Copyright © 2013 Laurina C Osborne
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1490344748
ISBN-13: 9781490344744
ebook ISBN: 978-1-63003-411-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013910767
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, to events or locales is purely coincidental.
Thanks to the usual suspects: Deserie Osborne, Paulette Thomas, Joycelyn Tuitt and friends and family who took the time and tossed their two cents in. Your time and feedback are very important to me. Coming up with ideas and following through is not always easy, so thanks to Donovan Dixon, Junor Grant and Vierne Placide for sharing with me so very candidly. I appreciate you all.
Andrew Skerritt, what can I say? The more we do this the more I appreciate you. Time is not always easy to find and when you do take the time I’m always open to rewarding you.
Thanks.
My loyal readers, you have made this next step possible. Thanks for your support and as long as you continue to read I will keep them coming.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
I’m a thirty-nine-year-old virgin. I run for my life. I put on my running shoes and pound the hell out of the earth to make it easier to live the life I have built for myself. I have two sons in college, just finished my doctorate in education, and I’m about to go crazy.
A month ago, my father, a man I have not seen since I was four, came back into my life. His face glued itself to my brain like a stamp, and time won’t erase it. I saw him the way I did when I was four. I felt as if I was outside my body, as if I was hallucinating. That same week, I was sitting on the toilet in the bathroom at work wondering what the hell was going on with me, when I heard them whispering.
I listened.
It was about sex, so I went back to holding my head and telling myself I had a tumor. What else could it be?
“Girl, when he sucked on me, it was the most pleasurable thing I had ever felt.”
I picked up my head again and listened. They giggled and whispered and giggled some more.
I listened harder.
“Did you come?” another voice asked.
“No, I held it and thought about something else, and as soon as I calmed down and felt what he was doing to me, I couldn’t wait.”
“Was it your first time?”
“Of course not, but it was the first time being sucked felt so good. Every time I think about it I get goose bumps. I’d give anything to feel that again.”
The door opened and someone else entered the bathroom. They giggled again.
I felt sad. I held my stomach and wondered what oral sex felt like. I’ve never had it and have never wanted it, but now a month later my father and oral sex are sitting in the front of my brain and driving me absolutely mad. On top of that, the New York office of my company was being bought by a foreign corporation, and the job I was promised when my boss retired is up in the air.
In addition to hallucinations and fantasy, I feel as if someone is following me; so after work, I meet my sister for dinner to talk far away from her idiot husband.
“Zoi, if something was wrong with me, could you bring yourself to have me committed?”
“Nothing is wrong with you. You’re the most rational person I know.”
“Do you remember Daddy at all?” I ask, knowing that she was only two years old the last time she saw him.
“Of course not. Why?”
“About two months ago, he just popped into my brain and I can see his face as clearly as if it was yesterday. And now I can feel his presence so much it’s as if someone is watching me.”
She looks at me quizzically as she chews slowly.
“Is it like when … you felt he died?”
“You remember that?”
“I wish I didn’t. I thought you were going to die too, especially when those witch … people covered you with bushes and put you on a hot bed of coal. I was never so frightened in all my life.”
“It’s not as bad as that, but it’s something … mentally … it’s the flip side of that. I’m not feeling pain, but there’s a heightened awareness that makes me feel vulnerable and open.”
She stares at my face as if in thought.
“You’re just tripping because for the first time in your life you have nothing to do except go to work and teach that class. You’re accustomed to juggling six different things at once and now you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
“Maybe you’re right and I’m just tripping, but if for whatever reason … you know … you have my permission to do what you believe is necessary to get me the help I need.”
She laughs. “I’ll tell my husband; he’ll be happy to do it for me.”
I laugh too.
Darnell Whitney, Zoi’s husband, and I have a love-hate relationship. Three years ago, Zoi and I moved to Brooklyn from the Bronx because of a white man she was seeing. She felt she couldn’t bring him into the mess we called home in the Bronx, and since I love her and she loved him, we bought a brownstone. But after we moved here, things went south for the first white man when Darnell showed up literally chasing booty.
One day, he was driving on our block while I was in the park across the street stretching, with my head between my ankles and my butt pointed toward the sky. He came back looking for that behind and found Zoi’s face. He attached my behind to her face and anyone who does that is an idiot. It took him six months before he realized he picked the wrong booty. There are no regrets; he’s white and not my type.
I’m a head case, or at least that’s what the last guy I slept with called me. He’s right. I seem to store the bad things in my head. When I was growing up on the island of St. Matthews, kids used to say I was black like pot. Have you seen a pot covered with soot from a million wood-burning fires? That translated in my head to mean ugly and not good enough, less than and therefore worthless. My parents named me Eunella Veronica Blakely. Who names their child Eunella? It may start with an “E” but pronounced as a “U” and therefore ugly. My chances were shot from the start. My sister is Zoi Serah. Both of her names say beautiful, and because she was very light-skinned, people tended to compare us. They always preferred her.
No one ever told me to my face that I was ugly. As a matter of fact, I’m better looking than Zoi but … black like pot outweighs any beauty competition I may have mentally won over Zoi.
Zoi is my sister, my confidante, my best friend, the love of my life. I have always felt responsible for her. When I was four, Daddy held me by my arms and said, “Eunella, look after your sister; don’t let anything happen to her,” and I took him seriously. I would give my life for her, and she would do the same for me. We banded together to raise our three boys vowing not to let any man come between us until our kids went off to college. Two years ago, we finally decided to live in separate apartments. Since she lives upstairs from me, we see each other almost every day.
On the day of the big merger discussions, I don’t want to be here. I�
��m ready to take a break and maybe do something different, so when my boss is asked to make a case to keep his job, I’m unconcerned. I should be anxious; in a year that job will be mine, if he’s successful. I should get up and say that, because whatever case he makes must be in my best interest too. Frankly, he has nothing to lose and should not be making this presentation. I feel the eyes turned on me expecting my objection, but I calmly disregard them and turn my attention to the speaker who has no idea of my capabilities.
Listening to him drone on, I can’t help but marvel at how far I’ve come. I started here twelve years ago as a weekend temp and worked my way up to vice president of the New York office. When I arrived in this country with three kids in tow, my great aunt obtained a housekeeping job for me at a Bronx hospital. I appreciated the pay, but I never pictured myself mopping floors and cleaning windows. Meanwhile, Zoi pursued her bachelor’s and worked full time in the hospital’s registration office. She had it made. The hospital paid for her tuition and expected her to join the administrative staff after she graduated. Of course, Zoi had other ideas.
And me? I cleaned hospital toilets on weekdays, took care of the kids at night, then stayed up late studying for my GED. Afterward, I attended college part time. On Saturdays, I worked as a receptionist. Sundays was no day of rest. I gave the boys extra lessons, did laundry, cleaned the apartment and cooked for the week.
Roland and Zander are my sons. Etienne is Zoi’s son whom she had at age fourteen. When she got pregnant before sitting her O’level exams, our grandmother had no choice but to beg her sister in the States to take in Zoi, so she could finish her education. Zoi left at sixteen and I became Etienne’s guardian. By then, I was already a wife and mother.
At sixteen, I married a man I hardly knew. His mother told my dying grandmother her son needed a wife and the girl who was “black like pot” would make him a good match. Instead my grandmother tried to convince her that Zoi would be a better wife to Keith. At the time, Zoi’s pregnancy wasn’t showing. Marriage would hide our shame. But Mrs. Ward, the would-be groom’s mother and wife of the former chief minister, was fixated on me. Eventually, my grandmother relented and begged me to say yes, so she could rest in peace.
The idea that I was going to be someone’s wife made me feel important. But being married to Keith was bittersweet, like drinking vinegar then eating mangoes. Everybody knew his mother wanted him to follow in his father’s footsteps. I was attracted to the possibility of who Keith might become, but I really liked his brother, Matt.
Matt and Keith were like a rottweiler and a poodle. Keith possessed a mean streak. Matt, the younger, was gentle and couldn’t mash a fly. Keith stood tall and medium build. Matt was shorter, stocky. Some people called him fat. I didn’t think he was fat. He was big boned with a flat stomach and a brain I admired. Matt and I talked about school work and argued about politics. I liked the way he understood me. I was rough and loud sometimes, but I had to be, so people wouldn’t walk all over me and show me some respect. Matt saw through my rough façade and dark pigmentation. He smiled at me even when I had what my grandmother would call my hog face on.
However, everything changed between us one morning on the school bus. We sat on the only rear facing seat in the vehicle. We would normally read or check our homework. That day, I was jumpy, so I stared out the window hoping he would ask me what was wrong or just tried to cheer me up. I finally turned to him as the bus took a deep corner and he squeezed me into the side. I looked at him and he was sweating and turning red. As the bus righted itself, I jumped out of my seat, pushed some people and yelled at the bus driver to stop. He glared up at me and I screamed louder for him to stop the bus.
He pulled to the side and braked hard, almost sending me through the windshield. After he opened the door, I pushed other students out of the way, hurriedly followed Matt down the steps and off the bus. He vomited and the smell was so offensive that even those on the bus held their noses. The driver got off, grabbed my arm and pulled me away from where Matt stood bent over still emptying his stomach. He was so close to my face I smelled stale alcohol on his breath. Between clinched teeth he asked me who dared me to talk to him that way. I tried to explain that the matter was urgent, and obviously I was right because Matt was sick. The driver shoved me and told me to walk to school until I learned some manners.
Zoi got off the bus while the driver tended to Matt, because he was the former chief minister’s son and former CMs can become the present CM. Zoi handed me my book bag and stood with me as the bus left us about a mile from school. Matt barely talked to me after that. I could have asked him what I did wrong, but to hell with him. I saved the whole bus from his stinking vomit, and he came out of it smelling like a rose. I missed his friendship. It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends, but Matt was a guy and I never had to worry about him hurting my feelings or trying to feel me up. I trusted him to be on my side.
We didn’t get together as friends again until a year and a half later while studying for A-level exams. I was over the incident, and he never brought it up. That was the year Zoi got pregnant. I was so busy trying to do my best I took a break from humiliating her boyfriends. One sneaked under my radar. Zoi took it as approval to go all the way. She said she loved him, but Clyde was scum. When he got his papers to migrate to Canada and never looked back, Zoi finally figured it out for herself.
Three months into my craziness, my boss and I are staying at a hotel in Richmond, British Columbia, to give a presentation for the top job in the New York office. My boss convinces me I should take his place and give the presentation. Of course, he waited until we arrived at the hotel to tell me. It’s not a big deal because we both worked on it and I’m comfortable with the material; however, I have not decided that I even want to be a part of the new company and yes, I have options. A former faculty member in the doctorate program has recommended me to be an assistant professor in the English department at his university and I’m definitely considering it. I also need a break and a severance package looks pretty good.
Knowing this, should I in all fairness give this presentation?
Around three o’clock the day before, the weather is cool, so I decide to go for a run. I jog a mile to the trails then run three more miles before I turn around and walk back to the hotel. By then, I’m good and tired and looking forward to a long night’s sleep after dinner. As I enter the hotel, I stray into the wine shop. I sip on a bottle of water as I read the labels. I know nothing about wine, but Zoi loves sweet red wine, and although she’s pregnant, I’d like to take home a bottle for her. I’m prepared to browse and whatever catches my eye will be the bottle I buy unless someone tells me differently.
“May I help you?” he asks.
I turn toward the voice. He’s surprisingly cute, so I check him out. He’s not wearing a hotel uniform. I look toward the cash register and the wearer of the uniform is over there. I scrutinize him again, and although he’s not my type, I smile up at him.
“Okay, so you know wines. Tell me.”
“Actually, I know zilch,” he says, laughing.
I put the capped water bottle to my mouth and glare up at him in wonder. He towers over me.
“So, how did you plan on helping me,” I ask, sizing him again from head to toe. It’s something I can’t remember ever doing except maybe to married men who flirt with me.
He bites his red lip at one corner and gives me a self-conscious smile. I wait, but he says nothing.
“You could say you were offering me a boost, so I can see the wines on top; except the hotel is smart, they have the labels that are on the top placed down there where I can see them,” I say, pointing toward my knees.
I grin at him and he laughs out loud.
“You’ve got me. I couldn’t come up with a pickup line fast enough, but I would still like to invite you out to dinner, if you’re free.”
“Are you sure dinner was what you had in mind? You seem … tall and confident and a little bedazzled, so ask wha
t you really wanted to ask. Please … humor me,” I beg, feeling that vulnerability encircle my entire body.
He sees the seriousness in my eyes and gets serious too.
“I felt … feel … a deep attraction to you and wondered if maybe … sex was a possibility,” he says a little shame-faced.
I smile to put him at ease. “For being so brave and for telling the truth you should be rewarded,” I say, putting the capped bottle back between my teeth.
He grins. “Are you serious?” he asks in his Canadian accent.
I nod. “I’m not exactly myself. I’m on foreign soil and since we’ll never see each other again, why not?” I say without smiling.
“I am very much myself and Canada is my home. We can pretend that I’m the welcoming committee and whatever my guest needs I am here to provide.”
“Your guest would like your room number if you have one in the hotel.”
He clears his throat. “Room 1512,” he says.
“Would nine-thirty be too early?” I ask.
“Now would not be too early,” he replies with a broad smile.
“Well, I need a shower and something to eat, so I’ll see you then,” I say as I sashay past him, forgetting about the wine for Zoi.
Upstairs I let myself into my room and refuse to think about what I had just done. I have slept with three men in my entire life, but none of it had prepared me for the step I had just taken. I congratulate the tumor for letting me move beyond myself and a feeling of pleasure and surety gives me a sense of peace.
For dinner, I order room service then set my phone to alarm at eight-thirty. Asleep, I dream of putting flowers on my mother’s grave then sitting and talking to her. When my alarm wakes me, I’m more convinced than ever that I will see her soon. I shower with my body wash instead of the hotel issue soap, gargle with mouthwash, apply a touch of deodorant and lotion my feet. I love the smell of my body wash. Given my plans for the night, I hope the scent lasts.
At nine-twenty-five, I stick my room key in the pocket of my light-green, velour sweat suit jacket and set off to meet guest No. 1512. I’m amused that I don’t know his name, and he doesn’t know mine.
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