Insatiable

by Allison Hobbs

  “He called a few times. This isn’t like him—I’m worried. Something probably happened…”

  “As your best friend, I refuse to allow you to sit home stressin’ over Marquise. He’s been lying and telling you he’s on his way home ever since seven o’clock Friday night. What I gotta do…smack you upside your head or somethin’ to make you see the light? Any nigga that’s been gone that long has to be layin’ up with some chick—somewhere.”

  Terelle flinched and grimaced like she’d been sucker punched dead in the face.

  “If you plan on being with Marquise, you gonna have to change you ’cause he ain’t nevah gonna change. If you wanna straighten his ass out, you gotta start treatin’ him exactly the way he’s been treatin’ you—like shit.”

  Terelle shifted in her seat. Treating Marquise badly was not an option; she might as well have been asked to jump off a cliff.

  “I wish I could be a fly on the wall and see Quise’s face when he comes home to that empty-ass apartment.” Saleema giggled maliciously. “And since your Aunt Bennie is watching Keeta overnight, you should really give him your ass to kiss by spending the night at my crib.” Saleema cut her eyes at Terelle, trying to gauge her friend’s response.

  Wearing a troubled look, Terelle massaged her temples. “I don’t know, Saleema…”

  “Why not? Give me one good reason? Why don’t you turn the tables and let him try to track your ass down for a change.”

  “I can’t sleep right if I’m not…”

  “Up under Marquise!” Saleema said, finishing the sentence for Terelle. “Do you know how dumb you sound? You ain’t slept with him for the past couple of nights and you ain’t guaranteed he’s coming home tonight, so stop looking for excuses to take more of his shit.” Saleema backed up, pulled out of the parking spot and whipped Jezebel onto Woodland Avenue.

  There was a crowd hanging around outside Gorman’s Bar. “Slow down,” Terelle ordered, thinking one of the loiterers might know of Marquise’s whereabouts.

  Saleema pulled to the curb. “Y’all seen Marquise?” Saleema yelled out the window.

  “Naw,” said a grinning young buck named Pookie. Pookie was on his grind outside the bar. He approached Jezebel—ogling the SUV as if Marquise’s absence was an invitation for him to hop in and take a ride with the two women.

  “’Sup, Saleema? How ya doing, Terelle? What y’all gittin’ into tonight?” His eyes gleamed with expectation as he leaned on the passenger door.

  “None of your business, Pookie,” Saleema said. “You said you ain’t seen Marquise, right?”

  “Damn. Why you gotta come at me like that?” Pookie said. He looked hurt.

  “My bad. Feel better? Now…have you seen Marquise?”

  “Naw, I ain’t seen that nigga for a minute.”

  “All right. Thanks. Now back the fuck off my ride.” Saleema pulled off, causing Pookie to lose his balance and stumble backwards.

  “That was mean,” Terelle said, shaking her head.

  “The hell with Pookie. He knows I don’t fuck with no broke-ass bitches. Did you see those cruddy-ass boots he had on? That nigga be outside huggin’ the block all day and all night. Now, you would think with all those hours he’s puttin’ in, he’d be able to at least buy hisself a new pair of Tims.”

  “They don’t wear their fly gear while they on their grind,” Terelle said. “Them young bucks know whassup—the cops would be all over them if they was out there flaunting their shit the way niggas used to do,” Terelle explained.

  “Whatever. I don’t give a fuck what they wear. All I know is fools like Pookie be gittin’ locked up—doing three…four years for selling little dumb-ass nics and dimes. They barely make enough loot to buy a new Dickie set yet they’re willing to risk gittin’ popped and having to give up years of their life for a little bit of chump change. Now that’s downright pathetic and I ain’t got no rap for no dumb-ass, broke-ass niggas.”

  “All right, Saleema. You’re feeling yourself right now ’cause you’re doin’ good, but who knows…you might need Pookie one day,” Terelle cautioned.

  “Shit, if I ever have to depend on the likes of Pookie, we both know I’m gonna be up shit’s creek.” Saleema and Terelle both fell out laughing.

  Then turning serious, Terelle said, “Maybe Quise is chillin’ over his cousin’s house. Make a left on Conestoga Street. I wanna check that out before we go to the club.”

  Saleema sighed in disgust, but complied. When she turned onto Conestoga Street there was a blue and silver truck parked in the middle of the narrow street. Saleema leaned on her horn. The driver of the truck was apparently inside one the houses on the street. “Why niggas can’t park their shit instead of leaving it running in the middle of the damn street,” Saleema complained.

  A door opened and a woman came running toward the truck.

  “Here I come; I’m sorry,” she called out cheerfully.

  “That’s Miss Norma!” Terelle exclaimed.

  “Hey, Miss Norma,” both young women yelled happily.

  Norma Towns walked over to the driver’s side. “Hi, girls!” she squealed. “Look at my girls all grown up and beautiful.”

  Saleema and Terelle blushed like teenagers. Norma Towns, a pretty, brown-skinned woman in her early forties, was the manager at the neighborhood KFC. She’d given Terelle and Saleema their first jobs and had acted as a mother figure to the young girls, counseling and providing guidance during their turbulent teens. They hadn’t forgotten her kindness and always gave her the utmost respect.

  “We were out here tellin’ you off, Miss Norma. We didn’t know that was your truck,” Saleema admitted with laughter.

  “That’s Rocky’s truck; he just bought it,” Norma explained.

  “Are you and Mr. Rocky still together?” Terelle wanted to know.

  “Uh-huh. We’ve been together since we were twelve years old. I guess you could say we’re soul mates.” Norma paused in thought. “How’s Marquise? I heard he was out. You two still together?”

  “Uh-huh. We’re gonna be just like you and Mr. Rocky—together forever,” Terelle said proudly.

  “I know that’s right. Well, let me get home before Rocky starts blowing up my cell phone. You girls take care.” Norma got in the truck and drove away.

  “Why’d you lie to Miss Norma?” Saleema asked.

  “You know Miss Norma don’t like hearing no bad news.”

  “That’s true,” Saleema agreed. She slowly cruised Conestoga Street and stopped in front of Marquise’s cousin’s house. “You gonna ring the bell?”

  “No, he’s not there; I can feel it. And I’m not tryin’ to let his nosy aunt and cousin be all up in my business.”

  Without hesitation, Saleema pressed on the gas pedal.

  They parked in an outdoor lot near Club Beyond. Saleema scoped out the expensive cars in the lot and nodded with approval.

  “Damn! Niggas is out thick,” Saleema observed inside the club as she and Terelle squeezed through the crowd. “That’s Butterball,” Saleema informed Terelle, pointing to the DJ hosting the club for the evening.

  Terelle did a double take. “Damn, I didn’t know Butter was white. I’ve been hearing that voice on WDAS all my life and I never had a clue he was white.”

  “Yup, he’s Italian. I heard he’s married to a black woman. And I also heard he’s loaded. Practically owns the radio station.” Saleema was pensive. “I wonder if Butter gets his trick on? Shit, fuck these waiting-for-a-paycheck niggas. I should go hollah at Butter,” Saleema said laughing.

  As it turned out, Butter wasn’t interested, but Saleema was able to make a connection with one of his friends.

  Twisting and turning, unable to sleep in Saleema’s spare bedroom, Terelle grabbed the phone and called home. Marquise picked up on the first ring. Feeling a mixture of anger and relief, she hung up without saying a word. As much as she would have loved to be home in her own bed with her own man, Terelle knew Saleema was right. She had to change if
she expected Marquise to treat her as she deserved.

  Judging by the theatrical moans and groans emanating from Saleema’s bedroom, the girl was doing her best to coochie-whip Butter’s affluent friend into becoming a regular customer. In a futile attempt to muffle the torturous sounds, Terelle covered her head with a pillow. Miserable, she flopped from one side of the bed to the other until sweet sleep finally claimed her.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  On Monday morning Terelle called out sick. Angry and confused, there was no way she could concentrate on her responsibilities at work. Marquise had the day off and she needed to get home to attend to her business. She tried to awaken Saleema to get a ride, but Saleema, worn out from her Oscar-worthy performance, slept like the dead. As was her habit, she’d probably sleep until noon or later.

  Terelle groaned at the thought of having to go out into the early morning cold to wait for the bus, but she wasn’t about to sit around and wait for Saleema to come back to life. Thank God she didn’t have to pick up Markeeta. Aunt Bennie had volunteered to drop her off at the day care center.

  An hour later, Terelle bounded the stairs to her apartment. Marquise was sitting in the living room watching TV. He sprang up when Terelle entered the apartment.

  “I know what you thinkin’, but I can explain,” Marquise said in a broken, pained voice as if he were the one who’d been wronged.

  Although her eyes projected rage, feeling drained of energy, Terelle plodded to the closet and hung up her coat. “How are you going to explain staying out for three damn nights?” she asked wearily. “I can’t understand why you even bothered to come back. You want Danita? Go ahead…pack your shit and go live with her and her kids.” Terelle nodded to the bedroom. “Want me to help you pack?”

  “You talkin’ crazy. I told you…I ain’t fuckin’ wit Danita.”

  “Well, you’re fuckin’ with somebody. Now pack your shit and go back to the tramp you been layin’ up with all weekend. I’m through, Marquise. Me and Keeta will be just fine without you.”

  A grave expression covered his face. He lit a cigarette, puffed deeply, but didn’t utter a sound.

  “That’s right,” Terelle continued, irate. “While you were in jail,” she sneered, “I took care of Keeta by myself and I did it from the day she was born.” She gestured angrily, her movements a quick succession of furious finger pointing and heated hand waving. “Now, after all I’ve been through…” She paused, her rapid movements slowing down as she began to brush wisps of hair from her face. “You gotta be crazy if you think I’m gonna let you and that smut disrespect me and my child.”

  Marquise folded his hands in his lap, looked down and studied them. Then, raising his gaze, he said sadly, “You think I fucked up, but it ain’t the way it looks.”

  “It looks pretty damn bad, Marquise.”

  “I know, I know. But I been makin’ major moves all weekend…”

  “I bet,” she said sarcastically.

  “Naw, on the real…I hooked up with these Jamaican boys; I been tied up with the Jakes all weekend, making major moves like I said.”

  “Even if I was stupid enough to believe you, I still ain’t tryin’ to be with nobody stupid enough to keep getting back into the game.” She sucked her teeth. “You’re fuckin’ hopeless, Marquise!”

  “This ain’t about drugs,” he said in hot denial. “Babe, you already told me how you feel about that, and I told you…I’m through hustlin’. The shit I’m about to git into is totally legit.”

  Terelle gave a frustrated sigh.

  “Seriously, the Jakes got plans to open up some clubs in Atlantic City—in the black neighborhoods. They want me to run one of their spots.” Marquise beamed proudly. “My old head Jocko knew me back when I was a young buck—back when I first started hustlin’. He peeped the way I handle myself; he recognizes a thoroughbred when he sees one…”

  “Hmph!” Terelle muttered in disgust. She hated it when Marquise tried to pump up his hustlin’ skills. He knew as well as she did that while he was in the game, he took one L after another and could never rise above the common street hustlin’ level. The hard grindin’, the late hours he’d kept were always the result of his having to play catch-up after getting stuck up or trusting some triflin’ nigga who inevitably messed up his money.

  “Stop lying, Quise!” Terelle sounded flustered.

  There was a painful silence, then Marquise crossed to the other side of the room; he took a box off the windowsill and handed it to Terelle. She opened it.

  “That’s the good faith gift Jocko and his boys gave me. Look at the price tag—that watch cost over two G’s.”

  With obvious relief, Terelle examined the price tag and then the watch. “It’s beautiful, Quise. But, I wouldn’t trust them Jakes. Who knows what they’re really into? You think Donald Trump gonna let some damn Jamaicans get a slice of that Atlantic City pie? I think it’s a scam. If they are opening up a spot, you know damn well it’s just a front for drugs. They’re cutting you in so you can be the one to take the fall when the shit goes down. Damn, Quise—why do you have to get involved in shit that’s bound to have us living on the edge? You promised me a normal life…and if these Jakes could get you so tied up that you couldn’t even get your ass home, how much worse will it get when you start running the spot?” Terelle rubbed the sides of her head. “I refuse to live like that,” Terelle said, shaking her head.

  “Just give me a chance to prove I can be the man you deserve. I can’t do nothin’ for you if I’m workin’ in that stank-ass nursin’ home. All the overtime in the world ain’t gonna git me no real cheddar. Cleaning toilets and scrubbing floors is killin’ me. That ain’t me, Terelle—that’s not who I am.” Marquise’s eyes became clouded and moist. “I’m only workin’ on that nut-ass job to prove how much I love you.”

  Terelle felt vulnerable; she could feel herself weakening.

  “I know life gotta have somethin’ better than what I been gittin’. It’s my time, babe. I can feel it; please don’t make me miss out on this chance.”

  Terelle felt a lump in her throat. She rubbed Marquise’s hand, silently telling him that she understood; she’d give him her support.

  “The spot don’t open for another month.” The words flew from his lips so quickly it was as if he’d known all along that Terelle would cave in. All signs of the inner turmoil he’d previous exhibited had quickly vanished. “In the meantime,” he enthusiastically added, “I might have to attend a meeting—once a week, but that’s it. And I promise…look at me, babe.” He lifted her chin with his finger and looked into her eyes. “All this stayin’ out all night and makin’ you worry is over. I know whatchu expect outta me. I’m through wit the dumb shit; it’s a wrap. Aiight, babe?”

  Wanting—needing to believe him, Terelle nodded sadly and rested her head on his chest.

  Marquise put his arms around Terelle. “I love you, babe. I know I been messin’ up, but all that’s behind us now. You ready to set a date?”

  “For what?”

  “Our weddin’,” he whispered.

  Hearing the words put a tingle up her spine. She cleared her throat, tried to speak but couldn’t. Had he actually asked to marry her?

  “When? Spring…summer…fall?”

  “Fall,” she managed to utter in a raspy voice. Clearing her throat again, she said, “We’re gonna have to cut back and start saving for the wedding. I could get some overtime…”

  “Fuck that! I should be rollin’ in a couple of months. Babe, I’m gonna have so much loot, we gonna need a money-countin’ machine to keep track of it,” he said, laughing. “But we can get married in September if you want to. Go ’head, set the date.”

  Terelle went to the kitchen to check the wall calendar. “September 20th?” she said in a small voice.

  “Sounds good to me. Now come here with your pretty ass, sexy self and give your future husband some sugar.” Embarrassed by the compliment, Terelle made timid steps toward him. Marquise picke
d her up and swung her around.

  “Put me down, Quise. You’re gonna drop me!” Terelle squealed happily.

  “Yo, be quiet. I gotchu—you ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said as he covered her face with kisses. “Damn, I missed you, girl,” he said, then paused to kiss her lips. He parted her lips with his tongue, then pulled away abruptly, and looked into her eyes. “I’m in for the long ride, babe…it’s you and me…ridin’ this thang ’til the wheels fall off. Feel me?”

  She nodded and stared deep into his eyes, sending him a message of undying, eternal love.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Lounging in pajamas and slippers and browsing through a ton of bridal magazines while Markeeta watched her favorite cartoons, Terelle was enjoying a tranquil Saturday afternoon. The ring of the telephone disrupted her peace. She wanted to ignore it, but had to pick up just in case Marquise was checking in. Damn, Marquise had been off house arrest for months now and yet she kept forgetting to get the Caller ID feature put back on the telephone.

  The meetings Marquise had with the Jamaicans required his being out every Saturday—all day until late at night. To keep Terelle from worrying, he called several times throughout the day and evening via his new cell phone (another gift from the Jamaicans). Assuming the call was from Marquise, she trotted to the kitchen to pick up.

  Terelle was shocked to hear Aunt Bennie’s voice; her aunt’s voice was unusually high-pitched; her words were jumbled—incoherent. The only words Terelle could make out were hospital and mother. And for a horrifying moment, afraid that something awful had happened to her mother, Terelle trembled with fear.

  “What’s wrong; what happened to her?” Terelle asked, nearly hysterical.

  “She had a stroke,” Aunt Bennie cried.

  “A stroke! How? She’s not even forty years old. How’d she have a stroke?”

  “I’m not talking about Cassy. I’m talking about my mother—Gran had a stroke,” Aunt Bennie explained through sniffles.

  A pang of guilt accompanied the relief that flooded through her. Thank God her own mother was all right. Terelle hadn’t talked to her mother since the fateful night that she’d allowed Marquise to kick her out. She’d never forgive herself if something happened to her. This was a wake-up call; she had to make peace with her mother.