With This Ring

by Allison Hobbs

  “I thought it was best that you didn’t know.”

  Harlow gaped at Drake, unsatisfied with his response.

  “I was in a desperate situation the night you saw me emptying the safe. I received a package that day—it was delivered to the office.”

  “What kind of package?”

  “A package that contained a severed finger…and a ring.”

  Harlow gasped. “Whose finger was it?”

  “The finger was unrecognizable, but I knew the ring belonged to Lucio.”

  “Who’s Lucio?”

  “Someone who was like a father to me.”

  “Why am I just now hearing about him?”

  “He’s been in prison for a long time. He had so much time, he wasn’t supposed to ever get out. But due to health issues and his advanced age, he was no longer considered a threat to society, and they released him.”

  “And…” Harlow stared at him.

  “Lucio had a lot of enemies, and they got to him before I could get him safely out of the country. They beat him…tortured him until he gave up my name.”

  Harlow covered her mouth in horror. “Why would he give up your name? What kind of involvement do you have with this guy’s enemies?”

  “No direct involvement, but I was the only person who knew where his money was stashed.”

  “The money in the safe?” Harlow’s eyes were large with fear.

  Drake nodded. “I was holding Lucio’s money for him.”

  “How much money and where’d it come from?”

  “Several million. Lucio was into mob activities, and I was only a kid when he left that money with me.”

  “How many years have you been keeping it for him?”

  “About fifteen years. No one ever suspected that a mob guy would leave millions of dollars with a kid from the hood.”

  “Is that how you got your business started—with dirty money?”

  “All money’s dirty, one way or another. I used a portion of it to get started, but my business is totally legit.”

  “Oh, Drake,” Harlow uttered. “I don’t like how any of this sounds. You’re affiliated with a gangster who has people after him.”

  “Nobody’s after him, now. I paid the ransom they were demanding, and Lucio’s going to be all right.”

  “Are we seriously having this conversation? How dumb do you think I am? This crap you’re telling me doesn’t sound remotely believable. Sounds like something out of a bad movie.”

  “I don’t have any reason to lie; it’s true.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this old man, Lucio? When I told you about my mother…about my painful past, we made a promise not to keep any more secrets.”

  “I didn’t keep secrets about myself. My life is an open book. It wasn’t my place to share Lucio’s past with you.”

  “But you never even mentioned him.”

  “I couldn’t. After all that man did for me, I couldn’t betray his confidence. Not to you…not to anyone.”

  “Have you been keeping in touch with him all these years?”

  “Of course.”

  “How? Letters? Phone calls?”

  “Yes, and I visited him several times a year. Kept money on his books.”

  “Visited him…where?”

  “At the Federal Penitentiary in Florence, Arizona.”

  “How’d you accomplish that without my knowing?” Harlow smiled sardonically. “I get it. You visited him while pretending to be on one of your business trips.” She shook her head. “I’ve been so stupid and naïve when it comes to you. What else do you do under the guise of business?” She glared at Drake. “So many lies; it’s like you’ve been leading a double life.”

  “Not lies, Harlow. I simply didn’t tell you everything about my past.”

  “You had an ongoing secret life—during our marriage—that you kept from me.”

  “I had no choice. I couldn’t tell you about my relationship with Lucio. You wouldn’t have understood.”

  “You’re right, and I still don’t understand.”

  “We’ll get through this, Harlow. I love you, baby. Just come home with me where you belong. I can’t allow my pregnant wife to live out of a hotel. That’s crazy.”

  “No. You shut me out. If I hadn’t left, there’s no telling how long we would have been living in that big apartment like strangers. I’m concerned about the baby’s health, and I can’t be in an environment where I’m unhappy and uncertain. I can’t deal with your lies and your secret lifestyle, Drake.”

  “No more secrets. You know all there is to know, now. I realize that it was unfair of me to shut you out, but I had so much on my mind. Those goons worked Lucio over pretty badly. Not only did they cut off his finger; they broke ribs. Broke the old man’s jaw. He was messed up with internal bleeding…bruised kidney; I didn’t think he was going to make it.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Still in the hospital. But as soon as he’s able to travel; I’m putting him on a private jet to Naples to live with his sister.”

  “This story is so outlandish.”

  “It’s the honest to God truth and I can prove it. I’ll take you to the hospital to meet Lucio, tomorrow. And after that, will you please come back home?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Drake winced. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “Are you a gangster, Drake?”

  “No. Every dollar I have has been earned through hard work.” Wearing a serious expression, he looked her in the eyes. “Come home, Harlow. Please.”

  “I can’t; I don’t trust you.”

  VANGIE

  Depression consumed her for days after role playing with Alphonso. Role playing? The term sounded harmless and trendy, but who was she kidding? She hadn’t been merely role playing. Beating Alphonso’s ass with a riding crop and verbally abusing him was straight-up sadistic. She was a bitter woman—furious with the world because of her inability to snag a husband and her lack of financial success. And now that she’d lost custody of Yuri, she could add bad mother to her list of failures.

  Sadistic behavior was an outlet for her rage, filling her with a temporary sense of power. But when it was over, and she was alone with her thoughts, she plunged into despair and an even greater sense of self-loathing. The money should have helped, but it didn’t. With every dollar being turned over to lawyers, it wasn’t as if she’d actually acquired any financial gain.

  The apartment was so quiet and lonely without Yuri. She missed her son tremendously and couldn’t wait for him to come home. But until then, she had to find a way to fill her time and take her mind off of her problems. A visit with Harlow would be the perfect medicine to cure her woes, but that wasn’t possible.

  Feeling as if she would start bouncing off the walls if she didn’t do something with herself, Vangie thought about calling the masseuse in New York. Not for any lesbian activities, but simply for a relaxing massage. She couldn’t remember the woman’s name, but she could remember the strokes of her tongue. She searched through her junk drawer and found the woman’s card. The name, “Frieda Reinhardt,” was at the bottom.

  Frieda. Yes, that was her name. Frieda with the magical tongue.

  After wielding a riding crop, degrading and humiliating the man she formerly considered marriage material, she could use more than a massage. She was so wound up, she yearned to be touched, fondled, and slowly lured into sexual delirium by Frieda’s skilled fingers and tongue.

  And Vangie didn’t mind paying. She smiled at the irony. Alphonso got off from being whipped and debased and was willing to pay for his fetish. And like Alphonso, Vangie didn’t mind paying for her own sexual release. But she was only willing to pay a fraction of what she charged Alphonso.

  Anticipating another taboo, erotic adventure, she picked up the phone to call Frieda. It would be nice if the masseuse was willing to travel to Philly, but if she didn’t, Vangie would make the trip to New York.

  Frieda’s p
hone rang and rang, and then went to voicemail.

  “Uh, I was wondering…” Uncomfortable leaving a message, Vangie hung up, midsentence.

  Antsy, she didn’t want to be alone. There were a few guys that she’d gone out with in the past that she could invite over for a drink, but she didn’t want to deal with men right now. She was harboring so much anger and animosity toward the opposite sex, she was likely to turn into “Venus” if a dude said something that pissed her off.

  She knew exactly where to search for someone similar to Frieda. Philadelphia’s “Gayborhood,” located from Chestnut Street to Pine Street, between Eleventh and Broad Streets, was known to have a large concentration of gay and lesbian-friendly businesses, restaurants, and bars. Hoping to snag a gay girl for a pleasurable, one-night encounter, Vangie put on a tight black dress with a plunging neckline and drove downtown.

  She’d never been inside a gay bar in her life, yet she wasn’t nervous at all. She selected a small bar on Chancellor Street called The Merry-Go-Round, and after driving in circles for ten minutes, she finally landed a parking spot.

  All eyes were on Vangie when she strutted inside and boldly took a seat at the bar. While most of the patrons were dressed for comfort in casual attire, Vangie stood out in a slinky, short dress and five-inch stilettos.

  With her legs crossed, her dress hitched up even higher than it already was, spectators were given a generous view of her thighs.

  “Tonight’s margarita night,” a petite female bartender with a blue Mohawk said and pointed to a chalkboard that listed a long list of specialty margaritas.

  Vangie scanned the varieties and asked, “What’s in the Cadillac Margarita?”

  “Tequila, orange liqueur, and lime juice. It’s good,” she assured as she took in an eyeful of Vangie’s cleavage.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Vangie said, checking out the bartender as well as other women who were in her line of vision. The bartender looked all right, but she was a little too short and thin for Vangie’s newly acquired taste in women. She preferred someone taller and bigger, someone more masculine-looking. Someone like Frieda.

  As she sipped her drink, she could feel pairs of eyes assessing her—feasting on her. She was “new meat” in the bar and everyone seemed interested in her. She turned to her left and right, scanning the crowd, openly appraising possible sex partners. The women were of all shapes and sizes and ethnicities, but she didn’t spot anyone who attracted her.

  The bartender began placing one margarita glass after another in front of Vangie. She pointed to the parties who had sent them. “I’ll pour whenever you’re ready.”

  Vangie swiveled around and nodded at the generous ladies. She turned back to the bartender and said, “That’s it—no more. If I accept any more drinks, I’ll be stumbling out of here.”

  “Turning down free drinks is not proper bar etiquette,” the bartender said teasingly. “You don’t have to drink them all, but don’t deprive the ladies of the joy of spending money on you.”

  Vangie laughed. “Okay. I guess I could learn a thing or two about proper bar behavior.”

  “I’m a good teacher.” She winked, somehow aware that Vangie was a newbie on the gay scene.

  Vangie bobbed her head and rocked in her seat in time with the pulsing techno music. So far, she was having a good time and was thoroughly enjoying all the attention she was getting. In a heterosexual environment, she wouldn’t have stood out in the crowd, but here in this setting, she felt über beautiful and sexy.

  The Cadillac Margarita tasted so good, she inhaled her first drink and immediately beckoned the bartender to fill one of the empty glasses. Drinking much slower, she smiled to herself. This was exactly what she needed. Good drinks and a lively atmosphere that was heavily charged with sexual tension.

  After two drinks, she had to use the restroom. Her head swiveled as she checked out the clientele, looking for someone with a desirable masculine appearance.

  As she threaded her way through the crowd, a group of rowdy beer-guzzling women ogled her, and one of them made guttural sounds, announcing her appreciation for Vangie’s curves in a very uncouth way.

  All of them were masculine in their appearance and demeanor, Vangie noticed, as they closed ranks around her, blocking her path toward the restroom, but none had that special something she was looking for. Actually, they were a little too rough and rugged and sort of disgusting.

  One of the rowdy bunch said, “How’s it going, sweetheart? You’re looking hella delicious—like hot buttered toffee.”

  The cheesy line made her friends laugh, their behavior reminding Vangie of obnoxious schoolboys.

  Vangie regarded the woman who’d made the off-color remark, curious to find out if she was a potential bedmate. She wasn’t. She was sloppy-looking with unsightly tattoos up and down her arms and a big, beer belly that swelled beneath an oversized T-shirt. A current of perspiration trickled down the sides of her face, pooling in the creases of her thick neck. Damp circles stained the underarms of her shirt, giving her the slovenly look of a truck driver who had been on the road all day and all night.

  Wrinkling her nose, Vangie imagined the sweaty chick smelled bad, too. Without bothering to respond to the crude comment, Vangie pushed through the unattractive group of women and continued to the restroom.

  Inside the ladies room, Vangie came to the realization that she was wasting her time here. None of these girls were her type; perhaps she’d have better luck at a different place. She groped inside her bag and pulled out her phone. Online, she pulled up the list of lesbian bars in the area, and after perusing the reviews, she decided to check out a place called Fillies that was only a few blocks away.

  She exited the restroom feeling pleased that Fillies was in walking distance. Finding parking spaces in this area of the city was next to impossible, and she was grateful she didn’t have to move her car. Trekking two blocks in stilettos wouldn’t be easy, and she considered the idea of carrying her shoes and going barefoot until she reached the club. But she quickly nixed that idea. Sticking grime-covered feet inside her expensive Gucci heels was absurd and out of the question.

  The crowd had grown while she was in the ladies room, and it was taking a painfully long time to squeeze past the pockets of people who clogged the path to the door.

  She hoped the bartender was too busy to notice her sneaking out. It was rude to vacate the premises without leaving a tip. Vangie wasn’t deliberately being cheap, but the lewd truck-driver chick was perched on the stool next to hers, prepared to bombard her with crude comments and corny jokes. Vangie had no choice but to try and make a clean getaway.

  She’d almost made it to the front door when it suddenly opened and an oddly gorgeous woman strolled in. Androgynous in appearance, she possessed the combined characteristics of a beautiful woman and a handsome man. Tall and athletically lean, she was the color of dark copper with a tinge of red. High cheekbones, dark, slanted eyes, a prominent nose, and plump, sensual lips gave the impression that mixtures of African, Asian, and Mediterranean cultures had contributed to the features of her face. Her natural hairstyle was shaved and dark on one side with a shock of chin-length, maroon-tinted, wayward coils on the other.

  Vangie was mesmerized. She couldn’t take her eyes off the woman who was wearing shimmery black tights that clung like a second layer of skin. Everything about the woman was a contradiction. She was both wild and regal. Feminine and masculine. And she moved with the grace of a goddess while seeming to possess the physical prowess of a gladiator.

  Damn, she’s hot. That’s the kind of girl I want to get with. Desire clenched at Vangie’s core in a way she’d never experienced before. Abruptly changing her mind about going to the other bar, she turned around and headed for the barstool and the drinks she’d been eager to abandon.

  Luckily, the sweaty chick had moved on and was talking with an attractive older woman, staring into her eyes and caressing her hair.

  “I was getting ready
to clear this area; I thought you’d gone,” the bartender said and nodded toward the line of margarita glasses.

  “I was in the restroom.”

  “What’d you do…fall in?” She guffawed as if she’d said something hilariously original.

  It was a tired-ass expression, causing Vangie to groan inside. But just in case the goddess was watching, she wanted to appear as if she was having a wonderful time. She threw her head back and released a burst of side-splitting laughter, as if the corny joke was as funny as a Kevin Hart routine.

  Vangie glanced over her shoulder. Everyone in the bar seemed to know the hot-looking, androgynous chick. People were either waving at her from the other side of the room or rushing toward her to say hello. At least five-ten, maybe taller, she towered over the women she conversed with.

  “That’s Zenith,” the bartender informed.

  Zenith sounded like the name of a sex goddess or a superhero, and it suited her perfectly. Longingly, Vangie glanced in her direction.

  “You don’t wanna get involved with her.”

  “Why not?”

  The bartender spoke in a confidential tone. “She’s bad news. Every time she comes here, she leaves with a different girl. It’s all a game to her, and she doesn’t care who she hurts. You seem like a nice girl, and I thought I’d warn you.”

  “Hmm.” Vangie couldn’t think of anything to say.

  The bartender leaned in close, her words emerging in an ominous whisper. “Her last girlfriend ended up slashing her wrists.”

  “She killed herself?” Vangie’s voice was high and screechy.

  “She tried to. Her name was Molly. A pretty girl with a promising career in advertising. Now she looks like shit and can’t hold down a job. She got hooked on some kind of pills after the suicide attempt, and word has it she lives on the streets when she’s not alternating between mental hospitals and rehab.”

  “That’s a shame,” Vangie muttered.

  “Zenith ruined that girl’s life.”

  It was a sad story, but not sad enough to dissuade Vangie from stealing glances at the sexy amazon.

  “You need to watch out for her. I’m serious. She brings drama whenever she goes. I guarantee before the night is over, she’ll have some poor girl crying in her beer while a few others will start tussling and trying to claw each other’s eyes out over her.”