by Nikki Turner
Isis went right to her aunt’s bar, made herself a drink, and drank it straight down. She then made herself another one.
“Did two gay men having a baby drive you to drink?” Anthony asked.
“No, I’m happy for you, Anthony, for both of you.” But regardless of what came out of Isis’s mouth, she couldn’t control the sweat being released from her pores. “It’s much, much deeper than that.” She gulped down her second drink and poured a third.
“Care to share what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Ty asked.
“No, not right now,” she said, dodging the question. “Tell me, when did y’all get Abigail?”
“We adopted her from China,” Anthony said.
“And we decided to name her Abigail after the lady who approved the adoption,” Ty said. “We were running into so much red tape. After that angel of a lady made it happen for us, we had to name the child after her.”
Isis chitchatted with the doting new parents for a while before making her way back to that comfortable spot she found on the queen-sized bed in her old room. The alcohol she’d consumed, along with the bad weather, took hold of her. Sleep came quickly.
The next day, Isis wasn’t sure how long she had been asleep, but the constant ringing of her cell phone wouldn’t allow her to continue. She tried to block out the incessant noise, but it wouldn’t go away. Whoever it was was determined to be heard. She reached for the source of the rest-killer, and the caller ID read: blocked caller. It was probably Logic. I guess what happens in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas. She wished anyway.
She answered the phone. “Hello.” The grandfather clock struck noon, and the chimes on the antique time keeper sent roaring pain through her head, reminding her that she had been drinking the night before.
The voice on the other end of the phone said, “That dumb-ass clock gave you away. I know that you’re at Sam’s house. Are you ready to apologize and give me my money back?”
“What?” She was still a little disoriented from the cognac she had drunk after finding out about Abigail.
He laughed. “I know you don’t want to be living there, listening to that faggot-ass mu’fucka telling you how he told you so.”
Enough was enough. Isis refused to sit on a phone and listen to a psychotic murderer refer to Samantha as a faggot. The next voice that Bam would hear would be the operator telling him that his call had ended. She closed her phone, got up, took a shower, gathered her things, and borrowed Samantha’s spare car to get home.
She made a mental note to get Samantha’s car washed before returning it, because the red mud in her neighborhood was something awful. The car may have been an early model Lincoln, but Samantha kept that baby in tip-top condition, and Isis didn’t want to hear her mouth.
Once she turned onto the road where she lived, something felt out of place. The closer she got to home, the more intense the feeling got. From a distance it looked like someone had left trash bags and debris all over her yard. But as she got closer, the picture got clearer. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing—or wasn’t seeing: The lot that she had called home for almost two years was now just that, an empty lot.
The trailer was gone. Isis thought her eyes were deceiving her.
“Fuck!” Tears rolled down her cheeks. Isis saw some of her clothes scattered about and sticking up out of the mud as if they were trying to save themselves from drowning or something, but it was too late. Everything was either gone or destroyed. Nothing was left. Was it a storm? No one had told her about any bad storms while she was away, and even if that was what had happened, why wasn’t anyone else’s trailer gone or messed up?
One of the neighborhood kids whom she occasionally watched after school when his mother was running late from work spotted her. The young boy came running toward her—calling her name, “Ms. Isis, Ms. Isis.” He was happy to see her, yet he wore a long expression on his face. “Ms. Isis, I’m not going to have anybody’s house to go over since you let them take your trailer somewhere else.”
At that very moment it hit her: She had been housejacked. Bam had moved the trailer. And the picture kept getting worse. Her car was vandalized. It was tireless; sitting on four bricks. The windows were broken, the doors were off the hinges, the engine was smashed, and even one of the seats was missing.
She wanted to respond to the little boy’s remark, but all she could do was fight back the tears. She had seen worse. She could dare to cry over a missing house…right? Once again, her phone started ringing. It was probably Bam calling to gloat. She peeped at the screen. The area code read 305—Miami. Bam was real crafty; he’d been trying to reach her by using blocked and out-of-town numbers for the past two weeks.
The phone kept ringing.
The phone continued to ring and she continued to fight tears, ignoring the intrusion. Then something inside of her, something that she would never be able to explain, told her that she should—no, needed to—answer the phone. In a way she was wishing it was Bam so that she could at least cuss him out and let go of some of the frustration she was feeling inside.
She answered with an attitude. “Yes?”
“Is that the way you answer the phone for the man who just showed you the best time of your life?”
Hearing Logic’s voice took her back to her trip to Vegas and away from her current madness. “No one can ever accuse you of having low self-esteem, that’s for sure,” she shot back. “How are you doing, Logic?”
“Why the sour voice?” he asked, sensing that something was wrong. “I did show you a good time, didn’t I?”
“It’s not you. I’m sorry, but I just got something going on here,” she said. “I’m going to have to call you back.”
“Nope. Talk to me now.” He wasn’t going to let her get away that easy. “I miss you and I want to see you. Why don’t you take a flight down to Miami?”
With the back of her hand, she dried some of the moisture that had earlier started to form in her eyes. “I can’t.”
“Can’t isn’t a word; it’s a device designed to hold you back.”
“My shit is real fucked up right now, Logic. I’ma have to call you back.” She hung up. But just when she thought that she would have a nervous breakdown, her phone rang again.
It was Logic calling back. She ignored the call, but he kept calling and calling until she picked up.
She finally did. “Hello?”
“Listen, Princess, you need to know that I’m not a big fan of chasing women that don’t want to be caught, but I know something isn’t right with you right now, and I’m not going to stop calling until I help you fix it. Everybody needs somebody every now and then,” he said, “and I think you need me right now.”
“I’m going to get it together. And when I do, I promise I’ll call you back,” Isis assured him.
“I got a better idea. Pack a bag and hop on the next flight smoking to Miami. My treat,” he offered.
“It isn’t that easy.” She broke down and confessed, “I can’t pack anything because I don’t have anything to pack.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t have shit to pack.”
“Is that all?” Logic said. “For a minute there, I thought that you had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer. This is what you do: Go home and book a flight, and we’ll go get you everything you need when you get here.”
“I don’t have a home.”
“What you mean?” he questioned, not fully understanding.
Isis sighed. “I’m homeless.”
“You ain’t never homeless,” Logic sympathized with her. “You always got a place…with me.”
“Look, Logic, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but the last nigga that told me that just took the fucking trailer back, and that’s why I am homeless now.”
“I don’t have anything to do with the last clown you fucked,” Logic said. “Just come and see me and we’ll sort this shit out. Then we’ll find a way to get back at that bitch-ass nigga. I promise.”
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“But you don’t understand everything.” Isis was still rationalizing why she couldn’t go. You think I’m going to go to a place I ain’t never been before, to see a dude who I don’t really know anything about? You could have two wives, three girlfriends, and a number-one hooker. Or worse, you could get me down there and kill me.
“Yes, I do. The sucker you were dealing with took a damn trailer back. I get it,” he said. “That’s some bitch shit right there. Bitches take shit back, not men. Real men move on.”
Logic was making a lot of sense to her at the moment, so she kept listening. Maybe he can help.
“Princess, you’re not homeless; you’ve just been victimized by a sucka. It ain’t much to it. We gon’ get you a place to stay—a much nicer place.”
Isis was quiet. Listening to Logic helped her to calm down and pull it together.
Logic took the phone away from his mouth for a second as he hollered at his boy real quick. “Jacob, call the travel agent and see what time the next flight leaves Richmond, Virginia, to get here.” Then he came back to the phone. “Princess? Go ahead and bounce back to the airport and I’ll call you back in a few with your confirmation and flight number.”
“Logic, do you understand that other than the clothes on my back and the stuff in my suitcase, I don’t have shit, nothing, nada, zero?” Isis did have $20,000 left in her suitcase. Other than the money she had given to Samantha and the money she spent in Vegas, the rest of Bam’s money had been hidden in the trailer.
“Baby, you ain’t said nothing but a meatball. Now hang up the phone and get to the airport.”
Isis looked around at her lot. What did she have to lose?
Logic Wiseman
All bitches ain’t female; they just have female traits. A dude can have a dick as big as an elephant’s and still be a ho.
Chapter 12
Miami
Logic was true to his word about Isis not needing any money. When her plane landed in Miami, he took her straight to an exclusive boutique on Collins Avenue. Logic had called in advance and arranged for the owner to pull a few hot new trendy pieces in her size from the rack for her to model. The owner and Logic had been associates for quite some time, so she was more than happy to offer her assistance.
Isis and Logic entered the store, and before Logic could even introduce the store owner to Isis, she rushed over to the couple and introduced herself. “Hi. I’m Lola, and I am going to take great care of you.” She placed her hand on Isis’s shoulder as if they had been sistah-girlfriends forever. Lola had a warm smile and sweet spirit.
Lola’s perfect tan stood out on her otherwise naturally fair skin as if she was a permanent resident on a nudist beach year round. Her bleached-blond hair dropped past her shoulders, down her back, and stopped just above her narrow butt. The lace-trimmed tank top that she wore showed off the cleavage created by her double-D implants paid for by another good client who came in monthly to shop for his wife but weekly to see Lola. Yet her most striking asset was her ocean-blue eyes; they were captivating. She could have been in a commercial. Isis found it hard to keep from staring into them.
Lola noticed Isis picking through some of the high-end garments that she had taken out for her and said, “I tried to pull a variety of things for you. I didn’t really know your taste, but I sell only the best here, so I’m sure you will find plenty to your liking.”
Isis continued to browse through the things. “You did a great job. Everything is so beautiful.” She had to give Lola her props.
“I’m sure we are going to have to play with the sizes a little. Logic tried to describe you to me the best he could, but you know men.” Lola winked at her. “If there’s anything else you see that interests you, feel free to pull it from the racks or shelves. We are all here to help you find exactly what you want.”
As Isis put aside outfits that she liked, Lola called one of her friends from a shop on the same block that sold shoes and accessories. She described the garments she had pulled and that Isis seemed to favor, and within minutes, another lady whirled into the boutique, pushing a cart filled with shoes, pocketbooks, belts, and hats that matched most, if not all, of the outfits. Logic watched Isis model outfit after outfit for him while he mostly talked on the phone. Once he saw that Isis was pretty comfortable with Lola and her team, he headed to one of the back offices to conduct more business in private. Before he left, he gave Lola the address to the condo. “Have everything that my Princess wants delivered to this spot.”
They had been going through clothes for almost two hours and were about finished when Lola told Isis, “I hear you are going to be here in Miami for a while, which means you have an open account here. Anything you need—whether you want to come in or if you need us to pull some things for you or if you want me just to get one of the girls to bring you a few things to choose from—it’s not a problem. We are here to make sure your needs are met,” she said. “And the good thing is that you get to keep your money in your pocket.” Once again, Lola winked. “We’ll send the bill to Logic.” She laughed.
Logic had just stepped into the store area and overheard the statement. “You can, and I’ll bet she’ll take you up on that offer, Lola.”
“Well, we mean it.” Lola showed her pretty white teeth.
When Isis and Logic were back in the car she asked him, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“You can ask me anything you like.”
Isis cleared her throat, then said, “Do you bring all your women here to buy clothes?”
“Actually, I don’t,” he said. “You are the first. Now can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything you like,” she said, mirroring him.
He smiled. That was one of the reasons that he liked her so much: She had swagger. “Will you promise me that when you do take Lola up on her offer, you won’t just wait for the sales?”
Isis laughed and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “I have another question,” she said.
“Shoot.”
Isis paused. She didn’t want to sound jealous or anything, but she did want to know the story behind him and Lola. If he had never brought another girl into the store to shop before, then why was it that Miss Lola was so quick to oblige to his called-in favor? “Lola and her people were really happy to see you. I mean they truly rolled the red carpet out for you—well, us. Have you known her a long time?”
“I helped her to get her business started. It took her about six years to finally pay me back, and I didn’t charge her one dime of interest, which is something I almost never do.” He looked over to her from behind the wheel of the Bentley that he was driving. This was the first time that Isis had ever ridden in a Bentley. The closest she had ever come to one was the picture that Bam used to have on the wall in their trailer. She had gone from admiring the GT in a photo to riding shotgun in one. She smiled on the inside and thought, Damn, shit changes.
After they left the boutique, Logic drove Isis to his condo. From the moment she walked in, she loved every inch of it. It was located in the heart of trendy South Beach on Collins Avenue, and the back of the building faced the Atlantic Ocean. The wraparound balcony overlooked an enormous tropical-style pool, and the panoramic view of the paradise on the other side of their bedroom window was enough to make her want to make herself at home forever. The luxurious 2,000-square-foot condominium was heaven sent, and Isis loved everything about it: the big Jacuzzi tub in the master-suite bathroom, the king-sized bed—just one glance had her mind wondering about all the things that they could do in that bed. All the white appliances and white furniture made it feel so Miami and serene. This was her first time in the state of Florida, but Miami was treating her fabulously thus far.
Their first night together, Isis shared a bed with Logic. It wasn’t like it was the first time: They had gotten good and wild while in the city of sin. But Logic was all over her, as if it was his first. His excitement showed in his performance. He came much too quickly. The next co
uple of times were better, but still nothing to write home to mother about, or in Sandy’s case, Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women.
The next day was totally different. Logic was like a tiger in bed. As hard as she tried, Isis found it hard to keep up. She knew he had probably taken something, trying to make up for the night before, so she bit her lip and rolled with the punches. After the sex was over, Logic got up and rolled up a large amount of marijuana with a brown leaf. Once it was lit, he attempted to hand it to her.
“No thank you,” she said. “I don’t smoke.”
“You’ve never smoked?” he asked. “Or you just don’t smoke anymore?”
“Never.”
“Never?”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“Well, now is as good a time as any to give it a try,” he suggested. “I haven’t done anything to harm you yet, have I?”
Isis wasn’t really afraid of smoking weed; she just never had. All of her friends did, and even her sister. She viewed the serene look in Logic’s eyes and decided, Why not?
Isis accepted the blunt, holding it between her thumb and index finger. She put it up to her mouth and inhaled—deeply. The smoke from the exotic weed caused her to cough uncontrollably.
Logic gently patted her on the back. “It’s going to be okay,” he said soothingly. “Don’t pull on it so hard the next time. You have to start off small because your lungs aren’t used to it yet.” He waited a few seconds. “You want to try it again?”
Isis’s eyes were already starting to feel a little heavy, but she gave it another try. “Like this?” This time she didn’t inhale quite as hard, and then she passed the spliff back to Logic.
“Uh-huh. That’s it, Princess,” he said. “Now, I want you to promise me something, though.”
“What?” she said.