Her brows dipped as she read. “I feel you are more than ready for your GED test, but if you are in need of more tutoring I can recommend someone to you,” she finished.
“Wait . . . what?” she asked, rereading the short email.
Loren quit as my tutor.
She rested her hand on her thigh as she held the phone and looked at her rearview mirror. She hadn’t seen him since last week when she had offered him sex lessons and shared a kiss that even she couldn’t forget.
“You’re lying! Where’s my money, yo?”
Desdemona focused her eyes across the street just as a tall and thin man swung and slapped a woman he was gripping around her throat. He slapped her again and again. She gasped with each show of violence. Her eyes dashed left and right, amazed at the people either looking on or looking away. No one helping. Cars slowing down to watch or record video. Someone yelled “Worldstar!” as they zoomed past.
But then amazement faded when she realized she was far removed from this life, but not enough to forget that she too had suffered plenty of hits and kicks.
When he flung the woman to the ground and kicked her like a football he was trying to punt for a long-range field goal, she balled her hand into her fist with her nails digging into the flesh as she wished she had a gun to grip. In her world guns weren’t necessary, but this land of hard-to-ignore harshness was different. She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and dug inside her tote bag for her baton instead.
“What am I doing?” she asked herself aloud as she put the car in drive and checked for oncoming traffic before she did a U-turn to the other side of the street. Her headlights shone on the man and woman just as he bent down to swing for more punches.
“What am I doing!” she squealed before she hopped out of the vehicle and flicked her wrist to extend the baton.
The woman’s cries filled the air along with the sound of his hits upon her body.
WHAP. WHAP.
Desdemona swung her arm in an arc and brought it against the back of the man’s knees, sending him down to the ground before she whacked him hard against his arms and head as his howls of pain pierced the night air. She eyed his victim. She was a teenager. No more than sixteen or seventeen. “Run!” she yelled, her stomach clenching from the blood and snot running from the girl’s nose.
“I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. Her eyes filled with fear and her pain as she struggled to rise from the ground.
What am I doing?
She stepped over his body in her heels and grabbed the girl by the arm. “I will help you. Do you want it or not?” she asked, impetuously offering the girl the goodwill no one had dared offer to her.
The girl’s eyes frantically shot to him and back to her before she nodded anxiously.
Pushing her roughly toward the passenger door of her car, Desdemona raced around the front of it to get in the driver’s side just as the man began to rise with his hand pressed to the back of his head.
“Does he have a gun?” Desdemona asked.
“Hell, yes,” the girl said, emphatic.
“Shit,” Desdemona swore as he slammed one hand against the passenger window and reached behind him.
“Go!” the girl screamed, jumping back from him pounding on the window.
“Get out that fucking car!” he roared, extending his hand to point his gun at the window.
“He’s gonna kill me,” she whispered as she eyed the barrel.
Desdemona floored the accelerator, speeding away and having to control the sudden jerk of the wheel.
Pow!
They both shrieked at the echo of gunfire.
“What am I doing?” Desdemona yelled at the top of her lungs as she looked in her rearview mirror at him running full speed toward a black parked car. Within moments he was behind the wheel and speeding up the street behind them.
“Saving me, remember?” the girl said, her New York accent thick and her voice raspy.
Desdemona’s hands clutched the wheel so tightly the skin over her knuckles was stretched thin. She eyed the rearview mirror as she kept up her pace, dodging in and out of traffic and taking side streets that she used to roam.
The girl looked over her shoulder. “I don’t see his car.”
“Good,” Desdemona said, slowing down and releasing her grip.
What am I doing? Doing? Hell, what have I done?
“Thank you.”
Desdemona looked over at her with a nod. “I couldn’t take watching him beat on you like that,” she said.
“I couldn’t take it no more either,” she quipped.
Desdemona was surprised by her humor and pleased to know she still held on to it after what she had just been through. “I know,” she agreed, frowning a bit at the smell of sex rising in the air.
She turned down the heat in the vehicle, knowing it caused the smell of men left between the girl’s thighs to rise.
“So, what now? He is not going to let me go that easy,” she said.
“Food,” Desdemona said, reaching for the only thing she knew she could provide for sure. “You hungry?”
I don’t have a clue what I am doing.
“Not around here,” she said.
“Definitely not,” Desdemona agreed.
She took I-95 from the Bronx to Newark, New Jersey, pulling into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour diner. Once they were settled in a booth and handed large plastic-covered menus, she finally took a good look at her new charge.
She was a bright-eyed cutie with a shortbread complexion in need of care. Her acne fought for prominence against her freckles, and her teeth needed a good cleaning, looking more buttery than white. Her hair was reddish brown and pulled back into a ponytail. She had already caught a whiff of her hygiene.
All signs that she was lacking proper guidance.
Her face said youth, but her body said full-grown woman. She had hips, boobs, and thighs for days and the long sleeved t-shirt and jeans with a hooded puffer jacket highlighted her assets without even trying.
“What’s your name?” Desdemona asked, looking down at the girl’s hands as she held the menu. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick.
She looked up from the menu. “Portia,” she offered.
Like my mom.
That took her breath away, and she blinked as her emotions were rocked to her core. Was I meant to help her?
“What you having, ladies?” the waitress asked, dressed in all black with a name tag reading Maxie.
Desdemona checked her own feelings and tuned in to how tired the waitress seemed. “How are you doing tonight, Maxie?” she asked with a friendly smile, making sure to look her in the eye.
The waitress was taken aback. “Wore out, but the grind don’t stop when the bills and my five kids won’t either,” she said with a weary smile as she tapped her pen against the order pad.
“More power to you, sis,” Desdemona said, before turning her attention to her menu. “I’ll have corned beef hash, bacon, and eggs scrambled with American cheese. White toast with extra butter.”
“Okay, got you,” Maxie said as she scribbled before looking to Portia.
But the girl’s eyes were on Desdemona.
She’s trying to figure me out. Ditto, kid. Ditto.
“Are you ordering?” Maxie asked her.
“Breakfast for dinner?” she asked.
“I love breakfast at a diner. Best thing ever,” Desdemona said with a warm smile.
“I’ll have the same thing,” she said, her voice a little more proper.
Is she mimicking me? Is that how I sound?
“And your drink?” the waitress asked.
“What would you like, Portia?” Desdemona asked.
“Lemonade,” she said, sounding unsure.
“I’ll have the same thing,” Desdemona said, taking her menu and handing both to Maxie.
“Be right back, ladies.”
Desdemona settled back against the cracked leather of the booth. “What�
�s your story, Portia?” she asked.
She shrugged one shoulder before removing her puffer coat. “Stuff I wish I could forget,” she said.
“Like?” she pressed.
“Why?” Portia countered, her voice soft.
She sounds and acts younger than her years.
“Because I can’t help you on your journey unless I know where you’ve been,” Desdemona said. “What have I gotten myself into?”
“You? Me too?”
“Right,” she agreed.
They fell silent as Maxie set their drinks on the table along with straws and retreated.
Portia removed the paper from her straw and dropped it in her drink. “Junkie mom. Deadbeat dad. Molestation. Rape. Physical abuse. Rebel. Runaway. Kidnapped. Pimped,” she said, her voice monotone as if she separated her emotions from the memories.
“Beaten,” Desdemona added.
Portia nodded and looked at her drink as she stirred her straw in circles. She looked distant. Her thoughts were elsewhere.
It was stories such as Portia’s, and her own, that were why Desdemona never forced one of her paramours to do anything they didn’t choose. She thought of her own pimp. Majig. Violence had been his best friend as well.
She flinched at the memory of one of his backhand slaps.
“So, he is all you have?” Desdemona asked, hating just how much she understood.
“Had,” Portia stressed. “And yes. I lived with him because I’m not old enough to get my own place.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
Still a kid.
“I’m not going back to foster care. Before I do I will go back to Papo and just recover from that ass whipping.”
Desdemona was thankful their food arrived. She pretended to focus on eating as she tried to figure out her next step. This young girl was her responsibility now. But what to do with her?
Shit.
“What’s your name?”
Desdemona looked up from pushing her hash around on her plate with her fork. “Ms. Smith,” she lied with ease.
She had far too much to lose by letting this stranger too far into her life.
“And what’s your story?” Portia parroted.
“Just a concerned citizen who wants to help,” Desdemona replied, setting her fork down.
I just don’t know how.
“You a social worker or something?” she asked.
“Far from it.”
She didn’t miss how the girl’s eyes fell on her designer tote and the fluffy mink she wore. Was she impressed or scheming? Desdemona wasn’t sure. “Finish your food,” she said, picking up her fork to do the same.
She welcomed their silence, needing time to formulate a plan. No more flying by the seat of her pants when it came to this young woman who was too much of a mirror to her past. Think, Desi, think.
They finished their meal, and Desdemona rose, sliding on her fur and grabbing her tote before taking the bill. “Let me warm the car up,” she said. “I’ll flash the lights when it’s ready.”
“Okay.”
She paid the bill at the register and scanned the restaurant until she saw Maxie coming out of the kitchen. She waved her over and pressed a crisp fifty-dollar bill into her hand.
The woman’s eyes widened when she opened her hand. “Thank you,” she stressed.
Desdemona knew what it felt like to be tired but too broke to rest.
She stepped out of the diner. The northeast winter air was frigid, causing her to rush across the parking lot. She used the key fob to crank the car and was thankful the seat was warm when she slid onto it. Glancing up, she eyed Portia looking out the window. She reached over to lock the glove compartment that contained her insurance card and registration, revealing her real name and address.
Get on point and stay on point, Desi.
She flashed the lights and turned up the heat, watching as Portia eagerly jumped to her feet and walked out of the diner as she pulled on her puffer coat. At that moment she saw an eager child wanting to be loved, and her heart ached.
Desdemona gave her a warm smile as she opened the door and climbed inside.
“Tonight, I’ll get you a hotel room,” she said, glancing at her before reversing out of the parking spot.
“By myself?” she asked.
Desdemona nodded, as she stroked the softness of her neck and focused on driving through the busy New Jersey traffic. When the silence was deafening and she had decided on her plan going forward, she turned on the satellite radio for the music to fill the air as she made her way back to Manhattan.
She pulled up in front of the hotel entrance of the building where she lived. She figured it was close enough for her to be near in case something went wrong, but she was still able to be in the comfort of her condo upstairs.
“I’m staying here?” Portia asked, peering out the window at the regal hotel with two uniformed doormen standing before the ornate double doors.
Desdemona put the crossover in park and glanced at her, seeing the amazement in her eyes. She looked at the front of the hotel again through the eyes of her sixteen-year-old self—homeless, desperate, never being close to anything akin to grandeur. She would have been just as stunned. “Yup. Home sweet home for a night or two,” she said, opening the door as the valet rushed over to her.
She handed him the key. “I’ll be back out in less than an hour,” she advised him.
“Yes, ma’am,” the portly blond man said.
Desdemona nodded at the doormen as one held the door open for them. She smiled at the wide-eyed way Portia took in the lavish surroundings. “Have a seat,” she instructed her before continuing to the check-in desk as she pulled out her fake ID from her wallet.
“Good evening. How may I help you?”
“Good evening. One room. King bed. Please,” she said. “Two-hundred-dollar daily limit on room service and pay-per-view. No outgoing phone calls at all.”
“Yes, ma’am . . . Ms. Smith,” the desk attendant said, reading her ID.
Desdemona glanced back over her shoulder to check on Portia. She nearly palmed her face to see the young woman and an elderly white man sharing a long look. “Excuse me,” she said, walking over to the sitting area to stand in between them, blocking the man’s line of vision.
His eyes met hers. “She’s a kid,” she said with an arched brow.
Portia laughed behind her.
The man’s eyes bugged in alarm before he rushed to rise from his seat and move away from them.
Desdemona turned and tilted her head to the side as she looked down at her young charge. “Not here,” she said, her voice low but stern.
The laughter stopped. “I just went into work mode. Sorry,” she said, as she looked down at her hands before biting at what was left of her fingernails.
“I’m not bailing you out of jail,” she said. “I never will.”
Portia nodded in understanding.
“Come on.”
As she led the young woman back to the check-in counter, that doubt lingered. What am I doing? she thought for what had to be the dozenth time.
She finished checking in, and they made their way to the elevator. Desdemona handed Portia the key card. “This is the only key card. It’s your room, Portia. All yours. If I want to enter I will knock,” she said, just before the elevator doors closed.
That surprised Portia as well.
When they reached the door to the room, Desdemona held back, allowing Portia to unlock the door. She walked in slowly and looked around in wonder before rushing over to turn and fall back onto the bed.
“Tomorrow I’ll bring you a change of clothes, and then we’ll go shopping for all your necessities,” Desdemona said.
Cha-ching.
She reached into her tote for her phone. An emoji of the strong arm appeared on the screen. “Cancellation. Family emergency,” she mouthed as she read.
Denzin had a session at the mansion with Nicolette Lawson, a hi
gh-powered attorney with a proclivity for anal sex and verbal lashings while hogtied. Deposits were normally non-refundable, but she had been a steady and regular consort for the last five years.
“Portia, take a bath or shower while I make a few phone calls,” she said, setting her tote on the chair before the desk.
“I don’t have a change of clothes.”
Desdemona glanced back at her. “There’s a robe hanging in the closet,” she explained.
Yet another surprise. Plush white robes with the monogram of the hotel were not to be found in run-down motels with musty rooms and scratchy carpets with doors leading directly to the parking lot.
She walked over to the closet and removed the robe and the folded disposable plastic bag, crossing the space to hand her both. “Put your dirty clothes in this bag to wash or to throw away. Your choice,” she said, knowing how it felt to have very little and cherish it.
Portia nodded and took both before walking over toward the open door to the bathroom. She paused. “Are you rich?” she asked, looking back at her.
Desdemona hated to lie. Even now she knew she might be setting herself up for a robbery if she wasn’t careful. More balls to juggle. “No,” she lied as she childishly crossed her fingers as if to hold off any punishment from God.
Just silly.
Portia entered the bathroom and closed the door.
Desdemona dialed Denzin’s burner phone.
“Boss,” he soon answered.
“Try to reschedule with her,” she said, walking over to the window to look out at the city.
Movement was everywhere.
“Okay.”
“Let me know the new deets so I don’t double book,” she said, turning from the frenetic view.
“Right.”
“Did she say what the emergency was?” she asked, keeping her voice light.
Sudden changes or cancellations put her on alert.
“No, but she sounded really down,” Denzin said.
She turned as the bathroom door opened. Portia extended her arm with the bag of clothes in her hand. “Okay. Keep me posted,” she said, ending the call and sliding the phone into the pocket of her mink as she crossed the room to take the bag.
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