“Selfish!” Rashawn was screaming now. “I know you did not just call me that!”
“Yes, selfish. Lately it’s been all about you. Your career. Your retreats! You! What about Rainey, Reggie, me ... hell, even Junior is a part of this. You haven’t even given him the time of day in weeks! He’s a person too!”
“Look don’t start bringing in outside people. Next you’ll be saying I owe Juanita something. And what was that tender lovey dovey cozy shit I walked in on tonight? What’s up with that? I don’t owe her or her son anything!”
“He’s my son too!”
“Oh, you don’t know that!” Rashawn spat before catching the hateful words. Chance was slapped into silence harder than if she had used her hand. He threw back the covers and climbed out of the bed. Sliding into his shorts he headed into the bathroom without a further word.
Rashawn held her head as it grew heavy with regret and thoughts of how she would apologize. Lament left her mouth in the sound of a painful groan as she pulled her gown back over her head and shrugged into her robe. Only Soy Dream would fix this now—and maybe some cookies. She left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen.
Pulling back from the freezer, Rashawn felt the presence of someone. She slammed the door of the freezer, thinking, hoping, it was Chance so she could apologize, but no, it was worse ... it was Junior. “Junior,” she yelped in her surprise. Guilt had to have shown on her face because he cocked his head to the side, although he didn’t remove the ear buds that seemed permanently attached to his head.
“Sorry, I was hungry. Is it okay for me to eat?” he asked. Rashawn nodded, still feeling shame at what she had said in the room. Watching him grin broadly—his crooked smile reminding her of her own son—softened her heart. She had a tender spot for Junior when the truth came out of her heart, making its way up to her brain. He had no way of accounting for his parents. It wasn’t his fault he was here, and in reality he wasn’t a bad kid. Junior adored Reggie and got along well with Rainey. He wasn’t spoiled like many kids who were only children. Junior was friendly and funny and eager to please. He loved his tech toys and was actually more helpful around the house than Reggie, for the most part. “I missed getting a chance to eat this the other night. I mean, my dad’s stew is great, but this roast is jammin’, Shawnie,” he said, using the pet name his father had given her. She didn’t mind, and watching him prepare his sandwich, she cared even less who his father really was. Junior was soft and gentle like Chance, and, yes, she was fond of him. “Your ice cream is melting,” he said, pointing at her small pint of dairy-free dessert.
“Oh yeah,” she said, scooping out a big spoonful and filling her mouth. Junior began enjoying his food, licking his fingers after each hearty bite. “I wish I was going to look at a college in Oregon.”
“Oh, Reggie told you about that?”
“Well, no, not really. Actually, I overheard him talking to his friend on the phone. I guess they’re planning to really have some fun up there at the dorm and—”
“Oh really? He said he’s planning to stay at the dorm?”
“Well, no, but he was gonna party at the dorms . . . or something like that. He’s got this Internet buddy and well, he’s in a frat and so Reggie said he wanted to check out the fraternities and stuff, see the college action—hell, why not? I mean, heck,” Junior corrected.
Juanita had a filthy mouth, so Rashawn could only expect that Junior would pick up the habit. It was better than smoking or drinking for sure, so she didn’t overreact; besides, he usually corrected himself. Heaven only knew what Reggie felt he could say now that he was smelling his own musk.
Rashawn nodded her understanding and sucked her teeth in growing irritation at Reggie’s secret plan. This was not what she had in mind for Reggie’s college plans—partying every night in a frat house. No. Way. “Fraternity?”
“Yeah, I mean if he’s gonna play for the Ducks . . .”
“So he’s already planning to ...” Rashawn bit her lip and shook her head in irritation. The realization that Reggie had no plans on attending Moorman hit her hard. Junior must have noticed, as he suddenly stopped speaking. Maybe it was the way she sat there holding her spoon poised on the table while staring at him intensely, or perhaps it was the roast he’d filled his mouth with that had stopped his words, who knew, but right at that time Reggie appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, so neither of them was going to say another word.
“Mom,” he yelped, causing Junior to jump as if startled.
“Hey there, Reg,” Junior chuckled, choking slightly on the bite of meat. “I, uh, I was just getting ready to bring you some grub. Your mom was here talking to me and—”
“I see. And you were talking to her about ... ?”
“Nothing,” Junior lied, gathering up a couple more slices of bread and a slice or two more of the meat and rushing past him on his way out of the kitchen.
Reggie turned to follow him, but Rashawn stopped him dead in his tracks with just her voice. “Reggie, let’s talk, son,” she said.
“Maaaa, noooo,” he groaned, throwing his head back before spinning on his heels to face her.
“Yeah, let’s. So, tell me your plans ... since you do indeed have ‘plans,’ ” she said, bracketing the word “plans” with her index and middle fingers curling down in quotation marks in the air.
“Mom, I told you. I told you what I wanted to do.”
“You told me no such thing. You said—”
“I want to go to U of O. I do. I want all the stuff that Junior was blabbing about in here. I want the fraternity. I want the Ducks, Mom. You just don’t understand. I have star potential—Coach tells me every day and the scout ... the scout, Mr. Smith, he called me personally! Mom, he called me personally to invite me.”
“I understand that you want to go to college away so you can waste my time and money but Oregon? This is more than just a summer camp we’re talking.”
“I know this, Mom. It’s four years and I’m ready. I’m gonna be eighteen soon and—”
“No, you just turned seventeen. I know how old you are. I don’t think you do and I sure don’t think you’re ready for this.”
“Mom, I do ... and I am. I’ve been talking to the scout every day since he first called me—well, until you took my phone,” Reggie added slyly. “Look, can we talk in the morning?”
“No, we can’t. Because according to your brother you’re planning to take this trip sooner than later. I’m leaving tomorrow, so we need to . . .”
Reggie leaned back and glared at her. His face twisted slightly. “My brother? I don’t have a brother. Junior? He’s not my brother. He’s a pain my ass. He’s—”
Rashawn rolled her eyes. “Look, it’s just semantics; Junior is just as much your brother as Rainey is your sister.”
“No, he’s not, Mom. You’ve said it yourself. He’s not my brother. He’s Juanita’s son. He just an inconvenience we are forced to accept.”
“I never said that,” Rashawn whispered, feeling shame growing from deep within. Had her thoughts come out? In the heat of her anger had she spoken some deeply buried ugliness? Had he eavesdropped during a wild, crazy, regrettable argument with Chance—had Junior overheard? When had she said that about Junior? “I’ve never said that.”
“You’ve said it so many times ... maybe not those exact words but you’ve implied it. I hear you and Chance fighting about it all the freakin’ time!”
This was awful. What kind of mother had she become? What kind of woman allowed such vile thoughts to be heard from behind closed doors? “God ...” Rashawn rubbed her forehead. “When did you hear me and Chance fighting?”
“I hear you and Chance fighting a lot. All the time lately. And you fight about everything and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of everything. I’m sick of being here. Junior is sick of it too. And who can blame him. Nobody wants to be where they are not wanted.”
“Junior thinks I don’t want him around?”
“He’s not blind.
Nobody is. You are always saying whatever you want—whenever you want—about him. Everybody is tired of your arguing and saying whatever rude thing you want to say. You say Juanita is bad. You take the cake. Big Chance is tired of your attitude too!”
“Oh really!” Now Rashawn would add hurt to her shame, the combination producing anger.
“Yeah, really,” Reggie taunted, stretching his neck out far enough to receive a slap, if Rashawn gave into the feelings that were welling up in her right now. But she would not give him any more fuel for his fire tonight.
Instead she spoke calmly, coolly. “So you think by hurting my feelings you’re gonna get your way?”
Reggie’s expression changed suddenly. It was as if he didn’t realize he was hurting her with his words ... or better yet, that she would acknowledge that he was hurting her. “No, I—”
“Sure you do. But you know what, Mr. I’m So Sick of Shit? Check this out. You can go to Oregon.”
“I can?”
“Oh yeah.” Rashawn’s lips tightened between her words and her neck began to jerk from side to side. “Yeah, and you can go with your brother, your sister, and y’alls daddy and Juanita for all I care and you all can just be sick of me together! You can stay in Oregon for the rest of your life!”
Rashawn threw the spoon in the sink and jerked open the freezer door, tossing the Soy Dream inside. She slammed the door shut and then without saying anything more, she headed toward Rainey’s room. Right now she was sick of just about everybody too.
Chapter 20
Juanita was frustrated. She’d had absolutely no fun at the mall spa. Her favorite masseuse was out. Oh, how she needed the release. The tension was killing her.
So she went shopping, hoping to find a pair of orgasm-causing shoes ... nothing. She hated using emotional substitutes—there was nothing better than the real thing. Even a good fantasy was better sometimes. The only saving grace had been her chance meeting with Ovan Dominguez. She’d thought about him all day. He was going to play the challenge game, she could tell. But then again, it wasn’t as if she wasn’t a professional at working with hard-to-get men. Chance had trained her well. So well that here she was now, standing in the middle of her kitchen in the middle of the night thinking about the mystery cop and what would be her next move to get him.
He’d gotten back in his car after the accident and drove off. He’d not even gone where he was headed. So she knew she had affected him—how much, she didn’t know. She had his number, but it didn’t look like a personal phone number. And, probably wasn’t. “It’ll probably ring at his desk,” she said aloud, looking at the number again. She fought calling it all day but could no longer resist. She’d have to call. She knew she had affected him. Yes, she was refusing to admit how much he’d affected her. She dialed the number on the card. Yes, it was late, but what the hell, right? Suddenly her heart nearly stopped. It was a dead number, ringing only to a voice that told her the number was invalid.
“Ugh, Nita, you’re losing it! Come on, nah!” she groaned, again feeling miserable, and pulling what was left of her pomegranate Soy Dream from the freezer. She took a big spoon from the silverware drawer. This stuff isn’t bad, she thought, looking at the non-dairy dessert. She’d gotten the idea from Rashawn, after having snooped in Rashawn’s freezer one of the times she was over at their house. Rashawn was looking dang good these days, and if Juanita wasn’t careful, soon Rashawn—with her biggo Amazon self—would be looking better than her. So, lately, Juanita had been trying some healthier food choices—yuck—and a bit more exercising—ugh. Of course, now, that belly dancing wasn’t so bad. It was all working; she’d dropped about five or so pounds this month and was looking better than ever. It used to be so much easier when all she had to do was call Chance over. He was always good about at least a three- or four-pound weight loss session between the sheets.
“Ovan Dominguez—hmm,” she said aloud, licking the spoon slowly while staring at the card. “You lied to me ... Why?” Suddenly, she noticed a moving shadow outside the back door. There was no wind cutting through the large tree in the backyard. She gawked harder to make sure she saw what she thought she saw. The shadow moved back from the window. It was indeed a moving shadow—a person. Someone was in her backyard. She screamed loudly before dashing out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom, locking herself in with the cordless.
“Nine-one-one,” the dispatcher answered.
Chapter 21
Roman’s curiosity had gotten the best of him. He wanted to see Juanita Duncan. It was like old home week, seeing all the people who had been a part of his dethronement. He chuckled at his thought of being a king. “Just a figure of speech,” he mumbled under his breath, reprimanding his alter ego. His brother, Blain, wasn’t the only one with a monster inside of him. He too carried another personality—only he could control his. Unlike Blain, who allowed his inner man—Doc—to cause him so many problems and eventually lead to his demise, Roman felt he had his inner man subdued. That had to be the case, or else he would have already taken care of Rashawn Ams. He would have already punished her for her betrayal.
Juanita had betrayed him too. She had promised to keep what they shared a secret. But as soon as it came out that he could possibly have something to do with the drugged girls at the school, she ran to the police with the videotaped therapy sessions. “Well, most of them.” He snickered, remembering the couple of times their session had led to a sexual encounter. He licked his lips remembering the young, wild, vivacious woman—Juanita Duncan. She was wet and hot and eager for all he had to offer. At just the thought of her tight body, he fantasized that a return to her house could possibly be a good idea. Craven had awakened an inner urge he’d deadened after becoming so ill in London. But now, being home again, it seemed as though these hometown girls were “bringing the old pecker back to life.” He chuckled at the thought.
Standing there in that nightgown, licking that spoon brought back such good memories, nonetheless, ones almost as satisfying as the love he used to make with Rashawn Ams while she lay willing and open ... and asleep. That thought made him laugh out loud. So many nights he would have her, unconscious, yet responsive to his touch. Their son was young then, and often after making love to Rashawn, Roman would visit with the young Reggie in his room, teaching him about life and his destiny. “And then she took all that away from me!” Roman said, souring on the thought of both women now. After Juanita’s bloodcurdling scream he quickly left his plans— voyeuristically plotted and formed. He drove on to his hotel, forgetting about a return visit to Juanita’s place. “I’m not in the mood to fight,” he admitted. He thought about using a tranquilizer to subdue her; it wasn’t as if he didn’t have a nice supply of sedatives with him. “No, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” Just then, his cell phone rang. It was Hap. He sounded out of breath.
“What’s wrong with you?” Roman asked.
“The police ...”
“What about them?” Roman became alert now but didn’t let it show in his voice. Had Ovan won the police over? Had he finally found someone to believe him? Impossible—Ovan was not a believable type—he was a clown. A buffoon. And after the bungling fool he’d made of Ovan in Europe, Roman was surprised Ovan was still on the case—or had a job.
“There was an intruder at Craven’s house. I had to ... I had to knock him out and call the police.”
“Okay.”
“He was asking questions about you.”
“Me?” Roman hissed.
“He had an accent ...”
“Was he short and very fair ... like a white man,” Roman asked, sighing heavily in his irritation.
“Yeah.”
“His name is Ovan Dominguez. He’s a pain in my ass. Please kill him next time you see him.”
“What?”
Roman hung up the phone. He was furious now. What a major distraction. Ovan was getting too close to what he had nothing to do with. Roman was going to have to dispose of Ovan before he di
d any more damage or caused any delays to his plan. Surely Ovan was telling the police right then about the great Allen Roman returning from the dead. “As if they would believe him . . . but still, it’s not what I planned. I don’t want the authorities thinking about me. I don’t want them even hearing my name.” Roman slapped his steering wheel in growing frustration. “Why was Ovan even at Craven’s house, unless ...” Roman slammed his hands on the steering wheel again. “God, I hate women. They will betray you in a heartbeat!”
Chapter 22
Maravel heard the knocking on her front door and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was 3:00 A.M. “Got to be Ovan,” she huffed. “Everybody else knows how to tell time,” she fussed, slipping into her house shoes and quickly throwing on her robe. When she reached the door there stood a tall black man with a shorter white one. “May I help you?” she asked. The tall black man smiled warmly.
“Dude better be glad you have an accent,” he said. “Do you know an Ovan—”
“Dominguez,” Maravel said at the same time as he. “Yes, he’s my ... First of all, who are you?”
“Jim Beem,” Lawrence introduced. “And I’m Lawrence Miller, homicide. We got a call from the SFPD that your ‘partner’ or whatever he is was in jail after being found in Dr. Michaels’s home without a warrant ... and without a badge and without—”
“I get where you’re going, Officer.” Maravel rubbed her head.
“Anyway, Dr. Washburn—Dr. Michaels’s former boyfriend—came home—since he lives there—and anyway ... knocked him out cold,” Jim added.
“He knocked Ovan out? Well, that seems impossible. But okay, if you say so. But yes, I’m his partner. So where is he?”
“In the car, ma’am,” Lawrence said, turning and pointing. Maravel looked around the large man to see Ovan looking sheepish—well, maybe a little goatish—in the backseat of the unmarked car. She had to chuckle.
“Ah, I see. Well, what were you going to with him had I not known him?” she asked as they talked and walked down the walkway.
Blood Relations Page 9