly over to the bed, letting her towel drop. She lay down below Kim.

  “Gimme a J!” Kim said.

  “J,” Jody said.

  Kim planted her feet on either side of Jody’s head and spelled out her name, while shaking her hips from side to side.

  Jody grinned from beneath her. “I’m loving this halftime show,” she said.

  As Kim twisted and rocked, the pink of her labia winked at Jody from within the dark pubic hair.

  “What does it spell?” Kim asked. “Jody! Jody! Gooooo Jody!”

  Kim slid down so that she was lying on top of her girlfriend.

  “You’re the best,” Jody said, pulling Kim into a deep kiss.

  “Mmmm,” Kim said. “Lemme get this uniform off.” She began to pull off the shoulder strap.

  “No,” Jody said. “Leave it on.”

  She turned Kim over and lay on top of her, running her hands down the polyester fabric, onto the smooth flesh of her thighs. Slowly, she peeled down the top just enough to nuzzle Kim’s breasts, stroking the nipples until Kim began to moan.

  Then she trailed her finger up Kim’s inner thigh, moving ever more slowly as she got toward the top. She began to make tiny circles with her fingertips as she began to press her fingers between Kim’s legs. Her girlfriend was wet, eager.

  Jody slid two fingers inside Kim and slid her tongue down across her clitoris.

  Kim gasped and Jody pressed deeper, inserted a third finger, and licked harder.

  Kim threw her head back and pushed herself up onto her elbows. But then, unexpectedly, she pulled back, swiveled, and turned Jody over.

  Kim lay on top of her in a sixty-nine and buried her face between Jody’s legs.

  Jody moaned and grabbed two handfuls of the cheerleading skirt, pulling Kim up toward her, pressing her face into Kim’s labia, licking, sucking.

  Because Jody was taller, they couldn’t both lick at the same time, so they took turns. Kim slid her fingers under Joy’s ass and gripped her tighter, pressing her tongue inside, then licking back up across the clitoris.

  Jody slid two fingers inside Kim and stroked her clitoris with a thumb. “Are—are you close?” Jody gasped.

  “Not even,” Kim said, and began to lick mercilessly.

  “Wait, I—” Jody said, but Kim pressed four fingers inside her, thrusting in rhythm with her tongue.

  And then Jody began to howl with the pleasure of it, coming hard, gripping the cheerleading uniform so tightly, she tore one of the seams.

  Afterward, Jody began to laugh. “The cheerleading uniform gets me every time,” she said. “The old high school fantasy. . . that the girls could be cheering for our team, also. Not just those asshole football players.”

  “Go Jody, go!” Kim said.

  “Now lemme do you,” Jody said.

  “Wait til I get my pompoms,” Kim said. “So I can cheer you on.”

  Chapter 13

  Tyesha took the following day off work. She slept late and hung out with her nieces til evening. She arrived at Woof’s apartment around nine at night with a bag of Thai takeout and no underwear.

  “I hope you brought a bottle of champagne with that pad Thai, because we got something to celebrate,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Tyesha asked.

  “I just got offered a million-dollar deal to collaborate on a blockbuster movie sound track,” he said. “And best of all, they wanna record right here in New York City.”

  “That’s great,” she said, and kissed him.

  “And I’ll be collaborating with one of the greats of the industry,” he said.

  “Beyoncé?” Tyesha asked.

  “Not that great,” Woof said.

  “Black?” Tyesha asked.

  “Yep,” Woof said. “Older than Beyoncé.”

  Tyesha guessed several in succession: “Mary J. Blige? Alicia Keys? Jill Scott? Erykah Badu?”

  “A little older than them,” Woof said.

  “Chaka Khan? Sade? Are you recording with Sade?”

  “Nope,” he said. “And by the way, it’s a dude.”

  “Usher?” Tyesha asked.

  “Right era,” Woof said.

  “Ginuwine?” Tyesha asked.

  “Nope, but you’ve got the sexy factor going,” Woof said.

 
; “Maxwell?” Tyesha asked. “Oh my god, are you recording with Maxwell?”

  “I can’t believe you can’t get this one,” he said. “A sexy black male R and B singer from the nineties?”

  “I’m totally stumped,” Tyesha said. “Who the fuck could it be? I named everyone.”

  She looked up at him, expectant. “Tell me!” she said. “Did they resurrect Prince or something?”

  He laughed. “No, it’s Car Willis.”

  Her face didn’t fall as much as it pulled back in horror. Car Willis was short for Carter Williston, the aging R and B vocalist from Chicago, who had risen to fame with his sexy bad boy singing in the nineties, and then had risen to infamy for allegations of serial statutory rape of young teen girls. Yet somehow, his record label’s attorneys had always gotten him settlements and acquittals, even in the case of paparazzi photos of him having sex with a fourteen-year-old high schooler. There were also allegations that he had urinated on one girl.

  “It’s okay you didn’t guess it,” Thug Woofer said.

  “Didn’t guess it?” she said, nearly spitting each syllable. “You think I’m upset because I didn’t guess it?”

  “When I got the call, I was worried they were gonna send me to L.A. or Atlanta,” he said.

  “Or Chicago,” Tyesha said. “Where I grew up.”

  “No, those Chicago labels are a little small-time for me,” Woof said.

  “Where Car Willis is from,” Tyesha said. “Where he used to piss on teen girls.”

  Woof drew back. “I mean, I know about those photos, but didn’t that get sorted out?”

  “Sorted out?” Tyesha said, her voice at the edge of a yell. “How do you sort out being fucked and pissed on by a grown man and then the photos shared all over the fucking world?”

  “Yeah, it was fucked up,” he said. “I mean she was underage and everything, but—”

  “So if it was fucked up, why are you doing a project with him?” Tyesha demanded.

  “It’s business,” Woof said. “I’m not dating him. I’m not giving him a good Samaritan award. I’m not hiring him as a babysitter.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Tyesha said. “I’m a black girl from Chicago. I have friends whose lives he destroyed.”

  “Tyesha, what he did was fucked up, but that was a long time ago,” he said. “I mean, I’ve done some fucked-up things, too. Do you think I’m some kind of angel?”

  “Have you ever raped anyone?” she asked.

  “No,” Woof said. “Of course not. But I’ve promised girls things for sex. I’ve told them I loved them when I didn’t. I’ve definitely—you know—pressured a few women.”

  “I remember,” Tyesha said.

  “Don’t be like that,” Woof said. “I know it was fucked up. And I’ve changed. Most guys have done something foul.”

  “Were all the women adults?” Tyesha asked. “All the ones that you pressured or lied to? Adults as in over eighteen?”

  “Of course,” Woof said. “Tyesha, it’s work. How you gonna let my work come between us? I never let your work come between us, and you were . . .”

  “A ho?” Tyesha asked. “Were you gonna say I was a ho? Well, I’d rather be a ho than a rapist. A child rapist. That’s what that sick-ass nigga is. I can’t believe you’re doing an album with a goddamn child rapist.”

  “I saw those pictures,” Woof said. “She wasn’t a child. Maybe a teenager.”

  Tyesha grabbed the bag of Thai food and threw it against the wall.

  “What the fuck?” he asked, and advanced toward her.

  “Nigga, don’t you touch me,” she said.

  Something about the rage in her eyes stopped him. He looked from the splatter of Thai food back to her face.

  She continued in nearly a whisper, “When you figure out the hundred things that are wrong with everything you said in this conversation, don’t call me. Don’t ever fucking call me again. Ever.”

  She snatched up her bags and walked out.

  She arrived at her empty apartment, still furious, but a tendril of heartbreak had threaded out from beneath the rage. How could he? The tears had just begun to press behind her eyes, when Deza came running into the house.

  “Auntie Ty, have you seen my demo CDs?”

  Tyesha blinked. “I think I—do you need it right now?”

  “Yes!” Deza said, rummaging wildly through a pile of disks. “Joe’s waiting for me in the car.”

  “Joe? Who the fuck is Joe?”

  “The DJ for the open mic,” Deza said breathlessly. “Joe gave me a ride home and now he wants to hear my CD.”

  “Oh, hell no,” Tyesha said. “These motherfuckers offering young girls rides home, talking ’bout ‘I wanna listen to your demo CD’? That’s a bunch of bullshit. I’m ’bout to give this trifling-ass Joe a piece of my mind.”

  “No, Auntie—” But the rest of Deza’s words became an incomprehensible muddle, through the haze of Tyesha’s fury and memory.

  Eighth grade. She and her best friend Shanique had been at the McDonald’s after basketball practice one day. Shanique was nearly a head taller and the team’s star player. Tyesha mostly sat on the bench, but they were otherwise inseparable. After they ordered the food, they were surprised to find that their Happy Meals had been paid for by an older man they met.

  He asked for their numbers. Tyesha hadn’t given hers, but when she went to the bathroom, Shanique must have. They saw him again after practice a few days later, and he was much more familiar with Shanique. He had given her a stuffed teddy bear that said “I ♥ U.”

  The man turned out to be Car Willis. He had promised Shanique the love of the century. They’d eventually get married and move to Hollywood. But she needed to show him she was ready. That she wasn’t too scared or too young for this real, grown-up love. He set up the meeting and picked her up in a limo.

  But Tyesha wasn’t looking at a limo, she was standing beside a dented station wagon. The present moment returned. She could hear Deza’s voice behind her, indistinct and shrill, drowned out by the loud rap music that was blasting from Joe’s car. Through the open window, Tyesha could see a head of curly hair under a stingy-brim straw hat.

  “The fuck you think you’re tryna pull here?” Tyesha demanded. “This girl is nineteen and even though she’s from Chicago, she got family. And I will personally kick the ass of any motherfucker who—”

  She broke off as the curly head turned up and Tyesha saw the face of a young Latina woman with bright red lipstick and wide, surprised brown eyes, topped with false lashes.

  Tyesha blinked and faltered. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  Deza advanced on the pair of them, her mouth in a grimace.

  “Joe, this is my Auntie Tyesha, who I been telling you so much about,” she yelled over the music, arms folded across her chest.

  “Auntie Ty, this is Yolanda Gutierrez, the DJ at the open mic who’s been encouraging me,” Deza said, pronouncing the Yo of Yolanda with a hard Spanish Y like a J.

  Yolanda had her perfect eyebrows raised and her lips pursed in an is-this-broad-crazy? expression. She turned the volume down, and Tyesha stood in the relative quiet floundering for speech.

  Finally she found words. “Yolanda, I’m so sorry. I thought—you maybe—anyway, please forgive me. And thank you—for listening to Deza’s demo CD—in advance. I gotta go.”

  Inside the house, Tyesha sat on the couch. She stared into the middle distance, her eyes not seeing the cluttered room, the athletic clothes hanging off the back of the living room chair, the tracks of fake hair spilling out of a plastic bag onto the coffee table.

  * * *

  Tyesha remembered that day in Chicago. She had just started getting her hair permed. She was thirteen, and instead of the hot comb on Sundays and braids all week, she had a real perm and could press it herself with just a curling iron. Still her mama did it special for church on Sundays. Her first Sunday with her permed and pressed-by-mama hair—hanging almost to h
er shoulders—made her feel special. Almost a woman.

  In another first, Tyesha had gotten her first winter coat that wasn’t one of her sister Jenisse’s castoffs. For the first time, she got to choose. Her mother let her get a red parka with a big hood. Shanique teased Tyesha, calling her “Li’l Red” from Little Red Riding Hood. They had a secret code where a cute guy was a “woodcutter” and a creepy guy was a “wolf.”

  None of the girls in their church were allowed to have boyfriends, but some of them managed it. Some snuck and met boys, but they didn’t have aunties like Tyesha’s Aunt Lu. She seemed to be everywhere and knowing everyone and everybody owed her a favor. Most of them would be glad to report back to her aunt if they ever caught a favorite niece squeezed up in a corner with some boy.

  So Tyesha had to settle for living vicariously through friends. Today in church, her eyes kept darting toward the door, where she was expecting her friend Shanique to come in any minute, glowing from a clandestine date she’d had after school on Friday. Shanique had told her mother she had a special basketball practice, but Tyesha knew better. She imagined Shanique’s face, both dimples flashing into view, as the girl tried to suppress a grin that the Lord would not approve of, ready to spill stories of first kisses and the way it felt to have a boy’s hands on you.

  Friday at school, Shanique had been squirming with excitement, barely able to contain herself in fifth period pre-algebra. “Chopping wood after school!” was how she described him in the note she passed to Tyesha. She had been talking to him on the phone every night for a few weeks. He would call after her mother had left for work and Shanique was home with her grandmother. It seemed that there was more than one secret to Shanique’s date. Tyesha couldn’t wait to find out.

  At first, when Shanique came in, Tyesha thought she was a better actress than expected. No dimple. No suppressed smile. She kept her eyes downcast. But it was when the choir sang that Tyesha knew something was really wrong. Her friend moved her mouth in a lackluster pantomime of the words. No sound came out. When it was time for her solo, another girl stepped up to the mic.

  Tyesha figured Shanique must have been caught. Or worse yet, her mother had found out and prevented the date. But no secrets were spilled that day. Shanique just sat beside her through the service, a deflated version of herself, and walked out with her mother immediately after church ended.