Her Savior

by Vera Roberts

  “I guess it went okay,” Daddy’s maid, Eloisa, hands me a sweet iced tea, and I politely thank her before she leaves us alone. “I don’t know if I’ll get it.”

  Daddy is currently looking over some papers and double-checking what he sees with a spreadsheet on his Mac book. His glasses are on the bridge of his nose and he looks over them to lock eyes with me. He’s not angry with me, nor is he disappointed.

  But you know how parents give you them looks that says, ‘You best not be telling me any bullshit’? That’s the look Daddy’s giving me now.

  “Did you give it one hundred?” He goes back to looking at the computer.

  That was always my Daddy’s way of asking me if I gave it my all or if I was just fucking around. Daddy may not have had a formal college education but he seemingly had a degree in analyzing bullshit. “I always give it one hundred but what I think what is one hundred might be fifty percent to somebody else.”

  “It doesn’t matter what other people think,” Daddy sternly warns me again, “if you give it your all, that’s all that matters.” He shut down the screen and takes off his glasses. “Never mind that, how do you feel about it? Do you like the firm? Do you like the people? What’s going on there?”

  It felt like a place where Negroes are usually clients and not employees. I did count a few brown faces but again, they were just enough but not an episode of Black Ink. “I think the only brown they’re used to might be their gardeners and maids. And maybe, the shit at the bottom of the toilets.”

  Daddy chuckles. “Watch your mouth, Face.” He chides. “If you wanna move up in life, baby girl, you need to get used to being one of the few or sometimes the only brown face you’ll see. White people nowadays are making it even harder for minorities to have a grip in society. They don’t mind us entertaining them, cleaning their clothes, shining their shoes, cooking their food, mowing their lawns, and raising their children. But when it comes to us having some equal footing, that’s when they draw the fucking line.” Daddy sighs. “That’s why you gotta step over that motherfucker and demand respect.”

  “I feel you,” I nod.

  “So,” Daddy interlocks his fingers together, “how’s that boy? Jalen is his name?”

  I’ve never lied to my Daddy and I’m not about to start, so I had to tell him about Jalen. Of course, Daddy didn’t and still doesn’t approve. It’s not because Jalen also deals but he just thinks he’s corny as shit and a try-hard.

  To be honest, I think my Daddy would prefer I wouldn’t be with someone who was about that life and he’s been strongly encouraging to expand my options as long as the dude I bring home doesn’t resemble Bieber, Timberlake, or any other pale white. “He’s good. I’m about to go see him after I leave here.”

  “Heh,” Daddy smirks. “I hope all is well.”

  That was Daddy’s way of saying, I hope that motherfucker ain’t wasting your time before I murk his ass. “All is well, Daddy.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Jones,” Eloisa came back in, “lunch is ready.”

  “Gracias, Eloisa,” Daddy nods to her, “hungry, Face?”

  I’m famished. That little bit of coffee I had earlier went right through a sista. “Starving.”

  Eloisa prepared chicken Caesar salad and broccoli cheddar soup for us. Daddy has an iced water while I opt for the peach iced tea. We sat in the backyard on one of the many patios as we talk about nonsensical things.

  I ask him if he was dating anyone and he tells me there are a few prospects but nothing serious. He asks me if I’m going to graduate on time and I promise him I will.

  It’s only a matter of time before the conversation turns to a topic that’s a bit of a sore subject for both of us. “How’s your moms?”

  Daddy knows damn good and well how my mother is doing. She’s on Hip-Hop Wives every Monday night at – you guessed it – VH1. “Really, Daddy?”

  Daddy shrugs, silently telling me he knows he doesn’t care but he’s being polite and trying to make conversation. “Just wondering how your relationship was with her now.”

  I haven’t spoken to my mother in years. And when I say spoken to, I mean having girl time, shopping trips, spa days, mother-daughter selfies, and the like.

  Instead, I get photo ops and special guest appearances on The Shade Room, where thirsty-ass niggas make lewd-ass comment about which one of us they want to tag team.

  My mother has always done her own thing. It’s a reason why I’ve always lived with my Daddy and not her. My mama didn’t want the burden of having a young daughter when she was trying to snatch a baller and Daddy wasn’t about to have me home alone or with some potential child molester.

  My memories of my mother don’t necessarily consist of her. I have a total of maybe, five pictures of us together. Five. Most people have so many photos with their parents, they can’t even keep track.

  My Daddy did the best he could to make sure I was always provided for and loved, but let’s keep it one hundred, there’s nothing like a mother’s love.

  “I don’t really talk to Andrea very much.” She’s always been Andrea to me. A parent has to earn the titles of Mommy and Daddy to be called that. “I only hear from her when she needs a storyline or she’s thirsty for likes.”

  “Sounds like ‘Drea,” Daddy chews his salad. He pauses for a brief moment and looks up at the bright Los Angeles sky. “You need to make amends with your mother, ‘Face. You only have one mother.”

  “I’ve tried making amends with her, Daddy,” I softly plead without sounding disrespectful, “I can only extend the olive branch so many times before I have to say forget it. She cares more about followers and likes than she does about blood.”

  “You ain’t gotta be friends with her. But you two need to come to terms with what your relationship will be like. You two might have a good relationship or you might not have a relationship at all. You still need to try, ‘Face.”

  I slightly shrug and eat my soup in peace. “I’ll try.” I can’t promise my Daddy anything but if he wants me to do something, there’s not a question I’ll obey.

  Four

  There’s a reason why I still live in Inglewood and not with my Daddy.

  My Granny’s home is here. When she died a few years ago, she left it to my Daddy, who in turn, gave it to me to live in once I turned 18. “You can sell it if you want and make a profit,” he advised, “or you can stay here and look after it until you get tired of it.”

  My Granny’s home is actually a duplex. My auntie lives in one home, while I live in the other. She’s still salty that Granny left the home to my Daddy in her will, but I know she ain’t that salty, because the only thing she pays for are bills and not rent so she needs to keep quiet.

  My home is two bedrooms and two bathrooms with a small living room and kitchen. The yards are of a decent size for how small the home is, but honestly, it’s enough space for a small cookout or smoking a blunt and listening to The Jacksons sing about good times.

  For a family, this would be too small but for me, it’s just right. I didn’t feel comfortable living by myself so my best friend, Tasha, is staying with me. She’s also living rent-free because we’re girls like that.

  But we do split the bills, though her cheap-ass has tried getting out of paying some. I told that bitch if she has enough money for yaki, she has enough money to pay for all the damn water and electric she’s using up.

  “Hey girl,” Tasha blows out a plume of smoke from her pipe. It’s not even two in the afternoon and she’s already half-baked. She’s not like Snoop Dogg who stays high but also stays employed. I often wonder how productive Tasha would be if she stopped smoking for a month.

  “Hey,” I reply to her as I drop off my messenger bag and slip out of my Gucci high heels. They’re cute AF but they also hurt like a motherfucker. No amount of Dr. Scholl’s can save my feet. “Whatchu up to?”

  Tasha shakes her long braids and takes another hit from the pipe. She’s dark-skinned, thick, and has a number of piercing
s and tattoos. She also discovered her newfound wokeness.

  I applaud her for that but I really wish she would stop sending them fake-ass IG memes and shit. I don’t think she even realizes half the shit she sends me are probably some shit a bored nigga thought of when he was higher than a damn kite himself. “Just woke up not that long ago. About to start driving soon.”

  Tasha’s a full-time Lyft driver, though my daddy and I told her that wasn’t a gig to have unless she had her own car and was doing it part-time to make some ends. But no matter how much advice you give someone to better themselves, some niggas are gonna nigga.

  “Oh, cool,” I reply. I sit across from her on the sofa. She offers me a hit but I decline. I have a feeling Jalen might be coming over soon and I don’t need to be high when that nigga shows up.

  He’s one of those fools that a girl needs to be fully aware of what’s going on at all times or he’ll try some shit like bending you over and playing with your ass, telling you he’ll just put the tip in.

  “How did it go today?” She asks and I shrug.

  “As well as it could go.” I quickly pull the hot-ass wig off my head and toss it aside, “I don’t know if I’ll get the internship but it’s worth a shot. I just need something on my resume so I when I start applying to the four-year universities, I’ll look better.”

  “I hope you get it, Kiesh,” her voice is smoky like just the air. I got used to smelling weed, though it’s not my preference. Yet, somehow, I learned how to roll a blunt with the precision of a world-class surgeon. I guess being a drug lord’s daughter taught me something.

  “I hope so, too.” I reply, unsure if it’s something I really want to have. It felt like one of those places that I would’ve been out of place and way over my head in, but I always get the feeling that might happen with me no matter where I go in life.

  It’s like I don’t want to stay in the hood but I’m not sure if my black ass is going to Spago anytime soon. I really just want some Popeye’s and be happy while I’m making bank. Is that too much to ask?

  “Junie’s coming over in a bit. He’s gonna stay the night.” She says.

  “That’s fine.” I stare out into space. “Jalen might come over but it’s still iffy.”

  Tasha shoots me a look and I know she’s about to say some shit I don’t like. Since she’s feeling a certain type of way, I’ll let sis say her peace. “You’re still with him?”

  I know this bitch didn’t just fix her mouth to say something about my relationship. Junie stands for Junebug, which is short for, oh, I don’t really fucking care. Ain’t like the nigga gon’ do anything with his life anyway. Each time he comes over, I swear that nigga smells like stale motel carpet, broken dreams, and wet dog with a side of Kimchi.

  He’s a dime a dozen SoundCloud rapper/producer/wanna be art heaux, and somewhere between graduating from high school and having big dreams to follow in the footsteps of Tyler, the Creator, and Chance the Rapper, Tasha’s nigga successfully morphed himself into Junie the No-Good Nigga Who Uses Up My WiFi.

  I don’t know why I’m so defensive about Jalen. It’s been well-established the only thing that nigga is good for is orgasms, but I feel I’m the only one who can talk shit about my nigga if that makes sense.

  “I wouldn’t go as far as saying I’m with him, but yes, he’s coming over tonight.” I reply.

  Tasha sighs and takes another hit from her pipe. “I don’t know what you see in him.”

  I see a night full of screaming and curled toes. “We’re not getting married and I ain’t gon’ be his baby mama so I don’t see the problem.”

  “I’m just saying you’re young, barely 21 and you need to explore more,” Tasha nods as if she’s proud of the advice she damn well knows she won’t follow her damn self. Every time her and Junie broke up, it’s because he initiated it. Yet, she keeps giving him chances like the blessed Pick Me chick she is. “That’s all.”

  “Point taken.” I get a notification on my phone and see it’s the Big Dick Bastard himself.

  How did it go today?

  I guess it went well, I text back.

  You home?

  Just arrived.

  Can I swing over for a bit?

  How long is a bit?

  A few hours, maybe.

  I don’t know what that means so you need to speak English.

  Can I come over and chill for a bit?

  Just chill?

  You can chill on this dick.

  Stop it with the sexy talk.

  I miss you, baby girl.

  You’re getting warm.

  I miss holding you.

  Warmer.

  I can’t wait for you to ride my tongue.

  It’s a bit warm in here.

  I want to suck on those titties as you ride my dick all night.

  It’s fucking Inferno in here.

  So, that’s a yes?

  Sure, come over.

  I toss my phone aside and yawn as I contemplate the next move in my life. If I don’t get this internship, I need to have a Plan B. Everyone knows I’m not going to stay in Inglewood and I’m not entirely sure I’ll even stay in Los Angeles.

  All I know is I want more out of life and I’m determined to get it.

  Five

  “Did you miss me?”

  I pinch two of my fingers together and he raises an eyebrow. I sigh and spread my hands apart to about the length of that glorious dick of his. He approvingly smiles.

  Jalen was supposed to show up around six. This nigga showed up a quarter to ten.

  I don’t even ask why it took him so long because I already know what the answer was – he had to make sure his corner was on lock and everyone who owed him money, actually paid. If they didn’t pay, he didn’t take too kindly on doing layaways.

  While my Daddy refused to sell to his own people, Jalen doesn’t have that issue. In his words, crack doesn’t care if the user is black, white, green, or purple. If someone wants a rock, he’ll be that supply.

  He’s not the sole reason why there’s so much drug usage in Inglewood but I’m pretty sure he has played a significant role. He’s number two in command of the Inglewood Kings, a notorious gang that has shown how ruthless they can be. They successfully control an apartment building where they do most of their operation.

  They’re also known for their generosity. Every Thanksgiving, they give away turkeys to those in need. Every Christmas, the poor families get bags full of toys, new clothing and shoes, and even, feminine products for the women (I’m proud to say that was my suggestion).

  Every girl has a guy she looks back with either great fondness or regret she wasted her time with that nigga. I’m not sure what area Jalen will be when all is said and done. But I’m not even thinking about that now.

  A sista needs her back blown the fuck out and guess who has the magic stick to do it?

  “Are you going to let me in?” His deep voice vibrates against the door and I feel it vibrate down to my yoni. Oh, I’m going to let the nigga in, all right. I’ll let him in all damn night.

  I step aside and Jalen walks in. He briefly looks around and makes his way to the bedroom to drop off his duffle bag. I lock up the front door and cross my arms, letting out a sigh.

  No-good niggas always have the best dick. They fail at everything else in life so they might as well be good at fucking. They know it, too, that’s why they get away with the shit they do.

  I already know Jalen and I aren’t gon’ last. If I’m trying to get the fuck up out of Inglewood and work with the white people in downtown L.A., having a drug lord as a boyfriend ain’t gon’ pass. Can you imagine that nigga showing up and taking me out to lunch? Yeah, neither can I.

  But still…he’s gonna have to be the Russell to my Robin a la Waiting to Exhale, without the married headass part. The only wife Jalen has is his stacks of Benjamin Franklin and he’s not about to divorce them.

  “Come here,” he beckons.

  I turn around and see that he’s
stripped down to his white tee and grey sweatpants. I just about lost my will to remain pure. Everything about this nigga is telling me no, but my punani is a loud-ass bitch when she wants to be. And she wants that dick.

  I walk over to him wearing nothing but too-small boy shorts and a white tee I stole from him. He loves the way it looks on me because he can see the outline of my big-ass titties through the shirt. My big ass swallowed up the boy shorts and well, we know I won’t be wearing these for very long.

  “Girl, you’re looking like a juicy fucking snack,” his voice comes out like a moan and yep, I’m already wet. He licks his lips and we both know I can’t wait to feel that tongue everywhere on my body. “You never did say if you miss me?”

  “I miss you, Zaddy,” I call him by the nickname that I know will get him going.

  He picks me up and carries me back to the bedroom where he already lit a couple of candles. “Tell me about the interview,” he lays me down on the bed.

  I sigh again as I watch him finally remove his clothing and I see his dick. It’s not hard but give it a few seconds, and it will be. “It went okay. I’m not sure if I’ll get it but I’m also not sure if I want it.”

  He pours some jojoba oil in his hand and wipes his hands together. He then massages my legs. It feels heavenly. “Why say that? What’s wrong with the place?”

  “Too rich,” I say, wondering why are we talking about my interview when his hands are all over my body like an octopus, “it feels like one of those places where they have an invisible sign – No Negroes Allowed.”

  Jalen chuckles. “Baby girl, every place is gonna be like that. Not that long ago, white people didn’t even want us to have the same drinking fountains as them. You need to prove to them why you belong there. If you don’t get it, it wasn’t meant for you and God got something better for you.”

  Now I figured out why I keep Jalen around. Despite his problematic headass, he knows when to give support without me asking for it. It doesn’t take away from him being a fuckboy but at least I know he has a heart somewhere in there.