On the Run with Love

by J. M. Benjamin

  “Yo’ girl, nigga.” The voice cackled.

  Freddie sat up straight in the seat. “My what?”

  “Listen.”

  Freddie heard muffled sounds. Then it felt like a hand squeezed the blood out of his heart when he heard, “Freddie!”

  “Simone?”

  A thud hit his stomach and he had to pull over to keep from wrecking his car, as a sudden dizziness filled his head.

  “Freddie, they came to the house! They . . .”

  “Simone!” he hollered into the phone, but the only reply was a menacing laugh.

  “Damn, dog! This pussy that good, it got you hollerin’ like that? Shit, you don’t act right, I might just have to see for myself.”

  “Muthafucka! You touch her and I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” Freddie screamed and pulled out his gun like they were right in front of him.

  The second man laughed again, eying Simone’s chocolate thighs. When they kidnapped her, she only had on a T-shirt, a bra, and no shoes. “Damn. Li’l mama got some pretty feet, dog,” he said as he ran his gun up Simone’s thigh.

  “Please, don’t,” Simone begged, seeing the lust build in his eyes.

  He pulled her shirt up and saw that she wasn’t wearing any panties. “Damn! And no panties!” He cackled.

  Freddie was sick to his stomach. “I’ma kill you, nigga! I’ma kill you!” He kept repeating it, tears welling up in his eyes.

  “Nigga, you ain’t gonna do shit but come off that hundred grand, ya dig?” he demanded.

  “I . . . I hear you,” Freddie replied. “Just don’t touch my fuckin’ girl!”

  “Nigga, I already did,” he boasted, and jabbed a finger inside Simone’s sex. Then he held the phone to her screaming mouth.

  “Freddie, please!”

  Freddie opened the car door and vomited.

  “You still think it’s a game, dog? Huh?” the kidnapper taunted.

  “Naw, man.” Freddie broke down. “It ain’t a game.”

  “A hundred Gs, partner. I’ma call you at the phone booth outside Darnell’s in one hour. Have my scrilla and you get yo’ bitch back.” Click.

  Freddie laid his head against the steering wheel, mind racing, trying to figure out who could have done this. They had kidnapped Simone, and it was killing him. He straightened himself up for the drive. They could have the money even though it was all he had. But he swore on his unborn that these fools would pay for this with their lives, whoever was involved.

  Freddie drove straight to the crib, running red lights with complete disregard. He was in kill mode. He would gladly trade his soul in exchange for the people responsible. To have them on their knees, begging for their lives, which he lusted to take.

  Inside the apartment, he busted the safe and emptied it. He knew he had a little over a hundred grand by a thousand or two, but he had no time to count it. Besides, he had $2,500 in his pocket, and three Gs stashed in the CLK. He was going to give it all up without hesitation. Simone and his unborn child were worth that and more. Simone alone was worth that. No matter how grimy he was or how bad things had gotten between them, he truly loved Simone with all his heart, and he’d do anything to make sure she was safe. Until she was safe, nothing else mattered to him.

  Freddie stuffed the money into a shopping bag, balled it up, jumped back into his car, and jetted out to Darnell’s gas station.

  When he arrived, he checked his watch nervously. He had ten minutes. He looked around for any shady faces or out-of-place sights, but besides the usual crowd of bums, drunks, and nickel hustlers, Darnell’s was normal.

  All kinds of things went through his mind about what they had done to Simone. The thought crossed his mind that if he paid them, they might deliver her dead body. In a kidnapping, there were no guarantees, Freddie knew. Maybe she had seen something she shouldn’t have seen, or heard something she shouldn’t have heard, and they wanted to make sure they weren’t going to be identified.

  Suppose they had . . . Freddie hated imagining that someone was raping his heart, taking what was his without permission. He envisioned Simone screaming out his name, and him being unable to hear her, help her, or save her.

  He knew it was all his fault. The life he had led, the enemies he had made, all of it contributed to the present situation. He vowed that if he got Simone back safe and sound, they would leave Goldsboro. To go where, he didn’t know, but as long as they were together . . .

  The payphone rang and he answered before it had finished the rattle of the first ring. “Let me speak to my girl,” Freddie demanded.

  “Easy, dog. You’ll get yo’ pussy back in the same shape if, and only if, you got my scrilla,” the voice taunted.

  “I got it, muthafucka! Now put her on the phone! I ain’t givin’ you shit ’til I hear—”

  “Freddie,” Simone sobbed, “why is this happening to me?”

  “Baby, it’s gonna be okay. Did they . . . hurt you?”

  “You mean, did we fuck yo’ bitch?” the man asked, taking the phone from Simone. “Not yet, nigga. But if you don’t put the money inside that green Dumpster on the side of the store and leave, we gonna bust this pussy wide open, and then kill her. Ya smell me?”

  “Bitch-ass nigga, why you ain’t come at me? Come see me! Come see me, you fuckin’ bitch-ass nigga!” Freddie barked uncontrollably, but the kidnapper hung up. Freddie made the drop, then jumped back into his car and skidded off.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Slug was playing pool at William Alston’s poolroom when he got the call. “Yeah.”

  “We got the scrilla.”

  Slug didn’t respond.

  “What you want us to do wit’ li’l mama?”

  “Fuck you mean ‘do’?” I told y’all niggas to leave her alone. You got the scrilla, cut her loose,” Slug ordered and hung up.

  He felt bad that Simone had gotten caught up in Freddie’s bullshit, but he didn’t regret it for two reasons, or at least that’s what he tried to convince himself of. One, he did it for the money. With his cut of the ransom and what he had already put up, he had enough to kiss the game good-bye and get out the Boro. Second, from the look in Gina’s eyes when she propositioned him with her scheme, if he had said no, she still would have gotten it done. And ain’t no tellin’ what total strangers would’ve done to Simone at Gina’s request.

  Slug studied the spread on the table and thought about the irony of life. Everybody wanted to be a shot caller. “Nine in the corner,” he told his opponent before he sank the shot, cross table.

  And once a shot was set in motion . . .

  “Combination, ten into the twelve, twelve side pocket.”

  The only thing that controlled it was finesse, the amount of force behind it.

  The twelve ball teetered, then dropped.

  Too much force and you could scratch yourself out of the game. Too little, and you could miss the shot that could win the game.

  “Eight ball, bank,” Slug announced, a Newport hanging out of his mouth, his eyes squinting against the smoke. The clack of the cue ball hitting the eight rang out across the pool hall. It careened and tumbled off the bank, then rolled as if magnetized into the winning pocket. Slug smiled.

  “Bank, nigga.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  Simone sat in downtown Goldsboro on an old bus stop bench. The sun had set so the streets were all but deserted and all the stores were closed. Her face was outlined with salt from all the tears she had shed.

  There were no more illusions or facades to hide behind. Freddie’s actions had cost her more than love; they had almost cost her her life. They had waved guns in her face, snatched her out of her own house, off her own doorstep, and taken her prisoner. She could still feel the man’s finger inside her, violating her womanhood while he laughed at her pleas. He taunted her with threats of doing worse and she was helpless to stop him. It seemed as if her unborn child had sensed the danger and was lying dormant, not kicking or moving, so out of character.


  Simone was all cried out. There would be no more tears. She sat stone-faced and half-naked at a public bus stop, like she had been abandoned and discarded. This was how Freddie found her when he skidded up to the corner and jumped out, gun drawn. When they got the money, they told Freddie where he could find his Simone. He went there, holding his breath, not knowing exactly what he would find.

  “Simone! Are you okay, baby?” he inquired intently, checking her from head to toe. She stood and Freddie tried to embrace her, but she didn’t hug him back. She just stood there like a lifeless doll baby wrapped in his arms.

  She pushed him away firmly, but calmly, and said, “Just take me to the apartment, Freddie.”

  He was so happy to have her back, he failed to realize she called it “the apartment” and not “home.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Dante and his crew of shooters sat up in the Motel 6 plotting their next move.

  “Man, this country-ass hick town ain’t but so big. Where the fuck is this joker at?” Dante wanted to know, pacing the floor. He had waited a long time to avenge his brother’s death, and now that he was this close, he wasn’t about to give up. He was growing impatient.

  “At least we know what kind of car he’s drivin’, papi,” the brunette hit woman offered as consolation. They found that out from a local hustler whose baby mama had been letting Freddie juice her on the regular for all she had or could get her hands on. He had seen through Dante’s game, and he had nothing but hate in his heart for Freddie.

  “And who the fuck is this Slug muhfucka?” Cream asked, mouth full of pizza. “We find him, we beat Freddie’s whereabouts the fuck outta him!”

  “Whoever Slug is, these bamas damn sure ain’t tryin’ to point him out,” Dante commented.

  “Fuck it, let’s ride out some more. We bound to see this CLK Freddie pushin’,” Cream suggested.

  “Fuck, yo,” Dante spit. “I ain’t leavin’ ’til this cocksucka’ bleed. That’s my word on everything I love!”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Detective Wilson had the same thing on his mind. Nobody shot a cop and got away with it in his book.

  “Look, man, I done told you all I know,” the skinny, damn near toothless crackhead said, sitting in an interrogation room with Wilson and Timmons. He was the same crackhead who had moved Freddie’s furniture, but he had caught a felony larceny charge, and he was trying to duck the habitual offender category looming over his head by giving them Freddie’s.

  “I don’t know where he live no more. All I know is him and Slug makin’ paper. A lot of paper. And he push a Benz.”

  “What about hangouts? Where’s he pushin’ the stuff?” Wilson asked eagerly.

  “He don’t. Neither one of ’em do. The only place I can tell you he might be is Pop Bogs or the Blue Note. All the major dealers be out there on Saturdays.”

  Wilson looked at Timmons, who shrugged and said, “It’s worth a try.”

  “So, if y’all catch him, y’all ain’t gonna forget about me, is you, Timmons?”

  Timmons looked at the dirty crackhead with disgust. He hated a black man on drugs, but he hated a snitch even more. “Take yo’ ass back to the cell.”

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Simone and Freddie rode home in silence. Freddie wanted to ask her if she recognized anything, heard any names, and most importantly, ask what they had done to her. But her facial expression was one he hadn’t seen before. He knew the ordeal had been traumatic, but he prayed she’d be okay.

  When they reached the apartment, Simone went straight to the bedroom and slammed the door. Freddie started to go to her but decided not to. She was home safe. He could hear the bathwater running from behind the closed door and thought it best to leave Simone to herself.

  He turned his attention to payback and picked up the phone to call Slug. Things hadn’t been good with them at all since the fight, but they were blood, and he knew Slug would ride out with him.

  “Hello?” Kiki answered the phone.

  “Ki, this Freddie. Where Slug at?”

  “He ain’t here, Freddie. Call him on his cell. How you doin’?” she asked.

  “I’m cool.”

  “Simone there?”

  Before he could answer, Simone walked out of the bedroom fully dressed and carrying a small suitcase. Freddie didn’t even bother to answer Kiki and hung up.

  Simone dropped her keys onto the coffee table. “Let me go, Freddie,” she stated firmly, a look of resignation in her eyes.

  “Go where? What you mean, boo?” Freddie asked, knowing full well what she meant. He tried to take her hand but she stepped away from him. “Baby, I know that what happened—”

  “No, Freddie, you don’t know. You couldn’t know. They didn’t have a gun in your face; you didn’t . . .” She sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want you to let me go.”

  Freddie was beside himself with fear. Any man who’s been confronted with the loss of everything, the only thing he’s ever cared about, can understand. Those who haven’t can’t understand until they have.

  His mind raced and his tongue stuttered, “You right, ma, I don’t know. But I do know that whoever did this is gonna pay. I swear to God, they’re gonna pay for what they did to you.”

  Simone laughed without smiling. “You just don’t get it, do you, Freddie? There’s nothing you can do to pay them back for what they did to me. Ever!”

  Freddie grabbed both of her hands and said, “Then let’s get away. You wanna leave? Cool, I’m feelin’ you, but let’s leave together. Let’s go somewhere and start all over, get away from all—”

  Simone walked away from him. “So you can do the same thing all over again, Freddie? So I can lie in another bed, alone? In another strange place, hearing your lies and your apologies? I can’t do this anymore, Freddie. I don’t love you anymore.”

  “Please, boo, don’t say that,” he whispered, trying not to cry, “I know I fucked up. I know there’s nothing I can do to make this all go away, but please don’t take your love from me. It’s all I got.” Tears welled up in his eyes and Simone had to turn away to keep from being magnetized by his open display of emotions.

  “I can’t do this, Freddie. Can’t you see? It’s over, Freddie. Just let me go,” she repeated her demand.

  “How could you leave me, baby? How? I gave up everything I have for you, to get you back, Simone,” he begged.

  “And I gave up everything I am for you! How dare you ever say that, Freddie! I gave up my life, my dreams, my body! They were going to rape me, Freddie!” Simone cried.

  Freddie went to her and embraced her, and she found herself hugging him back. “I’m sorry, Simone, I’m so sorry. Please, boo, I’ll make it better. I will, I promise.”

  At the word “promise,” Simone cringed and pushed him away. “No, Freddie, no! I don’t love you. I hate you! Do you hear me? I hate you! Just let me go!”

  To hear his heart turn on him was too much for Freddie’s pride to bear. “You wanna go? Go! I ain’t stoppin’ you!” He paced the floor, realizing his love was leaving, but he had to salvage his manhood to survive. “You wanna leave? Leave! Fuck you waitin’ for? Huh?”

  “Yes, Freddie. Let me go,” she whispered to herself.

  “I gave them everything! Everything! And now you wanna leave? Bitch, breeze. I can make another baby. Can you make another Freddie?”

  He was purposely trying to hurt her, not knowing that’s what she meant by let her go. Freddie’s words stung her, but she knew it was what she needed to break free.

  She reached down and picked up her suitcase. “I . . . I need a ride to the bus station.”

  Freddie tossed the phone at her feet. “Call a cab,” he hissed dryly and turned his back to her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered and turned for the door. The first step was the hardest, but she forced herself, step by step, until she was halfway down the street.

  Freddie stood in the middle of the living room, cold and al
one. Simone had walked out the front door with his heart. So he had no choice but to be heartless. He wanted to go after her, beg her to stay, and he knew she would. He knew the power he had over her, but without the love, it wouldn’t be the same. Simone was right. It was over.

  He grabbed the half-pint bottle of Grand Cru Rémy Martin cognac he had left on the kitchen counter days ago, cracked it open, and tossed it up. The smooth elixir slid down his throat, burning his chest. He didn’t take the bottle down until it was half empty. His head was spinning as he tossed it up again, and drained it this time. Then he dropped it on the floor. He staggered over to the full-length mirror on the wall and looked at his reflection.

  “I shoulda let ’em have that ungrateful bitch,” he said, trying to remain cold because it was the only way he could remain numb to the pain he was running full speed from. “I’m muhfuckin’ Freddie,” he staggered and slurred. “Naw, Simone!” he yelled, “I ain’t fucked up. You fucked up. ’Cause you’ll never find a muhfucka like me. But you a dime a dozen!”

  He wished she was still there so he could cuss her, humiliate her, and demean her. Then he smelled her Gucci fragrance and it sent him for the Crown Royal.

  Simone was gone. There was nothing he could do about it. And his money was gone, too. He had to do something about that. Fifty-five hundred wouldn’t last him the weekend. He had to make a power move, and he knew just where he needed to start.

  He stumbled over to his cell phone lying on the floor and went through his contacts until he reached the Cs: Cynthia, the white broad he had conned out of three Gs a few months back. He hadn’t called her since, but he was glad he’d kept her number.

  “Hello?” she chimed.

  “Cynthia,” Freddie slurred, and she knew exactly who it was.

  She was standing in her bedroom in her slip, getting ready for a white-tie event. She glanced into the bathroom where her husband was busy at the sink. “Freddie,” she whispered with nervous excitement, “is that you? Why haven’t you—”