by Lexie Ray
Mama clapped her hands, her eyes gleaming. “Sugar, we’re gonna get you all dolled up,” she said. “Make sure everyone at this establishment knows what a fine ass you have. Cocoa, honey, I don’t wanna knock you off your pedestal, but I think Pumpkin can give you a run for your money.”
“Aw, Mama,” Cocoa said, laughing. “You’re gonna start a roommate rivalry.”
“Customers won’t know what hit ’em,” Mama said, winking at me. I blushed in return. This kind of banter made me miss the female contingency especially.
“Well, girls, I’ve got some more things to do before I turn in,” Mama said, taking out a flask and pouring herself a nip in a small glass on the desk. My mouth watered stupidly. I needed to forget about that drink. It wasn’t going to happen.
“We’ll get outta your hair, Mama,” Cocoa said.
We left her to her box of money and closed the door behind us.
“Come on,” Cocoa said, hooking her arm through mine in an easy, intimate gesture that made me jump a little bit. “You’re going to get something to eat whether you like it or not. You just look like you need something.”
I needed lots of things, but nothing that I believed this place could give me.
“What do you like to eat?” Cocoa asked as she ripped open the door to the refrigerator again in the kitchen. “I make a mean breakfast. And mostly simple stuff. I could make tacos! We have ground beef.”
She announced menu possibilities as she moved things around in the refrigerator, glancing at me every so often over her shoulder as she moved things around. Cocoa was bending over backwards to try to make me feel at home here. I gave myself a little push outside my comfort zone to try to meet her halfway.
“Tacos?” I asked. “I’m Puerto Rican, not Mexican, and I bet you’ve never had a real taco before.”
Cocoa straightened slowly from her exploration of the lower shelves of the refrigerator and turned around, placing her hands on her hips as she did so. She was grinning, and I had to smile back.
“Well, hello, Pumpkin,” Cocoa laughed. “It’s good to see you out of your shell.”
I took a deep breath. If I wanted anything here, I was going to have to ask. That was clear to me. I needed to start standing up for myself. I didn’t have the female contingency to protect me anymore.
“Tell you what,” I said, eyeing the inside of the refrigerator before taking stock of all of the pots and pans and utensils in the kitchen. “If you can rustle up some beer, I will make you real tacos. I have to warn you, though—once you’ve had Puerto Rican tacos, you’ll never go back to those sad, sad substandard things you used to call tacos.”
“Look at this sass,” Cocoa said appraisingly. “You get those fancy tacos started. I’ll be back.”
I pulled a huge pot from beneath the countertop and started heating oil in it. It needed to be nice and hot for what I had planned. Then, I started gathering the rest of my ingredients—the ground beef, an array of spices from a rack, and others. I wasn’t expecting to find any masa in the kitchen. That would’ve been a miracle. But I could make do with cornmeal.
Within a few minutes, I had a nice dough—something I’d been watching my sisters and las primas make them for years. It was time for me to translate all of my observation skills into action.
I left the dough to sit and tested the oil in the big pot. It was getting there. I transferred a little of it to a skillet and caramelized a couple of onions. I added a few other vegetables I found, including some hot chili peppers, to the mix. The ground beef got seasoned as it was added to the same skillet, and I stirred it continuously, making sure every piece got cooked.
It was a joy to be focusing on something other than my worry and misery. Cooking reminded me of home, and I was excited to share it with Cocoa.
When the meat was done, I pulled the skillet from the flame and looked back on the oil in the big pot. It was perfect, waves of heat drifting up from it.
I pulled off a piece of dough and spooned some of the meat and vegetable mixture into it before closing the dough over it, pinching the edges to make sure none escaped. Using a slotted spoon, I dropped the taco down into the oil, smiling as it sizzled and a plume of fragrant steam drifted up. If only the female contingency were here, hooting and gossiping and squealing, it would be just like home.
A small sound made me look over to the kitchen door, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. No fewer than a dozen girls had gathered at the door, all of them watching me cook.
My hand flew up to my mouth in my surprise. What did they want? How long had they been standing there?
“Excuse me,” a voice said from the back. “Pardon. Blue, you choose one way, I’m going the other. Scoot, scoot, scoot.”
Cocoa was sidling through the small crowd of girls, holding a six-pack of beer. She looked at the girls, then looked at me.
“What’s going on?” she asked slowly.
“Something smelled really good,” Blue said, her mouth hanging open.
“We had to come down to investigate,” said another girl, her skin as pale as snow—Cream, that was what her name was.
“I’m making tacos,” I said, removing the perfectly deep-fried delicacy from the oil, the dough golden and crispy on the outside. I knew that on the inside, it would be soft and flavorful from the juices of the meat and vegetables. My own mouth was watering thinking about it. I couldn’t even imagine what everyone else was thinking.
“That doesn’t look like a taco,” another girl said uncertainly.
“They’re real tacos,” Cocoa put in. “Pumpkin said so. She said they’re Puerto Rican tacos.”
“Ooh,” came a small voice from somewhere I couldn’t see.
“Want to try one?” I asked.
“Yes!” The cry was immediate and deafening in the kitchen and I jumped again before smiling. This was more like it. This was loud and chaotic, like home.
“I think we’re going to need some more beer,” Cocoa said, handing me a bottle.
“And some more ingredients,” I said, eyeing what I had on hand.
I taught some of the girls how to make the dough and had another group sautéing whatever meats and vegetables we could find. We had ground beef tacos, chicken tacos, turkey and cheese tacos, and several other combinations, just for fun.
Blue and several other girls went out for more beer, and soon, we had a rollicking party going on. The beer and tacos tasted good to me and taught me an important lesson: Home was wherever you made it. It didn’t have to be a physical location; it could be a state of mind.
With all the girls toasting each other and downing their bottles of beer while fawning over my tacos, I felt the best I had all day.
That was the night I became one of Mama’s girls.
Chapter Five
I leaned in to the hand that was stroking my face, smelling pine, musk, and apple, and then jerked away.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Andrew said, his voice soft. “You just looked so peaceful and beautiful sleeping there. I had to touch you. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I murmured, fighting to shake off sleep and calm my racing heart simultaneously. It was the smell that had scared me—unfamiliar, still too new. I couldn’t remember what I’d been dreaming about, but I was pretty sure it was of a sexual nature. The realization made me blush. I hoped Andrew couldn’t see it in the darkened room.
“Are you girls hungry?” Andrew asked. “I like to have breakfast before I go to work.”
My stomach squalled. “Yes,” I said, embarrassed as Andrew laughed.
“You could let your stomach do the talking for you,” he said.
By now, Cream was awake, stretching her arms over her head and groaning almost suggestively.
“Can we help you in the kitchen?” she asked.
“I would love that,” Andrew said, smiling at her. His teeth were so white in the dark room. He had to get them regularly brightened. It wasn’t natural.
We padded out of t
he room after him, both of us wrapped in our robes. I chanced a glance at the doorknob as I passed it—the lock was on the outside, as I’d suspected. We’d been locked in the room last night after all.
I was almost too hungry to feel suspicious—almost being the operative word. Who did that—locking people in their rooms at night? I tried to reason my way through it, frowning. Maybe he didn’t trust us. Andrew had only just met us. He had a lot of really nice things in his home. Perhaps he thought we would rob him or harm him in some way. That’s why he kept the door locked.
Then again, Andrew was in the business of buying human beings. That was something I couldn’t ignore. Everything was out the window because of that simple fact.
“What’s that frown about?” Andrew asked teasingly.
I smoothed my face immediately, suddenly aware that he was staring at me, bemused, and Cream was staring at me, horrified.
“I—I’m trying to remember what I dreamed last night,” I said, thinking fast. “I think it was a—a sex dream.” I let my voice trail off into nearly a whisper. I’d been employed at Mama’s nightclub long enough to know how to turn it on and off—how to manipulate customers. I could back myself out of corners just as easily, I told myself.
Andrew burst out into laughter. “Well, please, let me be the first to know when it does come back to you,” he said, starting the espresso machine.
We worked around each other in that industrial-sized kitchen like a strange little family, each of us with our own tasks. I was charged with the bacon, Andrew monitored the eggs, and Cream chopped some fruit for a simple salad. It was nice, once you got over the weirdness. This man owned us, and we were all amicably working side by side to prepare a meal.
When everything was finally ready, I had to force myself not to wolf it down. I had been extremely hungry, and each bite was like a tiny little blessing. The bacon was crisp, the eggs were cooked to perfection, and the fruit salad was refreshing.
“I leave for work every day at eight o’clock sharp,” Andrew said as we were finishing up. “I’m a creature of habit, as you two will soon discover.”
Something about that sounded ominous, but I couldn’t make myself care. I was still happily stuffing my face with breakfast.
“While I’m gone, I expect you to clean the house,” he said. “I dislike hiring maids. They violate trust too easily. I like having the people cleaning my home living in it. It makes them take ownership, have more care with what they’re doing.”
That made sense, in a twisted way. I wondered how many maids had violated Andrew’s trust and what they had done to do so. Left a streak on a mirror? A footprint on the marble floor?
“Do either of you have cleaning experience?” he asked.
“We had chores at the nightclub,” Cream said. “We kept the boarding house area clean, and our rooms. We also cleaned the nightclub area at the opening and closing of each shift.”
“So you know your way around a rag and a bucket of water,” Andrew remarked wryly. “That’s all it takes. I’m not sure why other women make it so hard.”
“Are their specific things you would like us to be doing?” Cream asked. “Like laundry on Monday, mopping on Tuesday?”
“I’m glad you asked,” he said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin before getting up from his chair. Andrew walked across the kitchen and to a small desk to retrieve a thick binder. He set it on the kitchen table for us to look at. Cream opened it and ran her hand over the laminated page.
“This is very organized,” she remarked.
I leaned forward to get a better look. It was a spreadsheet of various tasks, each with its own assigned day, method, and listing of tools and products. There was even a key with a list of all available cleaning tools and products and where they were located in the place.
“I expect these tasks to be done to the best of your ability and by the time I get home,” he said. “When I get home, I like to have dinner. You can start to prepare something—I get back at seven—or we can decide together and make it, much like we did this morning.”
“All right,” Cream said, still studying the spreadsheet.
“I’m aware that you both need some items, including clothes and the like,” Andrew continued, finishing his espresso and pouring another in a sleek little travel mug. “For that reason, I will be arriving home at six tonight, along with some personal shoppers and samples from some of the finest stores in the city.”
Cream and I exchanged glances.
“That’s really not necessary,” she said. “You don’t have to make all that special effort for us. We can go to the stores together, if you’d like, or alone, if you don’t want to go. It seems expensive and too much.”
Andrew smiled. “I want to do it,” he said. “I have the money to spend on you two and that’s what I’m going to do. Does that sound good to you, Pumpkin?”
I nodded, chewing the last bit of bacon.
I fought the urge to squirm away as Andrew leaned in very close.
“Any leads on that dream yet?” he murmured in my ear, making me shudder.
I knew what he wanted to hear. I knew what all of them wanted to hear. I tilted my head until my lips just barely brushed his earlobe.
“I think it was about you,” I whispered, my eyes fluttering shut.
Andrew laughed, the sound rich and dark. “I will happily carry that thought with me at work,” he said. “You girls are brightening my life already.”
I glanced at the clock. It was nearly eight—time for him to leave.
“We’ll have this place spotless by the time you get home,” Cream said, beaming as Andrew slipped on his suit and grabbed a briefcase.
“I hope it won’t be too troublesome to do the chores with just your robes,” Andrew said, looking both of us up and down suggestively.
Cream smiled sexily and batted her eyes at him. “If it gets too hard, we’ll just slip them off,” she said, revealing one bare shoulder beneath the material.
“Now that is something I wish I could see,” Andrew said kissing us both on the foreheads. I wondered when I would get used to the smell of his cologne. It was so different from anything I had experienced before.
Andrew opened the door to leave and stopped midstride.
“One other thing,” he said casually. “I am very protective of my home and the possessions it contains. This includes you two. For that reason, I’m going to lock the door and set the alarm. I ask that neither of you tries to open this door, even if there is someone knocking. I expect no visitors. I expect no packages or deliveries. I expect that I and I alone will be opening this door at any time. Is that understood?”
My skin crawled at his monologue. He was a control freak, plain and simple. Cream and I both nodded quickly, making him smile.
“I’ll see you at six, then,” he said, closing and locking the door behind him. It beeped several times and made minute locking sounds.
“High tech,” Cream remarked, staring at the door. We heard the elevator ping down the hall and relaxed. I’d had no idea that I had been so tense while Andrew was around. My muscles actually ached.
“What are we going to do?” I asked, looking at Cream.
“Start cleaning, I guess,” she said.
I shook my head. “You know that’s not what I meant. We didn’t ask him about our door last night.”
“We’ll ask him if it happens again tonight,” Cream said, shrugging.
“The lock is on the outside of the room,” I said. “He meant to lock us in.”
“Look, it’s his house,” Cream said, holding up her hands. “The man has rules, obviously, and I mean to follow them. That’s how we’re going to be happy here.”
I kept what I wanted to say to myself, not wishing to hurt Cream’s feelings. She was obviously feeling guilty about Jason getting us into this situation and was trying to make the best of it. But I still wasn’t sure how to get the best of anything when a man believed that paying $300,000 was enough to own two gi
rls.
“Let’s look at the chore list,” I said finally, “and figure out how to divide it up.”
We soon started working, cleaning the dishes and the kitchen from our breakfast and polishing the countertops. From there, I ran a dust cloth across every inch of marble flooring in the place. Cream came right behind me with a mop, buffing out any streaks or blemishes. It was time-consuming work.
“Tell me a story,” Cream said as we worked, both of us sweating and fighting the oversized robes.
“Tell me something instead,” I said. “Would it be weird to do this naked? I can’t stand to wear this thing another minute. It’s getting in my way.” I used to be a prude, but living in Mama’s boarding house had driven all of that away.
Cream shrugged her robe off. “Thank God,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you to say something. I wanted to take this thing off like an hour ago.”
Both naked, we resumed our chores.
“A story,” Cream pressed me.
I thought for a while. “Okay. So I grew up in East Harlem.”
“Ooh,” Cream said. “That’s a hard area.”
“And my sisters and primas were just as hard,” I continued. “They were all a lot older than me and boy crazy.”
“I know the type,” Cream said, smiling.
“My one sister was seeing this guy once. She was really into him for whatever reason, but he screwed her over. I don’t really remember the details, but I remember very clearly what happened after everything went south.
“So my sister pretended she wasn’t angry at whatever had happened—maybe he cheated on her?—and told him to come over. The whole family—I call them the female contingency—was nothing but sweet to him, giving him drink after drink until he passed out cold. They must’ve gone through two or three bottles of shit.
“As soon as he was dead asleep, they shaved him hairless.”
Cream hooted with laughter. “They did not.”
“They did,” I said, starting to laugh helplessly. “They shaved his hair, which he was really proud of, and his eyebrows, and his chest hair, and his pubes. Then they shaved patterns into his arm and leg hair.”