Role Play

by Tu-Shonda L. Whitaker

  “Definitely not you.”

  They chuckled.

  “I really do miss you, Sheila.” Elle stepped in closer to her, sliding her arms around Sheila’s neck and pressing their lips together. “And I need you.”

  “I need you too,” Sheila said, as she parted her lips and their tongues danced.

  Chapter 49

  Monty and Brooklyn

  Monty surveyed each of Brooklyn’s steps as she walked, handcuffed, into the apartment where she used to live with Bev, her sisters . . . and Stony. Her flushed, honey-colored skin glimmered in the night; her eyes narrowed to crinkled slits. The fright on her face was sexy, tender even.

  Monty had planned on backhanding her on sight. Now he wanted to pull her into his embrace and keep her there.

  The lead cop uncuffed her and replaced the handcuffs on his belt.

  Monty nodded thank-you to the team before they returned to their patrol car.

  Brooklyn’s thoughts raced. She hadn’t been this afraid since the last time she was here.

  Tension grew in her face, her limbs.

  Her mind froze. Suspended in the last panic attack she had, at thirteen, in the street when she couldn’t find which way the police had taken Bev.

  She blinked.

  Think . . . think . . . think.

  No.

  She couldn’t think.

  She could only see Stony standing before the TV.

  You know you want it.

  “I don’t want it!” She knew she’d said that out loud.

  Tears wet her cheeks.

  She blinked again.

  A trail of Stony’s dried blood on the floor.

  Her eyes flickered back and forth. Her hearing sharpened to a pin drop; there was a leaky faucet, bullets ringing out in the distance . . . she thought she smelled dope cooking.

  Her arms unconsciously lifted.

  Her hands unknowingly tightened around her temples.

  Monty knew, had this been any other time, Brooklyn would’ve tried her hand and attacked him. But terror held her in place, and finally she saw him for what he was: not to be fucked with.

  “You brought this on yourself,” he said, as he eyed her with an unnerving thoroughness. “I called you for days. No answer. Texted you. No answer. Go to the spot that I gave you, and it’s a nigga lying in my bed, on my motherfuckin’ side. Do you know how lucky you are to still be alive?”

  Brooklyn’s heart thumped. She stuttered, “W-why? Why bring me here?” She pulled Monty into view. Her panic turned to rage. “Why?” She pushed him. He didn’t move.

  “You needed to be reminded of where the fuck you came from and that I have the sole authority to send you back. You seem to have forgotten who I am.”

  Her head hurt. Her body ached. “You are a sick and twisted bastard. First you break into my house—”

  He raised a brow. “Let’s try that again. That’s my motherfuckin’ house, that I gave you. Furthermore, you of all people, don’t ever question me. That’s your problem—you’ve forgotten how to be grateful.” He paused. “Then, to get a call you went to the police station and requested a restraining order be placed on me?” He released a sinister chuckle. “You never draw blood from the hand that feeds you.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, took out Brooklyn’s restraining order, and ripped it up in front of her face. “Hopefully, now you can see I own the police.”

  Panic rumbled in the pit of her belly.

  You look just like your mama, ’cept you prettier . . . softer . . .

  “Get me the fuck out of here!” She took a step toward the door and he blocked her path.

  She pushed him. He grabbed her, shoving her into the wall. “This is your fault—”

  “You can’t make me love you! I don’t want you, Monty!” She screamed into his face. “Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone?” She pushed him again, this time he stumbled a step, never losing his grip.

  He stepped back into place. “You belong to me, and that’s it.”

  “I am not your property! I have a right—”

  “You don’t have no fuckin’ rights with me!”

  “Go be with your wife!”

  “And now you care about my wife?”

  “Obviously, you don’t. Otherwise you’d leave me the fuck alone! And stop stalking me every goddamn day! The only reason you want me back is control! You don’t love me!”

  He snorted. “You don’t know what the fuck I love! You don’t know shit about me, because if you did then you would’ve known never to pull shit like this! When I found you, you were a scared little girl, and now suddenly, you have balls to swing? Tuh! Think I’ma just create you and shape you into what’s perfect for me, and then just watch you skip off with somebody else? Fuck that! I’ll kill you and that nigga first!”

  “Fuck you, fuck your wife, and fuck those crooked-ass cops you own! And fuck that house too. If you want it back, take it. But as for you and me, this is over!” She managed to push him out of her face, then turned to walk away. He snatched her back, gripping her by the throat.

  Spit speckled onto her face as he clenched his jaw and said, “You think I’m some weedy-ass little boy, huh? You think you can play with me, Brooklyn? You must really want me to fuck you up.” He flung her away. She stumbled, tripped to the floor, and slipped into the same spot were Stony had lain dead. She freaked as she inched away, hitting her head against the wall.

  Monty rushed back into her face. “As much as I’ve done for you? Gave you everything you wanted. Bought you a house, a car, paid for your education, your daughter’s private school. Anything you dreamed, I snapped my fingers and it was yours. And this is how you repay me?”

  “Repay you?” She spat. “I told you when I met you that I was not a whore! You don’t own me! I’m not your property. Had you treated me right and been there for me, we would not be here. But you thought because I was your side bitch, you could buy me the world, but mistreat me! That is not how this works. We’re done!” She shoved him again. “Now, move! I’m getting the fuck out of here!”

  “If I see you with that reporter again, I will kill the two of you.” He pounded his fist into the wall above her head.

  She winced and crossed her arms over her face. Her heart thundered in her chest. Her bladder ached. She had to pee and thought her nerves would force her to piss right here on the spot.

  Think . . .

  He tossed her arms away, and his hot breath blew into her face. “How long you been fuckin’ this reporter? Are you the reason he’s coming after me? What are you telling him?”

  She blinked.

  Her thoughts were jumbled. She couldn’t decipher all of what Monty had just said.

  She blinked again.

  Reporter?

  “Lorenz?” She meant to say it to herself, but didn’t.

  Glimpses of the night they met played in her mind. They talked about work, but she couldn’t remember what his job was.

  A reporter?

  Shit.

  She would’ve remembered that. She waved away her thoughts. “This is about you, Monty! All those lonely nights, absent holidays, and this last trick you pulled, on my birthday? Canceling a date with me when you’re out with your wife!

  “Because I called it quits, you turn to threatening me every day, all day. And now this? You had some cops rough me up and pseudo-arrest me! And you think I want you back? Hell, no! Fuck you!”

  A sinister smile inched across Monty’s face. “You said all that to deflect, why?” He paused. “Ohhhhh, you didn’t know his ass was a reporter, did you?” He laughed. “He played you. Used you. To get next to me. How long you think it’ll be before you’re in the news, all over the internet? He played you for the fuckin’ whore you are and you let him. And you deserve that shit. I protected you. Took care of you. Loved you. You call yourself leaving me and look what you’ve gotten yourself into. All in this motherfucker’s face, letting him take you out on a date—this is your fault!”<
br />
  Brooklyn’s breath snagged in her throat. Her head pounded. Chilled spikes stabbed through her skin.

  She collected herself and said, “Guess what? Even after all of that. Your text messages, you stalking me, the police refusing to take my restraining order, being dragged here in handcuffs, even unknowingly fucking and going on a date with a reporter, I still don’t want you!”

  He snatched her by the hair and reared his hand back.

  “Monty!” The apartment door flew open. Dominic stepped in. He glanced over at Brooklyn, took in Monty’s grip, then said, “Let her go. We got an emergency.”

  Monty’s jaw shifted.

  “Sheldon’s dead,” Dominic said.

  He squinted. “Dead?” He stared, pushed Brooklyn away.

  “We need to go before the media gets hold of this!”

  Monty looked over at Brooklyn. “Go straight home, wait for me. If you’re not there when I arrive, it’s over for you and him. Your safest bet is to go back to being my sweet, reliable Brooklyn. My baby. Not this foul-mouthed, disrespectful, hardheaded, and unrecognizable bitch.” He gave her a moment to take his words in. “Understand?”

  Chapter 50

  Lorenz

  Lorenz waited for Rebecca in the Blue Light, a small neighborhood spot where the DJ spun tunes on a turntable, a half-full quarter cuss jar sat on the bar, and hard-boiled eggs and shelled peanuts were free. Drinks were a choice of Old Milwaukee, moonshine, Seagram’s 7, and whiskey. Bobby, the owner, was also the bartender, and his sister, Delia, sold ten dollar dinners in the back.

  Nothing to write home about. Simply a spot where the neighborhood loners and seventies throwbacks could party in peace. And Lorenz could meet with a source, and no one here would think twice about it.

  “Would you like another beer or something to eat, son?” Bobby asked, standing behind the black leather bar.

  Lorenz looked beyond Bobby to the mirror-covered wall, where hand-painted signs of the drink and food selections were taped up. “Sure, I’ll have another beer.”

  “Comin’ up.” Bobby smiled, sliding Lorenz a glass jar of peanuts. Lorenz grabbed a handful and tossed them into his mouth.

  Bobby gave Lorenz his beer. He took a sip and watched the door, hoping to spot Rebecca at any moment.

  Two more beers, an earful of Bobby’s woes, and an hour later, no Rebecca. Instead, the bar was filled with old-timers. Some grooved to the music, others ordered dinners, and the rest crowded the bar.

  Lorenz picked up his cell and tried Rebecca. No answer. He left her a message. “I’m at the Blue Light. Call me back, and it’s okay if you prefer to meet somewhere else; just let me know.” He slid his phone back into his pocket, stroked his beard, and soon found himself lost in the sultry melody of an Isley Brothers’ track.

  An unexpected breeze filled with Brooklyn’s tropical fragrance of sweet mango swept into the bar. A smile inched across his lips as flashes of their date and images of how—hopefully soon again—her plump ass would dance against his shaft.

  Up . . . down . . . harder, baby!

  His mouth watered. He sipped his beer. Glimpses of the licks and soft bites he’d graced her quarter-size nipples and pulsating clit with, played out before him.

  He slid a hand into his side pocket and skillfully gripped his hard dick.

  He smiled, thinking of the way her perfect brown body absorbed every inch of him.

  How she gently lay on his chest, as if she belonged there.

  Her dimpled grin.

  Her bubbling laugh.

  They liked the same music. Blues. R&B. Jazz. Oldskool hip-hop.

  She was well read. Toni Morrison. Alice Walker. Ntozake Shange. Shakespeare.

  She dabbled in the spoken word. He did too.

  A history buff.

  She was a dream.

  But.

  Sleeping with her was the most unethical and unprofessional thing he’d ever done, before hacking into her phone, of course.

  He’d just been assigned to this beat, and it was a dope beat, where he’d finally gotten the chance to showcase his skills as an investigative reporter. Once he blew governor-gate out of the water, being a televised political pundit was naturally the next step.

  Don’t make yourself part of the story.

  Damn.

  “Pardon me, sugah.” A hard gum smack and an unexpected Southern drawl pulled him from his thoughts. He looked to his right.

  No Rebecca. Just a tall, square-shaped redhead standing before him with a full grin and a piece of gum popping with every word she spoke. “Anybody sittin’ here?” She didn’t wait for him to answer before plopping on the stool next to him. “Bobby, gimme a double shot of whiskey and an order of Delia’s barbecued wings.” She pulled a pack of Newports from her bra, then turned toward Lorenz. “Have one?”

  “Nah, I’m good.” He glanced over at the door.

  “Waiting for somebody?”

  He hesitated. “You could say that.”

  “I’m Lola, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lola,” he said, checking the volume on his cell phone. It was on high, and he hadn’t missed any calls or text messages. He dialed Rebecca’s number. Her voice mail came on. “I’m still here. The Blue Light on Thirty-Third.” He slid his phone into his shirt pocket.

  “You been stood up?” Lola interjected.

  “Huh?”

  “The girl you just tried to call. How long you been waiting on her?” Lola gave Lorenz a breath to answer before she carried on. “I could tell it was a woman by the look on your face when you hung up. Don’t feel bad, I’ve been there before, baby. God knows. The last time I waited just about all night, right here in this same spot, watching the news.” She pointed to the muted television that hung at the corner of the bar. She continued, “Ask Bobby. He’ll tell ya.” She looked over at Bobby. “Bobby, remember I waited on Johnny that night?”

  “Sho’ do.”

  “And the no-count fool never came. But you know, some things are fate.”

  “Fate?” Lorenz said as he focused on the breaking news banner that flashed across the television screen. “Hey, Bobby, can you turn that up?” Lorenz asked.

  Bobby turned up the TV, and Lola continued, “Like me meeting you was fate. Just this morning I decided I needed me some young blood that could smack it up, flip it, rub it down. And I think you’re the one for the job. Tell me, when you look at me, what do you see?”

  “I see you, Lola . . .” Lorenz’s voice drifted as he studied the footage of a car in flames on a residential street. He noticed a black Mercedes Sprinter in the background. The television camera panned back to the reporter. “Coming to you live from Belle Street. Witnesses say the silver Toyota Camry—”

  His heart pounded in his ears. His mouth dropped open. His vision wavered, as if he were looking through a fish-eye lens.

  It’s the third time I’ve seen it today.

  I think it’s following me.

  Brggggg!

  Lorenz blinked back into the moment. He fumbled as he reached into his pocket for his ringing cell phone and looked at the caller ID. Sydney.

  “Yo.”

  “Hey, where are you? Still waiting on Rebecca Morris?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you can stop waiting. It looks like it was her car that exploded on Belle Street. Odds are, she was in it.”

  “Damn. I was hoping like hell it wasn’t.”

  Sydney continued. “Her name came over the wire as a homicide. I need you to see what you can find out.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Click.

  Lorenz placed forty dollars on the bar. “One’s for my order, the other’s for yours, Lola.” He stood and turned toward the door.

  “Where are you going, sugah?”

  “Sorry, I gotta run.” Lorenz tossed a peace sign over his shoulders.

  The door swung closed behind him, and Lola looked over to Bobby. “It’s always the cute ones that get away. Gimme another do
uble and let me try Johnny again; tell him I’m still waitin’.”

  Chapter 51

  Brooklyn

  No matter how fast she ran. Or how far.

  She couldn’t outrun the urge to look for the police car that had hauled her mother away all those years ago.

  And she couldn’t outrun the rancid smell of Stony’s blood. Or the piercing sounds of her sisters’ screams.

  Or the thought that maybe—just maybe—had Bev gotten clean like she’d promised. Got a job. Moved them to Atlanta—where she’d testified that her brother had found God—things would’ve been different.

  Or maybe this was all a bunch of self-sabotaging bullshit. Because no matter how she spun it, her mother was a whore, a dope fiend, and a murderess—who chose a man over them, when she knew she was all they had.

  By the time Brooklyn looked up, she had run at least a ten-block stretch. She stopped at a gas station to catch her breath and collect herself.

  She called an Uber and within an hour and a half, was home, and walking robotically into her living room. Without thought, she leaned against the wall, slid to the floor, and wept.

  Sobbed until the blurred silver waves in her eyes gave way to a vision of Stony blocking the TV.

  “You pretty like yo’ mama, ’cept you prettier,” she heard him say.

  She slapped her hands over her ears.

  “You know you want it . . . ” his voice continued.

  Shut up!

  Her mind’s eye switched to Bev, hopping up from the toilet, “You gon’ lie on my man?”

  “Who you think she gonna believe?”

  “And you know how much he means to me.”

  “Let’s talk.” Her mind’s eye switched again. Stony stumbled into the kitchen. “Bev, I said ‘let’s talk,’” he repeated.

  Bev faced the kitchen sink, with her back to Stony. “Ain’t shit to talk about,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I put you out of here for a reason.”

  “Bev—”

  “I’m tired of this. You steal everything. Me and my kids is even more fucked than we was when you came.”

  “I said, we need to talk.”

  “And I said no!” She rambled, “Then my oldest girl ’round here telling me that you can’t keep yo’ hands to yo’self.” She turned around and faced him. “You been touching on my baby, Stony? Huh? Is that what you was doing? Feeding me dope so you could fuck my child?”