No Love for the Wicked

by Tiana Laveen

  She screamed when he lunged at her and pushed her down, his knee pressed against her thigh, and began to squeeze her neck. She squirmed and kicked about, clawing, scratching, and biting every part of him that came close enough for an attack. The coppery taste of blood flooded her mouth when he punched her in the face, cursing her out and going off the rails. She sank her teeth into his fingers when he pressed them against her lips.

  “I’ve got a knife… Don’t make me take it out,” he threatened, his face close to hers. Spittle rained on her and his rancid breath, smelling of beer and rotten teeth, sickened her.

  He lay on top of her, rendering her immobile, blocking her air with his crushing weight. She tried to scream when he slid his rough hand up and down her thigh.

  “Yeeaaah… do ya like that, little whore? I see ya like White guys. Time for me to have a turn. I’ve listened at the door tonight. He makes you moan. I can make ya moan, too. And that’s exactly what I am going to do! I’m going to fuck you, then cut your nigger ass up into little pieces!” He brandished the empty gun, the shiny surface catching reflection, pretended he was going to hit her with it then laughed before tossing it across the room. A mixture of rage and grief assailed her.

  “Mmmmm!!!!” She tried to rise beneath him, trying to figure a way out.

  “STOP FIGHTING ME!” He smacked her across the face and for a moment, everything went white and she couldn’t hear. “It’s been hard tryna get you alone. You’re either not home or the boyfriend is over here. Finally, we’ve got a little time to ourselves. Just me and you. Did ya like the flowers and letters I sent you?” He guffawed. “I’m an old-fashioned guy. Girls like flowers and love letters, right?” In his other hand he produced a knife, grinning as he showcased it.

  “GRRRRRRR!!!!” She tried to move, to buck, to scream, to no avail.

  “I’m going to enjoy this.” A horrid smile spread across his face. “I must say, you’re a pretty little Black bitch, too. What a shame.” He placed the knife down, out of grasp, and reached out to play with her hair, shifting his weight around. As he moved, she realized he was now reaching for his belt. Oh no! NO! Mustering all the strength she could, she kneed him in the nuts.

  “AHHHHHHHHH! FUCK!” He rolled off of her, holding himself.

  She took the opportunity to jump off the bed and barrel towards the front door, screaming. But just as she reached for the doorknob, she felt his arm tighten around her neck, choking. She began to lose consciousness as he squeezed. And squeezed.

  No! I can’t die like this! This can’t happen! God help me! Please help me!

  “You’re feisty!” He chuckled as he dragged her towards the record player, then turned up the volume of the music. “We wouldn’t wanna be interrupted, now would we?” He tossed her roughly onto the couch and she bounced. “You sure are stronger than you look, too.” He placed his hand over her mouth, muffling her screams as he brought that damn knife to her throat. “Now, you listen to me, and you listen good. If you do anything like that again, I’m gonna gut you!” he spat. Seething. Eyes narrowed. Evil personified.

  She winced when he traced the tip of the knife down the side of her face. She felt it prick her neck, drawing blood. Meanwhile, he struggled to work his belt out of his jeans again. Angry tears filled her eyes as she heard his zipper coming down. Michael Jackson serenaded her, saying ‘I Can’t Help It,’ and her head spun, throbbed. She clumsily tried to reach under the couch cushion, fishing for the knife she often kept there, but he pressed her wrist down, stopping her.

  “Now… you just relax…” He ripped her nightgown, exposing her breasts to him. She fought the urge to break down and cry. She managed a weak scream when his hot, disgusting mouth surrounded her nipple, then bit down on her flesh. He muffled her wails of pain with a heavy hand…

  That didn’t stop her from trying to move, trying to fight, trying to scream. But she was losing hope because he was reaching for his pants now, and he shoved them down his legs…

  No… No… this isn’t happening! It is… it is but, I will survive this! I’ve got to!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  We Are One.

  No Weapon Formed Against my Soulmate Shall Prosper…

  Rule 23: Angelo, a promise is a vow. A promise is like a contract. Ferrari men don’t break contracts, and we damn sure don’t break promises. Be careful who you make them with.

  Angelo whistled as he opened another freezer door in the bodega, trying to decide which wine to purchase. The sounds of ‘Boogie Oogie Oogie,’ sung by a Taste of Honey, played on low volume from a radio on the checkout counter. He raked a hand through his hair, making sure each strand was in place as he took his time reading the labels.

  Cold duck, Lancers, and Mateus. Wild Irish Rose…

  Suddenly, he tasted something coppery, like a taste of blood. A weird feeling took over. He swallowed, trying to make the flavor go away. Grabbing a bottle from the chilled display, not caring what it was, he put it in the basket and made his way down one of the snack aisles. He scanned the chips, crackers and cookies aisle, then decided upon a bag of pretzels. He placed it in the basket along with a carton of eggs and box of cereal, then a carton of milk. Fruit… Andrea wants those fruit cups. Where are they? He paused, this time tasting something that reminded him of cinnamon. It repeated, and when he belched, he was tasting the strong flavor of dark chocolate. He felt a bit light-headed, his heart now thumping in his chest.

  “Are you all right?” a guy in denim overalls and a floppy, velvet velour hat asked when Angelo leaned against a shelf loaded with wrapped pastries, feeling as if he were going to fall down right on his ass.

  “Yeah… I’m cool.”

  The man nodded and sauntered off.

  He took a few deep breaths, then placed the basket on the floor and hightailed it out of the store, feeling instantly better once he was out of there.

  “Shit! What is going on?” He got in his car, feeling a strong sense of urgency to get back to Andrea’s apartment. Something was pushing him, propelling him forward. He put his foot on the damn gas and didn’t let up, flying through red light after red light. He didn’t care, as long as he got back to her. While he drove, the flavor of vanilla filled his mouth, soon followed by a foul saltiness coating his tongue. He reached for his chest when his heart beat painfully against his ribs. The salty taste subsided as he parked badly in front of her place, but the vanilla flavor returned, along with that of herbal tea, filling his mouth to the point he almost retched. He took a deep breath, then raced into the apartment building, key in hand.

  He stopped.

  The door was closed, but the knob was always turned a certain way when it was locked. He was sure he’d locked it when he’d left, but now it was open. He got ready to swing the door open, but something was leading him, telling him, Shhh… be quiet… listen….

  He pressed his ear against the door, hearing her favorite Michael Jackson album playing. Nothing sounded strange, but when the music died down, and Michael’s crooning slowed before the next verse, he heard muffled feminine whimpers, then a gruff, masculine groan…

  Rage flooded his body like he’d never known! Reaching for his revolver on his hip, he kicked the door open to see a man on top of Andrea, a knife in his hand, and her crying and struggling beneath him. Both looked his way. Their eyes locked. Andrea was trembling, and one of her arms had blood streaming down it. Angelo lifted his gun.

  “Don’t come any closer or aim that at me, or I’ll slice her fucking throat!” The man yanked Andrea off the couch, forcing her to fall back into his chest. He placed the knife against her neck. One of her breasts was exposed, and his pants were off, but his underwear still on.

  BOOM! BOOM!

  A feminine scream, followed by a wail.

  Angelo shot the fucker right between the gotdamn eyes, then shot again, and again. For the hell of it. The son of a bitch never saw it coming. There would be no standoff. No mind trickery. No negotiations or fuckery. One thing he could do
was shoot a shadow in the dead of night, ten miles away with perfect aim. And this oversized waste of space was going down. The ogre fell back like a tree. Dead before he hit the floor.

  Before Angelo could reach Andrea, she jumped in his arms, a quivering wreck of nerves. He squeezed, holding her so tight.

  He pulled back to check her state. She had a bloodied cut on her forearm, blood on her face, and her lip appeared to be busted. He softly caressed her chin as they looked into each other’s eyes. “Did he… did he…” He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t make the word come out of his mouth.

  “I’m fine, I’m okay.” Her voice cracked. “I have a few cuts, but that’s it and no, he didn’t have a chance to rape me.”

  He grabbed her once again, nestled her head against his chest, and rocked her. A neighbor dared to come out of their apartment to see what was going on, and then another.

  “Call the police, Carla!” Andrea managed to yell. “Someone broke into my apartment and tried to kill me.” The neighbor lady cursed, then raced back inside her apartment. He soon heard the old woman on the phone. He stepped away from Andrea, turned off the record player, and stood over the dead body. He pointed his gun down and shot the fucker in the groin. Three times, emptying his pistol. That’s so you can’t attempt to rape anyone in hell, either. How fucking dare you touch what’s mine!

  The man’s hands were covered in deep bite marks, some still oozing blood. His face bore the evidence of a major struggle, too, and there were so many scratches on his neck, it looked as if he’d been attacked by a bunch of feral cats.

  “You did all of this to him?” He tossed her a glance.

  “Yes. I kept fighting until… until I didn’t have the strength anymore.”

  He bent down to search the guy’s pockets and pulled out his wallet. There was a wrinkled ten-dollar bill inside, and his driving license.

  Dennis Dotson

  He reached in his other pocket to find old, crushed black rose petals. He let them fall to the floor.

  “He must’ve broken in earlier in the day, maybe when I was at work, because he had the gun. It’s in the bedroom. The bullets are on the floor. I just saw the gun in that drawer two days ago, Angelo. Worst of all, a long time ago he came in here while I was probably at work, took my keys, made a copy of ’em and returned the original. I keep a spare in the kitchen.” She pointed towards the kitchen area.

  “He brought the original back so you wouldn’t suspect anything and get the locks changed.” He slowly got back to his feet, glaring at the fucker.

  “He’d been plotting this for months! He stopped only because he’d been arrested. He was in jail all of that time I hadn’t heard from him.” She drew closer to him and he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, never wanting to let her go.

  “Do you know him?” He sucked his teeth as he admired the clean holes he’d blasted in the fucker’s face and the fresh blood pooling on the front of his underwear.

  “No, but he told me who he was. I had given his wife a reading some time ago, and, uh, he didn’t like what I told her. She left him after I let her know what I saw in the reading.”

  “Which was?”

  “That he was going to kill her if she didn’t get away. I remember now havin’ trouble sleeping after she left. I had terrible nightmares. I felt for her, but I never wanted to read for her again. Now, I know why.”

  Outside her window, the faint sound of sirens approached. She tugged at her ruined gown, trying to cover herself, hyperventilating and looking dangerously close to breaking down. Removing his jacket, he wrapped it around her and made her rest against him. It wasn’t long before he felt the tears seeping through his shirt, her shoulders shaking. Deep, sorrowful moans escaped the mouth of one of the strongest, most incredible women he’d ever known. He had the pleasure to call her his future wife. He kissed the top of her head again and ran his hand over her hair.

  They stood there, eyes closed, him comforting her. She fell apart in his arms as he rocked her back and forth. The sirens grew louder and louder. A small crowd could be heard gathering around the front door, but he focused on her, the love of his life.

  “I could feel you,” he whispered in her ear. “I could taste you… I could hear you… I could smell you… I could see you… I sensed you. Completely. It was mind bending. An incredible feeling. Whatever that was, whatever… power I had, it’s gone now. Whatever command I had to plug into you, it came and left. It was done with me after it served its purpose. To get me back home to you. I can’t explain it, but I know I will not ever feel it again, no matter how many love spells you do on me. I need to tell you though that I will never forget what it was like to travel inside your spirit. You feel like fresh rain when you’re happy, and you taste like bright rays of sunshine when you’re proud. You sound like gold and ruby-encrusted instruments played by violin and cello maestros and jazz bands greats when you say my name… You smell like a mile-wide rose garden as you cover the stench of my twisted, exposed roots. You look like a shining little star that dared to pull the velvet cloak off a dark, incensed moon…”

  The last six months had been a whirlwind. Between dealing with the police due to the assault, relocating to a new home in Queens, learning to drive and wedding planning, Andrea’s nerves had been completely fried and frazzled. She’d been relieved that the police didn’t make a bigger deal out of what had transpired, trying to somehow accuse Angelo of wrongdoing. Her assailant had a lengthy criminal record, and the police seemed honestly relieved that the fucker was finally out of their hair. Despite the risks, Angelo had insisted on staying right there in her apartment when the police arrived and she was taken to the precinct.

  Angelo was asked to follow for questioning. Regardless, he insisted on not leaving her side. She hurt for him, more than for herself, when she had to give the play by play of the evening’s events. At one point, he looked as if he were going to pick up a chair in the precinct and haul it across the room in a fit of rage.

  The dead man had been taken away from her residence, gone, and the stains of that day had faded slowly. She’d refused to allow Dennis Dotson to make her fearful, to make her put her life on hold. She’d done a lot of praying, surrounded herself with loved ones, and of course, had the amazing love and support of a man who treated her like a queen. He’d bought that old car dealership and was in the process of revamping it, modernizing it and giving it flair. She was making business plans of her own, too. Now, things had come full circle. The gift of completion.

  Standing in a white tent illuminated with soft lights and candles, on the vast garden outside of the Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue, proved to be overwhelming. It was like a palace to Andrea, and the grounds were like something out of one of her many books on European commons. The kind fit for a fairytale. Lush greenery, vibrant flowers, and ancient trees filled the area. Recent city budget cuts had affected such places, but she and Angelo had been fortunate that their venue of choice was still open for business. Andrea stood surrounded by her bridesmaids and Aunt Bev, while her friends, and a host of cousins, were in their seats tending to their private conversations. She peered out the tent every now again, feeling warm all over while she drifted away in thought. Is this how I imagined my wedding? No. This has exceeded my expectations. This is better. So much better. Everything has come together perfectly.

  After months of deliberations, she settled upon a simple ivory dress. It fit her like a glove, hugging her in all the right places, but she opted for no shoes. Just pale pink painted toenails adorned with gold and diamond toe rings, and shimmery gold anklets. Her hair was arranged in a large, soft, curly afro, the front brushed away from her face, and pinned back. The curls were loose and airy, and her face was dewy and fresh, with just a trace of makeup. A little mascara, sheer pink gloss, a light blush.

  She recalled one morning waking up with the sunlight streaming on her and Angelo’s naked, intertwined bodies. He’d been staring
at her. Leaning down, he placed a sweet kiss on her lips and said, ‘I’ve been watching you sleep. I tried to not blink. I don’t want to miss a second of seeing you. You’re just too beautiful…’

  “Andrea!”

  “Oh, huh?” She spun around, facing her aunt as she was jerked out of her daydream.

  “Baby, everyone is waiting.” Aunt Bev touched Andrea’s small, hanging crystal earrings. “Are you ready?”

  “Definitely. I’ve been ready, Auntie. I see myself as already his wife. This is just a formality.” Aunt Bev smiled, then wrapped her in her arms. She smelled so good. Outside, Kenny Rogers’ ‘She Believes In Me’ was starting to play, giving her joy. She peeked her head out of the tent again, and was in awe at how many people now filled the seats. Her bridesmaids exited swiftly, one after the other, joining hands with Angelo’s handsome groomsmen. All the men wore black tuxedos with white vests, and teal bow ties with matching cummerbunds. When she didn’t see Angelo, her heart began to gallop, but then she remembered he was going to come down the aisle with Nonna.

  They’d mixed it up last minute, how they wanted the wedding to go. The minister stood behind a white pedestal, wearing a white and gold robe, and she wondered if her recent sleep deprivation was causing her to believe that the birds were extra chipper, their singing blending in with the music on such a perfect, blue-skied day. Suddenly, people began to clap and get to their feet for Bill Wither’s, ‘Grandma’s Hands’ had started to play. The mixed crowd of Italians, Blacks, Irish, Puerto Ricans and Cubans lit up the space with bright smiles, laughter, and even a few tears when Angelo appeared in a white tux, teal tie, no cummerbund – which they’d fought about – and matching white shoes. He raised his hands in the air and cheered, a huge grin on his face. He looked so laid back with his handsome self. She was pleased he’d finally given in on one detail regarding his attire: A teal corsage was pinned to his lapel.