by Tiana Laveen
A part of him hated to leave her like that, but he knew she’d not have it any other way.
He stepped out into the hall.
“Here’s the answer to your earlier question, honey.” He cocked his head to the side, lit a fresh cigarette, and drew on it. “I hate my mother because if it wasn’t for her, my father wouldn’t have been killed. He was shot because he confronted the man she was screwin’ around with, and the guy had company. A bunch of fellas were waitin’ on him, ready to ambush. Someone tipped him off. She denies it to this day, but everyone knows what went down. My mother was a fuckin’ slut, Andrea. A moofy pie. A drunken, sloppy, filthy, lying ass whore.” He placed his cigarette to his mouth. Smoke eddied past her, entering her apartment like his spirit leaving his body – traveling somewhere safe. “I haven’t spoken to her in years, and plan to keep it that way. I’m many things, Andrea, but one thing I’m not is a rat. A cheat. An idiot. A backstabber.”
“I never said you were.” She stood at her door, speaking in soft, soothing whispers.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I know you don’t understand me, or my mentality, but one thing I am is a man of my word. So, on that note, I’ll leave you in peace instead of pieces. I’m not some ragin’ animal out here.” He smirked. “You see me as some monster. I know that. I can’t change that. But I dig you. You’re my type.” He couldn’t help but look her up and down as his dick got hard. “I’ve made that clear. But that shit has to be a two-way street. You’re physically attracted to me, I felt it at the perfume counter, but the buck stops there. I will never grovel or beg for a bacon sandwich, a tit to suck, or a woman’s time, even from a pretty as a daisy, sweet smellin’, black diamonds for eyes witch in Harlem…”
In her eyes, he saw all the good shit he could never be. He so wanted a bit of that. Yearned. Craved for it.
“Oh, God!” she gasped.
He grabbed her and crushed her lips in a kiss, pressing her against the door. The heat of their mouths sent him somewhere he’d never been, but wherever it was, he loved it. Their bodies melded together as he pressed his groin into her core, pumping his erection against her zone in slow, even lunges. Their tongues glided against one another and then she stopped resisting, soon kissing him back with the same fervor. Hands wrapped around his neck, she drew him in. He reached around and squeezed her soft ass, then let go just as fast as he’d snatched her up into his arms. Running his hand over his face, his heart bursting, he took a few steps away from her… before it was too late. Before he ruined her. Something was wrong. Something was also quite right. This thing they had surpassed lust, and he sure as hell didn’t comprehend it.
She stood there, red in the face, touching her mouth. Her big dark brown eyes were wild, her expression one of confusion and horror.
“I’m ready to split. Thank you for the reading, Andrea. Buona notte.”
…And then, he walked down the three flights of steps, into the night…
CHAPTER SIX
Blood, Sweat and Tears
Rule 6: Prepare for the Worst, Hope for the Best.
Deep inhale…
Back arched, eyes wide open…
Sticky all over. Slick sweat clinging to every pore. Body heat – level ten inferno. She rose from her bed and glared at the ceiling, then shot her attention towards her alarm clock. 3:07 A.M.
This was the third night in a row. Cold sweats. Bizarre dreams. A strange sense of self. Everything felt awkward, as if she no longer fit in her own skin. It was as if she’d gone on some adventure, leaving her body behind as her soul hit the town, then returned with a hangover.
Andrea fell back against the sheets and closed her eyes, gulping a lungful of air as anxiety soared within her. Something was off. Out of sorts. She crossed her arm over her bare stomach, breathing hard. Opening her eyes, she noted the light and shadows casting strange shapes along her form. Wearing only a pair of sheer white panties, she found it impossible that the window unit could be on full blast as it was, yet she’d awakened to feeling as if she’d run through the trenches of hell in five layers of clothing beneath a fireman’s wardrobe gear.
I can’t take much more of this. Her sleeping patterns were so affected that she’d fall asleep on the bus on the way to work now, something she never did, and fight slumber periodically throughout the day. Her energy was completely zapped and she hoped and prayed this would be the final time she’d endure the restless sleep cycle. Running her hand along her forehead, she took another deep breath, trying to compose herself. She had to be honest: Things hadn’t been right since she’d done the reading for Mr. Ferrari.
From that day, he’d haunted her. His scent, mixed in with cigarette smoke, hung in the air for three days before it was completely gone. It wasn’t unpleasant in the least – in fact, she’d describe it as hedonistic, alluring, addictive, and she mourned it when it was gone for good. Nevertheless, he’d kept his word and didn’t contact her again. There were no pop-up visits at the perfume counter, unwelcome phone calls at her home, or requests to talk to his father from beyond the grave as a ruse to get another reading.
She leaned over the nightstand and turned on the lamp. Pulling out the top drawer, she removed the envelope he’d provided her, still full of money minus a ten dollar bill she’d used for a few groceries. She fingered through the crisp cash, counting exactly $340.00. Memories of just a couple of years prior when she was struggling in a different apartment with a roommate who was strung out on uppers and downers entered her thoughts.
What a horrible time…
1977 had been one of the worst years of her life. She’d wanted to live alone, but some crazed murdering lunatic known as the ‘Son of Sam’ was running amuck in the city, murdering women and a few couples sitting in their cars. The consensus was that he wasn’t interested in targeting Black people, but her Aunt Bev, who’d relocated to Brooklyn from Harlem many years prior, had begged her to stay with her roommate anyway, despite her desires to ditch the Burn Out. Abbey, a girl she’d met while attending community college for a year, had been stealing from her every now and again and not paying her half of the rent consistently. After the serial killer, identified as Richard David Falco, had been found and apprehended, she’d felt a bit safer to finally get away from her jelly-brained roommate, and start over. She’d picked up a part time gig at a bakery for a few months that she’d hated, then found another decent apartment in Harlem. Her goal had been to start a side hustle after she got her own spot. That was the plan.
Putting a little money aside, as much as she could spare, she’d purchased books, pendulums, prayer tomes and special candles from the New Age shop in the East Village – things that had struck her fancy. Her short-lived interest had waned from Tibetan religious practices, and drifted more towards spirituality in general, but no matter which direction she coasted towards, she couldn’t outrun nor deny her gifts. She smiled as she thought about one of the few people who hadn’t mocked her. Her Aunt Bev whom she’d lived with after her parents died.
Aunt Bev had always been kind, even when overwhelmed with her uncle’s drug habit, as well as all of the children crammed in that apartment like sardines. Why am I thinking about this stuff? She shook her head, snatched her scarf off her head, and tossed it towards the foot of the bed.
Running her fingers through her freed curls, she yawned, hoping and praying she’d fall asleep again soon. Then, the horrid reality struck. Please… no… Peeling the sheets back, she looked at her panties. On a swallow, she pushed them down her legs, past her ankles and off her feet, holding them in the palm of her hand. But how?! They were soaked. Not with sweat, but her essence. Saturated as if they’d been dunked in a bucket of water. She sat there trying her best to remember the details of her dreams. For the longest, it seemed to be a losing battle. Then, boom.
Flashes of her dreams all night assaulted her. She gasped. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she didn’t know whether to scream or laugh.
That’s what woke me u
p. An earth shattering orgasm. Images of Angelo on top of her pumping away, working his willy deep inside of her all night long had been the cause of her undoing. It had felt so real! A wave of shame washed over her. Not due to the orgasm or the state of her underwear, but because of who had been the cause. He was the architect of her fantasies…
It had been years since she’d had an erotic dream and now she’d had three in a row, each more intense and perverted than the last. The first one involved mere kissing. The second, heavy petting. Now… they’d gotten to third base. After lying there, trying to wish the shit away, she realized it was no use. He kills people for a living. Fact. He’s charismatic. Fact. Does he enjoy what he does? I don’t know; I don’t get that impression. Jury is still out. We have crazy chemistry. A love-hate thing going on. The hate is from me. Purely. Can we go back to the fact that he kills people for a living? I have two cousins who have committed murder, too. One is in prison, the other on parole. It’s not like I don’t know anyone who’s turned a man into Swiss cheese. Am I rationalizing this? I think I am. Jesus…
She fell back flat on the bed and shook her head. When I think about it, I’ve been around killers my entire life. They just didn’t receive a damn salary for it. Maybe in some sick, twisted way, Angelo’s situation makes more sense. It’s not senseless or based on uncontrollable emotion. He told me it was a job. Oddly enough, he has the respect of the people out here. I watched everyone gawking as he left with his grandmother, and of course, I was warned about his status and character, or lack thereof. He moves around a lot. Always running from his own shadow. He no doubt has a lot of enemies. I imagine he takes numerous precautions to stay safe. Maybe it’s not so much respect but fear people feel when they see him coming. Like a Boogie Man. Those are two different things. I would never admit it to him, though I’m sure he knows, I fear him and yet, I feel safe with him at the same time. It’s a strange situation. A strange feeling.
She hooked her curls behind her ears and rose from her bed. Making her way to the living room, she picked up an empty wine glass she’d drunk from the previous night from the coffee table, as well as her ashtray full of embers, and placed them in the sink. She cracked the small window above her sink, letting in some fresh air. The night was still. Dark and fairly quiet. But soon, the neighborhood would rise and the noise of traffic, fights, and the commotion of a big city would fill the void.
She washed the rest of the dishes, cleaned up her countertops with Pine Sol, and went to her orange-tiled restroom to sit on the pot. She sat there for a bit, hunched over, daydreaming. After cleaning herself up, she returned to the living room and grabbed a large red-bound book from her top bookshelf. She sat on her couch, crossing her legs, finally cooled off and feeling like herself again.
She thumbed through the book and found a chapter on soulmates. It was time to find out just what the hell or heaven may be going on…
…Several days later
“Girl, he could dance.” Tamala chuckled. “I wish I would have gotten his number. Maybe we’ll run into those guys again soon. I’m ready to boogie.”
“Right on! We have to head back to GG’s, Tamala. Let’s go this Saturday.” Starletta grabbed her straw and slurped up the last dregs of cola.
Andrea sat with her co-workers on their lunch break in the Meatpacking District. They did what they did best: talking shop, relationships, complaining about Mr. Glass—one of the grubby security guards who had a problem keeping his degenerate flirtations to himself—and places to score some good weed. She’d known these ladies, now friends, for many years. Tamala she’d even known as a child, but they hadn’t gotten close until they were adults and found themselves working at the same store.
“Let’s ditch that idea and go somewhere else.” Winona’s wrinkled nose and snarled lips said it all. “I don’t want to go to GG’s this weekend.”
“Why not? They have the best drinks.” Andrea added before pushing her plate away. She’d devoured her flame-broiled burger and most of her fries, leaving only the pickle spear.
“Actually, Maxwell’s Plums has the best drinks; the atmosphere is just blah. The reason I’m not runnin’ back to GG’s is because most of the guys aren’t looking for us.” Winona flipped her strawberry blond hair over one shoulder and sighed. “The good lookin’ ones are gay. Their makeup and hairstyles are better than ours, too. How can I compete with that?” Starletta and Jessie, both sitting across from them, chuckled. Andrea definitely agreed about the makeup. “Come on. You know GG’s is mostly fruit. My brother is gay, so you know that isn’t my issue, but I have plans.” She winked.
“Plans?” Andrea questioned, urging the woman on. She had an inkling what Winona was driving at, but she still wanted to give her a bit more gas for entertainment’s sake.
“Yeah. GG’s offers good music, great drinks, fun times, but I got my IUD removed after all of those lawsuits, and I’m back on the pill. I’m trying to get some pipe. They’d rather sword fight.” The whole table erupted in laughter. Andrea smiled and shook her head, then glanced out the window of Florent, one of her favorite places to eat. She studied the cobblestone streets, and the people walking to and fro as her friends went back to discussing Mr. Glass and the mustard stain on his pants last week: Was it actually mustard? Ewww. It felt nice being out with her colleagues who worked in various positions and floors at the department store. The four of them sought to go out at least once a week together, and it was a welcomed excursion.
As their meal wrapped up and they prepared to catch a cab back to work, the waitress approached with a red envelope.
“Is there someone here by the name of Andrea Ellison?”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Andrea offered a little wave. Her stomach knotted as she looked at the envelope the woman was holding, the feeling welling within her so uncomfortable, she felt slightly ill. Her friends poked fun at her as the waitress handed her the packet and stated a man who had vacated the premises wished for her to have it. She mustered a grin and pried it open. Inside it were dried out black rose petals and red smears. Possibly blood. She quickly closed it, blinking back angry tears as her heart galloped in her chest.
“What’s wrong, Andrea?” a couple of them asked at the same time.
“It’s nothing.” She shook her head. “Just feeling a little tired. I’m going to use the restroom and then we can go.” Her friends looked rightfully confused as she abruptly stood from her seat and raced away, bursting past the kitchen and through the restroom doors. She threw the envelope away in the trashcan, gripped the sides of the sink, and then splashed her face with cold water.
These threatening letters make no sense! The black roses at my apartment… Now he’s following me! I’ve called the police, but they say they can’t do anything. As soon as I think it’s over and I can rest again, he strikes! Something has to give. Who in the hell would want to do this to me? Maybe it’s not a man… I bet it is though.
She’d thought about ex-boyfriends, and none of them seemed the type, even the few relationships she’d had that ended on bad terms. She hadn’t been messing with anyone’s husband – at least not to her knowledge. Her last relationship had ended about five months prior. There was no bad blood; he’d just decided to return to school after being laid off, and had moved to Washington D.C. She had a couple of neighbors she didn’t get along with… but black roses from them? Nah… They argued only because she refused to babysit their children. Hardly worth a death threat.
Black roses mean death…
She patted her skin dry, cleared her throat, then forced herself to look calm before she exited the bathroom. Come on now. Pull yourself together. No tears. Let me track that server down and try to get to the bottom of this. She marched between a galley of tables, then spotted the woman a few feet away laughing with another waitress as she poured water from a pitcher into a glass.
“Excuse me,” She tapped the waitress on the shoulder who’d given her the envelope. “Can you by chance tell me what the guy who
dropped off the red envelope looked like?”
“Oh, it was a courier.” She shrugged. “A bicycle delivery guy. Short. Dark hair.”
Her heart dropped. Once again, hope was lost.
“Come on, Andrea! We’re going to be late!” Winona called out.
“Thank you anyway,” she said to the waitress before dashing away to the front of the restaurant to join her friends. They made their way to the corner and she waved down a cab on their behalf. Moments later they all piled in the yellow taxi. She sat in the front, struggling with her sadness. Saddled up close with her anger. The helplessness of it all. It was like being terrorized by a ghost.
“Andrea, did you hear me?”
“Oh, what did you say?”
“Are you all right? You seemed awfully upset.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It wasn’t anything important.” She didn’t dare look into their eyes. They’d undoubtedly see the truth if she risked turning to face them. She struggled with herself, trying to figure out her next move.
“Andrea? Girl, you’ve been zoned out. We’re talking to you,” Jessie chastised.
“Oh, sorry. What is it?”
“Let’s go to Studio 54 this weekend. You’ve got the rest of the week to get your outfit together. Last time, Penny got us left out in the cold because she refused to not wear that damn fury romper!”
They all burst out laughing. Penny was another of their friends from work who was out sick for the day. Getting into Studio 54 was like trying to convince a snail that bathing in salt was safe. If you didn’t look right, you could forget it. She reflected on the fact that a certain someone had slipped her some extra cash. Perhaps she’d use a bit of that to buy a new dress. Yeah… that sounded just fine. She smiled as she caught her reflection in the cab window. Now she had something to look forward to. Soon, they arrived back at work and vowed to call one another when they got home. It was customary; they all lived in different locations and crazy things happened to people all the time, especially once the sun had set.