The Demise of Alexis Vancamp

by Karen P. Williams

  “Come on, man, let’s go for a walk.” He walked toward the door, paused, and looked over his shoulder at me. “Alexis. I’ll be back.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Maybe. Maybe no. Me be outside,” the Jamaican man said before walking out the door.

  “Santana.”

  He put a hand up at me. “Stop. I told you about that.” He slipped out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  I closed my mouth and swallowed up the last of my sentence, in which I was going to question him on who this man was. I felt his business with Santana was something illegal, like drugs. I wondered if Santana was selling them for this man. What else could it be? The man seemed like a crook. He seemed like bad news. I would have to find a way to get Santana to tell me who he was and why he was now popping up at my house. I wondered if Santana had given him my address.

  I got up and slipped into the shower. I did this so I could keep myself engaged in something until he came back. Once out of the shower, I dried off and slipped on a nightgown. I went into the kitchen and warmed up the dinner. I placed two plates on the table and set the two platters of fettuccine Alfredo and king crab legs in the middle. I pulled out a bottle of merlot and a bottle of Hennessy. Sometimes, during dinner, Santana liked to sip on Hennessy.

  Chapter 13

  A whole hour had passed and Santana had not come back. I ate a little of the food and patiently waited. When two more hours passed, I called Santana’s cell. He wouldn’t pick up. When I caught myself stressing, I reminded myself that I was a woman of faith. I didn’t worry. My mother had always taught me that. I stayed up and watched TV. When my eyes got too heavy, I ended up dozing off on the couch.

  When I felt someone carrying me into the bedroom, I opened my eyes and saw Santana looking down at me.

  I moaned and stretched in his arms. “Baby. What happened? Where you been? What did he want with you? Are you in trouble?”

  He carried me into the room and laid me on the bed. Then he sat next to me. “Damn! Which one do you want me to answer? You know I’m a private-ass nigga and I don’t involve you in my personal business. Yet you still question me.”

  “Well, he came to my home so it makes the situation a little different don’t you think?” I tried to keep any type of attitude out of my voice because I knew he didn’t like that.

  “That shit won’t happen again. Trust. He just a nigga from my old neighborhood and he needs some soldiers to put in some work for him. At first, with the situation of me needing a place to stay, I was on it. That’s why they were there that day you just popped up at my crib. But when we moved in together, I decided I wanted to do right by you. So I got back at him and I told him no. I wanted any illegal activity to be a part of my past. I’m almost thirty years old. I guess he came back around and propositioned me again because he knows I’m a good and loyal solider. But I turned him down again. All that shit he was talking was just that. Talk. He ain’t gonna do shit.”

  I knew by “soldiers” and “putting in work,” whatever the Jamaican man wanted him to do had to be something illegal. Maybe drugs or guns. And I knew I should just accept what he told me and leave it alone but I asked anyway, “Soldiers for what?”

  He scowled at me. “Here you go. It won’t stop with the questions! I’m not telling you no more information. Just know he won’t be coming here anymore.” He slapped me on my ass. “Get up and make me something to eat.”

  I jumped from the bed and rushed into the kitchen. He followed me. I didn’t want to make him angry so I was quiet for a minute as I warmed up the leftover food from Outback.

  I served him the pasta and crab legs, sat across from him and watched him eat. He ate the food with a massive frown on his face. There was awkward silence.

  “Man. Take your ass to sleep!” he snapped in an irritated voice.

  I got up from the table, did as he ordered. I didn’t want to piss him off any further.

  The last thing I was trying to do was pry. I just couldn’t help but be curious about the guy. But I should have just accepted what he said and left it at that. I was also glad he had done the right thing and turned him down.

  A few minutes later, Santana came into the room. He belched and closed the door.

  I turned my head on my pillow and watched him pull off his boxers and get in the bed. I turned back on my side. I soon felt his hands shove my nightgown up and rub on my bare bottom.

  I kept silent as he lifted one of my legs in the air. His hardness pressed against my thigh. He stuffed it into my pussy. I wasn’t wet. I was super tight and dry but as soon as his ten inches completely filled me, my walls loosened up and I became super slick with cream. I moaned as he pumped in a rough manner.

  “Stay the fuck out of my business. You hear me, girl?” He jabbed me roughly.

  “Okay, baby. Sorry.”

  He gripped my hips and slammed in and out of me.

  I cried out loudly.

  “Who the fuck is your nigga?”

  “You are, baby!”

  He was putting it on me. Dicking me down majorly.

  “Then let me handle shit. And stop fucking questioning me!” He pulled his dick all the way out, making me protest. “You want this dick back in you huh?”

  I moaned as the head of his dick slipped back into me.

  He tossed me aside, got up, and yanked me off the bed by one of my hands. Next thing I knew, Santana had me standing with my legs shoulder length apart and holding on to the walls. He jabbed and jabbed me in my pussy. Nut was literally leaking down my inner thighs.

  “You fucking with a real nigga now.” He continued to fuck the shit out of me, sticking a finger in my asshole as he continued to go inside of me. It was all I could take. I screamed, losing all the strength in my body. Unable to stand, I slid to the ground, cumming all over myself.

  He started laughing. “I don’t know if you can handle a nigga like me.” He tossed me on my back, spread my legs wide, and entered me again.

  I didn’t say anything because my body was still convulsing and he continued to fuck me, making me have orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. In all honesty, sometimes I didn’t know if I could handle a man like him either. But I wanted him so bad that I was going to try my absolute best to keep him.

  Chapter 14

  Santana’s anger melted away over the weekend and we went to church. Since I was going to sing another solo, I made sure I looked nice. I wore a real pretty dress. It was red, fuchsia, yellow, and blue. The print was floral and it bunched at the waist and billowed out to my knees. I wore a pair of Red Bottom fuchsia pumps. I also placed a few curls in my usually straight mane.

  When I asked Santana how I looked, he said, “You know you a looker. I bet all them niggas on the congregation want to fuck you and they mad at me ’cause they can’t.”

  I laughed, not because the joke was necessarily funny, but because he was no longer angry at me anymore for prying and he was now engaging with me.

  Once we made it to the church doors, we walked inside, hand in hand. I dared anyone to say something to me about bringing him. In my opinion, some of the members of my church were nothing but hypocrites. What happened to, “Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future”?

  As we walked inside the church that I had grown up in, I kept my head held high, proud to have Santana on my arm.

  I glanced at my watch. We were early. The actual service hadn’t started yet.

  I ignored all the stares. The only one in the church who I knew wouldn’t judge me was Justin. But he was still out of town. He had gone to meet with a producer in New York. I couldn’t wait until he came back. Then I would at least have someone in the church to talk to. But then again maybe he would judge me just like everyone else.

  Santana sat in the back pew. I started to ask him to sit with me next to my mother but I stopped myself. I knew neither of them would want to be near each other.

  I blew him a kiss and walked up to my mother, who was se
ated in the front row. She was fiddling with her phone. I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Mommy,” I said cheerfully.

  “Hi,” she said dryly.

  Not knowing what to say, I asked, “Is that weirdo still calling you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you just change your number?”

  “Because I have a lot of contacts and I’m not going to inconvenience myself or them because some sicko wants to play on a fifty-year-old woman’s phone. Or better yet, someone your father is screwing.”

  I gave her a doubtful look. “Mom. Daddy is not doing that. After all these years why would he?”

  “Because people change that’s why. Just go with the choir,” she ordered. I knew she wanted to say more but didn’t want anyone in the church to hear . . . She didn’t ask me about Santana. That bothered me. When I was with Dannon, she had always asked me how he was, baked him goodies, bought him gifts and whatnot. He was so spoiled. Yet, she still was refusing to accept Santana. It bothered me but I didn’t want to argue. So I said, “All right, Mommy.”

  We usually started our worship service by singing a few selections. As I sang, Santana’s eyes locked with mine and he didn’t look away. It showed the power of the emotions between the two of us.

  After our selection, the praise dancers performed. My sister was in the group of four girls. I watched Santana laugh at them and shake his head. I knew he was probably laughing at my sister. She was a little demon trying to resemble an angel, with her all-white long, flowing dress and bare feet.

  Next was the pastor’s sermon. Santana appeared to really be listening. It was Proverbs 3.

  They did the offering, gave visitors the opportunity to become members, and then it was time for me to close out the service by singing my solo. I started singing “I Trust You.” My mother instantly got teary-eyed. My father did as well. And even though my sister had been a bitch to me lately I could tell she equally admired my voice.

  Before I finished, I saw one of the women sitting in the pews get up. She caught Santana’s attention and he watched her sashay down the aisle. As I felt my jealously set in, I reminded myself that all men looked; it meant nothing. She had a big ass and I had a big ass, so what? If I was walking down the aisle and her man was sitting in the pew, he probably would look at me. So none of that bothered me. What bothered me was when she turned to him and slyly did a “come hither” with her index finger. And without a moment’s hesitation, he got up and followed her out of the church. That bothered the hell out of me and made me switch my next four words, which were supposed to be “I Trust You Lord,” to “fucking bitch!”

  I received a chorus of gasps.

  My sister laughed and shook her head at me while my mother and father both looked mortified.

  I closed my eyes briefly and tried to go on with the song. That was a struggle for me. The whole time I was wondering where the hell he was going with that bitch. I had never even seen her in our church before. Still, I had to finish the song. I continued with the song, hoping that if I hit the high note (which I normally could) that would make them all forget that I just dropped the F and B bombs in church. I tried to concentrate on the words but all I saw were images of him and her. Maybe her sliding him her number, or maybe she was rubbing up against my man.

  Fucking whore!

  I wanted to kill her. I sped up the remaining words of the song. This left the band looking at me like I was crazy. I ignored them. With just three lines of the song left, I watched the doors of the church burst open and Santana run back inside.

  The two Jamaican men I had seen at my house were chasing after him with guns drawn. Santana ran toward the stage. I dropped the microphone as they went after him. Once they caught him they started whipping on him.

  I watched fearfully.

  I heard more gasps and screams from members of the church. Santana was getting physically assaulted and there was nothing I could do about it. I screamed as one of them stomped Santana in his head. The brown-skinned one waved a gun at the entire church so everyone stood frozen and watched helplessly.

  “Pussy clot!” the assaulter yelled and continued to whip on him.

  My hand was over my mouth as Santana yelled out from the pain. Every time he yelled I screamed and begged them to stop.

  I felt so helpless.

  “Me want what’s owed. Twenty-four hours, pussy clot.”

  He gave Santana one final punch and the man holding the gun kicked him in the face, making me cry out again. Then they walked out of the church.

  Santana howled out in pain. “Babe!” he yelled.

  “I’m here!” I rushed over to help Santana. “We need to get you to a hospital now.”

  “No. Fuck the hospital.” He struggled to stand to his feet.

  “Get him out of this church!” my mother yelled. “He is never welcome here again got-dammit!” She stormed off while the rest of the church watched us like we were a movie, our every move.

  My father was kind enough to help me get Santana up and helped him outside to the car. “Santana, I really think you need to go to the hospital.”

  “No, baby, just . . . Let’s go home. I’ll be okay.”

  “Okay.”

  My dad was silent and simply helped him into the passenger seat.

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  “All right,” was all he said, not giving me eye contact.

  I rushed over to the driver’s side, got in, started the ignition, and drove us home.

  Once we got home, I laid Santana on the couch. I cleaned his busted lip and bloody nose, and gave him some ice wrapped in a paper towel for the knots on his forehead. I also gave him two Motrin and a glass of water. As I did this, there were so many thoughts flying through my head. First off, who was the woman who beckoned him outside? Why did Santana go? Was he trying to get her number? And why the hell did those two men who he claimed simply wanted him to work for them attack him like that? There was a whole lot more to this story.

  I needed to know what the hell was going on. I knew there was no real way to find out other than asking.

  I took a deep breath. “Santana—”

  “Look. Before you start, let me explain, baby. I wasn’t one hundred percent honest with you.” He struggled to sit up on the couch. Once he was in a sitting position, he coughed, grimaced, and grabbed at his ribcage. I figured it was hurting from all the kicking.

  “I know I told you that they wanted me to put in some work for them and that I turned them down. The thing is, I did put in work for them.”

  “Santana! Was it drugs?”

  “No. Just listen. They involved in white-collar shit. Credit cards. They sell the cards for three stacks a piece and the credit limit be like ten thousand. Them goat-breath muthafuckas fronted me a couple cards and I sold them shits in a few hours. Shit was crazy. It was better than dope money. So I bought some more cards. Hell, a nigga was on.” He aimed a finger at me. “One thing you gotta always remember is niggas is always watching your shit. You think you on a come up and you really they next come up. Niggas ran up in my spot and robbed my ass. That was another reason I pressured you into letting me move in with you. I was trying to buy some time to get the money for those cards. I tried to explain the situation to Dylan but he didn’t want to hear that shit.” Oh Lord. Santana was involved in white-collar crime. He had lied to me. And the fact that he held on to this secret all this time greatly disappointed me. Santana should have never gotten involved with those two men. Not to mention that he could have gotten a lot of time if he had gotten caught. Good thing he stopped after the robbery. Or did he? I was disappointed about the fact that Santana made it seem like his illegal activity was a part of his past.

  “And who was the girl?” I demanded.

  “I don’t know that bitch. That was a setup for me to go outside. She obviously works for Dylan.”

  “If you didn’t know her why did you go?”

  “Man, you seriously asking me about another bitch at a tim
e like this? Why would I try to get at a girl at your church? I went outside to smoke a cigarette. I didn’t want to get up and cause no type of disruption so when that bitch went, I said fuck it and went. It could have been a nigga who went outside and I would have still went. If she was a nigga you wouldn’t be asking me this.”

  I sighed, relieved that it wasn’t what I thought it was. But there was still more worry because he did, after all, owe debt to two men who just beat the shit out of him.

  “How much money do you owe them?”

  “Twenty stacks.”

  Instantly my mind calculated how much money I had in my savings and how much I could get off my credit card. While I certainly could get some of the money he owed, I didn’t have $20,000 at my disposal. Lord knows that I should have, but I had always been a shopaholic. This addiction had never been a problem for me before. Now it was. The only people I knew who had that amount of money at their disposal were my parents. But they weren’t going to just give it to me without a very good explanation. Knowing my mom, who was so inquisitive, she probably would figure out who it was for right off the bat.

  “Baby. Say something.” He pleaded with his eyes. “I need you.”

  My eyes started to water because I felt so distressed. “What will happen if you don’t pay them?”

  “Them fucking Jamaicans are ruthless. You saw what they did to me inside of a church.”

  His next choice of words had my eyes wide and my stomach doing flip-flops.

  “Them niggas are probably going to kill me.”

  Then Santana did something I had never seen him do before: he broke down crying and crawled toward me, burying his head in my lap. I held him and rubbed his back, never in my life feeling so needed by a person.

  To comfort him I said, “Don’t worry, baby. Calm down. I’m going to figure this out. I promise.”

  Chapter 15