Head Games

by Mary B. Morrison

  My son had that right to hate Kohl, and I couldn’t take the pain away from him. Only Kohl could do that.

  “Hate is as natural as love, baby. I want you to understand why you feel the way you do. You have the right to be mad. I am, too,” I told him, parking in front of the university. “Just don’t take your anger out on others. Be mindful.”

  “Can I keep my phone?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “I’m going to ace everything again that they teach me this weekend, Mama,” William eagerly said. He spread his arms, held me tight. “I love you, Mama. I’m going to make you proud, and when I have kids, I’m going to take care of them. I promise.”

  “Mama loves you always and . . . ,” I paused.

  Two years ago I tired of dating guys with low standards. My focus became to find my son a stepfather. Not any man. A good man. I didn’t have to be in love with the guy, but he had to have three things: Respect for my son and me. Enough money to support the three of us. And he had to be a great role model for William.

  My son said, “Forever.”

  In exchange for my engagement ring, I, Ramona Dandridge, catered to my man in and out of the bedroom. Always remained faithful. And no matter how down he got about losing a game, I lifted him up so high no other woman could reach him. That was how I got Harold to put a ring on it without having to lead him to a jeweler. As a mother I gave my last. Kohl never gave our child anything.

  “Put everything I got... ,” I paused.

  “On it,” he said.

  William closed the car door, jogged to the building for his future lawyer preparatory class. Each session they had a different speaker—lawyer, judge, law enforcement officer, entrepreneur, etc. He had to take notes, then handwrite an essay in cursive about what he’d learned.

  Soon as he was inside, I drove away, weeping. For my child.

  * * *

  It angered me the way Kohl acted as if we’d never had sex. He was my first. My only at that time. Those rumors about my having been with this guy and that one were lies. But even if they were true, he’d done with girls the same things he’d falsely accused me of doing.

  Answering an incoming call, I dried my eyes, smiled, then cheerfully answered, “Hey, baby. I’m pulling up to Dooky Chase right now.”

  “Right behind ya,” Harold said. I could hear the excitement in his voice.

  Ending the call, I touched up my makeup. Refreshed my dark brown lipstick. My fiancé opened my door.

  “You lookin’ good in this car and them jeans, baby.” He hugged me at the waist, pulled me in, then kissed me on the forehead. “Don’t want to mess up those pretty lips yet. Where’s William?” he asked, escorting me through the back entrance.

  “He’s in law prep. They scheduled tomorrow’s sessions today due to the holiday weekend.”

  “Ah, okay,” Harold said, then asked, “You want me to pick him up? You know it’s going to take you forever to get ready for the concert tonight.”

  Want me, not need me to pick him up.

  “I’ll do it. And I’ll be ready.”

  “But will you be ready on time?”

  We sat at a square table all the way to the back, off to the side, in the corner. Harold sat with his back to the wall. I was seated next to him.

  “Two gumbos and two sweet teas?” the waiter asked.

  “You got it,” Harold answered, confirming our usual appetizers.

  Dooky Chase was our standing Friday lunch date during Harold’s off-season.

  “You think William would like touring the African-American museum this summer?” Harold asked.

  My chin dropped. “William? What about me?”

  “You know I got you, woman. How’re my gurls doing?” He flicked his tongue.

  Thrusting my breasts forward, I smiled, letting him touch one. “Diamond and Pearl are doing fine.” Diamond was my left breast because she was less sensitive than my precious right.

  I was still getting accustomed to my new body, but for the first time I enjoyed when I was naked and preferred not having on any clothes.

  I fed Harold a spoonful of his gumbo. “Don’t make me cry again. You know I appreciate your paying for everything,” including the convertible Bentley.

  A girlfriend that didn’t have time for me when I was overweight texted, You have any extra VIP backstage passes for tonight? I’ll pay you.

  I replied, I’m not for sale. My extras are for Carmella.

  I might write my friend Carmella a check large enough for her to decide if she wants to alter her body, but I didn’t want her going out of the country. I had all my work done in Atlanta with Dr. Paul McCluskey. He was most concerned about my overall health. Did my Brazilian butt lift and liposuction first, then my tummy tuck and breast implants. The Silagen silicone products he recommended, helped my scars start to fade but I also exfoliated, moisturized with bio oil and Combat ointment, vitamin E, all that. In another few months my body should look as though the cuts never happened.

  A man with a huge professional camera resting on his shoulder entered the rear of the restaurant. Heading in our direction, the person with him held a microphone.

  “You have an interview scheduled?” I asked Harold, scooting over and creating space between us. I wasn’t the type of girlfriend who’d hang on to or brag about my man’s success.

  “I’m not sure, but we’re about to find out,” he said, putting on a fake smile.

  I stood off to the side when the news reporter spoke into her mic. “We’ve caught up to our newest star and the fifty-million-dollar man here at one of our favorite restaurants. Harold Thurston, ‘welcome to New Orleans’ may still be in order, since this is only your second season.”

  I watched Harold’s eyes and his smile widened as he said, “Thanks. It’s great to be a part of an exciting franchise.”

  “How are you adjusting to the Big Easy?” she asked.

  Nodding straight up and down, he said, “Loving the fans. Can’t get enough of this seafood gumbo, though. All that.” He devoured an oyster. Chewed with his mouth closed, then swallowed.

  “You got us to the conference finals. What was your secret to keeping the opponent from scoring?”

  The way she licked her lips at my six-eight piece of dark chocolate was plain nasty. I was ready for her to wrap it up.

  “Defense wins games. I’m always going to do my best to keep the other team from scoring,” he said. Sitting back, he placed his silverware on a napkin.

  The news reporter’s eyes honed in on my man’s dick print. Harold motioned for me to come to him.

  “Well,” she said, sounding more annoyed than surprised, “who do we have here?”

  If I could snatch that mic, shove it in her mouth, and make her disappear, she’d be my second viral video of the day. Harold held up my left hand.

  “I’d like to officially introduce my fiancée, who happens to be a native, to your local viewing audience. This is the lovely Ms. Ramona Dandridge, soon-to-be Mrs. Ramona Thurston.”

  “Lovely, are you?” she said, smirking at me. “Don’t eat too much, Ramona. Thanks for your time, Harold.” She went into her exit, giving her channel information, and then: “This is Lisa Dozier. . . . Back to you, Gary.”

  Giving her undivided attention to Harold, she told him, “Sorry for cutting it short, we have to get to another location. Here’s my card. Call me. Anytime.”

  Once upon a time, I liked her segments. Today her next location could’ve been the hospital. Not waiting for her to turn away, I said, “Rude bitch.”

  Harold held my hand, shook his head. “Now that we’re engaged, you’re going to have to practice your media smile and attitude. Took me a while.”

  Might as well ask, “So you’ve seen my video online?”

  “Who hasn’t seen it?” he laughed. “If I were there, I would’ve run interference, beaten Kohl’s ass, and taken the charge. Baby, don’t sweat any of this. I got you. I could tell Lisa is after me. You,” he said, then tapp
ed the left side of his chest, “got my heart.”

  Two fresh bowls of gumbo replaced the ones on our table. I was hungry and dug right in.

  I texted Kohl, Take the test tomorrow or I’m filing a court order first thing Monday morning.

  Once his paternity was confirmed, I was taking all his shit before I got legally married.

  His response, Stay away from me. Or I’m filing a PO against you.

  I showed Harold.

  “Why do you keep putting yourself through this?” Harold asked. “Now that we’re getting married, he will demand the test, and will pray he’s the dad. But he’s not getting a damn dime of our money. If he does the fool, I’ll personally take care of him. Ya heard me.”

  His last words made me laugh. “Where’d you learn that?”

  “Teammates. Eat before you need a third bowl.”

  “I just want William to know that’s his father.”

  “Ramona, look at me. Does Shaq know his biological father? Le-Bron? And I don’t mean know of.”

  I gazed up at Harold with teary eyes.

  “William can’t move on if you don’t. I’m his dad now. Let me be that man to you and a father to him.”

  This was a perfect time to say, “The football coach kicked William off the team this morning. Said it was the video of my hitting Kohl. I was violent.”

  “I’ll handle it with the coach.” Harold placed a $100 bill on the table. “Let’s go before we miss the last act.”

  “I’m not that slow.” I stood, scooped an oyster. Ate it. Went back into the filé. This time for a shrimp.

  “Dang, you greedy. Stay. Finish eating. I’m picking up William. We’ll see you at home. Bye.”

  I texted Kohl, Harold is right. We don’t need you.

  CHAPTER 21

  Kohl

  Day 1

  Picking up the remote, I powered on all the flat screens throughout Kash In & Out. One side catered to hookah indulgers, but you couldn’t have a club in New Orleans that didn’t keep ’em coming for alcohol lovers. No cover, $3 well drinks, and $5 setups for hookah before 10:00 p.m. helped customers dig deep into their pockets for my big, beautiful entertainers.

  I hit Blitz with, Before the video. Had you seen Ramona?

  I follow her, he responded, which meant what exactly?

  I typed, Why? Then I instructed the new woman delivering my hookah, “Spread the boxes across the bar in stacks of fours, according to flavor, labels facing front.”

  “Gonna be a busy weekend. You need tips?” she asked.

  The double jelly roll separated by her omentum was sexy as hell. I wanted to grab her handles, pull her to me, tell her how hot she was. Her titties sat on top of that upper layer, where I could lay my head and fall asleep.

  “What I need is to see you take off that shirt and dance on my stage,” I said, then answered her question, “Give me a thousand tips.” That could be gone in less than a day.

  To see her pop off on guys like you. Your eye open yet? Blitz texted.

  Slightly swollen. No big deal. I didn’t want to be with Ramona. She was the one that wanted us to be a family. That was the real reason she never let the test thing go.

  His next text, You cool with me hitting that, made me lose count of my merchandise.

  Had to restart after I let him know, Ramona is off limits.

  He sent an emoji with the tongue sticking out, followed by, And she’s engaged, but you know how we do it.

  He was following her for real? I turned around. Delivery chick was on stage twerking. She had some nice moves. I played Juvenile’s “Back That Azz Up.” Standing at the edge, I tossed a rack at her. Slowed the music down with Trey Songz’s “Love Faces.”

  She came out of her pants. Her bra and underwear were neutral-colored. Thighs like the Michelin Man, rubbed together, when she swayed. Legs were small in comparison to the rest of her body.

  I loved that. “Damn, I could cuddle up to you every night,” I said. “Take the rest off. Ain’t nobody coming up in here.”

  “You want this pussy,” she asked. Holding a chunk of deliciousness in each hand . . . Damn, her vagina resembled an overstuffed smoked sausage po’boy, dressed.

  “Play with her for me,” I said. Admiring her, I felt my dick starting to get hard.

  Her thick fingers parted her paradise. Soon as I saw her huge clit, I hopped on stage. Jumped down just as fast. Locked the door, then got real close up on her, held a handful of areola. I alternated kissing and sucking her marshmallow nipples.

  “I love every ounce of you,” I said before arching my back to get close enough to shove my tongue in her mouth.

  “This is lust at first sight.” She wrapped her arms around me. “What you gonna do with all of this hotness?”

  Damn, she was easier than I thought. Maybe it’d been a while since she was laid and she just wanted to get herself some.

  She started undressing me. First went my polo over my head; next my pants and underwear were at my knees; my dick was being devoured like a hot link. Five minutes in, I fired a round of seeds down her throat. She didn’t spill one.

  As I pulled up my pants, she blocked my hand. “Uh-uh. You gon’ give me some of that.”

  I held up my palms to her, stared at my limp noodle. “You suck the life outta him. Let me give you a rain check,” I said. This time I fastened my belt. Put on my shirt.

  “When, Kohl?” she asked.

  A text from Trymm, If Walter drops by your spot tonight or contacts you, cover my ass. I’m helping you out.

  No way was I assisting my competitor. I confirmed with Trymm, Cool, then texted Walter, Trymm is not helping me out tonight, knowing darn well Trymm was going to get messed up.

  I told Gurl 1, “Let me get past the busy weekend. Get dressed. I have to get out of here. Next time I’m going to invite you to my house for dinner.”

  Gurl 1 was cashed out for my products. I escorted her to her vehicle.

  “See you next week,” she said.

  “For sure.” Locking up, I headed home. Had to be back by three o’clock to open for the afternoon crowd.

  I filled up my large tub with more hot than cold water, topped it off with bubble bath and essential oils. Opening my African black soap, I placed it in the dish. I had something for William’s smart behind next time I saw them. I’d have a bar in my pocket. Turning on my TV, I put the plastic-covered remote within reach, reclined against the suds, closed my eyes.

  Heard, “We’ve caught up to our newest star and the fifty-million-dollar man here at one of our favorite restaurants. Harold Thurston, ‘welcome to New Orleans’ may still be in order, since this is only your second season.”

  Harold was our team’s ticket out of our losing streak. I had his jersey framed and on the wall at my clubs. A signature would be nice. Opening my eyes, I’d recognize Dooky’s gumbo anywhere.

  “Thanks. It’s great to be a part of an exciting franchise,” he said, all cool and stuff.

  Ballers hated solicitations. So did I. I was going to invite him to my spot for an official-game after party and extend him a welcome to my parents’ church.

  “How are you adjusting to the Big Easy?” our local news reporter Lisa Dozier asked.

  Word around the city was she was extra thirsty. Maybe I could do her if Blitz didn’t get to her first. She was more his type.

  Harold said, “Loving the food. Can’t get enough of this seafood gumbo.” Filé juice spilled into his bowl as he ate a spoonful. Made me hungry for a bowl. My cooks made a good pot, but Dooky’s had chefs. Might make a stop over there before I opened up.

  He’d better scale back on wolfing down the fattening foods before he start looking like Charles Barkley’s twin.

  “What’s your strategy to keep your opponent from scoring?”

  “Defense wins games. I’m always going to do my best to keep the other team from scoring,” he said, leaning back.

  “Well, who do we have here?” the reporter asked.

 
The remote slipped from my grip, slid into the tub, floated. “What the hell was she up to?”

  “I’d like to officially introduce my fiancée, who happens to be a native, to your local viewing audience. This is the lovely Ms. Ramona Dandridge, soon-to-be Mrs. Ramona Thurston.”

  “Don’t eat too much, Ramona. Thanks for your time, Harold.... This is Lisa Dozier . . . Back to you, Gary.”

  So that was how Ramona had come up. Had to find a way to bring her down.

  No man wanted to marry a whore, no matter how fine she was.

  CHAPTER 22

  Kohl

  Day 3

  “Shut it down. I’m exhausted. Announce the last song right now,” I told my DJ. “‘Planet Rock’ all of them out the front door.”

  The intro to one of the longest ultimate “go hard or die trying” old school hits played. My entire club instantly became a huge dance floor.

  I loved my city, but visitors lost their mind when they got to the only place in the country where clubs stayed open well into the sunrise. There was no last call for alcohol in the “city that care forgot.”

  Taking the mic, I announced, “You can get to-go cups for your drink on your way out.”

  Standing in the booth, I noticed one big gurl jumped on my stage with my stripper Big Nasty and broke it all . . . the . . . way . . . down. The gurl raised her minidress over her head, took it off, twirled it in the air, then yelled, “I run this motherfucker!”

  I’d had my eye on her since midnight. I underestimated how wild she was. Had to hit it. She could stay.

  Women rushed up the stairs on both sides; some hopped on from the front, the way I’d usually do. Next thing I saw were naked asses everywhere.

  Females were stumbling, rolling, bouncing, twerking, like they were on payroll. Men were staggering, humping, throwing dollars in the air at seven in the morning. The sun had risen and I had to be at The House of the Lord in four hours.