by Love Belvin
My phone pinged from my purse on the nightstand as I was draining the milk from the bowl down my throat. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and went for it.
Van…
Why didn’t I think of him?
Van: I need to kick it with you 2nite No xcuse yo
I typed back as fast as my fingers could move.
Me: Meet me at Checkerboard in Montclair at ten.
Before I made it back to the kitchen to pour another bowl of Wheaties, my phone sounded in my hand.
Van: Issa bet
I sat at the table and went for the cereal box.
“Now I get what you mean about boyfriends,” Asia shared with attitude. “They ain’t for me either. I’mma be like you when I grow up and not have no kids and no boyfriend.”
My face wrinkled. “That sounds grim and lonely.”
“You ain’t lonely.”
“I’m a little different. Boyfriends turn into husbands. It’s kind of hard to bypass the first step.” I poured the last of the milk into the bowl.
“Oh, like Reign.” Her face lit up. “She got Sheldon as her boyfriend. She said they gone get married.”
Horrible example, Asia…
But she was too young to understand the implications of that claim. No way I could be offended.
“I don’t know about that, but what I’m talking about is something special. My grandma and grandpop had it for a long time. They were so good at it, they helped raise me from when I was a little girl, much younger than you, until I was in high school. That’s the only type of future we should look forward to. Everything else is corny.” I stuffed my mouth with crispy flakes. “School…getting the best grades you can should be the only thing girls focus on.”
“And what happen when they get to be as big as you?” she asked softly.
My eyes bulged. I had to think.
“Then they work hard…find a deserving job until the right guy comes around.”
With pouted lips and hiked brows, little Miss Asia nodded as if to say that order made sense to her. It was such a confident reaction, I had to consider it myself.
Yeah right…
2
“Final-fuckin-ly!” I breathed as the blue Ford Explorer pulled out of the park almost directly across the street from the club in Montclair. I’d only been waiting four minutes after circling the tight block, lined with cars. It was Thursday night, open mic night at Checkerboard and one of the most mature and popular ones of the week.
Humming to something random on the radio, I slid into a smooth parallel park before anyone could try to steal it from me. Once settled in, I tapped to cut the radio and rolled all the windows up in my Civic. Then I grabbed my phone and purse as I opened the door. I needed to text Van to let him know I was here. Final-fuckin-ly!
The moment I closed the door and leaned against it, I heard, “Boo!”
Startled, I leaped in the air, sucking in a breath before instantly coming back down and landing on my heels. That created a zing of pain charging up my legs. Even when I recognized the perp, my body wouldn’t relax.
“The fuck, Van!” I cried as he laughed.
“It’s just Montclair. Damn!”
“I’m not worried about getting robbed. That ain’t the only thing that could startle some damn body.” My hand rested over my pounding heart.
My eyes shot daggers into my uncle, who was only twelve years older than me, but was more of a brother than most knew. Van and I had been thick as thieves even before I moved in with him and my grandparents before I left for college. We’d been inseparable. So attached, I fell in love with his, then, best friend. My dating him brought about tension between the two, and aftermath of my, close to, ten-year-long affair caused a rift many thought was irreparable. I spent years saturated in regret for what I caused by being in a relationship with him. Van never held it against me, but I saw the conflict. They had been best friends since first grade.
But we were family. Most people didn’t understand our relationship with him being twelve years older than me, but we did. We knew the secrets that intensified our bond, and we kept them close to the chest.
“You look…” His dark eyes swept down my body disapprovingly.
I shook my head. “Don’t go there. It’s been a rough life,” I muttered.
Van sighed, rubbing his hand over his glistening caramel bald head. “Fuckin’ tell me about it,” he murmured his mood.
I rocked onto my toes. “I’d rather drink first.” My face tightened and lips pouted as I thought to amend that. “On you, because my blues involve cash flow issues.”
“When the fuck don’t they, Wyn?” he scoffed.
But I caught the flash of concern in his eyes as they brushed across the street to the line gathering for entry into Checkerboard.
“What?” I groaned, because that’s when I remembered. “You actually hit me first. Something going on, Van?”
He wouldn’t look at me, the sights around us somehow more appealing or compelling. With Van, sometimes you couldn’t tell.
“Yeah,” he finally answered, but still without the aid of his eyes. “Some shit ‘bout to go down I need to hip you to. I just…” he hesitated.
I shook my head and breathed out a chuckle. “You know what? I don’t want to know right now.” That’s when Van looked my way, serving me worried eyes similar to when he told me about getting his first random piece of ass pregnant or when he’d gone back out into the streets, slinging rocks. Something was brewing and I didn’t want another blow before I had alcohol to help brace me. “Let’s just go in, have a few drinks to loosen up, then spill our sins. Okay?”
With a flick of his brows as he tossed his head to the side, Van agreed.
“You just wanna get inside to see if Mike Brown in there,” he muttered.
“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t tonight. With the day I’ve had, it would only be kismet that brings us together. C’mon.”
I took him by the arm as I looked both ways before crossing. Thankfully, the bouncer knew Van. Lots of people did, and for various reasons: some from school and sports, others from his checkered history with the streets.
The line had grown in no time for a weeknight because of the popularity of the open mic theme. I wondered if a special guest was booked. I didn’t care. I just hoped to get a table and not just a chair at the bar. I needed a change of luck and would take it in the small gesture of feeling like a valued customer with a damn booth.
“Whaddup,” I heard just before the sound of clapping palms.
Holy holiest of kismets!
Ahead was Van greeting Mike Brown, the most challenging interviewer I’d ever faced, if I could consider him as such. He was here tonight! He was the main reason I frequented this place when I did. And damn, was my night being made already just by him being here.
Jackpot!
He moved with his gang of bodyguards, going inside, bypassing the security. As he breezed by us, his eyes brushed over me, long enough to hopefully register my presence. I hoped he hadn’t forgotten me. And if I was really lucky, I’d be able to pitch to him again tonight. The one thing this club had going for it was Mike Brown popping up here regularly. I mean, why wouldn’t he? It was an open mic lounge. People from near and far came to showcase their talent.
Before I knew it, Van and I were being ushered inside and as a third strike to my rare luck—the first being the bomb ass parking space across the street—we scored a booth. As soon as we sat down, my eyes scoured the place for service.
“Yo, I need to rap witchu ‘bout something real quick.”
“I quit my job.” I shot my arm in the air to gain the attention of a passing waiter.
He nodded, agreeing to stop by. When I turned back to Van, his chin was dipped and eyes rolling.
“Tell me you ain’t just say what I thought you said.”
“Yup!” I popped my lips. “And I spilled the damn beans before my first drink. Gosh, I feel good just being here!” I rarely went o
ut socially.
“Why the fuck you do that?”
“Because it was killing me. I was good at my job—”
“Damn good. Ya boss kept sweating you!”
“But could never turn on that faucet for an increase. I never got my just due, but damn sure got a shit load of work.” I clapped my hands and swung my neck at a staccato matching my words. “Fuck. Her. Fuck. Them. It’s. My. Time. To. Fucking. Shine.”
The waiter appeared to my left and my eyes lit with joy. “Oh, hey there!” I tossed my regard to Van, thinking he’d be shaking his head at my whack attempt at flirting, but instead, he was in his phone. “I want shots. Lots of tequila shots!”
“How many?” he asked, leaning in with his ear to hear me over the music.
“You drankin’, Van?”
“Not really,” he returned, attention still on his phone.
“Hmmmmm…” My fingertips drummed the table. “Seven. Top shelf only. What y’all got on deck?”
“Uhhhhh…” He considered it. “Julio, Ceurvo, Patron…”
“Julio!” My palms met the table. “Never had him in me.” My face fell as I pondered that.
“Right away.” The waiter left.
“Unemployed people can’t afford the top shelf come-up,” Van teased.
I shrugged. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Ya roommate cool with that?”
“Haven’t told her. Don’t matter. She’s leaving anyway. Going back to her baby-daddy.”
Van shook his head at that. Wanda was his older sister, whose relationship we all didn’t agree with, including her daughter, little Asia.
“Whatchu gone do now?”
I shrugged again. “Figure shit out. Ain’t that what life’s about anyway?”
Van began biting his nails, his eyes pinned to me. “All them damn degrees and you still talking stupid as hell.”
“Man, listen, if convicts can pollute the earth and be fed and housed, a law-abiding intuitive woman such as myself can get a hustle to survive.”
“And what’s that? Ya music?”
My head rotated across the room. “You see your boy, Mike?”
“Here we go with this bullshit again.” Van shook his head softly. “You gone shoot ya shot again?”
“Yup, because you’re here tonight. The last time he looked at me for more than two seconds was when you were with me.”
I tried several times pitching my aspiration as a song writer to Mike Brown, manager extraordinaire to a few notable names in the music industry, but his biggest client was the R&B sensation and now actor, taking Hollywood by storm, Ragee. Ragee was a fellow-Jersey native whose career took off with unimaginable speed a few years ago.
“That’s ‘cause the big homie know the game.” My regard went back across the table. “That nigga know the circle I run in.”
“So?”
“His boy own the club. He be making sure he know the energy coming in and out.”
“His boy who?”
“That nigga, Ragee,” his tone was clipped, suggesting I should have known who.
“Oh, yeah?” A nearing body entered my periphery. The waiter lined the shots between Van and me. “And?”
Wasn’t nobody checking for Ragee—well, I wasn’t checking for Ragee. I was trying to possibly be an affiliate of his. I wasn’t like the throng of female-admirers, drawn to the money, fame, and prestige. I wanted to manifest my own. I wasn’t with marketing my pussy or making a man believe my heart was available to be captured.
As though he’d heard my thoughts, I raised the first shot in the air, asking him to join me.
“To new beginnings where I don’t have to cater to broken, grown ass men—or women!”
Slowly, Van lifted a glass, clinked mine, then swallowed back his. I danced in my seat against the burn in my chest and belly.
“Look, Wynter…” Van rubbed his face with his hand, his head bowing toward the table, revealing that sliver of anxiety I’d identified earlier. “I need to tell you some shit before it go down, man.”
My palm slammed in the air, inches from his face. “Nah, son!”
“Damn, it’s like that?”
Before I could answer, I caught the intro to a classic favorite and my arms shot high in the air. My tits sashayed left to right, bringing about a rhythm of their own as they bounced. The nostalgia tickled my senses and I giggled with eyes closed and my chin to the ceiling for brief seconds. “Bruh!” My head leaped down for emphasis. “You gots no idea how done I am with helping people sort their shit. I’m over trying to understand how to live for me. Now, I’m on my fuck humans; get money! Fuck humans; get money!” I let go another boff, reaching for the next shot glass.
Van grunted a round of expletives at something in his phone. He took a deep breath, eyes dancing all around, outside of our booth.
“Look, Wynter, I need you to do something for me,” he tried.
I shook my head. “Uhn-uhn! I haven’t asked you for a dime since high school. I am gladly prepared to make my first request.”
Besides, I’d done countless favors for Van down through the years: financial and otherwise. Finally, I needed help. The liquor seeping into my veins gave me the courage to do it.
“Now ain’t the time to—”
“Let’s fucking go, Donovan!” My head whipped to a seething white man with a buzz cut and narrowed eyes. “We can do this discreetly or shut this place down and drag you the fuck out of here.” He turned slightly and scanned the room quickly.
My eyes jumped to Van, who oddly appeared just as relieved as he was caught off guard.
Before I could speak to ask what the fuck was going on, the white man backed up, brushed back his windbreaker jacket to rest his hand on the gun at his waist. That’s when the glaring letters on the vest he wore over his chest unjumbled into actual words for my brain.
U.S. Marshal
That recognition came at an inconvenient time. The alcohol had begun settling in. I wanted to panic at that alone. Van blew out a breath and pushed his cell phone across the table to me as he scooted over to leave the booth. The phone was caught midway by the tall guy and handed over to another who appeared out of nowhere.
My eyes blew the hell up and I could feel my pulse beat in my neck as I swallowed.
“What the fuck is going on, Va—”
“Shut the fuck up,” the buzz cut dude advised me calmly, and was oddly polite as he eyed Van.
“I’m coming, man,” Van explained as he stepped out of the booth.
No less than a second after he landed on his feet, Van’s tall frame was yanked around against the divider of the booth and he was cuffed from the back.
“Hey!” I yelled, instinctively protective of him.
A thick arm was thrust across my chest, preventing me from leaving the booth myself. I felt violated and disregarded. It didn’t matter I didn’t know what was going on. These Marshals had a one track mind. Van eyed me the entire time he was being cuffed. My eyes pleaded with him for answers. Anger snaked through me at yet another one of his fuck ups. Something he clearly kept from me.
He was pulled away, hardly able to develop a pace while being hauled off. Once the asshole holding me to my seat walked off, I jumped from the booth and followed them.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked when I could see Van’s bald head dipping and rising ahead from clearly being roughly handled.
No one answered me and at this point, we had the attention of the entire club. The overhead lights were on, dimness gone, and music paused. I tried to remind myself not to touch the Marshal in front of me. There was a muted air of intimidation in their presence.
We made it outside and a fucking swarm of unmarked vehicles varying in size and shape were surrounding the building, haphazardly parked throughout the street. Bodies from those vehicles doubled in number. Men and women visibly armed with weapons. The blue and red emergency lights had my pulse racing.
What’s all of this?
“A
h!” Van wailed near me, snapping me out of the haze my mind seemed enclosed in.
I looked all around at the bodies of officials and nosey ass pedestrians. Frantic, I started pushing people out of my way until I shoved the wrong body.
“Back the fuck off!” Another lengthy white male yelled in my face, raising his arm over me. “This is official U.S. Marshal activity. Take your ass over there unless you want to be arrested, ma’am!”
Fear coursed my chest. “That’s my brot—uncle you just arrested. I just want answers. What did he do?” I could only see a bit of Van, face down on the ground, struggling.
“You’re his…”
“Niece,” I answered when he hesitated, likely because of my stupid blurt. “We were in there together when they came and hauled him off. I work for the Department of Corrections,” I sort of lied.
“In what capacity?”
“Social worker.” That was a stretch, too. My official former title wasn’t as universal.
He spoke into a walkie-talkie attached to his chest, saying a relative of the fugitive was here. A correspondence came through, but I couldn’t understand it. Things were moving so fast and the area was polluted with noises of confusion and terror.
“Stay right here. Someone will come over and give you a form with all the contact information you’ll need.”
When he was about to step off, I asked, “Sir, are you guys sure you got the right person? Maybe this is a case of mistaken identity…” I tried, my voice trembling in fear.
“Donovan ‘Van’ Williams?” I nodded. “That’s our fugitive. Been on the run for almost twenty-four hours.” Then he walked off.
I fought back a cry of helplessness, burgeoning from my belly. This couldn’t be happening. He was supposed to have been on the straight and narrow. Van had a job at my grandfather’s old friend’s car shop. He’d been there for close to two years now. Bought wholesale tires and sold them on the side. I wasn’t sure how legal it was, but that couldn’t have sent the U.S. Marshal after his ass.