The Deviant

by Tiana Laveen

  The air in the confines of the car was heavy, like a heap of dead bodies, decayed flesh and bones uprooted to show a ghastly truth. King cracked his knuckles, needing to do something with his hands. How had Ricky found out about what had happened years ago? He didn’t have to spell it out. It was clear. King looked down at his shoes, then back out the window at the big buildings he’d seen his entire life. They looked smaller than ever.

  “You have secrets.”

  How should he respond to that? He chewed around a few options, then spit them out.

  “Don’t we all.”

  “Yes, I suppose we all do, King.”

  “It wasn’t a question, Ricky… but you know that. You weren’t questioning me, either.”

  They drew silent and after a short while, Ricky removed a thick envelope from his right jacket pocket. He placed it on his chest but didn’t make a move to hand it over.

  “Inside this envelope is your check. Inside this envelope is also a request.”

  “What kind of a request?”

  “I know a little something about brotherly love and brotherly betrayal, King. You see, I come from a family full of mysteries and contradictions. I don’t have a beautiful immigration story to share because my father did almost anything to get money. Illegal or not, it didn’t matter and it wasn’t to support his family, but for the thrill of the hunt,” he said. “He was a cruel man… crazy. Narrow minded and unintelligent.” Their gazes hooked and his face twisted. “When I expressed my interest in fashion, he called me a fag. Afeminado. I’m not gay. If I were, I would’ve admitted it.” He shrugged. “I love pussy. Love women. So much so, being faithful is virtually impossible for me… but back to the topic at hand. My father came sniffing around after my success. Never offered an apology for being sadistic to everyone in the family, but he held his hand out to receive cash.

  “I cut that hand off.” Ricky reached for a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, then handed one to King. Ricky drank from it, but King refrained, eager to hear more. “My brother, who was exactly like him, did much of the same. I made sure neither of them hurt anyone else again. You’re a protector, like me. It’s what we do. The chips fall where they may. So, now that I’ve shared with you my disdain for my own father and brother, let’s move on. You told me some time ago that you have a big art show coming up. You requested time off in advance to help prepare.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I want to attend this art show.”

  “I see. Okay.” King sipped on the wine. It was expensive. Full bodied. A curse to waste.

  “Oh, and let me clear something up. After your colorful friend, Shane, called me to let me know of your predicament, I didn’t call you right away. This was not because I was on the fence regarding whether I should fire you, but because I wanted to make sure I’d properly present you with the opportunity I believed you’d be good for. See, I did some more digging into your life, King. Your resume didn’t cover information about all the national and local art awards you’ve received. I suppose you left that out because it wasn’t really relevant to the job.” He paused, drinking some more wine. “There’s this ongoing exhibit you do. Deviant. Is that what it’s called?”

  “Yes. I’m nicknamed the Deviant Artist.”

  “Fitting.” The man chuckled. “You’re quite the talent. Very explicit and quite honestly, genius work. Some of it’s shocking. Much of it is absolutely beautiful. There are just not enough words available to describe it. Your work, and you, are larger than life. We all not only have secrets, but a secret power, too, King. Yours is definitely art. You transform people. That’s powerful. You need to make some money. Real money. You’re much too talented to keep hidden away in my shop forever. I want to offer a new venture.”

  King swallowed, not enjoying the way the man was talking in code.

  “I deal in black and white when it comes to business, Ricky. I don’t know what you’re doing or saying, and right now, my patience is extremely short.”

  “I want to try ya out.”

  “Try God, not me.”

  Ricky chuckled lazily, then drew hard on his cigar.

  “Take me back to the shop, please. I have to take care of some things,” King said. He refused to sit on this hot seat any longer, the uncomfortable weight of the conversation weighing him down.

  “Frank, head back to Alpha,” Ricky called out, then slapped the envelope in King’s hands. The paper burned like hot brandy. He opened it and peered inside. He gasped. He was staring at a check that was triple his salary, as well as a wad of cash. As they rounded the block, Ricky sported an all-knowing, self-satisfied smile on his face.

  “I’ve thought about your shirt idea, the one you mentioned when we first met in person. You know, designs. That’s small potatoes. I want to take that up a notch. I played with you a little that day. I already know about design. I wanted to see what advice you’d give me about the stupid ass baseboards, so I threw out some shit I was making up on the fly. You knew your stuff. After watching you this month, and finding out about this latest event, I got a crazy idea, King. But, uh, with you, I think it just may work.” He shrugged. “Are you ready to listen to my proposal?”

  They pulled back up in front of Alpha.

  “I’m ready to listen to anything, within reason, that will take me to the next level.”

  “Good. I believe in you, King. I only have one child, a daughter, so sometimes, I’ll meet someone along the way that I take under my wing. Someone special. This time, that special person is you. I’m investing in the Deviant Artist. You’re going to make a lot of fuckin’ money if you’re chosen by this amazing person. For your sake, you better come through…”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Drawing You Close

  It takes all kinds to make the world go ’round. We need all types of people to sustain this system, the matrix of being. All kinds of men, women, and everything in between. However one defines themselves. When it comes to choosing someone to join you in bed, or for life, you have to know what you want. I’m not a browsing shopper. I go in focused. If I want just a fuck buddy, my parameters are broader, my net wider. If I want someone I can be friends with too, it gets tighter. If I’m lookin’ for that ‘forever thang,’ that ‘he’s my man,’ bag, I zero in on the few ‘items’ in there that come close to the required criteria. I’m not the prettiest woman in the world, probably not the funniest or smartest either, but I am unique and dope. I’m a valuable package.

  I know what I bring to the table, so I seldom shop for that ‘forever thang,’ but when I do, I am all about business and laser sharp focus. I wasn’t shopping when I ran into King, but sometimes, when you’re not searching, you find exactly what you thought you weren’t looking for…

  Considering the type of woman I am, I know myself. I know my assets as much as my weaknesses. I am flawed. Completely. Totally. Imperfectly perfect. I make no apologies for this.

  I know what I need and I’m determined to not settle.

  I need me an outspoken, artistic, intelligent, tall, built, fierce, alpha male mothafucka who is responsible and can handle his business. He has to have a heart, though. He must have a conscience. He must care about SOMETHING in this big crazy world, and it can’t just be money, power, or possessions. He has to know how to love before he even steps to me. I won’t tolerate anything less.

  I fix no one.

  I will encourage my man. Be there for my man. Fuck him the way he wants to be fucked and sucked. I will give him a nice home. I will be his best friend till the end.

  I’m not a ride or die. I’m a ‘you try, then I’ll try.’

  There are no sacrificial lambs over here. Neither of us is going to slaughter for some trumped-up struggle. Struggle love is for those who use culture to explain and embrace trauma. My mother was a part of that mentality. It didn’t make her weak.

  It meant she was simply wrong.

  That’s the generational curse. Believing that if love doesn’t hurt,
>
  it’s not real.

  A real man would never hurt the product of his rib, as the Bible goes…

  Why would he harm a part of himself? I had to ask myself many times along my journey, with all of the mistakes and silly shit I’ve done and said to reach this level of understanding: “Why?” The answer to that question was different every single month and year. One part of ‘why’ was the type of man I had allowed into my realm. The betas…

  Now, please understand me. I don’t mind beta men. I just don’t fuck them.

  I most certainly do not fall in love with them. They have proven over the years that they cannot handle me. They do not appreciate my frankness; they cannot roll with the punches I throw. They cannot fuck me the way I need to be fucked and they cannot give me anything I cannot give myself.

  It’s a Catch-22 situation. Now, there are different tiers of beta men. The weak and damaged ones are my focus because that’s what I was dealing with from time to time. Weak ass beta men are at times volatile. Easier to control, which, if one is feeling manipulative can work in our favor. But this also fosters a potentially emotionally dangerous connection because once they realize they’re not truly who you want, but are settling for, they will paint your name in blood. Furthermore, all women after you are cursed once they enter their world. All womankind must be punished for the transgressions of a few.

  Weak ass beta men often mistake themselves for being alpha. Rarely is it the other way around. A weak ass beta male will tell women what they are doing wrong, but never look at himself. A weak ass beta male will not be prone to self-improvement. Rather, he is looking for someone to blame, an excuse to fall short. He’s never the problem, despite the fact that he is the common denominator.

  A weak ass beta male who tries to pretend he is not will be verbally, mentally, emotionally, and sometimes physically abusive to any woman who does not jump to his every command and dares to question him and his weak ass authority. He thinks that being belligerent and loud will convince us women that he’s alpha. Some will fall for that, many of us will not. We can see through that pitiful, silly shit.

  And now, he’s mad. His manhood was already in shambles.

  This is exhausting bullshit.

  I don’t have the time or patience for this type of man. I know what they are. I can spot them a mile away. They’re like snails, leaving a slimy trail of weakness wherever they move.

  A true alpha male KNOWS they are an alpha, and no announcements are made or needed. You see it as soon as they come into sight. They exude confidence, even if at that moment, they secretly doubt themselves. Alpha men can take on many physical characteristics: They can be tall, short, medium, thin, bulky, built, bald, have flowing locks, you name it. One thing is consistent about them though: they know how to catch a woman’s eye. They know how to present themselves and though they have emotions, and feel deeply, they save that for their very close friends or their woman. Behind closed doors. They are allowed to feel and heal. They simply understand self-control, as well as time and place. I would never tell a man he can’t cry. That’s not being alpha. Real men cry.

  They just do it with class…

  They do not cause scenes, they do not beat their women. They can make love AND fuck, all in the same five-minute span. See, emotions can be the fuel to push us to our next goals, to help us reach the next level. Weak ass betas fall prey to their emotions more times than not and use them as fire, instead of making their feelings work for them.

  My mother taught me that. It’s one of many things she doesn’t take credit for, but she should. I’ve watched her work a room with a mere look. My mother was bad, even during her days of uncertainty and lack of confidence. She was lovely to look at. Her smile, her grace, her mind – brilliant. She had me convinced. I found out later she didn’t believe this, and it was all an act. But I believed it, and that’s all that mattered.

  She showed me who NOT to love, which proved an invaluable lesson.

  My father taught me, too. Even with all his issues, he was and IS a definite alpha male. He walks into a room and everyone stares. He is a 6’3”, dark-complexioned stunning Black man from Brooklyn, New York with a no-nonsense approach to life. He has a killer smile with a mouth chock full of perfect, natural teeth. Slender but muscular, still has a full head of salt and pepper hair cut in a low fade, and his facial hair was always trimmed to perfection. His cologne and suits made plenty of heads turn. He always looked as if he ran a big company. He was playing make-believe.

  He was and still is the shit, and he knows it. Through his words, more than his actions, he taught me what to expect from a man. He was honest in telling me that he was not the type of man I should go for. He wasn’t honest with his now ex-wife or my mother, and most likely all the countless women he’s wowed under false pretenses, but he certainly was honest with me.

  One of the worst but most beautiful things you can do is fall in love with an alpha male who picks and chooses when to exploit himself for your viewing pleasure.

  You have to play by his rules, or at least pretend to do so, switch it up on him but never get caught. He will show you glimpses of his ocean – like watery puzzle pieces of cobalt blue. But you can only see half of the fragments that make up the whole. Never the whole ocean.

  That ocean is King.

  He laughs at ripples. Mocks waves.

  He wants a woman who is a fucking tsunami.

  He is gentle and hard.

  He is wise and silly.

  He is kind and brutal.

  Here I am, in my thoughts, floating… realizing that I am going to commit to this fucker, once and for all. We’ve both been tiptoeing around it, but it’s inevitable. I’m being kissed from head to toe by this man who was behind bars less than forty-eight hours ago, after having spilled his own brother’s blood. Yet, all I can do is succumb…

  I’m weak when it comes to him.

  And I hate and love that shit.

  Now, he calls me his muse…

  …I call him my king.

  Suri slung her leg off him and crawled away from his body, scowling. King sat up, half undressed, breathing hard.

  “What are you doing?” He threw up his hands. “Get back over here and open your legs. I was just getting started.”

  “You think you can just come up in here and fuck me? No explanation or conversation?”

  “Yeah.” Mischief lurked in his devilish smile.

  “Tell me what happened.” She pressed her head against the plush silver headboard and pulled the sheets around her waist, leaving her breasts exposed. Janelle Monáe’s ‘PrimeTime,’ featuring Miguel, was playing in the background.

  His panting grew slower and slower until it subsided and all that was left was longing in his eyes.

  “I know what you want.” He scratched his shoulder. “You got some plain paper and a pen around here?”

  “Yeah.” She got up from the bed, rummaged through one of her drawers, and removed a blank journal. She handed it to him, along with an ink pen, then crawled back into bed. “I’ve never used that. It was a gift from a friend. What are you going to do?”

  Sitting close to her, he got to work, moving his fingers fast across the paper. She studied his movements, smelled his skin, and couldn’t resist resting her head along his shoulder. She soon realized he’d drawn three kids, one significantly taller than the other two. He flipped the page, and started another sketch, so full of detail and depth. Her core heated with excitement and love as he continued to draw. About twenty minutes later, as Dj Day & Miles Bonny crooned, ‘Still Miles,’ King set the pen aside and flipped the page to the first drawing.

  “This is me and my brothers, Lucas and Tomas. I was protective of them. I walked them to school every morning. Did what big brothers are supposed to do.” She stroked his arm as he spoke in a controlled tone. He turned the page. “This is me sitting next to my father while he was passed out drunk on our weekend together. It was the last time I ever saw him intoxicated.” He fl
ipped to another page. “This is Tomas, grown up. The light is gone from his eyes. Something was wrong. He was emotionally wrecked. He and I butted heads a lot because he didn’t want to listen. My stepfather worked a lot at a clinic at the time, and he wasn’t home much. Our mother could no longer control my brother. Our relationship got worse and worse.”

  He turned the page.

  “This is me. I am lying in bed. Asleep. I didn’t get out of bed for two days. Tomas found out something and told me in an argument he and I had. It was a rotten, fucked up thing to do. He didn’t tell me because he cared. He did it to try and hurt me. I laughed in his face.” He smiled sadly. “Didn’t want him to see me affected. But after I discovered it was true, it changed me. For the worse.” He ran his hand down his face.

  They sat quietly for a while, holding one another, relishing each other. Becoming one, in the moment. Picking up a small coffee cake scented candle from the nightstand, she lit it. He placed the paper and pen on the nightstand, then kissed her. Zo!, ‘Make Luv 2 Me,’ featuring Monica Blaire, started to play as he lifted her in his arms, cradling her close. They nuzzled close, listening to each other breathe, feeling each other’s heartbeat.

  “I’m in love with you, King.”

  He stroked her back with the touch of an angel, but stared at her with the lustful gaze of a demon.

  He gently sat her down upon him, situating her just so across his lap, his dick aligned with her hot pussy, but didn’t penetrate. Wrapping her arms and legs around him instinctively, they joined in a passionate embrace that set her soul on fire. Kisses, so many intense kisses… with their tongues gliding against each other, real slow, and his gyrations matching the tempo. Glints of light filled his eyes, setting them on fire. She shuddered when his fingers glided softly, so very softly, against her love.