She reclaimed her seat. “Which subject are we tackling today, Lo?” she asked.
“I’m not a virgin,” he said suddenly, slamming the sketch pad he held onto the top of the table with a splat.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay,” he affirmed, withdrawing a thin stack of papers to walk over to hand it to her.
“Are you gay?” she asked, looking up at him.
He gave her a screwed-up facial expression. “No,” he said, his voice hard.
“Okay, okay, okay,” she said, taking the worksheets from his hand.
“For these last couple of sessions, I think we should focus on reading comprehension,” he said, turning from her.
Desdemona nodded in agreement. “I agree. I’m pretty strong in math now and the reading is necessary for the other sections—”
“I want my girl to be happy.”
She stopped flipping through the pages. “I’m sure the jewelry will be a good gift,” she said, playing dim.
He gave her a sardonic look.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling as she patted the seat next to her on the sofa.
Loren came over and took the seat, sitting with his legs open and his arms atop his knees as he hung his head.
Poor baby.
“Sex is an important part of a relationship, but if you’re not ready—”
“I’m not a virgin,” he stressed, his body tense.
Liar.
“Then what is it?” she asked, maintaining patience.
He remained quiet.
“How can I help you if I don’t have all the relevant information?” she asked, extending her arm to rub comforting circles on his back.
“Help me? That’s impossible,” he said.
Is it now?
Desdemona eyed him. She could easily send one of her paramours to him to teach him tricks that would leave his girlfriend dazed and amazed beyond belief. That would be easy, but it would reveal more about herself than she was willing to share with him.
Besides . . .
Desdemona shifted her eyes to her hand on his back. “Maybe we can help each other,” she said.
He looked back at her. “How?”
Her eyes fell to his lips. They were soft and full. “You tutored me for my GED,” she began. “I can return the favor and teach you how to make love.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “Ms. Smith?” he said, his voice strained.
The thought of being his first and leaving an indelible mark on his sexuality intrigued her.
“One good turn deserves another, Lo,” she said, trailing her finger down the center of his back.
He shivered.
She chuckled.
He jumped to his feet. “I’m your tutor,” he said.
She nodded. “And now I can be yours. Trust me, your girl will appreciate it. Happy girl. Happy world.”
“Ms. Smith—”
She sighed. “I’m Ms. Smith. You’re Loren. You’re my tutor. Etcetera. We’ve been over all of that,” she said. “Do you want my help? If not, let’s get back to my tutoring.”
“I started to have you do some questions from the app I had you download, but I think these questions are more difficult,” he said as he walked back over to the table.
“Your loss,” she said, as she picked up the papers.
“I thought we had kinda become friends,” Loren said unexpectedly, turning to face her.
She glanced up at him. “We are. And we still would be afterward. Besides, who else makes love? Enemies?”
He remained quiet.
Desdemona read the directions. “Should I begin, Lo?” she asked.
Tap-tap-tap.
He was staring off into the distance and beating the eraser end of his pencil atop her dining room table. Just as he had the first day they met.
Nervous, huh?
“Lo,” she called over to him.
“Huh?” he said, obviously distracted.
“Should I start?” she asked, feigning innocence.
He looked alarmed.
Desdemona rolled her eyes and held up the worksheets.
Loren visibly relaxed. “Remember to pay attention as you read. Sometimes the questions are tricky,” he advised. “Utilize all of the tips I’ve taught you. If you get completely stuck let me know and we’ll read it together. This is not the test so you can ask for help, so I can demonstrate again how to work through it. Okay?”
“Got it,” she said, rising enough to tuck her bare feet beneath her bottom.
The room became quiet with only the subtle sounds from the lit fire and the sporadic scratching of his drawing pencils against the page of his sketch pad.
Desdemona’s brows furrowed as she reread the passage before moving on to the multiple-choice question.
“What did you mean by we could help each other?”
She held up a finger to cease any further questions from Loren as she took the time to finish answering the next few questions. Finally, she looked up at him as she pressed the eraser of her pencil into her cheek. “I’ve been celibate for the past five years or better, Loren,” she said.
His face was incredulous. “Really?” he asked in disbelief. “By choice,” she said.
“Of course.”
They shared subtle smiles.
“And you want me?” he asked, his disbelief seeming never-ending.
“I want to help you,” she explained.
“I don’t want to cheat on my girl,” Loren said.
“Okay,” she said, turning her attention back to her work.
“But—”
“Loren,” she said, almost snapping. She softened her hard tone with a smile.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Desdemona sighed as she set aside her work and rose to walk over to where he sat. She took the pencil from his hands and snapped it in half. “Lo,” she began, placing one hand on her hip and bending one knee that opened the split of her dress to expose her smooth brown thigh.
His eyes dipped down and then shot right back up.
“Lo, if you would like me to teach you how to make love to your woman—with no strings attached—then choose right now,” she said, reaching to stroke his cheek.
Loren swallowed over a lump in his throat as he shifted in his seat.
She nudged his chin to lift his head, giving him a sultry smile that drew his eyes to her mouth. “The first lesson would be the art of kissing,” she whispered down to him, softly running her thumb across his bottom lip.
He pressed his eyes closed and clenched his jaw.
“It is the very beginning of seduction, Lo,” she said, pulling the string tying the wrap dress together.
“Damn, Ms. Smith,” he swore, unable to look away from her naked body barely cloaked by the dress now hanging open at her sides.
She straddled his lap and pressed her hands to the sides of his face. “Yes or no?”
Loren dropped his head, resting it lightly against her cleavage. “Yes, please,” he said, his will broken.
Desdemona raised his head; his eyes were closed.
“Look at me, Lo,” she ordered softly.
He did.
“Eye contact is important. It connects you to your lover,” she said, as she lowered her head to his without breaking their gaze.
“I don’t have a condom,” he said.
“Never break the mood with random thoughts,” she instructed. “And we don’t need one. Tonight’s lesson is strictly kissing. Pay attention.”
She placed soft kisses upon his mouth, shifting her head this way and that.
When he tried to plunge his tongue between her lips, she shook her head and leaned back. “Too wet, too forceful, too soon,” she said, her eyes half closed.
He stiffened, turning his head.
“You have to be willing to learn,” she said, repeating the words he once gave to her.
Loren smirked.
“Are you?” she asked, turning his head
with her finger. Their eyes met again.
“Not too wet, too forceful, or too soon,” he repeated.
With a soft moan, Desdemona kissed him again, this time easing the tip of her tongue into the small groove in the middle of his bottom lip before lightly biting it. He swallowed just before he touched his tongue with hers. Lightly. With hesitance.
“Relax,” she whispered before she sucked the tip of his tongue languidly.
He returned the favor with a small grunt of pleasure from the back of his throat.
“A little too much pull. But better,” she said, stroking his neck as he brought his hands up to rest on her bare hips beneath the open dress.
For countless long minutes, they kissed. At times she whispered instructions to him. Other moments she got lost in him, shifting forward on his lap to press her upper body against his until her breasts were cushioned against his chest as she wrapped her arms around his neck and played with the ends of his braids.
She felt his hardness beneath her buttocks, unable to deny his length and width. And when his hands clumsily gripped her hips, she broke their kiss. “Much better, Lo,” she said, rising from his lap and closing her dress before she turned from him and reclaimed her seat on the sofa.
“Huh?” he asked.
“Lesson over,” she explained at his look of confusion with his eyes dazed from their kisses.
She picked up her workbook and tried to set her focus on her work, but she failed, lowering her pencil as she eyed him and stroked her lips with her fingertips, remembering the feel of his kisses.
Chapter Eight
Friday, March 5, 1999
I hate her too. I hate her more. I hate everything about her. I hate her in every way possible. In every word possible. H-ate. H-8. H-eight. HATE.
Desdemona sat up in the middle of her bed with her knees bent and her arms wrapped around her legs as she rested her chin in the groove. She looked at what should be proof of warmth and love but instead was a constant reminder of the life she used to have.
It was mocking.
The pretty pink princess bedroom was far too childish for a fifteen-year-old. And she felt like a prisoner. It was the only space in the house where her stepmother didn’t make her feel unwanted, but it also isolated her. No friends. No family. No joy. No love.
“No TV,” she muttered.
She rose from the bed and stood before the faded white dresser with bubblegum pink knobs to look at her reflection in the round mirror on the wall. She was tall and slender but her breasts, hips, and buttocks were developed, giving her a hint of an hourglass shape. She raked her fingers through her hair, frowning a little at the rough ends, thick roots, and haphazard curls as she did the best she could to do her own hair.
And wash her own clothes.
And cook her own food.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud . . .
Her eyes went to the closed door, frowning at the sudden noise.
By the time her stepmother got in from work, Desdemona had already done her homework, taken her bath, microwaved a TV dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and closed herself up in her bedroom for the night.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud . . .
Curious, she crossed the room and opened the door, looking down the dark hall at Zena’s bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, leaving a sliver of light against the base of the wall and floor.
A feminine giggle and masculine chuckle sounded from the room.
Desdemona’s eyes widened as she crept on tiptoes down the unlit hall, careful to miss the loose floorboard in the middle that always let out a loud all-too-telling squeak.
“Ssssh, before you wake her up,” Zena said in a harsh whisper.
Desdemona pressed her back to the wall before peeking through the opening in the door. She frowned at the sight of Zena bent over the side of her bed with her dress up around her waist and her panties down around her ankles and Hervey Grantham—her father’s attorney and best friend—pumping her from behind with his pants down around his ankles as well.
Her eyes widened in shock, and she covered her mouth with her hand and prayed the fast beating of her heart wasn’t as loud as it seemed to her own ears. She turned to ease her way back down the hall.
Mr. Grantham and Zena?
That hurt. Desdemona knew her dad wouldn’t like it.
“Hervey, it’s been five years that I had to put up with her.”
Desdemona paused in the darkness.
He grunted in agreement.
“Why can’t I send her away to boarding school?” she asked.
Desdemona peeked into the room again, shaking her head at the bored expression on Zena’s face while Mr. Grantham was sweating profusely and licking at his lips.
“You . . . can,” he said, punctuating each word with a thrust. “But . . . the . . . money . . . will . . . go . . . toward . . . paying . . . for . . . it.”
She looked back at him over her shoulder. “So, no kid—”
“No money,” he finished with a deep bite of his full bottom lip.
It was Mr. Grantham’s job to ensure Zena lived up to her obligations, and now Desdemona understood why she supplied the very minimum. She bought his complicity with sex.
Anger flamed inside her.
“I hate her. I hate her,” Zena said.
I hate you, too.
“Just three more years,” he said, his thrusts quickening in pace.
Three more years of this. I can’t.
“What if she goes to jail or something? What happens to me?” Zena asked.
Jail?
Fear flooded Desdemona. What lengths was Zena willing to go to keep the money without being bothered with caring for her stepchild?
“The stipend would be put on hold.”
Desdemona felt relief. Zena would not want that money to stop, not even to get rid of her. That she knew.
“And if she dies?”
That caused her heart to stop.
Would she? She wouldn’t. Right?
It didn’t matter.
She already killed my soul.
A tear rose and fell down her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away as she turned. “I can’t do this no more,” she mouthed.
Being sure to avoid the squeaking floorboard, she walked to her room and quickly packed a bag. There wasn’t much to take that was meant for a teenager, but she was sure to jam her journals in with her things. With one last look back at the room, Desdemona closed the door and hitched her backpack up onto her shoulders.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud—
She looked down the length of the hall. For years there was so much she had wanted to say to the woman who made her life hell. She licked her lips, squared her shoulders, and gripped the straps of her book bag as she walked straight up the middle of the hall with quick and determined strides.
The floorboard squealed when she stepped on it.
Moments later she pushed the bedroom door open wide. It hit against the wall.
BAM!
Mr. Grantham stopped midstroke, and Zena looked at her with her eyes wide with shock.
“But my momma was the ho, right?” she asked with a sardonic shake of her head.
“Get out!” Zena roared, rising and pushing back against her lover.
“Hey!” he roared as he stumbled and fell backward onto the floor with his feet and moist erection pointed to the ceiling.
“You don’t have to tell me twice. I’m gone,” Desdemona said, turning to run down the length of the hall and across the living room to the front door.
An odd mix of fear and excitement were her adrenaline as she took off down the stairs and into the night.
* * *
Desdemona pulled her Maserati to a stop at the corner of depression and desperation. Once upon a time, the strip of three blocks had been her home. She released a heavy breath as she eyed the brightly lit liquor store on one corner with a long stretch of abandoned homes and vacant lots—dark and desolate—before a twenty-f
our-hour drive-through Chinese restaurant anchored it on the other end. For so many years her life had been walking the streets under the cover of darkness turning tricks to survive. Flashing fake smiles and far too youthful thighs in short skirts hoping to outshine her competitors—other lost souls—and draw the eyes and entice men driving by at a slow pace, choosing which of them they wanted to pay to please them.
She smiled, but it was sad, reflecting her heart. Those days, in cars or in the dark, abandoned halls inhabited by stray cats and rats, rain or shine, she had lost her innocence and her hope. Each stroke. Each grope. Each wet mouth on her privates. Each body’s stench that almost made her puke. Bad breath. Bad screws. Bad souls.
Desdemona released a long breath as she eyed the dozen or so girls standing, walking, advertising under the cloak of darkness. The street lights were shot out each time the city repaired them and tried to bring light. There was no hope in that darkness. No shame. And for many, trapped by addictions or pimps, no escape.
I made it out.
But I never should have made it there.
She closed her eyes, surprised for her longing for a cigarette, knowing it wasn’t a craving for the smoke and nicotine to fill her lungs but rather for the release. Any kind of release of the emotions flooding her, taking her back to days of which she knew she should be ashamed, but she wasn’t.
I had no choice. I wasn’t old enough to work. I was left behind in a house filled with hate, afraid that greed would cause my death.
Desdemona took an inhale this time—deep and slow—filling her lungs as she stiffened her spine in the driver’s seat of her car. Bottling her emotions she was well practiced at. How else could she have made it through that house of hell, her days on the streets hungry and homeless, and then selling herself for food and shelter, and making the boldest and most defiant decision in her life to get away from being someone else’s whore?
I did what I had to do.
She shook her head at a secret she would never tell. One she sometimes succeeded in forgetting.
Bzzzzzz . . .
Clearing her throat, she reached for her iPhones sitting on the passenger seat, choosing her personal one. The tip of her nail scratched the screen as she swiped with her thumb and opened the incoming email. “From Loren?” she said, her voice a blend of confusion and surprise, thinking he must be emailing her something to work on before their tutoring session the next night.
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