Heist

by Kiki Swinson; De’nesha Diamond

  “What’s up?” Eric asks, switching stools so he can flank my left side.

  “Jordan still thinks it’s cool for her to listen and chuck in her two cents when it comes to other people’s private business, but she wants to keep her shit under lock and key.”

  Eric shrugs. “Same old, same old. She’s been doing that shit for years. Why is that bothering you now?”

  “Thank you, Eric,” I say.

  “Oh, I ain’t saying that it’s right. I’m just saying that you do it. You always keep one foot in and one foot out of the boys’ club.”

  “No. The problem is that y’all bitches gossip like teenagers. And since I don’t want my business all over the department, I’d rather keep my rat trap shut.”

  “Fine. You don’t want to tell details—you can be general. Like, are you still seeing old dude? We got a pool going.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry,” Elliott says. “I’ve already lost. I thought ole boy was just going to be a one nighter. He didn’t look like a deep conversationalist. Were those prison tats all over his body?”

  “No, they weren’t prison tats, asshole.”

  He shrugs me off. “I think Aaron has you down for three weeks. So if you can hang in there until this weekend, he’ll win about fifty bucks.”

  Aaron glances around Elliott’s shoulder and gives me a sheepish smile. “I’ll split it with you if you want.”

  I look over at Eric. “And what did you pick?”

  “I gave y’all a week.”

  “I don’t believe you guys.”

  “What are you getting so mad about? You made some bets in the past. It’s not like we’re so far off base here. I mean, what is the longest relationship you’ve ever been in?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “So hostile. You ever think about going to anger management?”

  Instead of responding, I flash them my two middle fingers and tell them, “And rotate.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Elliott continues. “Children of divorce usually have trouble with intimacy. I read that somewhere.”

  “I don’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

  “I think it’s true.”

  “For your information, smart-ass, my parents were never married.”

  “Oooh.” They all twist their faces like they’re sucking on lemons.

  “What?”

  “That’s even worse,” Aaron chimes in.

  “You know what? Fuck y’all and the horses you rode in on. Why the fuck should I be listening to y’all anyway? None of you are with anybody either.”

  “My parents divorced,” Elliott admits.

  “Mine too,” Aaron says.

  “Me three,” Eric pipes in.

  “Fuck.” I hop off the stool and drop a twenty on the bar. “Keep the change, Mitch.”

  The boys just laugh at me behind my back. “All right. I guess this means that you’ll just miss out on our vast knowledge about relationships.”

  “Thank God,” I shout, and storm out of the bar. Before heading home, I decide to swing by my father’s place. He had mentioned having a doctor’s appointment, plus my uncles would be there. Perhaps I can interrogate Uncle Mishawn about his son. It’s a little sneaky but probably worth it.

  I knock and wait while I hear things being moved around on the other side of the door. What the hell are they doing? When Dad finally answers the door, he looks a bit sweaty and out of breath.

  “Hey, Daddy. What are y’all doing in here?” I have to push on the door, because it looks like he isn’t about to invite me in.

  “Oh, nothing.” He glances over his shoulder and then finally steps back to allow me in.

  Frowning at his odd behavior, I step inside and glance at the dining room table where my three play uncles are sitting around with their cards and poker chips. Still something seems a bit odd about their behavior. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Everything is fine.” Dad smiles broadly.

  I glance back at the table.

  “Great,” Rawlo says, giving me the okay sign.

  “Wonderful,” Mishawn adds.

  “Couldn’t be better.” Tremaine grins even though his hearing aid is whistling loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Well,” Dad says, grabbing me by the arm. “If that’s all, we need to get back to our game.” He starts to shove me back out the door.

  “Whoa. Wait a minute.” I snatch my arm free. “Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

  My father’s face almost turns into the color of eggplant. “What? No. I just thought that … you know, that you had to go.”

  “Uh-huh.” I move past him and head over to the dining room table. Everyone suddenly sits up straighter and flashes me wobbly smiles. They are definitely up to something. “Sooo … who’s winning?”

  “Huh?” Tremaine asks.

  “Uncle Tremaine, I think you need to turn your hearing aid down a bit.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. Hold on.” He rubs his finger behind his ear until the whistling stops.

  I cast my gaze around the table and notice that everyone is trying their damnedest not to look me in the eyes. “Uh-huh.” Lastly, I turn toward my father as he takes his seat at the table. “Sooo … how was your doctor’s visit today?”

  His eyes fall as well. “Fine.”

  My heart skips a beat. “What did the doctor say?”

  “Nothing.” He clears his throat. “I’m as healthy as a horse.” He flashes a fake smile at me, and I weigh whether I should press him for an honest answer, but there is a chance that he just doesn’t want to discuss this in front of his friends, so I decide to let it go—for now.

  The table is quiet, and no one seems to be in any hurry to resume the game. “Mind if I join in?”

  “What?” My father finally looks up at me. “You know the rules. No women allowed.”

  “That’s a stupid rule.” I notice a notepad on the floor. “Oh, Uncle Mishawn, you dropped something.” I go to pick it up, but Mishawn moves faster than I’ve seen him move in years to swoop down and pick it up.

  “I got it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” His magnified eyes blink up at me.

  I can’t help but laugh. “It’s clearly something, Uncle Mishawn. Let me see it.”

  “No. It’s … personal.”

  “Personal?” My gaze moves around the table again. Everyone still avoids my gaze.

  “Okay. I’m not stupid. You guys are up to something. You might as well tell me now.”

  “There you go,” my father says, throwing up his hands. “Always suspicious, just like your mother. That’s why no women are allowed to play—you always just mother hen us to death.”

  “All right. All right.” I throw up my hands too. “You guys don’t want me around. I can take a hint. I’ll go.”

  It might just be me, but they all suddenly look relieved.

  “I guess … I’ll just call and check on you a little later,” I tell my dad.

  He bobs his head, gets back up from the table, and starts escorting me toward the door.

  “You guys stay out of trouble.”

  “Who, us? Get into trouble? Why would we get into trouble?” they chime awkwardly together. So much so that it causes the hair on the back of my neck to sit up and my eyes to narrow.

  “You sure you guys aren’t up to something?”

  “Nope. Just playing poker,” Rawlo says.

  “Yeah. It’s not like we’re sitting up here trying to figure out how to rob a bank or anything,” Uncle Tremaine spouts.

  Everyone’s head turns toward him.

  “What? I just meant it as a joke.” He shrugs.

  “Ooookay.” I look at my dad but he’s waving off the comment.

  “Don’t pay Tremaine any mind. You know he has a warped sense of humor.” He takes me by the arm and firmly ushers me out the door.

  “I … I guess I’ll just call you later,”
I tell him.

  “All right. Talk to you later. Bye.” He slams the door in my face.

  What the fuck?

  Chapter Twelve

  After my father slams his door in my face, I figure I’ll go check on my mother. Things have been a little weird between us since the barbeque. I didn’t know whether I should ask if there’s something going on with her and my dad or if she’s going to try and wait it out with my stepdad. However, the minute I enter the house and have to duck from a vase hurtling toward the door, I think I have my answer.

  What the fuck?

  “GET OUT!” my mother screams at the top of her lungs.

  “Mom?”

  “Sandra, please just let me talk to you for a minute,” George pleads.

  “I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANYTHING YOU HAVE TO SAY!”

  I rush into the living room to see my mom snatch up another crystal vase.

  “HOW COULD YOU?” She sends the vase flying at my step-dad, who shows remarkable ability to duck out of the way. “YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A FUCKING LIAR!”

  “Mom, what’s going on?” I rush over to her and try to shield her just in case George charges. Of course, I’ve never seen him do such a thing, but then again I’ve never seen my mother this angry either.

  “Sandra, baby. Please just let me explain.”

  “Explain what? That for most of our marriage you had a second family living on the other side of town that you’ve been supporting with our money?”

  “What?” I turn my stunned gaze toward my stepfather, who was definitely no player. If anything, he looked like a dull-as-dishwater accountant.

  “Yes, George. Tell Jordan here about all her secret brothers and sisters that you’ve conveniently forgot to mention.”

  “Sandra, baby. I know that you’re upset.”

  “You’re fucking right I’m upset.” She tugs in a deep breath. “Here I thought all these years that I married a good, respectable, and settled man only to find out that he’s been making a fool out of me for twenty-five years.”

  “Is this true, George?” I ask.

  He hedges. “I’m sorry,” he says almost pleadingly. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It just … happened.”

  “And when were you going to tell me about it? Why did I have to find out about it through a private detective?”

  “You hired a private detective?”

  “I knew something was going on. It only took me TWENTY-FIVE YEARS to figure it out.”

  I turn and wrap my arms around my mother. “Calm down.”

  “No. No.” She pushes her way out of my arms. “Tell her. Tell Jordan how many children you have by that home-wrecking bitch!”

  George blinks guiltily at me. “Six.” He clears his throat. “I have six children by Lynette.”

  “HOW DARE YOU SAY THAT BITCH’S NAME IN MY HOUSE!” Another vase is picked up and thrown.

  George ducks, but a little too late and he gets whacked right in the forehead. He’s knocked backward and hits the floor with a loud thump!

  “Mom!”

  “FUCK HIM.”

  “George … I think you should go,” I tell him, still trying to hold my mother back.

  He pulls himself off the floor. “Look. I know this hurts, but the fact is that me and your mother were never able to have children of our own. And we’ve tried.”

  “So that makes it cool for you to go knock up another bitch?” I ask, trying to follow his reason.

  “No. It’s just that … Look. I love you, Jordan. But the fact of the matter is, you’re someone else’s daughter. And every time I look at you, that’s who I see.”

  “Wait.” I stop him. “Now this shit is my fault?”

  “Oh, it’s everybody’s fault,” my mother hollers. “Except the motherfucker who can’t keep his dick in his pants. GET OUT!”

  He opens his mouth to say something, but now I’m tired of him too. “George, leave.”

  George’s face falls.

  “And I want a fucking divorce! Since there’s nothing keeping us together, you can just go marry Ms. Loose Pussy who you’ve been taking care of all these damn years.”

  “George, please. Just go.”

  He actually looks remorseful, but I can’t begin to understand this mess he’s made of their marriage. And I doubt after he walks out of that door that I’ll even try.

  “All right. I’ll go.”

  “And don’t bring your sorry ass back here!”

  George’s gaze drifts back over to me, but he finally turns and heads for the door. Once we hear the front door slam, my mother completely falls apart.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I whisper, wrapping my arms back around her.

  “No. It’s not. I wasted all those years.”

  “Shhh. All we can do is move forward,” I tell her. “If you need to cry, just get it all out.”

  My mother hangs on to me. “I should have married your father. He was the only man who truly loved me. He still loves me.”

  I can’t help but smile. There’s still that part of me that wants my parents to get together. Later, after serving her half a pot of chamomile tea, running her a bubble bath, and putting her to bed, I clean up all the broken glass in the house and finally head back to my place. During the drive, I can’t help but think about my jacked-up family and wonder if Elliott and the boys had a point.

  Do children from broken marriages have a disadvantage when it comes to developing relationships? I didn’t tell my partner what my longest relationship was because I don’t know. Two months? Three?

  I park in my driveway and shut off the engine. I sit there for a while thinking. Is there something really there between Keston and me, or is it just lust and a warm body in the bed? Do either of us even have a clue as to what we’re doing?

  I scoop my cell phone out of my pocket. No missed calls. No text messages. For all I know, I’m just a booty call to him. Drawing in a deep breath, I climb out of my vehicle. However, I freeze the minute I enter the house and the scent of roses catches my attention.

  “Surprise,” Keston says, standing up from the dining room table. “I was just thinking that this was going to turn into dinner for one.”

  I close the door behind me, and after picking my mouth up off the floor, I have to ask, “How did you get in here?”

  “I have my ways.” His sexy-ass dimples wink at me.

  “I don’t believe this.” I move closer to the twinkling candlelight.

  Keston clears his throat. “I figured that we’ve moved to a point in our relationship where I can show you how I throw down in the kitchen.”

  “So your skills extend farther than a grill?”

  “What can I say? My mother raised me right.”

  Still smiling, I set my duffel bag down on the couch and then peel out of my DEA-embossed jacket before I head over to the table. “I ain’t going to lie. It smells good. What is it?”

  “Chicken marsala. Do you like Italian?”

  I don’t think my smile can stretch any wider. “I love Italian.”

  “Perfect.” He leans over and captures my lips in a kiss.

  Oh. He’s pulling out all the stops. “Let me just go wash up and I’ll be right back.”

  “Need any help?”

  “No. If you go back there in that room with me, our food is going to get really cold.”

  “All right, then. You better hurry up.” He pops me on my ass and sends me on my way.

  I take a quick ten-minute shower and change into my one black dress. Keston whistles the moment I walk into the room.

  “Turn around and let me see you.” He holds up my hands so I can spin around. “Hot damn. Our dinner still might get cold,” he says, pulling me close.

  I laugh and push him away. “I would have never pegged you as a romantic.”

  “As long as you keep that shit between us, it’s all good.”

  “What? Afraid someone is going to ask you for your player’s card?”

  “Hell, yeah. A brother
always has to take that shit serious. Once it’s gone, you can’t get it back.”

  We share a laugh as I run my hands down the hard muscles of his chest.

  “Hungry?” he asks.

  “Depends on whether we’re talking about food.” My hands drift lower and brush against the hard length running down his leg.

  “Mmmm. Dessert comes later.” He winks and then turns to pull out a chair for me. “After you.”

  Blushing like a schoolgirl, I ease into the chair. Slow jams on the stereo, flowers, and white wine—it looks like Keston has gone all out to make this a special night. I’m simply blown away because I’ve never had anyone go through so much trouble.

  “You’re going to fuck up and make a bitch fall in love.”

  “Maybe that’s the goal.”

  I cock my head and try to weigh whether he’s serious, but Keston has a serious poker face that I haven’t been able to crack yet.

  “What, you ain’t never had a brother treat you like the dime that you are?”

  “Will it make me look pathetic if I say no?”

  He shakes his head. “It just makes me incredibly lucky.”

  “Boy, you really know how to turn on the charm.” I reach for my glass of wine. “I’m trying to feel you out.”

  “There’s nothing to it. I’m just a brother that’s feeling you. Ain’t nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “No.” I hold his gaze. “Do you think all this means that we’re not going to discuss what it is that you do for a living?”

  “Is that still bothering you?”

  “Only when you have to sneak out of my bedroom at three in the morning.”

  He leans back in his chair. “I don’t recall me ‘sneaking.’ I seem to remember telling you that I had to go.”

  I nod. “All right. Since you’re being up front and honest, what do you do for a living, Mr. Bishop?”

  His lips curl. “I’m not at liberty to say at this time.”

  Surprised, I blink at him. “What kind of shitty answer is that?”

  “It’s just the truth, babe. The real question is whether you can deal with that.”

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then we have ourselves a real problem.”

  I reach for my glass of wine and try to stare him down, but his poker face never changes. “Do we have a problem?”