Head Games

by Mary B. Morrison

  Sitting in my office at Kash In & Out, I’d searched every combination I could think of for Ramona’s new IG page. She’d deactivated her old account. Had no luck. Wasn’t giving up. I could ask Blitz, Trymm, or Dallas. Bet they all knew, but I didn’t want the crewe to know I was equally obsessed with stalking her online. That, and I was catching feelings for Ramona, wanted her back, especially if William was mine.

  Leaving the Easy wasn’t happening. Had to find an acceptable apology for Lema. Maybe I could offer her a portion of my winnings. My count was sixty and rising. The good Reverend Bartholomew’s and First Lady Paula’s betrayal made me text what I’d hoped would hurt him, Who are my biological parents?

  Wow! Found my baby.

  Ramona had on a two-piece swimsuit. I let the video loop repeat. The ocean waves splashed against her booty, washed down the crack of her butt. Her ass was ridiculously nice. Salt water rolled down her cleavage.

  I played the next scene. Harold swept Ramona off her feet. She laughed. He smiled. Kissed her. The next video on her page was of them on the beach stretched out facedown naked on massage tables, under the moonlight. Must’ve been a thousand candles surrounding them. Some man’s hands slid along her lower back. A female rubbed Harold’s ass.

  I was pissed that Ramona looked genuinely happy without me.

  Felt my jaws tightening. Put down my cell for a moment. Where was my son Billy boy while they were getting their freak on? I should report them as unfit parents.

  Restocking my bar, I wondered, what would our life have been like if I’d done the right thing and married Ramona? Supported her dreams? Helped raise her son.

  Checked her page again. William was on a horse. Another kid about his age rode beside him. Their smiles couldn’t get any wider as the stallions trotted along the shore. My son was no cowboy. The next clip William and the same boy were Jet-Skiing. Parasailing. Then the four of them were dining on Maine lobsters that had to be five pounds each.

  What did Harold see in Ramona that I hadn’t?

  As I read her next post, my chin dropped. What the hell?

  When did Ramona post a copy of my DNA test results? I texted Blitz, I know you saw that. Why you didn’t say something?

  He hit me back, Man, fuck that DNA! I’m da pappy!

  Oh, okay, I replied, refusing to give Blitz the satisfaction of knowing I was pissed off. This was not a scene in the movie Life, this was my life.

  I felt like shit. I’d locked in her number from the court documents. Hadn’t used it, but had to text Ramona: I apologize. I’m ready to meet my son.

  A picture of Harold with his hand on my son’s shoulder popped up on her page. No DM back to me.

  I texted her again, His real daddy is here. Homeboy can dip.

  No response.

  I knew how to get her attention. Got a check for all of your back child support in two weeks. How much do I owe?

  Gurl 1 entered. I dropped my cell in my pocket.

  Quietly she arranged my delivery on the counter. Double stacked the boxes of hookah by flavors. Lined up hoses, tips, filters, bowls, tongs, lighters, and the remainder of my order.

  After checking my inventory twice, I politely told her, “Thanks.”

  “Don’t say shit to me, man. You real foul.” Her mouth twisted sideways. Slowly she shook her head. “Not even an apology from your sorry ass? Took you seventeen days to take down your page.”

  And she should be grateful that it wasn’t going back up in ten. Females I’d previously exposed wouldn’t repeat. “You right. I apologize.”

  “What you thought was a fucking joke almost cost me my job. On top of that, you got my coworkers disrespecting me on a daily. My son fighting at school every day. The shit you did ain’t right, Kash.”

  I knew I should feel bad, but she was a willing participant. The only person that made me feel worse than Gurl 6 was Ramona. I handed Gurl 1 my credit card. She swiped; I signed.

  “Somebody gon’ fuck! You! Up!” Gurl 1 shook her head and her ass out the door.

  Digging in my pocket, I checked my phone for a reply from Ramona. Nothing.

  A strange woman entered. My eyes got wide. Lips spread. She had a rack exactly like Ramona’s.

  “What time do you open?” she asked, real chipper.

  “Depends.”

  “Today is my birthday,” she said, all sexy. “I turn twenty-one.”

  Gurl, soon-to-be number 61, was legal, but a lil too young to be so plastic. Had to find out if the good Lord or a surgeon had blessed her. “Then let me buy you a drink,” I offered.

  “I came in to reserve a table and order bottle service for me and my friends.”

  “Aw’ight.” Popping open a bottle of champagne, I locked the door, filled two flutes, handed her one. “How many friends coming?”

  “Five, plus me.” She sipped. “A lil cheap, but good. I’ma need Krug Brut.”

  I might have to pass on this one. Krug was $300 a bottle. My price. “Happy birthday to the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  Raising her glass, she said, “To me.”

  “Salute. To you. You want to give the pole a spin.”

  Her eyes and smile widened. “Tonight?”

  I nodded toward the stage. “Sure. But you can give it a practice twirl now. I’ll watch.” I played, Pour It Up.

  Enthusiasm coupled with her youth had her winding and grinding on the pole and crawling on the floor. I went in the back, grabbed two racks. Removing the rubber band, I made 100 singles rain on her.

  “You’re a natural. Come sit here.” I patted my knee, waved the other stack.

  “Can I practice my lap dance?” she asked.

  “In a minute. What are you doing with your life?” I asked, not really caring, but I knew when females thought you were concerned about them, they were generous with the goods. Like Ramona.

  “I was enrolled at UNO. Had to drop out. The tuition was too expensive.”

  Wait. Champagne taste, beer money, messed-up priorities. “I graduated from the University of New Orleans. I have connects. I’ll see what I can do to get you back on track,” I lied, handed the stack to her, then refilled our flutes.

  “Really! That’s crazy,” she said. “A toast to you.”

  “Tuition is expensive. Besides, I’ve seen you move. I know you can do better than a toast,” I said, unzipping my pants.

  CHAPTER 29

  Ramona

  Day 23

  Ignoring Kohl gave me satisfaction. Confirming he was William’s biological father allowed me to stop chasing him to do right by our son. A ten—make that eleven if I counted my pregnancy—year emotional weight was lifted. I was going all the way in on his ass, through the court system.

  Act an ass? Go to jail. Don’t pay? Go to jail. As I moved forward, everything would be strictly business with Kohl.

  William was on the nineteenth-yard line. The score was tied at fourteen in the fourth quarter, with three minutes left to go.

  “Defense, William! Get ready!” I shouted, bouncing on the bleacher.

  “Sack, sack, the quarterback!” Carmella yelled.

  My son had gone from being excused from the team to starting. There were players that were better than William, I’d admit. Whatever Harold told the coach and the things he’d taught William worked in our favor: calisthenics, jogging, stretching, watching recorded game footage, explaining plays to our son. William deserved a chance to prove himself worthy. And I learned a valuable lesson, Kohl wasn’t going to control my emotions ever again.

  “Oh, my gosh! Yes! William! Run, baby!” I bounced hard on the bleacher. My cropped top dipped below my areolas.

  Carmella yanked it up. “Run, William!” she yelled.

  “Thanks, girl.”

  Carmella laughed. “No one saw your goods.”

  Hopefully, Carmella was right. My followers had moved on to the next trend. I did not need to give them a reason to circle back to me.

  We were in our usual seats at the top. H
arold was on the sideline with the other dads cheering on our son. William intercepted the ball. Harold ran on the sideline motivating William to keep moving. Our baby went straight up the middle. “That’s my boy! Keep going! You got this, baby! Touchdown!”

  Overheard a parent for the other team complaining, “He can’t run with him. That’s not fair!”

  She wasn’t close enough to hear me say, “Shut up, bitch. Life ain’t fair.”

  At the start of the next play, Carmella’s son was on offense. I heard a familiar voice: “That’s my boy, son! You ain’t his daddy.”

  “Aw, hell no.” I stood to confirm it was indeed Kohl Bartholomew.

  Harold looked up at me, shaking his head. He texted, Kohl wants your attention. Stay put. I got this.

  Kohl had wedged his way into the lineup of dads, three persons down from Harold. He’d never shown his face at any of William’s game.

  “Don’t let him steal your joy,” Carmella said. “Look at it this way. He was here to see William score his first defensive touchdown.”

  Kohl stared up at me. His back was to the field.

  “Yayyyy!” I screamed. “Get ready, Cornelius! It’s your turn!” I stood. Shifted my weight from one heel to the other. Rubbed the tips of my fingers. Our team had to stay in the lead.

  “You finally got the upper hand,” Carmella said, standing beside me. “Kohl is going to do the fool every chance he gets. Let him. He looks stupid hawking you. Long as you were struggling and miserable, he denied William. Now that you’re rocking a Cardi B, hot-ass bod, he’s lost his mind.”

  “You’re right,” I said, keeping my peripheral on Kohl.

  “Thanks for including Cornelius and me on your summer vacation. You know I couldn’t afford that and it’s all he talks . . . Oh, my! It’s my son’s turn! Run, baby!” Carmella shouted.

  I joined her, keeping my attention on the enemy. “Girl, let’s go to the field. I have to make my way down there by Harold before the clock runs out.”

  As I stepped over the last bleacher, Kohl approached me. “Ramona. I want William to go with me for an hour.”

  I locked eyes with Harold. Told Kohl, “He has plans with—”

  “His father.” Harold stepped in and finished my sentence. “You want time after ten years of being a deadbeat? Get the fuck outta here.”

  I balled my fist in advance, but if my elbows went up, I promised Kohl was going down. I seconded Harold’s comment. “Yeah, get the fuck outta here.”

  William and Cornelius ran to us. “Dad, did you see me score? I did all the things you taught me.”

  Harold gave William and his friend a high five, then slapped them on the butt. “Great job, fellas. Y’all ready to go fishing?”

  Our boys started dancing. William boasted, “If you think my touchdown was amazing, I’m better at fishing than football—”

  “Son,” Kohl interrupted. “I’m sorry about everything. Can we hang out for an hour?”

  All of a sudden, Kohl couldn’t accept rejection.

  “No, punk,” William said. “Showing up in nice clothes don’t make you a man. And it sure as hell don’t make you my daddy.”

  Harold intervened: “Son. Show respect.”

  “But, Dad!” William exclaimed.

  Harold nodded in Kohl’s direction.

  William heaved a breath. “No, sir. I have plans with my father.” Then he mouthed, punk.

  “‘Sir’?” Kohl straightened his spine, squared his shoulders. “Son, you can legally call me dad now.”

  “Go get you and your friend something to drink,” I said to William.

  Harold told Kohl, “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but not with my son. You want his respect. Earn it. ’Cause you ain’t running shit with my family. You let Ramona struggle with William all his life, and now that’s she’s married to a baller, you wanna pretend you give a fuck about William? No, son. He’s my son.”

  “I got your son, all right.” Kohl raised his voice. “That’s my boy! I had Ramona first. First!”

  Ego in full effect. I smirked at Kohl. All I’d gone through and he wanted to play this bitch-ass, disrespectful game. My right elbow went up. Kohl went down. Shit happened so fast, I doubted the coach had time to see me lay Kohl out.

  Kohl sprang to his feet. Slipped. Fell. “I’ma see you in court!” he yelled, holding his busted lip.

  “Bruh,” Harold laughed. “All I can say is, don’t get up until she leaves. Carmella, please get my wife out of here.” Harold gave her a stack of hundreds. “Y’all go shopping. On me.”

  I let down my top. Carmella handed me the money.

  “Keep it. What you want to do?” I asked my friend.

  “Buy a house with all new furniture,” she said jokingly.

  “Why not? Let’s do it!” I said seriously.

  Now that Harold and I were legal, I wanted my one bestie to be comfortable. We went to a few open houses, put an offer on a modest three-bedroom home, hit Interstate 10, and drove east to the designer outlets.

  CHAPTER 30

  Kohl

  Day 23

  I was a good guy in bad situations.

  These head games were giving me migraines.

  Typically, I’d hand my keys to the valet attendant at Drago’s. Not anymore. Had to rethink my every move. I backed into the closest spot to the exit, on the third level of the garage.

  Sitting in my car, I texted Ramona, I apologize about earlier. Let’s work things out for William.

  I texted Lema, I apologize. Let’s work things out. Name your price.

  I didn’t want to leave the only place I’d lived. I wanted to be there for Ramona and my son. Couldn’t be mad at her for being angry. I deserved that. Deserved her laying hands. Had to find out if she had any love left for me.

  Man, she is the type of fine I want on my arm to have bragging rights not only with my crewe but every man alive.

  Plus, she always had a good heart. Took a chance, dialed her number. Call went to voice mail. Called back. It rang.

  Ramona answered, “What, Kohl?”

  “Ramona, listen. I’m sorry. For real,” I said. A lump grew in my throat.

  “Apology accepted. Bye, Ko—”

  A call registered from Trymm. I declined.

  “Wait, Ramona. Don’t hang up on me. Don’t give up on me. You know we were kids and I was adopted. I don’t know who my parents are. That bothers me every day. I was scared when you got pregnant. I didn’t know how to be there for you. My adoptive parents being . . . ,” I paused. Had a difficult time praising either of them. “Christians and all. I—”

  Trymm texted, omw.

  “Save that bullshit, Kohl. You didn’t even try to be there. You have no idea what I’ve been through!” Ramona started crying.

  Her crying was a good sign. That meant she cared. I heard a female say, “Hang up on him, girl. He’s just trying to run interference.”

  “That’s not true,” I lied, then lied again, “I’m happy for you. You came up. Let’s work out visitation for William. I truly am sorry. Please, can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  Ramona was quiet.

  Spending time with Billy was not of genuine interest, but I couldn’t get to Ramona without bonding with his arrogant behind. “Take your time and think about me.”

  Ramona sniffled. “We have a court date next week. I’ll have the revised papers served Monday.”

  Revised? What’s in the original wasn’t cool?

  “We don’t need a judge to tell us how to parent our child, Ramona. That’s something Harold wants. You know the old me still loves you. I’m ready to do the right thing. Can I see you? Just you? So we can decide what’s best for our family?”

  No sniffles or weeping. Ramona replied, “What I’m feeling is sorry for you, Kohl. Kohl, I’m a happily married woman, Kohl. I have a family.”

  Why she kept repeating my name?

  “Happily. Married. Woman,” background girlfriend shouted.


  “Call me when she’s not around. I love you, Ramona. Bye.” Giving her too much time to question me might turn her pity to anger. Anger to argument. Argument to . . . I ended the conversation.

  As I walked into Drago’s, Blitz was seated at the end of the L-shaped bar. I heard him say, “All right, babe. I’ll meet you later tonight at GW Fins. Bye.”

  I sat next to him, leaving one seat at the end to my right. The other barstool reserved for the crewe was to Blitz’s left. “Fins? You spend way too much on these females.”

  “You looking sharper than usual,” he said. “Who you trying to impress? Your baby mama?” He laughed, but I didn’t find the humor.

  I was always presentable. For the most part Blitz was, too.

  Scoping out the restaurant, I asked, “Where’s your Rolex, bruh? Second time I’ve seen you without it in eight years.”

  He rubbed his wrist. “Can’t find it.”

  “Sure you didn’t pawn it? You might be in over your head, but this bet was your idea and I’m getting my money.” If I lived long enough to collect it. I might have to stop doing customers and random chick at my club.

  I checked every face at the tables and the other bar across the way. At the bar near the entrance. No one resembled Lema or her goon brothers.

  “Never know, might have to smash one of your CEOs,” I told him.

  “So how’s your count going?” Blitz asked with a grin. “Ran out of strippers yet?”

  I was no fool. No one had revealed their numbers. Couldn’t tell him the game had turned potentially deadly for me.

  Dallas approached us, turned the back of his chair to the wall. “What’s up, dudes? Trymm coming?”

  I answered, “Yeah, said he’d be here shortly.”

  “One of those chicks probably have his dick tied in a knot,” Blitz said, then laughed.

  Why is everything funny to him? He’s probably in the lead.

  Dallas said, “Kohl, you glowin’ like Chris Rock after he came all the way up. And before he started cheating on his wife. If you banking on being seven-figures richer in eight days . . .” Sounding like a gangster, doing that upward nod, he added, “Forget about it.”