The Rhyme of Love (Love in Rhythm & Blues Book 2)

by Love Belvin

  Like a damn fool, I watched the car until its brake lights disappeared from my view and didn’t stop a moment sooner. Not even his sea of men dripping down my throbbing thighs could get me to leave that spot until I knew he was gone.

  Again.

  ~5~

  The morning after my return from the Drai’s party, I strolled into the closet to dump my duffle bag and was unusually struck by her scent. It stopped me in my tracks, one foot firmly on the ground and only the other heel planted in the carpet. My face held empty, but my eyes brightened in curiosity and pleasant memory. God knew I didn’t live with many of them. I was crazy. Had to be. I knew I was and didn’t care as I followed my senses to the other side of the closet. The one she occupied. Her clothes were all still there, though not as many as mine.

  The tips of my fingers brushed against the fabrics of her scented clothing, my touch as delicate as our relationship. Our marriage. Between the touch and scent of her, flashes of good days and bad shot like lightning in my brain. The sounds of her breathy laughter. The image of her eyes squeezing together as she laughed at her funny jokes—because mine were never half as humorous as hers. And the glint of sexual mischievousness in her eyes when she was ready to get it in. Her girls were right: Wynter was a freak.

  As my nose grazed the green, flowery sheer beach dress Jashon copped her for in Saint Justin, I could swear to tasting her pussy. It was a stark memory because when I saw her in the low plunged neckline dress, that was all I could think of, but didn’t act on at the time, paralyzed with fear. That was until I couldn’t take it anymore and finally did it that night, after singing for her at the restaurant.

  “Uh!”

  The sound of her crying in ecstasy had me dropping to my knees with my eyes squeezed shut. Her body was tighter. She’d been working out. Still. But she was smaller. Wynter was the type who wore her weight well. I still couldn’t believe she was damn near two-hundred pounds when I met her. She looked damn good. Even with a belly. Her face was thinner, deepening my detachment from her. She was turning into a new person.

  The old her was perfect…

  This shit hurt. Like nothing before it. How was I going to do this? Where was my plan to get her back? Would she want to come back? How could I move on? From her. I rolled over to sit on the floor, stretching my legs out and leaning on a divider. My arms stretched back as my head reclined on the divider. But my right hand hit a box. My neck snapped down to peep it. When I pulled it from beneath the hanging dresses, I saw it was an electric blue box that seemed too big for shoes.

  On it was her handwriting. A bitch’s shit! was scribbled in silver, some kind of marker.

  An unexpected chuckle hurled from my stomach, but my heart thundered in my chest because of what it had decided to do already. The tremble of my hand couldn’t be missed as I lifted the lid. Lots of papers and a photo album was the first I could see. I lifted the book from the pile. The first thing hitting my vision when I opened it was a picture of a teenaged Wynter, standing on one hip with her ankles crossed and holding on to a dining room table.

  It had me spitting laughter. She had two braids on both sides of her head and beamed with a smile full of gaps. And she was skinny. God, she was slender with beestings for tits.

  Nothing like when I met her…

  I pulled it from the plastic and flipped it over. On the back, in someone else’s handwriting it was noted: Wynter Haile, 12 y/o.

  On the same page was a baby picture I could only assume was her. She couldn’t have been more than a year old, making the sniffling face I’d seen Heather’s kids make in recent years. She was adorable. And not because I was so fascinated by her, but because she…just was. There was a picture of a woman with similar features to my wife, just more mature based on the quality of the picture. It was an old one. The woman had caramel skin, a head full of wild hair the shape of a mushroom, a modest waistline and broad hips in short basketball shorts. Her legs were thick in long, white crew socks with colored stripes at her calves, and old school white Nike’s. She held a baby with a similar skin tone and cheekbones as her. The baby had one hand in the woman’s hair, partially facing the camera, as though caught turning her head mid-shot. Behind them was a large sign: Healing Hearts Rehabilitation Center.

  My mind churned with the story behind the picture. But never leaving my thoughts was the eerily similar structure of the woman’s thighs. They were meaty and spaced like something I’d seen before. Tasted before. I flipped the picture over and peeped the caption on the back. Charlene with baby Wynter. Mommy and daughter reunited.

  I moved on to the next page where Wynter, who had to be about nine-ten years old was with the same woman, Charlene, and with two older people: a man and woman. The adults stood behind, connecting with arms and smiling while Wynter was in front with her arms stretched wide, trying to impossibly block them. The older man and woman had to be her grandparents. The older woman was thick, similar to Charlene. Both their frames resembled the Wynter I met: thick and shapely. It was crazy. But overall, Wynter didn’t look a whole lot like her family.

  Another picture was there of her and a guy. He had cornrows with a receding hair line. They were in dark baggy clothes. Wynter looked like a kid. And she was high. I knew this because he held a lit blunt as he glowered into the camera. Wynter tried to smile with eyes so slit, they looked closed.

  My wife smoked trees…

  Immediately, I was infuriated, but not by the weed. I’d done more than that to numb the pain over the years. It was her proximity and comfortability in dude’s person. I flipped that picture and found a penmanship again. Van and Wynnie.

  Van…

  This was what the infamous Van looked like before going bald and having the stress of life add years to his face. I wondered how old she was here. Van had a mustache, but Wynter… Her eyes were hardly visible, but the twinkle of innocence could still be seen. Those two seemed tight. It made me wonder how his case was going. I never asked when I saw him. I could call Chesney, but that would involve too much of a communication train. And what I did to her was so foul, I didn’t deserve an update on her uncle. I knew the only reason he asked to see me was because he didn’t know I’d let her down, sending her off alone like that.

  I dumped the picture and dug more into the box. I came to a bundle—bundle of nameplates. One was silver and two were gold. Charlene Blue. Charles Blue III. Sallie P. Blue nee Brown. I knew what they were right away. I had one of my own. Casket nameplates. Like the one I’d kept for my mother, these must have been for her mother and grandparents. Funny, I didn’t see one for her father. Then I remembered her saying she had a sister, so maybe the sister had it. Mentally shrugging, I went back into the box. There were folded letters rubber banded together.

  Yeah, I knew I was wrong, but it didn’t stop me. Other than that “quickie” of her time in Arizona, this was the closest I’d felt to her since I sent her across the country alone on my jet.

  Dear Wyn,

  I got ya letter. And hell yeah I’m mad at you. What you did is fucked up. You the last person I thought would go behind my back. That shit hurt like a motherfucker. And Sheldon. We ain’t gone never be the same. I don’t give a fuck how much you beg me to. He twelve years older than you. That’s nasty as fuck. I knew my boy had his shit with him but ain’t never believe he would violate me. Fuck him.

  As far as you concerned as much as I wanna say fuck you too I can’t. And you know why. You and me got a bond that I couldn’t break even if I wanted it to. We know who we is to each other. That motherfucker do too! He know our secrets. He knew ya moms when she came around the way. He knew when Pops was dabbling in that powder at the same bar. We used to sell bricks back there.

  Anyway with that said you my sister forever. That bitch ass was a friend. And stop writing me while you up there with them scholarship people. Secure them funds heffa and stop stressing over what’s going down this way. I’m mad as hell at you but proud of you. Never forget.

  Love y
ou always,

  Donovan

  My eyes were wide with revelation from that. I wasn’t too surprised: she’d gone through lengths for his freedom. It made sense they were tight, according to her. I felt a twinge of jealousy at her being close to anyone. Wynter seemed to be a loner like me, only she was low key with hers. She’d been in my homes for six months and survived my moodiness like a G. Now, my silly ass was sitting here, wishing I could go back to the first day we met, pick up the CD that wasn’t mine and try to convince her to vibe to my music. To me.

  I leaned my head back on the divider, eyes closing as though that would stop my chest from aching.

  God, this is the worst punishment I could ever endure…

  I sniffled a laugh, swiping my nose with my finger. My sad, sappy thoughts reminded me of Young Lord and how he showed up at my apartment in L.A. late one night, straight wasted. This was before he married Kenny. His security, Belly, had to walk close to him to make sure Young didn’t topple over. He threw himself on the couch in the small studio there and covered his eyes with his arms. I turned to the mixing board and kept working…until I heard that nigga start singing 112’s “Throw it All Away.”

  I remember turning to Belly, who shrugged before going back to his phone. Lord sang his heart out and I knew something was off. I cleared the studio and let him sing it off his chest with patience. That was until he demanded I sing the chorus and help him stay on key. Having him stay within the correct notes was impossible, but I tried to keep him in range. I didn’t know the details, but one thing was clear to me. Young Lord suffered from a broken heart. I couldn’t believe it was possible.

  I sighed deeply.

  The least expected ones are always the best victims.

  The melody of “Throw it All Away” thickened on my chords and I realized I was humming it. But this time, I sang the song to myself. This was my fuck up. My misery to own.

  “Yo, Raj!” I heard from outside of the closet, snapping me out of my stupor. “Raj!”

  Leech’s call sounded urgent.

  “Yeah. In the closet!”

  Seconds later, he was at the French doors, his short arms stretched from the closed one to the frame on the side of the other. He was out of breath and squeezing his eyes closed as though he was trying to catch it.

  “What?” I demanded.

  He dropped his hands to his knees, bending over. “Mike…” He tried again, licking his lips. “I just hung up with Jerry. Mike Brown died about a hour ago.”

  Slowly, my eyes closed, and I wished I could wake up from this fucking nightmare.

  Lost in fading memories of better days, I shook my head. “That’s everything.”

  I stood in the tiny room off the studio of my apartment in Jersey City, looking at the open file cabinets I hadn’t touched, much less thought about, in years. Apparently, Mike had.

  “You sure?” Mike’s nephew, Carl, snarled while holding one of the crates we piled paperwork from the cabinet in.

  It was filled with shit Mike kept here when I first copped the apartment and paranoid Mike needed a place to keep his business before he got his office space in Maplewood. I could still remember clowning him over the location of that place. It was way outside of the City. His little ass apartment in North Bergen was closer to the business of Manhattan than the office was. But Mike was determined to make himself feel like a legit business man. When he moved into the business park, he never cleared out all of his things here. He would say he couldn’t leave all his crumbs in one place. Digging it up brought about emotions I forgot I was capable of feeling for him. Things had somehow turned bad for Mike and me in recent years.

  I nodded. “Yeah. That’s everything.”

  From my peripheral, I could see little Carl—who wasn’t so small, just crazy short and only about twenty-two years old—flicking his chin to his boy, who looked to be around the same age, just double Carl’s five-feet, two-inch stature. I guessed he thought he was making big moves now with Jerry sending him over here ready for a war I wouldn’t give, over shit I didn’t care about. I remember seeing little Carl off to his senior prom in Brooklyn a few years ago. I wasn’t even about to pull his G card about coming over here to snatch up everything belonging to his uncle. It was enough that I was mourning my old friend’s death.

  I came here specifically to let them in for this. Carl called last night, a few hours after I heard about Mike’s passing, saying he was coming through today for it. I heard the flexing in his tone over the phone but didn’t feed into it. I understood hurt people hurt people. My pastor painstakingly taught me that during my years of therapy.

  I glanced over to Danny G, communicating to let them out the room then lead them out of the apartment. Slowly, he backed away, not feeling as compassionate as I was because he and Mike Brown fell off years ago. Reminding his little nephew he wasn’t tough as he was posing to be would have brought him undue pleasure.

  “Damn,” the big kid with Carl barked at Danny. “You could move any fuckin’ slower?”

  Why the fuck did he say that? Danny G would drop his big ass with a quick one and lay him over the crate he carried. Instead, he crowded his space, challenging the kid. I shook my head, calling him down. He wasn’t worth the trouble. I was sure they were told to be ready for a brawl and they could handle it if it came down to it. It was sad because these kids couldn’t handle shit we could bring them if it came to it—with just the hands alone. Lucky for them, I wasn’t Mike. My compassion extended to his family, as well as his loss. I could ignore little Carl coming into my home, playing gangster.

  After murmuring what I knew was a clear and plausible threat to the kid, Danny backed up and gave them room to leave.

  “Aye, Raj.” My head snapped up to find Carl in the middle of the doorway. “I ‘on’t know what went down witchu and Uncle Mikey, but you always been a real one to me.” His eyes fell to the crate he was holding, and he shrugged. “Sorry the shit had to come down to this, but you know it’s family over everything. Right?”

  Did he realize what our reality was right now? I’d just lost my business manager, and one time friend to a ruthless and brutal crime.

  My phone rang, breaking my confounding gaze from Carl. When I saw the name across the screen, I exhaled, not prepared for this conversation. My eyes closed as I lifted the phone to my face.

  “Whadup up, bruh-bruh?” In my peripheral, I could see little Carl tottering away with the crate bumping his legs with each step he took.

  “Uh… Gee-Gee?”

  “Yeah, man. I’m here,” I breathed.

  “Did you call her? Call Wynter?”

  I shook my head, a throb starting in the back of it. “Nah, man.”

  I could hear his gasp. “Well, what’re you waiting on? It’s been sixteen days!”

  I fuckin’ know, Arnie!

  “I know, man. I know…”

  “And I need to hurry up and order her things before she comes back home, or it’ll ruin the surprise, Gee-Gee.”

  “You told me already.”

  “But you ain’t called her yet.”

  “She’s busy at work. I’m trying to wait till she gets a minute to talk, man.” I tried keeping my cool with my brother. He couldn’t begin to understand how complicated my marriage was.

  My damn life.

  “She should have called me, Gee-Gee. She said she would!”

  You told me already!

  “I know. It’s just that in this business, especially when you’re so far away, it gets so busy.”

  “Yeah. Well, I think it’s strange that my sister-in-love ain’t call home yet. It’s dangerous out there, Gee-Gee.”

  I dumped myself in a rolling chair near the mixing board. “It is.”

  “But her job is almost over. Just three weeks. Twenty-one days and she’ll be done and back home with the Michaels-McKinnon men. Right, Gee-Gee?”

  That question… The expectation had my chest aching now. I’d been thinking about what my move would be when th
e L.I.T. boot camp was up. The only thing I was sure of was she wouldn’t want to come to Sparta. And I hadn’t dealt with Myisha yet. That shit was stressing me the fuck out, too. If I told her to leave, she could go to the police with what she knew. Without Mike Brown here I didn’t know if that helped or hurt. I just didn’t know what the hell to do!

  But I was running out of time. I couldn’t let Wynter slip through my fingers. No fucking way I’d let her get away from me now. I just needed a break. Something I could use to get us in the clear to be what we wanted to be—if she wanted to be with me like I wanted to be with her. Hell, I’d do anything to make her agree to stay in this with me.

  God, if you just let her want to finish out the three-year term, I’d be grateful…

  By then, I’d convince her I could be a good man.

  “You there, Gee-Gee? Hello! Hello—”

  I cringed at his shouting. “Yeah, Arnie! I’m here, man!”

  “Are you yelling at me again, Gee-Gee—”

  “No!”

  “Because you know it’s not nice!” He was now barking, and at times like this I had to remember although he sounded like a grown ass man raising his voice to me, he had the mind of a child, who lost his cool, too.

  My eyes closed again. “Nah.” I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “It ain’t cool and… My bad.” I thought again. “I mean, I’m sorry,” I grumbled, body tensing all over.

  The thing most frustrating about having a loved one with limited mental capacity is having to always be patient with them, even when they’re not patient with you. I needed my brother to be easy on the Wynter tip. She may never come back now that Mike was dead. I may have lost her for good: Fuck these three weeks.

  “I forgive you, Gee-Gee.”

  I was able to croak, “Thanks, man.” Then I pushed my elbows into my knees, trying to catch my breath. “I’m gonna have somebody check in with her for you. Okay?”