Love's Ineligible Receiver (Connecticut Kings Book 5)

by Love Belvin

  With a few pushes, I was able to gauge I had room for one more. My eyes filled with tears again when I thought it was impossible. I’d been crying since an ambulance came on Monday to get Jimmy. He cried as I kissed him goodbye while they carried him out. The house had seemed so quiet without the rhythmic pulsating of his medical equipment, without his soul. He may have been a helpless maim, but Jimmy’s spirit was very much alive in his home.

  I made it back up to my soundless room, crying and began yanking my chest. It was big, heavy, and antique, making it solid. I should have started with it but put it off because of its impossible weight. By the time I pushed it to the top of the stairs, my shoulders and arms throbbed. Low commotion caught my attention.

  “And who are you?” I recognized as James Junior’s voice.

  “Her peoples,” a male tenor answered with ire.

  Slowly, I took down the stairs, wiping my eyes. I sucked in a breath when I saw Fats glaring down at James Junior. His brother, Jerry, was behind him but with an unusual sobered expression.

  Fats turned to me on my way down. “All that’s going is what’s in the car?” he asked with full on authority.

  I shook my head and sniffled then pointed over my shoulder. “I have more up in my room.”

  Fats turned toward the door and whistled. “Aye, Jake! Got more in her room.”

  I didn’t understand what he was doing, though I could imagine why he was here. Fats bore witness to me being served with eviction paperwork.

  Two guys marched with lightning speed into the house.

  “Wait!” James Junior chirped. “Who’re these people?” he asked Fats.

  “My help,” Fats swiftly answered then addressed me. “Parker, show them where the rest of your stuff is.”

  “Hell no!” James Junior, yelled. “They’re not allowed in here. You ain’t either!”

  “The fuck you care? You putting her out. The quicker we move the quicker we can make it happen.”

  “No!” James shouted.

  “Oh, hell nah,” Jerry backed him.

  The officer was already moving between James Junior and Fats before I could think about how this could end.

  “She’s allowed assistance so long as they are not destroying property,” he informed James Junior and Jerry. Then he spoke to Fats. “Let’s not be all day about this.”

  After a long nasty glare between the officer and Wright brothers, Fats gave a nod, prompting the guys to go upstairs. I pointed to the chest and quickly, they hiked up there and carried it down and out of the house.

  “C’mon, Parker. Let’s get the rest of your shit,” Fats ordered, moving toward the stairs himself.

  I led the way up to my room. And before I knew it, the guys were there, grabbing bags and boxes. Where they were taking them I didn’t know, until I grabbed my sit under hair dryer and carried it out of the house. That’s when I saw a twenty-six feet long U-Haul truck parked horizontal to the driveway. The guys were loading my things in there. I gazed between my car and the truck, so confused.

  Is this Rut?

  It had to be. Fats had to have told him. Fats was here, moving me out. The tears began to fall again.

  “C’mon, Parker.” Fats was rounding me, carrying several shoe boxes. “Let’s get the rest of this shit before I get in some heat out here.”

  Through clouded eyes I moved, going back into the house for more things. Less than thirty minutes later, all my things were out of the house.

  “You can follow me,” Fats ordered as we walked onto the driveway near my car.

  “Follow you where?” I had a hotel reservation until I decided my next move.

  “To the crib. It’s about a forty-minute drive,” he spoke over his shoulder while on the move.

  I shook my head. “I’m not going to Kings Courts.” I’d told Rut that long ago.

  Nothing had changed, especially now.

  “We ain’t going there. Follow me, sweetheart.” There was that authority in his voice.

  I checked the time on my phone. I couldn’t cancel my hotel now. It was mid-morning but less than the required twenty-four hour period.

  What could be forty minutes away?

  I wasn’t in the mood to ask, but they had most of my things, leaving me with limited options. I was behind the wheel of my car, trying to start it. It wouldn’t budge. My head fell to the wheel.

  Come on…

  I tried again and she roared to life. Taking a deep breath, I whispered a thanks to God. Then I peered into my rearview mirror and saw the U-Haul had moved up and at the end of the driveway was the Yukon truck I’d become conversant with. Fats was waving me on before taking off himself. I backed out of the driveway, refusing to pay the house I’d called a home for six years a final glance. I couldn’t cry and drive, especially not forty minutes to an unknown place. When I backed into the street, Fats was down the block, at the corner with his left blinker going.

  The top three-fifths of the black, steel French doors to the house was made of thick, diamond shaped bevel glass panes, but as Fats keyed into one, I could see to the back windows. He opened one door and stepped inside. With trepidation, I followed. The place was huge, three times the size of the one I’d just left. The walls were lofty and painted a cozy grey with their frames a stalk white. The hardwood floors were chestnut. A few yards directly in front of us was a curved staircase with black wooden railing and stairs.

  “The alarm people ‘posed to be here tomorrow. If you see any shit that don’t look like it belong here, hit me up. I’ll move it.”

  To my left was a four-inch step up dining room, I assumed. It was lined with eight feet sliding windows with a dome shaped transom above. To the right looked to be a living room. The windows were the same vast shape with a few actual doors exposing the late morning sun, but leading into a much larger space.

  The guys were behind me, swiftly carrying familiar bags into the house.

  “Y’all carry everything upstairs to the room on the right,” Fats ordered. “And don’t block the damn door with it,” he amended.

  I shook my head, understanding that command. “Whose house is this?”

  “Oh.” Fats handed me a keyring. “Yours.”

  I looked at the large ring hanging from his stubby fingers. Then I peered into his eyes, shaking my head.

  “This isn’t my house,” I muttered.

  “It ain’t my place to say what’s what other than this is where you can get comfortable. Rut said some paperwork should be delivered tomorrow, too.” Fats yawned, unfazed by my shaken disposition. “He said something about you not working on Thursdays. That right?”

  I didn’t answer. Instead, my attention went ahead to what had to be the kitchen at the back of the house. It was separated from the foyer by a mazy hallway. Moving out of the “movers” way had me amble closer to the hall, and I kept going until I crossed over into the biggest kitchen I’d ever stepped foot in. Spacious wouldn’t begin to describe its vastness. It was an open design and to the right was a stepdown, gated den. Windows all over dazzled the home, but it made the white outfitted decor sparkle.

  “Aye, yo, Parker,” Fats called from behind me. “I gotta help them finish unpacking the truck and ya car. I need ya keys.”

  I turned and Fats was placing the big keyring he tried handing me seconds ago on the white marble island countertop.

  He didn’t understand.

  “Fats, I can’t stay—”

  “Oh, yeah.” He stepped into my person, taking my car key from my hand. “A bed ‘posed to be here between twelve and four.”

  “Bed?”

  Fats strode out of the kitchen, headed for the front door.

  She came bustling into the doors of the coffee shop dislodging her sopping umbrella. inga’s boy short bleach blonde tapered hair style was still in perfect place. Her eyes brightened when she located me near the wall, and in her approach, her London Fog duster dripped and Stuart Weitzman tassel flats pattered quickly toward me.

 
; She slowed just a few feet away. The awkwardness of the haul forced my obligatory smile. Then my mother took to the seat across from me.

  “Wow,” she breathed with a beautiful smile. A warming throwback to better days. “A latte.”

  “Yeah. The kid looked at me like I was crazy when I asked him to split it into two cups.” A wry smile formed on my face. “This place is nice. You come often?” My regard swept the room.

  “Not that often. I’ve been in an affair with a Kureg since last fall. They erected this place in January.”

  I nodded as a couple walked inside, heading straight to the counter.

  “So,” I turned to face my mother again. “I’m glad you called.”

  My brows furrowed and a soft grin lifted on my face from mixed feelings. “So am I.”

  She took a sip from her mug. “You’re gorgeous, Parker. You know that?”

  Whoa! I didn’t think she’d ever called me anything but challenging since middle school. As powerful as those words would have been since then, today they were simply a nice gesture.

  I took a deep breath, sitting back. “Thanks. I haven’t been feeling that way lately.”

  She placed the mug down and neared me with an expression of deep concern. “What’s been going on?”

  “A little bit of counseling. You know… That tool needed for misguided kids, who grow into chaotic adults.”

  “Counseling?”

  I should have shared how my therapist pushed me to seek out my Pastor’s counsel, but that would have been pushing it.

  I waved the concept off, bringing my elbows to the table. “I’m being melodramatic…auto-sarcasm that switches on when I’m in your presence.”

  Her eyes fell into her lap. “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be. I developed it to survive your missiles of critiques.” I sucked in a deep breath and my regard fell, too. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “It’s okay. Really.” Her hand reached across the table, but she didn’t touch me. “It’s okay.”

  I shook my head, chin still to my chest. “It’s not. It really isn’t.” It took a few seconds to gather myself. I lifted my head. “I’ve had three long sessions of counseling with my Pastor over the past two weeks. And when I say long…” I rolled my eyes. “The money the man could have made from me for each three-plus hours of my issues…”

  “I didn’t know you went to church.”

  “It hasn’t been that long, but it’s been one of my best self-investments. Nothing like grandma’s religious obligations. More like a spiritual awakening for me.”

  “I’m glad you’re finding it useful. I’m a strong proponent for therapy, you know?”

  “Even if it’s a man?”

  “Well…” She shrugged. “The end result is what counts. Right?” her tone wasn’t convincing, but something else was.

  “You’re really committed to convincing me you’ve been cloned, aren’t you?”

  “Parker, it’s been years since we’ve been connected. Even adults have room to grow up.”

  I nodded, agreeing with that notion. “I’m no longer at Jimmy’s.”

  Her face lit with surprise. “You left him?”

  Mine folded. “It depends on which sense you’re referring to. We hadn’t been ‘together’ in years. And no. It wasn’t my decision to leave exactly. His kids evicted me.”

  “Who’s there taking care of t him now?”

  “He’s not there. He’s been transferred to a hospice facility.”

  “When was this? Has it been better for him there?”

  “He left over two weeks ago, and I don’t know how he’s been. I only know where he is because my boss told me last week when I finally asked him. He didn’t know Jimmy had been put in a facility. He contacted Jimmy’s family and was given the information. I haven’t seen him since he left the house.” And that had been the most painful part of this transition in my life.

  “Where have you been staying?”

  I took a deep breath and rolled my eyes. “In a house.”

  “A boarding house?” she trilled.

  “No.” I shook my head, not knowing which words to choose to explain. “It’s my home on paper—well…” I massaged my temples.

  The day after Fats moved me into the house, a courier delivered legal papers. The documents contained a proposal that my name would be on the deed of the house but the mortgage had been settled by Rutledge Kadar Amare. The paperwork dated as early July, weeks before I’d seen the place. I’d still been confused about this. And since training season wouldn’t be over until next week, I hadn’t talked to Rut about it. In fact, my communication with Rut had been sparse. He had a security system installed and a bed, washer, and dryer delivered. And he sent Fats back with cash for me to get settled in the place with. But no answers and very little communication, letting me know he’d still been upset.

  “I don’t get it,” that authoritative tone I’d always known reared.

  Taking a deep breath, I sat up and gripped my coffee mug. My eyes were to my joined thumbs.

  “You remember how grandma used to have the wackiest dreams and would declare things behind them?”

  inga scoffed. “Yeah. Like the one time she dreamt that racist ass pizzeria burned down? In all of her Jesus crazy, she marched down there and told Paulie unless they changed their ways, the days of the shop would be numbered?” I sputtered a laugh, vividly remembering that day. I was with her and told my mother how she dragged me by my little fist to that place. “Yeah.” inga snickered a bit, too.

  “She did that a lot, didn’t she?”

  “You have no idea. I spent more time with her than you. Way more moons.”

  “But the pizza shop didn’t burn down.” My focus went back to the mug in my hands.

  “No. The building was condemned about two years later.”

  I nodded, peering up at her. “Some would argue her dream was true.”

  inga bit her lips together. “In retrospect, she was right on a lot of her craziness. Those dreams of hers could be as accurate as they were crazy.”

  “So was yours.” My words were quick and piercing, I could tell by the flip in her eyes.

  inga didn’t speak. I reached down into my bag near my feet and pulled out a picture frame. As I rotated it her way, my lungs leaped and I rebuked myself for nearly breaking.

  “I’ll be in my second trimester on Saturday.” An errant tear slipped and, quickly, I swiped it away, unable to look at her. This was harder than I thought it would be. “I’m sure you’ve seen the blog posts; you’re on social media. Thanks for not making it a point of criticism. And before you ask; no. He’s not my knight in shining armor. We were friends.” A betraying tear of mucous shot from my nostril and I swiped that, too. “Good friends, who expressed our feelings for each other in a reckless manner. I’m not foolish. I have no expectations of him. You’d be happy to know I have a fair amount of inga grayson in my blood.”

  “Does this mean he’s not going to be involved?” I heard the tears in her voice and peered up to see them pooling in her eyes, too.

  My mother had an emotional connection to me. Holy crap! This was hard to get used to.

  I forged a smile of strength. “It means I’ll—we’ll be okay. It means you were not the worst kind of mother for teaching me independence and despising the naïve storybook-guided psyche I carried as a little girl. It means I understand you disciplined me the way you understood the world to be. One of my breakthroughs over the past two weeks in counseling is how I may be my own woman, but so much of me is your good intentions and not your poor delivery.”

  Her face was glossed with tears, and for the first time in my life, inga grayson was speechless.

  “I’m in the deepest pain I’ve experienced in years, but I know I’ll survive it. I have so much to look forward to. My time is up. I’ll be having a child who I’ll have to shape and mold, too. I’ll have to give the best of me, too, to ensure their development and survival in this ugly w
orld. One of the biggest demons I have to tackle right now is—”

  “Forgiveness,” her delivery was low, throaty as her eyes were fixed onto me.

  I nodded, ghosted by her accuracy. “I have to let go of all the bitterness. All of the years I felt misunderstood by my only parent. All of the years I hoped my father would knock on the door and help you understand me. I have to let go of all the times you were mean to my grandfather and treated him like an adversary instead of your flesh and blood. I have to revisit the day I decided I’d cross over to a non-kin place, too, believing it would numb the pain. Cutting you off was wrong of me.” I had to look her in the eyes for this part.

  It was something Pastor Carmichael made so clear to me.

  “You didn’t ask me to leave your life. I did it cowardly. I couldn’t take my own disappointment from not being as purposed as you’d always been. You had a crisp idea of what you wanted to do in life. You knew who you were. I didn’t, and rejected your guidance. I decided to go into chemistry instead of women’s study, knowing I didn’t have the capacity for it. I decided to forego a career in that field or going back to school for another degree, and went into cheerleading instead. I decided to get a crappy, dead end job instead of living up to the potential you made clear to me. And it was my choice to move in with a man older than you as a shortcut to fulfilling that potential.”

  I took a deep breath and swallowed back the impending, roaring cry. My God, admitting to your crap was painful. When a soft, shaking hand reached for mine, I let go of the air holding in my lungs and cried.

  Shaking my head, I blubbered, “I swear, I didn’t mean to do this here.”

  “It’s okay. It’s been a long time coming. And so has my list of apologies. There are too many to itemize in public. But, sweetheart, I’m sorry for projecting my pain and implementing them into parenting you. I dragged you into my pain and anger toward my father and that wasn’t right. I kept you from your own father and I could never forgive myself for it. Ever.”

  I was able to peer up at her.