Next she had a vague impression of being outside; she felt herself being half-dragged, half-carried to the car. He’s so sweet! she thought as she felt the seatbelt being strapped across her chest. The metallic sound of the seatbelt being snapped into place was the last thing Chanelle heard before she drifted into a blissful sleep.
Chapter 37
“You look just like a princess! Stand over there near the light.” Dayna’s mother pointed to a well-lit area near the bay windows and excitedly snapped a picture of her daughter.
“Okay, Mom,” Dayna said, concluding the photo session when she spotted Cecily turning into the driveway. “Cecily’s here.”
Pamela Hinton frowned. “Why would a man invite you to an important function and not escort you properly?”
“Ammon had to be there early,” Dayna explained. Under her mother’s disapproving glare, Dayna fidgeted self-consciously. “It’s more convenient for me to ride with Cecily. Besides, Ammon doesn’t have a car. He rides a bicycle.”
Her mother gasped. “That’s so dangerous. Listen to me, Dayna…If you ever decide to ride on that thing with him, I hope you have enough sense to wear a helmet.”
Dayna groaned; she hated it when her mom started acting over-protective. “He doesn’t ride a motorcycle. His mode of transportation is a regular bicycle,” she explained.
“A bicycle!” Her mother just shook her head. Her eyes beseeched her daughter to be cautious, to keep a level head. Artists were known to be eccentric and this Ammon sounded like a real character.
“He’s an artist, Mom, not a CEO or a lawyer,” she threw in, making a soft jab. “Besides, I’m not concerned about appearances. That’s your department, remember?”
Cecily honked twice. “Smooches!” Dayna blew her mother a kiss and rushed out the door.
When Dayna and Cecily entered the Bellevue’s main ballroom, Dayna’s nervous eyes scanned the throng of elegantly attired attendees as she searched for a glimpse of Ammon. The discomforting feeling that she was perhaps dateless was mercifully brief. Within seconds Ammon and Kendrick, looking dapper in dark-colored suits, appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
“You look beautiful,” Ammon said to Dayna. His lips sought her cheek, but she turned her head slightly, causing his lips to brush her neck.
“Thanks,” she uttered with eyes downcast, trembling from the feel of his soft lips. She returned the compliment when she was finally able to meet his gaze.
Ammon smiled in appreciation. “I’ve got something to show you.” He reached for her hand. “We’ll meet you two at the table,” he said to Kendrick and Cecily as he guided Dayna in the direction of the prominent display.
He held her hand tenderly. It was a token of affection she should have enjoyed, but the fear that her palm would soon become drenched with sweat kept her from deriving any pleasure from the moment.
Sitting atop an ornate pedestal was a framed replica of Ammon’s mural. Dayna was momentarily startled; a rush of air escaped her lips. In bewildered fascination, her head turned from the framed print to Ammon. “Are there prints available for sale?” She asked anxiously.
“Not yet. My piece is being featured in a book called The City of Murals. After the book release, ‘Family’ will be available in print.”
“When is the book release?” she asked, sounding somewhat frantic. She had to have that painting.
“Um, I think October or sometime next fall.” There was a clatter of platters that were set up on carts and wheeled into the ballroom. Ammon slipped an arm across Dayna’s shoulder. “Hungry?” he asked. “Ready to eat?”
She wasn’t; she could have stood gazing at the painting all night. But she nodded consent and allowed herself the luxury of enjoying the arm draped around her. The feeling was utter bliss.
After the meal and after several artists accepted their plaques and words of congratulations, the mayor of Philadelphia finally called Ammon to the stage. The print of his mural was brought from the back of the room and now stood front and center on the stage.
Dayna was breathless, bursting with pride as Ammon rose and strode proudly to the front of the room. On the edge of her seat, she listened intently to every word the mayor spoke in regard to Ammon’s numerous accomplishments.
“For his work at The State Correctional Facility at Graterford, where he teaches the inmates the art of creating murals…” The mayor paused, his voice rose ceremoniously. “On behalf of the City of Philadelphia and the Perry Foundation, we are proud to present Ammon Abdullah with a fifty-thousand-dollar grant.”
There was a thunderous applause. A series of lights flashed from cameras as Ammon and the mayor shook hands.
Shortly after the award ceremony, Cecily and Dayna excused themselves and went to the restroom. “If you don’t solidify your relationship with Ammon, I’m gonna dump Kendrick and make a move on that gorgeous hunk of masculinity! Do you hear me, girl? That fifty-thousand-dollar check he just got is looking pretty good to a sistah, but the hell with that. Ammon can have any woman in this ballroom, with or without that check. I’m not playing, that brother looks good!” Cecily and Dayna broke into titters of soft laughter. “I’m serious, gurrrl. He’s as talented as he is gorgeous.” Cecily became suddenly serious. “Dayna! Honestly, you should see the way he’s been looking at you all night.”
“For real?” Dayna asked timidly.
“For real! Now stop playing and jump on that!”
Cecily was right. It was time to stop deluding herself. Her attraction to Ammon was not something casual; her feelings could not be described as merely fondness. She was no longer inclined to stifle her emotions nor would she sit back and reveal her feelings slowly over time.
She’d been struck by love—there were no other words to describe her condition. She’d felt it the first time her eyes locked on Ammon. When he looked at her while he worked behind the bar at Carmella’s, the electric jolt sent her running to her car. And she’d been involved in a marriage at the time, a marriage she had hoped to save.
Her thoughts flitted to her wedding day. What a charade, she thought, saddened by the memory. Though their names were printed on a piece of paper that was embossed with a legal seal, her marriage to Reed was never a real union or a blending of two loving hearts. There were no words to adequately describe the misery of three years of marriage to Reed, but to say it was a living hell came close to summing it up.
Then, shaking away those painful memories, she went to the mirror and glossed her lips.
Waiting for Dayna, Cecily stood near the door. “Ready?” Cecily asked.
“Yes, I’m ready!” Dayna said, enthusiastically emphasizing each word.
The double meaning behind Dayna’s words was not lost on Cecily. She laughed and Dayna joined in. Their laughter left a joyous echo in the restroom as the two friends edged their way through the festive crowd and joined their men at the table.
“Can you make sure Dayna gets home safely?” Cecily asked Ammon.
“Sure, if she doesn’t mind riding on the back of a bicycle that’s not meant for two,” he replied humorously.
Dayna shot Cecily a look. Cecily inched over and pulled Dayna to the side. “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling extra horny,” she whispered. “I’m following Kendrick home. If you know like I know, you’ll go home with Ammon and get your freak on.”
“Cecily! I didn’t mean I was ready for that!” Dayna said, looking stricken.
“What did you mean?”
“I meant I was ready to be honest and express my true feelings and…you know…tell him about Reed and how I’m adapting…”
“Oh, you’re so corny,” Cecily interjected. “All right, whatever. I did my part. It’s Ammon’s responsibility to get you home.”
Ammon approached. “I hope you’re not seriously worrying about a ride. I’m a rich man now.” He chuckled. “I can afford a cab.”
Kendrick and Cecily waved good-bye and walked to the parking garage hand-in-hand.
A
mmon hailed a cab. “She’s going to Mount Airy and then you can drop me off at Twenty-fourth and Fair-mount,” Ammon told the cab driver.
Dayna gave the driver her mother’s address. “Take the scenic route,” Ammon demanded with laughter.
As the cab rolled along, the driver seemed compelled to point out areas of interest as if he were giving Dayna and Ammon a guided tour.
The driver’s voice sounded far away as Ammon whispered in her ear. “Have a good time?”
“The best. Thank you for inviting me.”
He silenced her with an affectionate peck on the lips, and then a soft but tentative kiss. Dayna pulled him closer, showing him that she wanted, no, needed to feel his lips pressed against hers. She wrapped both arms around his neck. Her fingers became entangled in his locks, which felt like ropes made of velvet.
Their breathing increased; Dayna bent back her head and slowly parted her lips. Her tongue touched his. His mouth tasted like tangerines. Ammon’s hand worked its way under Dayna’s dress and up her thigh. She quivered at his touch. It had been so long since she’d felt a kiss or even a gentle touch.
Dayna broke the kiss, released a long, pent-up sigh, and asked breathily, “Would you like some company tonight?”
Ammon scrunched up his face to express the depth of his yearning as he nodded his head and replied, “Mmhmm.”
With Dayna bundled in his arms, Ammon informed the driver: “Change of plans, driver. Make a left turn at the light. We’re both going to my place.”
Chapter 38
She was having a terrible dream. A nightmare. The kind her mother used to refer to as “the witch’s ride.” She couldn’t move and was unable to open her eyes. Chanelle tried to scream, but could only make a tormented, muffled sound. She twisted and struggled, then, suddenly aware that her strongest efforts were ineffective, she stopped struggling against the invisible dark force.
Then she recalled something her mother had told her. “When that witch is riding your back, don’t try to fight it. Just be calm and start reciting the Twenty-third Psalm. That’ll get it off you,” her mother had advised.
Halfway through the Bible verse, she heard a man’s voice and became keenly and horribly aware that she was not in the midst of a bad dream.
“Are you awake, Sleeping Beauty?” The voice sounded kind; perhaps he would explain what was going on. She felt extremely groggy, like she’d been drugged, but she managed to turn her head in the direction of the voice.
Chanelle forced her eyelids open. She blinked frantically as her long lashes fluttered against a blindfold. She grunted through the electrical tape that covered her mouth, wanting desperately to rip it away. She made an attempt to move her hands, but couldn’t; her wrists were bound. In a panic, she groaned and tried to kick out her feet, which were tightly tied to the bed posts.
Twisting at the waist, she realized she was lying in a bed—naked. The horror of being naked and tied up in a stranger’s bed compelled her to thrash and buck wildly. She screamed loud and hard until her throat felt raw, but the only sound she was able to emit was a thin muted wail.
“You’re a real wildcat, aren’t you?” the voice said. There was no longer even a trace of kindness in the tone.
Poked with a sharp pointed object that traveled from her throat to her navel, Chanelle became paralyzed with fear and whimpered the unintelligible words “Help me, somebody. Please!”
As if in answer to her prayer, she felt fingers untying the blindfold. Her eyelids blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the light. Nothing she saw made any sense. If only she could rub her blurry eyes, perhaps her vision would become clear and reveal that she was at home in her own bedroom.
But as her vision improved, she realized there was nothing familiar in this room. She saw an unfamiliar closet with a set of double doors, an end table, a Tiffany lamp, a bureau, a vanity table and stool, and floral prints hanging on the walls—evidence that she was not in her own bedroom, where posters of rap and hip hop artists adorned the walls.
Her eyes shot up toward the ceiling. Through sheer fabric that cloaked the bed posts and cascaded down the sides, she glimpsed a covered light bulb. She was imprisoned in a beautiful canopy bed.
The man who’d untied the blindfold crept from behind her. To her amazement, she saw it was Greg! The nice man who was supposed to take her home. And for a few fleeting moments, she dared to hope he had come to rescue her from this terrible harm.
His expression, however, quickly dashed all hope. The once smiling mouth was now twisted contemptuously. Chanelle’s eyes bulged with fear when she glimpsed the shiny knife Greg shook tauntingly in her face. “Oh God, please help me. What’s going on?” she pleaded, but her words came out in a garbled murmur.
“We just keep bumping into each other. We really have to stop meeting like this!” He laughed spitefully.
Too frightened to speak and unable to verbalize even if she tried, Chanelle made terrified humming sounds.
“That’s right. I drugged you and dragged you here to my lair,” he said with a snort and then circled the bed menacingly. “Oh, that’s right…I was supposed to give you a ride home. My bad!” he shouted in a mocking tone. “You didn’t think I knew the jargon of those street thugs—those young hooligans you like to fuck…”
Her eyes squinted in incomprehension. She had no idea what this madman was talking about.
“Don’t play dumb,” he said in response to her confused expression. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Sensation?”
Sensation! How did he know her former alias? Her mind did a frantic search but came up blank. She couldn’t recall having ever seen him when she worked as a dancer and she certainly didn’t know him through Hershey’s escort service.
“You forgot me!” He looked sincerely hurt. But the expression of hurt swiftly changed to rage. “You bitch!” he bellowed. “You really forgot me. I thought you were just pretending not to recognize me; trying to keep your waitress friends from learning that you’re nothing but a pole-swiveling ho.”
An eruption of tears streamed down her cheeks. Her shoulders shook from the pressure of her agonized muffled sobs.
“Stop crying!” he demanded.
Chanelle sniffled and trembled like a frightened child.
“You’re nothing but a dick teaser, Sensation.” He smiled and spoke in a voice that was low and pleasant-sounding, as if he were giving her a compliment. “It seemed like you knew me pretty well when I was stuffing money in your crotch. And I didn’t see you crying back then,” he said and shook his head.
“Set after set, I gave you my money—every single dollar. Most of the time I didn’t stop spending until my pockets were empty.” He looked off as if remembering those days. “I’d run out of money and then rush out to the ATM machine, withdraw some cash, and make it back before your next set.”
Okay, this guy was a regular at Lizzard’s. Chanelle tried to remember him, but for the life of her, she couldn’t place him. Over the course of the two years she danced there, there were so many men, so many faces, they all became a blur.
But if this guy was as devoted as he claimed to have been, maybe he still had some feelings for her. Perhaps she could reason with him. If he would just remove the gag, she would instantly start spilling her guts. First, she’d try to talk some sense into his head. If that didn’t work she’d start rappin’ about anything he wanted to hear. She’d pretend she suddenly remembered him…Oh, yeah! Come to think of it, I do remember you! If given a chance, she’d tell him how much she’d always loved him; she’d tell him anything he wanted to hear. And she’d do just about anything to get away from this crazy man.
“I was just trying to get to know you better,” he continued. “I noticed you didn’t shed a single tear on the nights I went home broke. You gave me your ass to kiss and kept on shaking it. Dancing and flirting with other men—right in my face. Now that was disrespectful and disrespectful bitches like you have to be dealt with.”
With her head tilted to one side in confusion, Chanelle stared at him with wide eyes that proclaimed her innocence—frightened eyes that swore he had to be mistaken. She’d never told him to kiss her ass; she’d never treated him disrespectfully. Dear God, if you get me out of this—
Without warning, he slapped her hard across the face, ending her silent plea to the Lord.
It took a few seconds for her to understand what had happened. Reflexively, she wanted to rub her face, but couldn’t. Her hands were bound. And until that moment, she hadn’t realized how badly her wrists hurt.
The man named Greg balled a fist and shook it in her face. “Don’t look at me like that again!” He advanced closer, drawing his fist back threateningly as if about to strike.
Chanelle squeezed her eyes shut, whimpering as she waited for the crushing blow. When several excruciating seconds passed, she opened her eyes.
“I changed my mind; I don’t want to mess your face up…not yet. I’m going to have a lot of fun with you before I kill you.”
His promise of murder was more than she could bear. Fear of this magnitude should have been the catalyst for an instant nervous breakdown. Chanelle screamed, but the black tape on her lips kept the scream trapped inside her mouth. Her eyes, wide and terrified, pleaded with the insane man to spare her life.
He sat down on the bed beside her. “I’ve been waiting for this moment a long time. But before we continue this conversation, I want to tell you my real name. I don’t mind telling you because my identity is going to be our little secret. A secret you’ll take to your grave.”
She squirmed uncomfortably. She didn’t want to know his name. If he kept his identity to himself, she might see the glorious light of another day.
But before she could utter a grunt of protest, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “My name is Reed. Master Reed to you.”
She hadn’t stepped foot inside a church since her mother’s funeral and she felt like a shameless hypocrite when she started praying to God, promising all sorts of things, reminding Him that she’d stopped tricking and had gotten a real job.
Dangerously In Love Page 24