Baby Momma 4

by Ni'chelle Genovese

  “Shandy, you’ll need to stay out of sight for a little while. And then you just tell everyone he’s yours, and we’re good. You aren’t going to talk about where he came from or how you got him. He’s your baby.”

  We both watched her. The baby whined a little, but he didn’t cry.

  Shandy furrowed her forehead. She rocked the baby, her whole body swayed back and forth, from side to side as she contemplated what had been said.

  “Why do you keep saying he?” She propped the baby up.

  He was shiny and slick, covered in another woman’s blood and fluids. Shandy displayed his tiny twig and berries with his umbilical cord dangling down the side of her arm still attached to his mother. “Aris is a girl. Y’all start drinkin’ without me?” She scrunched her face up at us like we were the crazy ones in the room.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers. There was too much going on right now. I could feel a good strong headache coming on. What the fuck kind of Norman Bates shit were we about to spawn into the world?

  “Novie, go get Tariq. Tell him come clean this mess.” She waved her hand in the direction of the couch while pulling me out of hearing distance. “Baby, it’s not as bad as you think. People are already used to seeing her with that doll, and she’s already a little heavy.”

  “I’m so done with this family. I really can’t cope with you right now, Ma.”

  “Grow up, little girl,” she spat in a sharp whisper. “You have one more year at Howard, and you still ain’t picked a major yet. So what? You want to get a job, work until you die? Well, that tuition, those books, your car . . . all of it’s paid for in red. We never bullshit you about this life, so you step up or get stepped over.”

  I traced the patterns into the carpet between my shoes. Her words hurt my pride just as much as they cut into hurt my heart. Shandy had started singing to the baby from behind us. It was something melodic but eerie. I tried to tune her out.

  Momma grabbed my chin; she yanked my face up until I met her eyes. They were sad, but they were hard.

  “We’re gonna need you to do us a small favor.”

  I knew it was coming. The way the word rolled off her lips. She made favors sound like they were owed and not courtesies.

  “What is it?” I had so much attitude in my voice.

  Whatever this favor was had to be important. Momma overlooked my disrespect to grab something off the fireplace mantel. Five gold letters stood out on the white card she held up between her fingers.

  “That girl had this on her. This attorney . . . Genesis Kane. I looked into him. He’s been deputized as a voluntary prosecutor for the district courts when they’re backed up. I don’t care what or how you do it. You get to him. Find out why she was talking to him, what he might know. I need to make sure your daddy didn’t fuck around, fuckin’ around.”

  GENESIS

  7

  King of Hearts

  The thick mahogany shades covering the floor-to-ceiling windows slid up without a sound, letting in the glow from the city at night. From up here, you didn’t see the buildings or the traffic. You didn’t hear the busy heartbeat of the city. I specifically chose this penthouse for the master bedroom’s view of the Potomac River. It was the most majestic shit I’d ever seen, a reminder to keep me on my king game. I put all the shit from the other night behind me with a long weekend of uppers, downers, and all-arounders. Scotch, Xanax, hash oil, shit I don’t even know. I zoned out on it, my vision blurred, and blood rushed to my head. My other head.

  She was butt-ass naked with perfectly perky titties, a gift from her husband. They didn’t quite match the age spots on her hands or the wrinkled sagging skin on her midsection, a gift from her son. She wasn’t my type in any way, shape, or form. I liked my women with thick hips, dick-sucking lips, and those thighs that a dude could get lost in like quicksand. But I hyped myself up.

  I growled, dug my fingers into her hip, making red marks in her flesh. She woke up from a sound sleep as I rolled her onto her stomach. I spread her legs from one end of the bed to the other. Her pussy was still glossy, creamy, full from my earlier deposits. I don’t know about most niggas, but I don’t like dipping in my own leftovers. Not only did it turn me off, but it made her shit feel like sliding into a bowl of warm Jell-O. I wanted to knock her upside the head, but I grilled her like I’m-about-tear-this-shit-up. My dick wouldn’t go down if I wanted it to. I’d taken too many Viagras for that. So I eased inside her, filled her up, fucked her until she begged me to stop, and I ain’t stop until she couldn’t beg me anymore.

  “Mmm . . . Damn, I wish I could just roll over and go right back to sleep. But thank you, Kane,” she purred with a satisfied smile when we were done. “Where were you when I was still single? I swear, spending one night with you beats an entire session at my rejuvenation day spa. I feel like I’m glowing.” She stretched, and then scooted in closer to lay her head on my chest. Her hair and skin still held the scent of the Marlboro Skylines she chain-smoked. It never went away, no matter how much expensive lotion and perfume she used, or how often she washed. I hated that scent. If a smell could tell a story, hers would sound like guilty marathon sex in a shady motel on cum-stained sheets. That’s why I never delayed the timer on the blinds. If I didn’t have anything to focus on, fucking her would be torture.

  The combination of stale smoke, sweat, and J’adore Dior filled my nostrils. As my phone buzzed its way across the nightstand, I ignored it; didn’t even glance in its direction. I gave her shoulders a warm squeeze. I hid my disgust for her the same way I usually hid my distaste for trashy white women, flashy, loud-mouthed niggas, and laws, in general. I tucked it away behind a façade of fake friendliness. Paula was oblivious as usual. She placed a warm kiss underneath my chin.

  “Somebody else trying to squeeze in already?” She pressed her lips together into a duck-faced pout. “I’m not leaving until you’re completely drained, so if you’ve got more, give it up.”

  With the tip of her perfectly painted period-bloodred nail, she booped the tip of my nose. I moved my head away just slightly. I hated that shit too. I barely touched my own face with my bare hands. And here she was touching my nose and stroking my cheek with her bright whore-red nail polish, flashing at me like a germy warning sign. Only hookers and whores wore red lips or red nails. But Paula Schaefer was listed in Forbes magazine as one of the richest women in the world. As VP of Schaefer and Brockman, she could make anyone into anything she wanted them to be. And since I didn’t need to be the world’s richest man . . . and all I wanted was a small part of that fortune in a fraction of that time, I smiled bright, kissed her on her forehead, and said whatever she needed to hear.

  “I think you wore me out. How about you let me have some time off to recuperate?” I got up and headed for my master bath with Paula hot on my heels.

  “Ugh! I’ll tell you this much, one kid and your bladder shrinks to the size of a fucking walnut. I’ve got to pee so bad.” She sped past me into the bathroom, unleashing a hiss of a stream into the toilet.

  I braced my bare shoulders against the wall. “You know there are four other bathrooms in here that you can use besides mine?” I reminded her for what had to be the hundredth time.

  “I know. I know. You don’t have to be so possessive. Sharing is caring, Kane. Jeez, I couldn’t hold it. But I’ve been thinking and . . . How would you feel about coming in and taking care of the paperwork . . . one day this week?”

  The toilet flushed, and Paula was right there, back in front in front of me, hand extended, waiting to shake on making me a partner in the firm. No wash, no hand sanitizer, nothing. I reached for it, wondering how many million-dollar deals went down over some sorry sex and a pissy handshake. The sooner we made this partner thing official, the better off I’d be. It’d take me a minute to figure out how to break things off, but the idea of sending her husband an anonymous tip wasn’t looking that bad.

  She got dressed while rambling about whether she should have
red, white, or some new amber wine at a dinner party for her husband. I’d just be a member of the bachelor’s club for the rest of my life. You marry a woman, and then she plans all of your parties and vacations with the nigga she’s fucking. I’ll pass.

  “Kane,” Paula called from the doorway, “I’ve got the paper for you and doughnuts.”

  “Doughnuts?” I rarely ate doughnuts, and Paula didn’t eat anything white. Something to do with good carbs and bad carbs, or I would’ve told her to keep and eat the doughnuts. Instead of making a big deal out of it, I said thanks and endured another smoky good-bye kiss.

  My phone buzzed its way across the table as I was making my way back inside. I was in such a rush to answer it, I missed the last step. Bile rose up the back of my throat. The muscles in my stomach shuddered. The Dunkin’ doughnut box was lying on its side on the floor right next to my foot where I’d dropped it. And if you followed the glossy globs of congealed blood that trailed out of it for about a foot, you’d find the fat, bloody-red pig’s heart that’d rolled out of it when it fell.

  * * *

  It took me an extra hour to pull myself together enough to clean that mess up. This wasn’t the first one, but it was the biggest. It’d started small with what might’ve been a mouse or a canary heart, and every so often, I’d get another one. I just never knew when or where. Why didn’t I call the police? Because I’m not a fucking snitch. I was an attorney with a long and buried past that I didn’t need or want anybody digging around in. It was most likely a crazy fuck-buddy-turned-friend who wasn’t happy with the new status. All it’d take was some new dick, and she’d forget about me and terrorize that nigga with her gory heart story. Or she’d show herself. Either way, I had real shit to take care of.

  On top of that, the texts were from Fucksquatch. It was urgent, and he wanted me to meet him at the station in an hour. We always kept our meetings to the ten p.m. time frame. After shift change, they were on a skeleton crew until morning. I checked my watch wondering what the hell else he could have gotten into in a few days. Knowing him, it’d probably be in my best interest to get out there sooner than later. But if this shit had anything to do with Saniah’s complaint, he was on his own; my work was done.

  I parked in my favorite illegal spot next to the hydrant in front of the precinct. Squatton needed to make this quick so I could get into the office and sign those papers while they were still on Paula’s mind. The moment the door closed behind me, I knew something wasn’t right. But it was too late to turn back.

  “And here’s the man of the hour. Genesis Kane. Am I right?”

  A pile of bloody massacred cops lay behind the dude who’d stepped forward. The ones that weren’t dead yet were lined up along the wall. Four men who I would’ve mistaken for computer technicians stood behind him with grim faces. Their Polo shirts and khakis were covered in too much blood; their posture was too aggressive for some IT work. I had an idea who he was, but I wasn’t 100 percent.

  There wasn’t any point bullshitting. “Okay, I’m here. What do you want?”

  He tossed Squatton’s phone in his direction. It clattered to the floor in front of his shackled feet. Squatton had a look in his eyes like he was about to shit a freight train. He doubled over, making a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a desperate wail.

  “Where the fuck is my sister!” He slammed his fists into his forehead, dragged his hands down his face like he was trying to pull off his skin. His movements were jerky, mechanical, as he stormed toward the front desk and grabbed the bloody hunting knife off the counter.

  The pack of officers shifted behind him mumbled, cried . . . prayed.

  “On my life, you better start spilling secrets before I start spilling blood,” he demanded. He moved in on a stocky female cop. “How many of those liars, I mean lawyers, out there know your secret, Kane?” he asked.

  What secret did this bottom-feeder think he had on me? This nigga was on that Pablo Escobar. That scared the truth out of you or would draw blood until you told a good lie. That was my first thought. Thinking on my feet was how I made my living. The legal game was worse than being a fake fortune-teller. People lie to stay alive, and you don’t have any choice but to learn the truth about them from their actions, their mannerisms. And this nigga didn’t come across as a territory-hungry power-thirsty alpha nigga. I played to that, didn’t ask any questions, or give him any decisions to make. And prayed that I was right.

  “Saniah, right? I helped her get out of here. So give me a little time to check on her. I just need a few days.” I sounded a helluva lot calmer than I felt. Sweat was starting to soak through the pits of my shirt.

  He stalked the floor in front of the desk.

  “She called me.” He pointed the knife at his head. “She told me about you. My sister, Face.”

  The tip of the blade pointed at me.

  I wasn’t paying attention to a word he’d said or was about to say. “Your sister Saniah . . . is Face? Not you?” I asked. That was one for the record books. That scrawny little pregnant chick was taking over the drug game, scaring these cops and street niggas out of their turf all because they thought she was her brother. The pieces were still clunky, but they were all starting to fit together: her scar, the name; the only piece missing was her.

  It was as if he hadn’t even heard me. “For whatever reason, my sister likes you. But Face always liked keeping weird shit in jars, like ladybugs and butterflies. I should fuckin’ kill you. But today ain’t your day. So go. But you owe me, Ladybug. Remember who you owe.”

  NOVIE

  8

  Always Keep a Spare Tire

  Two vodka cranberries later and I was still tossing and turning. Every time I closed my eyes, I thought about Beau and his daughter, or the pregnant girl and the baby boy who Shandy was hell-bent on raising like a baby girl. I felt sick to my stomach. Out of all the sick and fucked-up shit that my parents had done over the years, that was the worst. The one person who I’d normally talk to, Shandy, was caught right up in the middle of it.

  The bright green numbers on the clock beside my bed changed to three a.m. I gave up on sleep and got dressed, and then I just started driving. That always helped me sort shit out. Every set of headlights that came up in the rearview had my chest thumping and my hands sweating. I should’ve asked my mom to help, but the timing was off. I cracked the windows, settling on a satellite radio station that played mostly old-school R&B. I just knew those blue lights would come flashing after me. I grabbed the pack of Newport Lights in my armrest. No one knew I smoked. Not even Shandy, my bestie/roommate.

  The match flared, filling my nose with the smell of smoke and burning sulfur. As weird as it sounds, I loved the smell of burning matches, and I hated the smell from cigarette smoke. The end of the cigarette glowed bright red as I took a long, slow drag. I could feel some of the nervous tension leaving my body as I exhaled carefully, blowing a stinky cloud of smoke out the window. I’d become a pro at smoking and keeping the stink out of my hair and clothes.

  I called my other bestie Denise. We were so much alike that we got on each other’s nerves. She was cool as hell, but she’d talk about you like a dog the second you turned your back. Aside from Shandy, Denise was the only other person who could maybe talk some sense in to me at a time when my life was making no sense at all.

  “What’s wrong, Novie?” Denise yawned extra loud and long into the phone. “I’m answering in case this is an emergency. But I’m hanging up if you need me to get out of my bed and leave this house.” She went off as soon as she picked up the phone.

  I let out an exasperated sigh into the phone. “Dang, girl, I ain’t even said anything. Why every time I call something’s gotta be wrong? I was just . . . um.” Well, damn, maybe I did only call her when something was wrong because I was drawing a blank, trying to think of another reason. “I was just being nosy; can’t sleep. What did you get into tonight?”

  “You ain’t fooling nobody, but anyway, girl, I trie
d to get something up in me, but I’m about to fire this nigga Stephen from my little lineup.”

  I took another pull from my cigarette, digging through my mental Rolodex of Denise’s fuck-buddies and random-run-bys. There were too many nameless faces for me to narrow it down. I drew a blank. “Fire who?” I asked, blowing wispy white smoke into the air.

  “Stephen. The little white guy I been talkin’ to from my job. I told you about him, the new supervisor with the dick-bulge. I’ve been trying to find out if he packin’ or just packin’, like stuffing that jank with socks or something, but that nigga stay bringin’ me chicken for lunch. I mean, yo, what the hell he think? All black people just like chicken?”

  I did my best to keep from laughing. “Heffa, since when did you stop liking chicken?”

  “Huh? I ain’t say I don’t like it. I love that shit. But that nigga just be bringin’ it to me all unsolicited and whatnot. KFC, Chick-fil-A, Church’s—that’s all I get. I’m over it.”

  I giggled into the phone. I don’t know what was funnier, hearing how mad she was about the chicken or hearing her call this white dude nigga the whole time. That was my girl, though.

  “Oh, and I used all that coconut oil you let me borrow,” she continued. “I found this little recipe on Pinterest for a hair conditioner. That stuff works, and Heather said it smells good too. Can you give massages with that shit? I’m gonna get her to rub me down.”

  “Hold up, who the hell is Heather? Girl, I’m gonna make some picture flash cards of all your friends. I can’t keep up with who you’re into, or who’s getting into you. Is that the new girl you’re talking to? You, Chicken Little, Hannah Montana, and whoever else ain’t about to be using up all of my stuff for whatever it is y’all do,” I warned her.

  Ever since Denise went through the big chop a couple of months back, she’d been obsessed about growing her hair. She’d been trying to talk me into it, but I wasn’t ready to let go of my perms and flat irons. Not yet, anyway. She could’ve at least asked before using up all my stuff, but that would’ve been too much, like right?