Brick (Double Dippin')

by Allison Hobbs

  Back in the bedroom, he noticed a missed call on his cell. Thomasina! Had she called to tell him that Misty had passed? In a sudden panic, Brick set the phone down. His heart was thumping and he needed a moment before he talked to his wife. If Misty was gone, he’d need all the emotional strength he could gather to try and console her mother. Then again, maybe Misty had made a miraculous recovery. Maybe Thomasina was willing to forgive him.

  He called Thomasina. “Hey, babe.”

  There was no response on the other end. Only sobbing. Choking, mournful sobbing. Brick’s heart sank. “What’s wrong—Misty didn’t make it?” he questioned.

  “She’s still alive. But she’s slipping away fast. The doctor doesn’t expect her to make it through the night.”

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  “No! I hate you, Baron. I never want to see you again. Misty didn’t stand a chance. I’m her mother; I was supposed to protect her, and I left my helpless child alone in the room with you, a ruthless murderer!” Thomasina wept bitterly. After she regained her composure, she stated coldly, “I’m going to see a lawyer; I’m getting out of this marriage.”

  “Thomasina,” he said in a strangled voice. “No matter how guilty you think I am, I swear, baby. My hand to God…what I did, I did for Misty. Why can’t I make you understand? Baby, she was sick of living. She wanted to find peace.”

  “I’m sick of you telling me that you did what was best for my daughter. She was paralyzed and she was unhappy, but my child was alive! Before you took it upon yourself to overdose her, she could talk—communicate. On good days, my daughter could laugh and smile. Misty could talk to me. Now she’s on the brink of death. You had no right to take matters into your hands. Oh, God! I shouldn’t have allowed you to be anywhere near her.”

  “I respect everything you’re saying. Do what you gotta do. Look, I don’t have a permanent address yet, so send the papers to my job. I’ll sign them, Thomasina. I’m tired. I won’t fight you on this.”

  “You’re tired? Oh, poor Baron. What about Misty? Do you think after you sign the divorce papers, everything will be all right? You should be behind bars for what you did to Misty. Do you hear me, Baron?”

  “Yeah, I hear you,” Brick mumbled.

  “Don’t worry about your next permanent address; I have one for you. The state penitentiary, you murderer! My lawyer will be sending the divorce papers to the pen.” Thomasina took a deep breath. “I’ll never forgive myself for letting you into my daughter’s room. But you’re not getting away with it. You’re sick in the head, Baron. Nothing but an animal!” Out of breath and running out of insults, Thomasina disconnected the call.

  There was no getting through to her. She was out for blood. Not only was their marriage over, she wanted him to be behind prison walls for the rest of his life.

  Brick slept fitfully. Two restless hours passed, but sleep refused to claim him.

  It seemed he’d just drifted off when the alarm sounded. The sun shone through the window. Time to get up and go to work.

  With the morning light came a brand new perspective. Brick felt a renewed sense of righteous anger. He wasn’t giving up until Misty’s assailants had experienced his special brand of retaliation. After he caught up with Smash and his tranny—after he’d relieved both of them of some of their body parts, he’d be willing to turn himself in—if that’s what Thomasina wanted. He couldn’t undo what he’d done, but if his incarceration gave Thomasina any measure of peace, then so be it.

  CHAPTER 16

  Last night, Evette and I shared a few tender moments. I ain’t gon’ front; sleeping in the bed with Evette is nice.

  She disrupted my sleep twice last night. The first time, she woke up whimpering and talking about she needed some Tylenol because her ass was tingling.

  “Whatchu mean?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

  “I can’t sleep. My butt hurts, real bad. Maybe some Tylenol will stop the stinging.”

  There were only about four Tylenol pills left in the bottle and I needed those for my sore ribs and whatnot. I could have let her lie there and suffer, but I can be a nice guy every once in a while. So I decided to take care of her welts and bruises. But not with Tylenol. I run shit in this house, so the remedy has to be my way.

  I told Evette to scooch down and suck me off.

  “Don’t swallow,” I instructed after I shot a load in her mouth.

  “Spit it out.” I cupped my hands in front of her mouth and captured the nutt that I’d busted.

  In my mind, I was pretending to be a doctor treating a patient. I smeared my nutt all over her wounded ass. Acting as a medicinal balm, my semen was put to good use.

  A few hours later, Evette was at it again, whining and complaining about her sore ass. Before I could even wake all the way up, she had wiggled downward and was slurping on my Johnson. Her head was bobbing up and down furiously as she worked hard to pull another nutt out of me.

  The average nigga would feel perturbed if he had to keep waking up out of a good sleep to administer first aid. But I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I enjoyed it. Truth! There’s something real satisfying about tending to a sick patient in the wee hours of the morning.

  With the moonlight shining through the window, the atmosphere was warm and peaceful. I gently slathered my dick juice over her butt cheeks while she lay on her stomach. She had her face pressed into the pillow, so her words were muffled, but she lifted up her head and clearly said, “I love the way you treat me, Kaymar. You’re so kind.”

  Those words of appreciation made a nigga feel real good. Got me feeling like healing bitches might actually be my true calling.

  Then a few moments later, she said something else…some mumbled shit that I couldn’t make out. Her words were garbled, but it sounded like she said, “After we get married, I want you to spread your cum all over me, every night.”

  Now correct me if I’m wrong, but seems to me Evette was hinting that she wants me to take it up a couple notches. Start whooping her all over: Ass, arms, legs, thighs, back… I wonder if she wants me to spank them lil’ titties, too?

  I’m confused right now. I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like…but I’m feeling so good right now, this feeling has to be damn close to love.

  I look at the clock and it’s six in the morning. Evette is still sleeping, but she has to get up in a minute and get ready for work. Her job requires sitting, and I’m not sure if she’ll be able to apply any pressure on her sore butt.

  I lift the covers up to check and see how her ass wounds are doing. She wakes up a little. She murmurs a sound when the cool air breezes on her body.

  I frown at the sight of her naked booty. Hard cum is caked on her ass. I don’t like the way it looks. I go in the bathroom and bring back a warm washcloth.

  “Evette!”

  “Hmm?”

  “Wake up.”

  She shifts slightly and then gets real still when I apply the warm cloth to her butt cheeks, soaking off the dried-up cum.

  “Listen, you gotta be a little late for work today. I gotta doctor you up before you leave the house. Okay?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I fling the moist washcloth on the other side of the bed, while I excitedly get busy…jerking my dick. I don’t need her to guzzle on my Johnson; I’m already worked up.

  I notice that Evette is grinding against the bed sheets. I guess she’s trying to reach a climax by putting some friction on her clit. Being thoughtful, I slip a hand beneath her as I’m jacking off. I clip her stubby little clit between my knuckles, pinching it as hard as I can.

  Evette’s got a loud mouth on her. She screams for the whole ’hood to hear as she releases a little puddle of slimy girl-cum.

  Howling my head off, I bust right along with her.

  Obviously, I’m not the only freak in this relationship. Evette is sneaky with it, but I realize that she’s just as freaky as I am.

  I didn’t plan to, but I might be falling for this nutt-ass
broad after all.

  If Evette plays her cards right, there just might be a future for us.

  CHAPTER 17

  Brick usually listened to rap music. On his way to work this morning, he felt like screaming out in pain and rage. Times like this he only wanted to hear the oldies. The kind of music that his stepfather, Mr. Rodney, used to play while getting his drink on. Mr. Rodney would throw back some cheap liquor, close his eyes, and nod his head with understanding while listening to the wails and musical moans of Bobby Womack, Al Green, or Otis Redding…old school cats like that.

  With earpods in place, Brick’s shoulders bobbed to music as he walked from his car to the work site, where the rest of the crew was starting to set up equipment. Teddy Pendergrass was belting out “If You Don’t Know Me By Now,” and Brick was feeling every word. Thomasina should’ve realized that it was his deep, deep love for Misty that had compelled him to try to put her out of her misery. But she was pushing him away, hating on him. Treating him like he was some random stranger…like she didn’t know him at all.

  Ready to put in a hard day’s work, Brick’s hands were itching to get on the drill. Breaking up some concrete and tearing up some shit could relieve some stress.

  He planned to use his half-hour break to fill out the paperwork for the loan.

  Cliff, the supervisor, was giving out instructions to some of the guys. The minute he saw Brick, he stopped talking and began walking briskly toward him.

  Sensing that something was amiss, Brick slowed his stride. He pulled the earpods out. “Whassup, Cliff?”

  “You got trouble, Brick. I don’t know what’s it’s about, but a detective from the Philadelphia Police Department was here looking for you. Said he wants to ask you a few questions. Did you get yourself into some trouble?” Cliff’s brows were furrowed with concern.

  “Uh, not that I know of.”

  Cliff handed Brick a card. “He left his card; wants you to give him a call.”

  Brick examined the card that was embossed with the city seal. “Yeah, okay. Look, I’m feeling kinda sick.”

  “If you need a few days off to handle this thing, then take some sick time.”

  “That’ll work. Put me down for two sick days.”

  “You’re a hard worker, Brick. A good man. I hope this isn’t a serious problem,” Cliff said.

  “Nah, nothing serious. I think I know why the detective wanted to see me…” Brick laughed uncomfortably. “Seriously, it ain’t about nothing. I’ll be back on the job day after tomorrow,” Brick replied, wishing that his words were true. If Thomasina had sent the cops after him, it could only mean one thing: Misty was dead. And Brick was now a suspect in a homicide.

  He stuffed the card in his pocket and turned around.

  Inside his car, Brick let his tears fall. He shed tears for losing the love of the only woman that had ever loved him unconditionally. Thomasina had taken a big gamble on a dumb, young dude like him. He’d promised to never let her down. And look at what he’d done. Broken her heart into pieces.

  He cried for his innocent son. He’d hoped to break the cycle, but just like him, his boy was also going to grow up without a father.

  And he shed tears for Misty. Love her or hate her, she had been a whirlwind of vibrant life. Gone too soon. Rest in peace, Misty baby. I tried. I did the best that I could for you.

  Anya discovered a twenty-dollar bill tucked beneath her pillow. Pocket money from Brick. Aw, how sweet, she thought, touched by his thoughtfulness. The hotel and food was more than enough hospitality. The hard exterior was only one aspect of Brick’s personality. His mean streak was reserved strictly for those who pissed him off. Brick obviously had a soft heart, and Anya intended to earn a place on his good side.

  Sick of wearing the scarf, she worked on her hair, styling it as best she could with a palmful of gel. She put the iron and ironing board that the hotel provided to good use, ironing out the wrinkled clothing she’d gotten from the Salvation Army. She wanted to look her best if she stumbled upon her father.

  A little blush and some lip gloss and she was good to go. Feeling fresh and exhilarated, Anya was out the door.

  With a portion of the twenty dollars, she bought a SEPTA day-pass and began combing the city streets and parks, searching for her father. She’d been trying to find him for weeks, but with hundreds of homeless people living on the streets, locating her father was a daunting task.

  At an off-ramp near the Vine Street Expressway, Anya held out a ten-year-old photo of her father. “Have you seen this man?” Anya questioned a haggard white woman.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s—”

  “You’ve seen him?” Anya said hopefully.

  “Yes, that’s my son. That’s Bobby. I haven’t seen him in a long time.” The woman placed the photo against her heart, crinkling it up as she hugged it dearly. “I miss my Bobby. Thank you for bringing me his picture,” she told Anya.

  Realizing the woman was mentally unstable, and that she might have to fight her to get the picture back, Anya resorted to trickery. “Your son looks just like you. Same nose and mouth. But his eyes…”

  “He has his father’s eyes,” the woman said bitterly.

  “Lemme see.”

  The woman released the photo from her bear hug, and Anya snatched it from her grimy fingertips.

  The homeless woman became infuriated—thrashing and cussing up a storm. “Motherfucker, give me Bobby. You, bitch! Give me my goddamn child back!”

  The way she came after Anya, snarling and growling, teeth bared like an animal, one would have thought Anya had snatched a puppy from her litter.

  Anya raced away, easily outrunning the undernourished woman. On the next block, she encountered a man sitting on top of a flattened cardboard on the sidewalk. His legs spread out in a V. High-water pants exposed legs that were crusty, scarred and scabbed over. As if he were invisible, people passed him by without so much as a glance.

  Anya drifted over to a man. Bending at the waist, she said, “Hello, I’m looking for my father. Have you seen him…you know, like…during your travels?” Once again, she held out the old photo of her father. She was a little upset that the picture was now crumpled from the crazy lady’s body lock.

  “That’s your daddy?” the man asked in a voice that was coarse from liquor, or perhaps his scratchy tone was a result of an illness brought on by years of living out in the elements.

  Anya nodded briskly. “Yes, that’s my father. His name is Herbert. Do you recognize him?”

  “Never set eyes on ’em,” the man said gruffly. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t have to search for a deadbeat dad. Forget about him; I’ll be your daddy.” His tongue slipped out, suggestively licking lips that were cracked and dry. In an obscene gesture, he gripped his crotch and winked.

  Disgusted, Anya moved on, continuing her search in alleyways, parking lots, subway concourses—all of the known haunts of the homeless. At a gas station, she encountered a young couple carrying all their worldly goods, strapped to their bodies in backpacks.

  The nation was in a sorry state. The young homeless were a demographic that was becoming alarmingly prevalent. People had little sympathy for the young and able-bodied homeless, believing that their predicament was the result of laziness or drug use.

  But Anya knew from her own harrowing experience that the loss of shelter could happen to anyone. The homeless couple was pumping gas, trying to earn a few bucks toward their daily survival. She showed them her father’s picture. A bad odor emitted from the pair. It was the smell of gasoline and tuna fish—an odd and unpleasant mixture of scents. Anya had to hold her breath while they scrutinized the photo. The young couple shook their heads. “Never saw him before,” the young man said.

  “There’s an organization that travels around the city offering shelter to people living on the streets. They try to gather names and other information from people that are willing to cooperate,” said the woman.

  “Do you know the name of the organizati
on?” Anya asked.

  “Beats me. Something with the word ‘Homeless’ in the title. I bet you can find them on the Internet. I hear they have a database of information on street people, including photos.”

  Her search had not been an entire waste. Feeling more hopeful than ever, Anya thanked the couple. She wondered why they hadn’t accepted help from the organization. Maybe they didn’t want to disclose their identities. There were a million reasons why some people were without food and shelter.

  She concluded her day’s journey at the public library on the Parkway, where she’d hoped to be able to use one of the computers and find out more about the organization that identified street people.

  Anya left the library in disappointment when she was told that their computers were down.

  Outside the library, she was immediately accosted by sad-faced, gaunt, forgotten people who were begging for loose change. This was the reality of the homeless.

  On second thought, the notion that there was a database of information about street people seemed rather farfetched. Tomorrow, she’d backtrack to some of the places she’d already visited when she’d first arrived in Philly. Places like Needle Park in the Kensington section of the city, where many of the homeless congregated. She was likely to get more information from personally combing the streets than she’d get on the Internet.

  Survival on the mean streets was like living in a jungle. There were an astonishing number of crimes against the homeless. People moved around when areas became too dangerous or when weather conditions destroyed or caused their makeshift shelter to become uninhabitable.

  Anya was afraid that if and when she ever found her father, he’d be crazy as hell; unable to recognize her. It was so scary to think that her father may have forgotten he’d ever had a daughter. But her worst fear was that she was too late—that her father was dead.