“That’s fine,” Angelo said, stepping forward to speak on my behalf. “We just wanted to meet everyone. Hone . . . I mean Desi was just curious about the set. It is her first movie. She wanted to get a feel for it, have a look around before the big day. See what her marks are, or are there marks on the set or whatever? I mean, I don’t know what the fuck it is you call it.” Angelo too, blabbered like a nervous idiot. He’d been making me write and say my new name over and over, and in the first thirty seconds he almost dropped the ball.
“Oh, well, then let me show you two around. We’re really good at adjusting, especially with the way the first producer . . . Uh, hopefully you watched the first movie right?”
I was glad I’d taken one of the extra Vicodin I had left over from my surgery. The movie was a wack-ass horror film called Revived 2. The script was easy to memorize because all my parts were “Daisy running,” or “Daisy screaming topless.” That bullshit made me laugh so much I hurt my new cheeks. Angelo threatened to take it away during my recovery, afraid I’d burst my stitches or whatever he’d said. However, being on set and overhearing the gaffer and key grip asking the best boy about butt plugs and magic fingers had me thinking I’d walked into a sex shop. Maybe I’d misread that shit and we were shooting a horror-themed porno? When Frankie saw my expression she calmly explained that butt plugs were stand adapters for the speakers, and magic fingers were a type of mount.
The first movie was apparently a box office hit. According to Angelo’s logic, this one would be a good fit for my introduction into the world of bright lights and even brighter stars since it was predicted to do three times better. Angelo already had his own self-made fame. He wasn’t wanted by U.S. Marshals and on watch lists for escaping prison. Trenisha, aka L’il Miss Honey, was. With his help and the family pitching in I could covertly push coke as an industry insider and I would be untouchable. Instant fame where I could pick up and go anywhere, do anything I wanted, and on top of all that I’d have star power.
* * *
“So, are you ready for this or what?” Angelo asked once we were back in the car and on our way to get ready for some kind of celebrity all-star party.
I didn’t answer immediately. Instead I stared at the face of this almost-famous movie star’s reflection in the window. It was weird how little I could see of my old self. Desivita was raised in a group foster home that was paid to doctor up fake records. She graduated from high school in Fayetteville, North Carolina. She’d relocated to LA, auditioned for roles, took acting classes, and had been working part-time as a Hooters waitress. This stranger stared back at me, with her high, perfectly flushed cheeks and these bright, mysterious eyes. Sir’Tavius had given me a ring to wear and I fidgeted with it anxiously.
“Always wear one accessory,” he’d said as he exaggerated a yawn. “That’ll make ere’body go snaparazzi with their little camera phones and whatnot.” On his finger sat a black angel’s wing with Swarovski crystals in the feathers. He’d batted his long, perfectly placed lashes before handing over this ring that engulfed my entire index finger. Twirling it in place, I sighed, wondering how I’d get Paris if Honey technically no longer existed. How would I, as this famous actress person, actually approach Michelle and convince her to give her up? Angelo probably hadn’t even considered that since he was more concerned with having an “us,” and then having us make a family.
It just meant that I’d have to do some creative tinkering on my own damn time and my own damn dime. That’s what the hell it sounded like it meant.
Angelo looked over at me. “It’s kind of late to be gettin’ scared, bella.”
“I’m fine, baby. You know I stay ready, so I never have to worry about gettin’ ready,” I told him.
Chapter 1
Self-Destructing Hearts
(Six Months Later)
I could probably tell you the time every half hour on the hour throughout the night because I woke up at the slightest thing. Every time I’d shift or turn over, the house settled, or if one of the kids so much as sneezed, my eyes would fly open and my heart rate would shoot to threat level “imminent danger.” The only good thing about sleeping as lightly as I did was that I heard everything, which was also the bad part. Something had awakened me, and with my sleeping habits, a mosquito could have burped, thus sending my brain into panic mode. Okay, October. I know your signature move is bumps in the night and whatnot, but this is not how I want to start things off.
I’d left my window open and the wind picked up the scent of the gardenias outside. It cooled my face and, as I sat up, made my sweat-soaked sheets feel as though they’d been doused in ice water. It was still unclear if I’d heard feet shuffling or if I’d dreamt about it and immediately my thoughts turned to Larissa. Confused, I’d started to call out, but stopped as the hazy, restless cobwebs cleared in my mind. Secretly I wished it were her coming home late. That used to be her usual bullshit reaction to “nothing.” Okay, granted, what I would call “nothing” was most likely someone or something I’d done. Larissa and I had a long history of drama and an even longer history of unhealthy solutions.
Regardless of how much it hurt, every time I opened my eyes I’d have to remind myself that she was gone. I was a widow now, with a late wife, and there was no changing that. Realization would sink in and my throat would feel like I was trying to swallow a dry handkerchief whole. It didn’t matter where I was. I could be lying in bed or at a grocery store with the kids, or just daydreaming. Because, when I say every time I opened my eyes I felt like crying, I meant every time. Since she was gone, a noise in the night was definitely not a good thing.
The house alarm was beeping at sixty-second intervals; it only did that when it was running on the backup generator. The power was out; or worse the power had been cut. Just the simple thought of someone cutting the power made me cautious. I reached into the nightstand and grabbed my handgun. It felt cold and foreign to my fingers, but it made me feel safe. The bedroom was painted in a combination of eerie shadows from the battery-powered air freshener in the corner.
Everything always looked strange with shadows attached to them at night, especially people. Some people could stand with a shadow over even a little bit of their face and look like monsters. Rasheed was one of those niggas who could wear a shadow and exude pure sex. Whereas Larissa, my late wife, would look like the very devil himself.
Sometimes I’d slip and absentmindedly think of Rasheed. He was my heartworm for life, even after his death. He’d gnawed his way in, latching on. I’d gotten so used to living with him and the pain and our illusion of love that I felt borderline guilt and misery at having him removed, permanently. He was murdered because of me. Now Honey was trying to murder me over him. Well, over the daughter she had with him. Honey, Danita, Diamond, the list could go on; they were only a few of the many reasons why my heartworm had to go. I shook my head at myself and frowned. You stay with someone for years and over the course of time they seep into your pores little by little, day by day. The craziest thing happens and suddenly, you can’t make lasagna anymore because the smell reminds you of one person. You can’t drink a certain kind of champagne because the taste reminds you of the other.
It’s been said when a relationship is over, you should remain single six months for every year you were with that person. I got with Rah at sixteen, Ris at eighteen, and I was twenty-seven now. Based on that theory, I wouldn’t be fit to deal with anyone until my ass was damn near thirty-two. Add in the fact that Ris had a drug habit and Rah had children with two different women, one of whom was trying to kill my ass, and I’d probably be better off staying single for the rest of my damn life.
Rasheed was like a drug. I could never tell if I was sprung off good dick or just stuck on dumb love, but we had this hardcore yo-yo “relationshit.”
I mean, the harder we fought, the grimier and lower he got with the shit he did. In turn, that’s how much higher the highs would be when we bounced back and how much harder his love wou
ld seem to be magnified. It was addictive and it was mind-blowing. It’s a damn shame that it took me having a baby and some years in order to learn how to tell the difference between ships and shit. Some people are ships and those are the ones you build your relations and connections with. They’ll help you carry your burdens and your dreams, and they won’t let you drown. Others, as in Rasheed’s case, are just shit. Larissa just happened in the middle of all of that.
I quickly surveyed my things, trying to make sure nothing was moving or, worse yet, creeping up on me. I was too damn old for nightlights, but with everything going on I could admit that I was too damn scared to sleep without one. Safety light was the best name I could come up with when Trey asked why Mommy’s nightlight had “smell goods” in it and his didn’t. As far as anyone was concerned I just had it because it smelled nice, and it just so happened to have a safety light on it.
When I heard it, it was faint yet distinct, like “hungry in church and hearing someone trying to sneak a piece of candy out of their pocket” distinct. Someone was trying to get into the house. Throwing the sheets aside, I grabbed my phone and put my Bluetooth in my ear.
I fought back memories of that night that forced me to become a slave to preparation. The night Honey dragged me out of my own house and almost killed me. It made me stay on high alert, always sleeping fully clothed or in my robe over full pajamas. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept comfortably, let alone the entire night.
I’ve always had a fear of guns. Guns and cancer, and if you grew up in my house you would as well. My mother passed away from cancer when I was ten and I was raised by my father, who was shot in a hunting accident two years later. Even still, I’d never get caught unprepared or unprotected again. If you’ve never had someone stand over you ready to end your life while your son is crying, calling out, “Mommy”, you wouldn’t understand.
Weighing the small Luger in my hand, I disengaged the safety and inserted the clip in mechanical motions. The gun range was my weekend getaway. Towanna would watch the kids so I could familiarize myself with my new gun. Some of the folk up in there looked shady; it always made me nervous to be around so many strangers with weapons. Then I’d remind myself I had a weapon too, and was damn lethal with it. Sliding it into the pocket of my robe so it’d be easily accessible, I speed-dialed three. My car keys, credit card, and cash were already in my pajama pocket in case we needed to get on the road. Three packed bags stayed in the trunk of the car in the garage. I kept everything on standby at all times because at any moment someone could come for us or for me and I couldn’t risk not being ready.
“Michelle? What’s wrong?” Towanna answered on the first ring.
“The power’s out and I think someone’s outside. It sounds like the bay window downstairs. I’m getting the kids.” The words tumbled out of my mouth in a rushed whisper as I padded soundlessly out of the bedroom toward Lataya’s and Trey’s rooms.
They were like little sponges, soaking up every detail of even the smallest things. I’d just enrolled Trey in what everyone said was the best private school in the area. He’d only been in the school for three days before I was called in over his behavior. On one occasion he told a little girl to sit her ass down before he sat her down and, again, when he tried stabbing a boy with a jumbo pencil over a toy. It was bad enough there were only a handful of black kids in the school to begin with. I couldn’t have him being the poster child for the single-parent household.
“Okay, get the kids and go back to your bedroom. I’m on my way right now. Are you all right?” Towanna asked.
“Yeah; scared, but I’m okay.”
The kids’ rooms were directly across the hall from each other and not more than two feet from mine. Afraid to stay by myself and tired of months in the hotel, when Towanna suggested we stay here with her I was all too eager to accept. Don’t get me wrong, I still didn’t trust cops, VA cops specifically. However, my choices were staying on my own, or staying with Towanna. Living with a cop was the safest thing I could think of until I could come up with a solid game plan. Towanna’d been more than patient with my “just a little while” that turned into a little over a year, but we split everything and she swore she loved the company. I took the easy way out as opposed to finding a new house right away, but I couldn’t help thinking that Honey was out there and eventually she’d be coming for Lataya.
Walking into Lataya’s room I gave her a quick once-over. She was sound asleep, her thick lashes fanning over her pudgy little cheeks like delicate, dark brown palm fronds. She squirmed a bit but didn’t miss a single soft snore as I scooped her up into my arms. She’d been teething and was being all kinds of fussy with the rest of her teeth finally coming in. I eventually had to resort to rubbing the teeniest bit of rum on her gums and, voila, problem solved. She was happy as a jaybird and of course snoring like a drunken sailor not long after that.
I pressed her head full of soft curls onto my shoulder beneath my chin and turned to go get Trey. Even now, a shadow of a smile curved my lips and I shook my head, trying to repress a memory of a conversation I’d had with Ris. I’d come home one night and she’d played around saying she’d gotten Trey drunk. Tears burned my eyes and threatened to spill down my cheeks as they always did when I thought about the good times I had with Larissa. They were glowing embers in the fireplace of my mind that never seemed to completely go out. Thinking about something as simple as her laugh, or how she tried to kill Rasheed for me would act as fresh kindling and the fire would—
“Y’all good? I’m not more than five minutes away.”
Towanna’s voice broke through the silence into my earpiece, almost making me drop my poor baby.
“Shit, woman, you scared the hell out of me. I forgot you were there. I’ve got Taya, and I’m going to get Trey,” I replied in a hurried whisper, hoping I wouldn’t wake up Lataya as I tiptoed across the hall.
My mind was a hornet’s nest of activity, buzzing with a swarm of thoughts all at once. Aside from thinking about Ris, I was also hoping whoever was downstairs took just long enough to get in for me to get back to my room, even though I’d have rather been heading for the car in the garage.
Think . . . just calm down and think Michelle. There’s no way she could have found us. Where have we been, who have we talked to? Stores, parks, work, school, fuck I don’t know. It didn’t even matter; I was ready to fight until the death for my babies. Would she?
Lord, I hoped Trey wasn’t in one of those sleeps that an earthquake couldn’t shake him out of, and even if one did, he’d move at glacial paces, dragging his feet and whining. As I entered his room, his nightlight cast its familiar glow across the floor, illuminating my way. It carved shadowy halos around Ironman and Thor action figures along with his discarded pajama top and half-eaten Oreo cookies. Everything was scattered along the plush beige and brown carpet in a path that ran from his toy chest toward his bed. That mess definitely wasn’t there when I tucked his ass in, and I made a note to get his behind good for playing and sneaking snacks after I’d put him down for the night.
“Trey, baby, wake up.” I spoke his name softly, gently pulling back his comforter. He always slept like a little mole and there was no telling what part of the pile he’d be buried underneath. Something creaked downstairs. It was much louder this time, echoing throughout the house like a cannon blast in an empty auditorium.
“Trey?” I threw the blankets off his bed in a panic. My stomach dropped and I was about three heartbeats away from hyperventilating as I stared down at nothing but The Hulk’s animated angry green outline on the sheets.
“Towanna, he’s not here. Oh my God.” I scrutinized every inch of his room from the toys to his pajama top, and immediately my thoughts went to the worst.
“Michelle, calm down. I’m pulling up now.” Her voice was calm and controlled.
As comforting as it was knowing Towanna was outside, nothing was gonna reassure me until I could physically see and touch my baby. After all
the drama with Honey and Rasheed and even Larissa’s murder, I just wanted my kids to have as normal a life as possible. I’d have given anything to make them forget all the bullshit they’d seen. From the petty arguments that I know they’d overheard between Ris an’ me all the way down to the bloodshed. Lataya was hopefully too young to be affected by it, but Trey worried me the most with his random questions about his daddy and Ris.
It had taken everything in me not to skip the conversation and just kiss all the little confusion lines out of his forehead when I tried explaining the concept of death. He seemed to grasp certain points but his behavior and his anger toward other children made me wonder if some things were indeed hereditary. When it came to Larissa and Rasheed, that boy had a barrage of questions from “Do you have to get hurt to go to Heaven?” all the way down to “Why would Jesus want my daddy if Jesus already has a daddy?” It was definitely a little more than I was cut out to handle. That was the only reason I’d fought every ounce of motherly instinct within me and forced them to sleep in their own rooms instead of in bed with me. My babies needed to not be forever traumatized or afraid of the past. That was for me to lose sleep over, not them, and now I was kicking myself for that decision.
His room faced the front of the house, and the blaring red and blue lights from Towanna’s police car flashed through his window, turning it into a gut-wrenching crime scene kaleidoscope. Thankfully they were shut off before my imagination could do any more damage.
“Michelle, do you have Trey?”
“No, I . . . I don’t know where he is,” I replied in a barely audible whisper as I glanced down at his pajama top.
“Then I need you to . . . oh shit . . .”
Baby Momma Saga, Part 2 Page 2
