“My daughter,” a woman replied.
Frowning, I replied, “Of course, she is. Is she in trouble?”
“How much?” the woman asked flatly.
My eyebrows stretched toward my forehead as I shifted my thoughts to business. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t have a lot of money. How much will you charge me to find her son’s father?” The woman began crying. “It’s not fair that she has to work a second job at a strip club to take care of her son. We’ve got to find him, and you’ve got to help us.”
Wasn’t this why I had decided to start my business? But I had never envisioned tracking down deadbeat dads. “What’s your daughter’s name, and what club does she work at?”
“I named her Velvet Waters. Her stripper name is Red Velvet. She works at Stilettos. Her son’s name is Ronnie Allen. His no-good daddy’s name is Alphonso Allen. Oh, and Alphonso is a married man. We live in Atlanta, but my baby, Velvet, met him almost six years ago in Los Angeles, when she was auditioning for a movie. How much?”
I had no idea how much to charge this woman. “Pro bono,” I said. “E-mail me right away with the details. Include your contact information, and we’ll handle the rest. Have a sweet day.”
Wow, my first case, I thought. I had to make a good impression. Actually, I was rather excited about finding this Alphonso guy and hearing what his excuse was for not taking care of his son. And if his wife didn’t know about Ronnie, she was about to find out.
I believed women deserved to have their fathers and the other men in their lives lift them to the highest heights, not deny, degrade, or disrespect them. What happened to the women who were repeatedly stampeded for years, were fucked for free, with nothing invested in them, and then were dragged through the venomous quicksand of deception? If they survived before turning stone-cold, were they living or simply sustaining themselves on an invisible respirator, or had they become mush, like those rotten peaches soaking up the soil in my backyard?
They say tears cleanse the soul, giving clarity to new beginnings. Suddenly, raindrops the size of silver dollars pounded against my patio window. Yesterday the weatherman had predicted clear skies for today. Grant had promised he’d never leave me. I rolled my computer chair to the window, then watched the wet circles until they either disappeared or were replaced by new raindrops, kind of the way I’d seen men treating women. Beyond the patio, a barrier of Georgia peach trees secluded me from my neighbors.
Oh, I didn’t need to go out in the rain to witness what was on those trees, just like I didn’t need to travel the world to know millions of women were suffering in silence from neglect, abuse, rape, post-partum depression, and the blues. Not the kind of blues that Barbara Morrison imparted in her lyrics to “You Don’t Know What Love Is.”
Women were suffering from the kind of blues that made the marrow in their bones shrivel; the kind of blues that twisted already-driven stakes deeper into their broken hearts; the kind of blues that scarred from the inside out, aging them seemingly overnight; shoeless blues that left footprints in the icy snow; the kind of blues that didn’t make the headline news until they killed themselves, their mates, or, even worse, their children. I knew those things were real because not so long ago, I was a blue woman.
Not anymore. Now I was plum purple, with the kind of bruise that temporarily clotted the blood but would fade with time and eventually heal. My problem was I couldn’t purge myself of the beautiful memories I had of Grant. I was determined to get my man back while rescuing as many suffering women as I could.
Each of those peaches clinging to my trees represented beautiful women, bruised women, succulent women, spoiled women, sexy women, ripe women, and premature women. The fruit that had fallen from those trees, decomposed, and returned to the earth, were the women I wanted to help the most, before they let go of life. No man should ever savor a bite of a precious peach without first caressing her in the palms of his hands, cleansing her soul, appreciating her, and giving thanks for all that she’d given him, especially if she was his mother, daughter, sister, significant other, wife, or friend.
Ka-boom!
Backing away from the window, I gasped at the crackling thunder, which shook my mansion from the ground up. I beheld a ray of sunshine beaming brightly through the pillows of dark clouds. It left a warmth across my face, and a remnant of the one woman I’d never forget appeared in the silhouette of an angel. With just a few blinks of my eyes, Mother Nature had shrunk the raindrops to speckles and dissolved the black clouds, clearing the way for blue skies. I guessed the weatherman was right, after all.
Closing my eyes and then slowly opening them, I glanced at Sunny’s picture resting on my desk, accepting that I was the reason my favorite escort had been shot in the head the day before her twenty-first birthday. I couldn’t bring Sunny back, but I felt obligated to keep a close watch on her identical twin sister, Summer, who was pregnant with Valentino’s twins. Looking out the patio window and admiring the green leaves, I squinted and noticed the streaks remaining on my windowpane, which were as visible as my flaws. That was a good thing. No longer would I hide my past from anyone, especially Grant.
Peaches couldn’t grow on trees that had no roots or had roots that had no soil, or in soil that had no nutrients or had nutrients but no water, or with water that had no clouds or under clouds that couldn’t give way to the sunshine warming my face. Like those peach trees, a woman without the basic elements of life would die before she blossomed.
I’d heard that people who were too proud, too embarrassed, or too afraid to cry in front of others were hiding something. Shame. Guilt. Insecurities. Vulnerabilities. Secrets even. At one point in my life, I had experienced all of that and added a few more reasons why I incarcerated my salty sadness. I’d turned away from life, not wanting anyone to look into my eyes. I was afraid they’d see I’d been molested, abused as a child, beaten by my ex-husbands, and assaulted by some of my johns.
The real reason I killed Reynolds wasn’t because he’d raped Onyx. I shot that motherfucker in the head because I was tired of men who felt justified forcing their dicks inside of women to bust a fuckin’ nut or to establish dominance. Punk-ass, bitch-ass men deserved to die. If I saw Reynolds in the afterlife, I’d kill his ass again.
Women weren’t put on this earth for men to control them. God gave men women to love. For Reynolds’s death, I had no remorse. I had no blood on my hands or my conscience. If I ever got arrested, my trial would undoubtedly empower women everywhere to stop hanging their heads and stand up for themselves.
You could tell a lot by looking into a woman’s eyes, especially if that woman had low self-esteem or if she was smiling from her nose down, struggling to keep from crying. There’d been a haziness obstructing my judgment of others. At first, all I’d wanted to do was please people, hoping that would make them like me and, if I was lucky, love me. The harder I tried, the less they cared about me.
The men, oh, how the men had loved the way I circled my juicy tongue around their dick heads, letting them shoot cum in my mouth. For eleven years, I had been their fantasy come true, granting their deepest desires, the ones their wives or girlfriends wouldn’t. My pussy had possessed the kind of power that made men sign their names to payday loans so they could experience my unforgettable lingam massage.
Unconsciously, I’d picked up Sunny’s picture and placed it inside my top desk drawer. Before closing the drawer, I took it out and put it back. Today was as good as any day to stop living inside my head, to stop agonizing over Grant, to stop dwelling on depressing memories, to get off of my ass, and to go out into world and save Red Velvet.
I went upstairs to the entertainment room, where the girls were gathered, and announced, “I have a surprise!”
They all stopped watching Oprah and stared at me. “This had better be important,” Onyx said.
“Forget it. I apologize. I shouldn’t have interrupted,” I said. “Go back to watching television. I was going to buy each of you
your own car today and give you each a million dollars as I’d promised, but Oprah can do that for—”
“Aaahhhh!” they all screamed at the same time. Titties and asses joyfully bounced up and down.
It wasn’t the money or the materialistic luxury cars I was giving them that excited me. I was giving each of them their independence. Having enough money to enjoy life did good things for women…Money empowered women. If women had the right amount of money, they could buy themselves a few good men. But the one thing money couldn’t buy was love.
“Oh, shit,” I said, laughing. Instantly, I found myself buried under eleven very excited women. For a moment, in that moment, I couldn’t say we all loved one another or that we had anyone out there that loved us, but I knew in that moment, we were all truly happy.
CHAPTER 12
Sapphire
Tiffany Davis…runaway, abducted, kidnapped. Height: five feet six. Weight: 135 lbs. Eyes: brown. Hair: brown. At the age of sixteen, I was listed as everything except voluntarily missing. Last seen on Broadway, near Lincoln High School, in Los Angeles, California. If anyone has any information or has seen Tiffany, please call your local police department.
How ironic that as an adult, I had ended up working for an agency that couldn’t find me when I was a minor. When I was growing up, my family wasn’t rich or affluent, I didn’t live in an upscale neighborhood, and the public high school I attended wasn’t famous for anything positive. I wasn’t born with natural blue eyes or blond hair. So I wasn’t surprised that the police department didn’t find me. They probably never tried. Or perhaps the underlying reason my mother never found me was she cared more about her husband than she cared about me. I’d been missing from home for fourteen years.
Now I was thirty years old, with the perfect career, but I still missed my mother every day. I was passionate about my job, but in my personal life, I’d never had a man who loved me for more than sex, so I married my job to keep my mind off of wanting a husband and a family. Being an undercover cop in Vegas, working the Strip a few days a week—some days solo, others on a sting operation—arresting guys who solicited sex was what I wanted to do. But what had thrilled me most recently was busting Valentino James and taking his money.
I dialed my associate’s number.
“Hey, lady. What’s up?” she asked.
“You keeping track of my client?” I asked her.
“But of course, and the status remains the same. I’m starting to hear some rumors, though, about it being a summer day in springtime. I’ll keep you updated if the weather changes.”
“Peace,” I said, ending our conversation.
I jotted my phone number on a blue sticky, then sealed it inside of an envelope addressed to Valentino. He hadn’t received any mail, but his baby mama, Summer Day, was working to get him out on bail. It looked like I’d have to pay her an unexpected visit.
After I’d arrested Valentino, I’d made certain he had no viable contacts outside of prison. I’d encouraged Lace to take all of Valentino’s girls to Atlanta. I’d threatened Benito to keep his dumb ass out of Nevada. Valentino’s security staff had become unemployed the second I put the cuffs on Valentino. No pimp that I’d ever arrested had been released on bail or had made parole. My intent was to make sure Valentino wasn’t the first.
Walking into the living room, I asked Girl Six, “You good?” I lounged on my blue sofa, next to her and stared at her, waiting for a response. “You good?” I asked again.
“Yeah. Yeah,” she said, rubbing her thigh. “I’ve been here for nearly three weeks, and I don’t understand why you keep asking me the same question every day. That’s all.”
Whenever I wasn’t sure of what was on a person’s mind, I frequently engaged them in conversation. I put The Pimp Chronicles on mute. I eased my hand into hers. I needed to persuade her to trust me, ’cause I didn’t trust anybody, including my mother. I’d never intended for Lace to keep the money I’d given her. The fifty million I was letting her hold for me was a decoy to lure Valentino straight to her, that is, if Valentino’s public defendant couldn’t be bribed to mis-represent the case.
Lace had no idea she was the scapegoat, but she was about to find out. Girl Six wasn’t my girl. She could never be my girl after working for Lace. I had no idea if Girl Six was loyal to Lace or me. It didn’t matter. I was sending Girl Six where she belonged, with Lace. But I was sending her with my agenda.
I questioned her. “Who killed Sunny?”
“I told you I don’t know. Lace sent me home that night.” Scooting away from me, Girl Six added, “Look, if you want me to leave, just tell me. I hate being drilled every day.”
I didn’t want her to leave. I needed her to get the hell out of my house. I’d delayed important job-related matters to baby-sit Girl Six. My arrests of pimps and johns could no longer wait. Valentino’s hearing was coming up soon, and I had to find out what Summer was up to. I’d missed out on arresting a few other pimps because I wasn’t leaving Girl Six in my house overnight while I was at work. In a few days, I planned on visiting Valentino, and I couldn’t take Girl Six with me.
I asked Girl Six, “Are you happy living here with me?”
My place was casually decorated, with little more than the necessities of life. It had a moderate two thousand square feet, two bedrooms, two baths, a living room, a kitchen, and a dining area and was tucked away in a gated community on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Before letting Girl Six move in, I was seldom home at night.
“Yeah, I think so,” Girl Six answered. “I don’t know what I want to do with my life. Prostitution is all I know.”
Girl Six was of the majority. Most prostitutes, especially the young ones, didn’t know what to do outside of selling themselves. “You miss the life? You regret not going to Atlanta with Lace and the other girls?”
“Definitely not. She’s a bitch. The worst kind. One of these days she’s gonna kick the wrong person,” Girl Six said, staring at the flat screen.
We’d watched this DVD together at least five times. Picking up the remote, I turned off the mute feature to hear Katt Williams say, “It’s called self-esteem, bitch. Esteem of your motherfuckin’ self. How am I going to make you feel bad about you?”
Ordinarily, this was one of the funniest parts, and we’d laugh out loud, but this time we didn’t. Lifting my leg onto the back of the sofa, I said, “Here. Play with my pussy and talk to me.”
Girl Six didn’t mind getting me off whenever I asked her to. Gently, she parted my lips. Up and down, she massaged my pussy. Her touch excited me. I’d been so busy working sunset to sunrise, I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed having someone, anyone, to talk to or to touch me.
I enjoyed the pleasure. “I’m sending you to live with Lace,” I told her.
Girl Six shook her head. “You can’t make me. I’m not going.”
The hell if I couldn’t. “Yes, you are.”
Girl Six sprang from the sofa. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m not, and you can’t make me. I’m getting my things, and I’m outta here. I’d rather live on the street!”
Following her into my guest bedroom, I forced Girl Six onto the bed. Grabbing her biceps, I asked, “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy? You can’t stay here, and you have no place else to go.” I wanted to slap her but didn’t. “Get yourself together, because, yes, you are going to Atlanta.”
Frantically, Girl Six shook her head. “Every time I get close to someone, they leave me. I’ve only been here two weeks, and now you’re putting me out.”
Almost three to be more exact. I had never told her I was putting her out. Had I? Well, maybe I had, but…Was she serious? Could a prostitute suffer with abandonment issues? Or was Girl Six faking it? “You had your chance to go with Lace. So what’s the real reason you asked to move in with me instead of going with her?”
“Sapphire, I’m in love with you. I knew I was in love with you the minute you walked into that hotel room to say good-bye to
Lace. If it hadn’t been for you, I probably would’ve gone to Atlanta.”
Okay. I must be stupid. Am I supposed to believe her? “We can talk about this later.” I didn’t believe a word of what Girl Six had said, and I wasn’t finished cuming. She might as well relieve my frustrations since she’d created the tension. Opening the dresser drawer, I pulled out my dual dildo. “Here, lick the head,” I said, easing it in her mouth. “Now lie down and lick this end.”
Easing seven inches of one end inside of Girl Six, I positioned myself missionary style on top of her, then inserted the same amount of inches inside of me. With four inches of the eighteen-inch dual dildo between us, Girl Six wrapped her legs around my hips. My pussy tightened. Slowly, I thrust my pelvis into hers as she tilted her ass upward.
Our rhythm was in sync. “Aw, yeah. You feel great,” I whispered in Girl Six’s ear. “I’m not abandoning you. I need you to do this one favor for me. And I promise when you’re done, if you want, you can come back here and live with me. But right now, I want you to cum for me, baby.”
Sex always made women vulnerable. Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. I kissed them away, then held her closer. I did all the shit I knew women liked. “Let it go. Whatever is bothering you, release it and let it go,” I said softly. “You’re beautiful. Letting all of those strange men fuck you night after night made you feel bad about yourself. Don’t. I know they didn’t love you. They only wanted to use you for their pleasure.”
Her lips quivered. “You don’t love me, either?”
She had put me on the spot with that one. Should I tell her the truth or tell her what she needed to hear? “I do love you,” I said, thrusting a little deep. My nipples pressed hard against hers.
Did we crave compassion so deeply that we were willing to have sex outside of our preferences to feel the power of love? I had plans for Girl Six, but what I hadn’t planned on was developing feelings for her. Not sexual feelings. The human emotions drawing us closer disturbed me.
Whos Loving You Page 7