She damned them all, told the voyeurs to get all the way the fuck outta our business, and when they didn’t, she flipped them off, went back to playing the sax, double-timing until I reached for her, and got her to turn me loose and stand up. She cursed her audience, called them tight-eyed perverts, yanked her red dress down, stumbled, picked up her cigar, almost lost her balance again. Her breasts fell out, and she tried to get her C-cups covered up again. I was too dizzy to help. She struggled with the girls while I battled and limped and fought to fit my Valyrian steel back inside my pants. We left in a hurry, the happy birthday girl laughing too hard and unable to run drunk in heels. My dick was hard and I was lightheaded. Her high heels clacking through broken darkness. Rachel Redman zigzagged back into lights that made L.A. Live as bright as the obnoxious Las Vegas Strip. Rachel cackled, staggered, wiped her mouth, licked the corners of her lips, tossed her braids to the side, then pumped a fist and yelled, “Best birthday ever. Happy birthday to me.” We hurried away with her yelling at Siri to open the goddamn Uber app.
She stood in front of me, faced me, hid my erection. “You have pussy breath.”
“Your pussy. And you have dick breath.”
“Your dick.” She kissed me again, mixed our flavors. “Can’t wait to get you home.”
“My balls are so blue they’re about to turn black.”
“You didn’t come. That’s what it felt like while I was waiting on you all day. Like that.” She moved against my erection.
“You’re torturing me.”
“I know. I wanted to make you come, but I don’t want holy water all over my dress.”
“I’ll buy you a new dress.”
Rachel grinded against me. “I’m going to love you so damn good.”
“No freaky business in the Uber.”
“Nucca, if you’d driven your BMW, I’d’ve given you the best road head evah.”
“As thirsty as you’re acting, I doubt if we would have made it inside the car.”
“I’m thirsty for you. This fever is strong. So hot for your holy water to quench my thirst.”
“I’m going to get you on your back, have your ankles at your neck.”
“Then what?”
“Make you rock back and forth against my tongue in slow motion.”
“You know I love that shit.”
“I love it more than you do. Could do that all night.”
“Tongue takes me to Jesus, but I want you inside me.”
“I want to be inside you.”
“After that ankle thing, I want you inside me.”
“Balls deep.”
“Your cock is huge.”
“The better to fuck you with, my dear.”
“The way you fuck me, makes me feel like I’m deep in prayer, like I’ve been taken to some holy place, transported to the Ganges River and your love washes away all of my sins. I come and I feel like I’m dying, like I am experiencing a holy liberation. No other man makes me feel that way. No one but you, Ken Swift. I’m yours. I am all yours, as long as you will have me.”
“Damn.”
“And that makes me want to suck you the way I do, makes me love you with my mouth, want to wake up your soul, to make you feel as weak for me as I fuckin’ feel for you.”
“Damn.”
“That all you got?”
“Come here.”
“Love it when you put your hands all over my ass like that in public.”
“Do you?”
“I do. I want men to see me happy and let every bitch know you belong to me.”
“I want to take you and find another spot and finish what we started.”
“Uber is two minutes away. Get me home and I have a spot you can look for.”
We stood on the side of the busy street, in a crowd, the promise of intense thrumming between us, in our breathing, in our eyes, in the way she squeezed her thighs to keep her desire from being unleashed, kissing like we owned the world, waiting on our Uber. Her nostrils flared with every breath, and mine did the same, lust and the need to come suffocating us both.
Birthday girl was ready for that d, and this d was ready for that p.
CHAPTER 18
LESS THAN TWENTY minutes later, we stumbled up the stairs at my building, loud as hell, kissing, feeling each other up. By the time we made it inside my spot, birthday breasts had been fondled and licked like candy. We closed the door hard. Her elegant outfit was bunched up around her waist. I bent her over, had her pretty face pressed against the front door, her panting deep, desperate, anticipatory, breathing that matched mine as I tried to get balls deep inside her.
“Put it in. Stop playing with me and put it in. Put it all the way in.”
I pushed.
She was wet, but I couldn’t get the head in. I staggered, pulled my pants down more, pushed again, and it was like I bounced back. Her expensive lace panties were in the goddamn way, cock blocking. I tried to pull them to the side, but I pulled so hard it hurt her.
“Take my panties off, Ken. Move Victoria so you can get inside my secret real good.”
I growled, tugged her delicate panty until it ripped away, then slapped my cock on her dampness a dozen times, made her tremble and curse. Then I pushed. She was so wet I slid my sturdy baobab in to the root, made the birthday girl sing mournful songs about the goodness of wood. But the song she sang was an ugly off-key song. She gagged, burped, told me to stop, begged me to stop, then moved away from me, hand on belly, eyes tight, in excruciating pain.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My stomach. Bubble gut, bubble gut. Oh God. Fuck. I got the doggone belly.”
She tried to run, but she could barely stand. With those heels on, she wobbled like a deer that had been hit by a semi. Her ankle twisted, and I grabbed her before she fell down.
She gagged. “Take the wheel, Jesus. Take the wheel and get me to the toilet.”
I helped her get up, and she staggered doubled over, like she was suddenly in labor. She panted, stumbled like she was running a country mile up a muddy hill. She made it as far as the carpeted hallway before she lost her dinner. I was on my feet, tried to pull my pants up above my knees by the time she got to the bathroom. She had on only one high heel, limped slowly, went up and down, taut ass exposed, firm breasts bouncing. She slammed the bathroom door.
Like a terrified child she called out, “Oh God. Please, God. Make it stop.”
In the darkness, Rachel Redman plopped on the toilet. Her insides exploded like the Space Shuttle firing up its engines, the liftoff immediate. She declared she was dying; groaned as if an evil overseer with a whip was trying to convince her that her new name was Toby.
I turned the hall light on. The light flickered like a horror film, then settled.
She had created dramatic artwork in colors unique to my eyes.
Rachel Redman stopped chanting out her agony and cried out, “I need more toilet paper.”
“I’m all out.”
“Don’t fucking fuck with me right now, Ken Swift.”
“But I have a cardboard box I can tear up into small pieces.”
“Then get me some damn paper towels from the kitchen.”
“Gently, Bentley. I’m joking.”
“Stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing.”
She screeched, “Stop the cockamamie jokes and get the damn toilet paper.”
I cracked the bathroom door wide enough to toss her a roll of Charmin two-ply, then stepped around the destruction in the hallway, took off my wrinkled pants and crinkled shirt, lobbed them onto the queen bed. Tired as hell, I dragged myself back to the kitchen, found a plastic bucket, filled it with hot water and soap, grabbed sponges and a mop, then hunted the cabinets, picked up the bleach, vinegar, and
Fabuloso. Rachel sounded like she was in the middle of a terrorist attack. Bomb after bomb exploded. Prayers and pleas were sent up to a napping God. After each explosion, the toilet flushed twice. I pulled on yellow plastic gloves, went to the hall, and cleaned up a Rorschach of Chinese food, seafood, Baileys, and shots. When I was done she was still in the bathroom, in the middle of her war, suffering, moaning, cursing, crying out regrets.
“You okay in there?”
“The ride back in the Uber.”
“You told the driver to drive fast as she could.”
“She changed lanes a lot and hit too many potholes when we got off on Crenshaw.”
“You told the girl to drive fast.”
“I think I got carsick or something. Oh, God. Hope I don’t have a GI thing going on.”
I cracked the windows, put the ceiling fans on low, then pulled down fresh sheets, changed the linen. A few minutes later she was in the shower. She gargled, brushed her teeth, and staggered out of the bathroom, used the walls to keep her balance, moved bent at the belly. She begged me not to go into the bathroom before next Christmas. She crawled into my bed, embarrassed, groaned like an old woman, and pulled herself into the fetal position, swore this was her worst birthday ever and that she’d never drink another goddamn Baileys again. I brought her some Pepto-Bismol to cement the contents of her belly. I made her take it, then propped pillows under her to keep her head elevated. When she was settled, I took a cold washcloth and draped it across her neck to hold the regurgitation at bay. Feeling aggravated, I grabbed the bucket and cleansers and went to the bathroom, double flushed before I lifted the lid on the commode, became Molly Maid, and cleaned up her mess.
When I was done, I showered, scrubbed my body like I’d been exposed to radiation.
I was in the bedroom drying off, listening to Rachel’s deep breathing, making sure she didn’t roll over on her back, start to regurgitate, and choke to death on my watch. Then her cell phone was on fire. I grabbed her electronic leash. The texts were in Russian. I turned the phone off. Had flashbacks. I’d been through this bullshit before. Wasn’t going to travel that dark road again.
She was still on her back, sleeping the sleep of the ill. I didn’t care. I was two seconds from waking her up, telling her to get out. I’d put her in an Uber and send her to her ex. Enraged, fighting bad memories, not wanting that era repeated with a new face, eyes wide, I cursed.
A lot of overlapping commotion erupted outside, aroused the streets. First I heard a car in the intersection, music loud enough to rattle windows from here to the freeway that was two miles away. Then tires screeched as some fool burned doughnuts in the asphalt. I went to the window, ready to scream out at the harbingers of rudeness, but they zoomed away, went to the next intersection and did the same, then moved on to the next block, then to the next corner.
I turned my phone back on, needed to check for Esmerelda. My phone rang. It wasn’t my coworker. Didn’t recognize the number. Had to be Jimi Lee or Margaux, back to blowing my phone up. I didn’t answer, just turned the ringer down, left vibration mode on as backup.
A ghetto bird hovered over my postal code, and sirens were near. I went to the window. An ice cream truck was parking in front of the building to the east. I stopped looking at the truck when Bernice Nesbitt waved. My neighbor across the street was in her window.
I saw her. And I saw bare breasts. She squeezed them. She had magnificent breasts, the kind that would make a brother start praise dancing in the name of the Lord.
She was in a mood. And so was I. Alcohol had exasperated all I felt, good and bad.
The Brit had seen me come back home with Rachel Redman, and now she was challenging me, extending an invitation to keep her company. Without words, she asked me to cheat on my woman the way she had cheated her man.
Fair was fair.
Bernice Nesbitt didn’t move away.
She was daring me to cross the pond, and to do it while my woman was feet away, as a thrill. The Brit’s fullness was incredible. Tonight, the Brit wanted some Mississippi loving. Rachel Redman coughed. She coughed and broke the spell the Brit’s Coke-bottle shape had cast. When one woman disliked another, she would destroy a man so she could become the victor in a catfight. I turned and Rachel Redman made a sound like she was dying, then Calamity Jane was calling hogs. I changed the cold towel I had on her neck. I shook her. She didn’t move. I looked at the rise of her ass. That ass worked out twice a day, hiked, jogged, did squats, and took boxing classes. Solid ass. I traced my fingers along her beautiful skin, whispered her name, kissed her lips. Touched her nose. No response. Drunk. Dead to the world. She might as well have been on propofol. She couldn’t see a hole in a forty-foot ladder and wouldn’t be able to see me leave.
In two minutes, I could accept the baton of infidelity and be inside London.
Alcohol was in my blood, my moral compass offline, inebriated as I treaded in irony.
London was in front of me. A woman leaving me for London behind me.
Rachel Redman had gone back to the Russian. She said it had happened only once. That was the only way Rachel Redman had been like Jimi Lee. And that was one way too many.
Bernice Nesbit was flashing her SOS.
I owed her one.
She wouldn’t scream.
I wouldn’t holla.
I could say two tears in a bucket, sprint across the pond, be a motherfuckin’ starboy like Jake Ellis, and feel a brand-new warmth. I yanked on a pair of green NinjApparel joggers and a Skywalker hoodie, slid on a pair of Timberlands; then I eased out of the front door.
As soon as I made it to the bottom of the stairs, an enemy was out on Stocker, waiting.
“Ken?”
The angered voice was familiar.
“Ken Swift?”
It was hard and intellectual and carried an accent that I’d never forget.
A car door closed and the enraged figure came toward me from a parked BMW. My enemy was dressed in reds and oranges, like fire, an ethnic outfit with amazing patterns, made of finer materials, like a beautiful number worn at a Bilen wedding. And with her colorful, fiery dress she wore a scarf in a way that could make one think it was a hijab. She always wore scarves that way, loved the stylishness. She was Christian, not Muslim. At least she was Christian the last time I saw her. Here. Reminded me of the Somalian women, of the Oromo girls at the Horn of Africa and their bomb headpieces.
It was Jimi Lee. My ex-wife. The mother of my feral child.
My past had returned.
The chickens had come home to roost.
CHAPTER 19
JIMI LEE CREPT closer, her heels clicking as cars passed on the narrow street. She approached me like a woman who had stage fright, but the curtain was up and there was no going back. She was twenty steps away. I felt her anxiety. And I treaded in mine.
Rachel was in my bed. Bernice Nesbitt lingered in her window. Crossing the pond was no longer on my mind. I had almost done a Kevin Hart and gone Eric Benét. But fate had intruded.
I faced the woman I had married, the woman I used to want ten times a day. And just like that I was no longer forty-three. Once again, I was in my twenties. For a second, my face drifted into an unexpected smile, but I corrected that, became a hard forty-three again.
Jimi Lee let out a nervous breath and said, “Indemin Alleh?”
“De-hna ne-gn. I’m fine.” I struggled to speak in her language. “In-de-min Al-le-sh?”
“How am I? I’m blessed.”
“This is a surprise. Rageme gize katayayen.”
“Yes, it has been a very long time. And you still speak and understand Amharic.”
“But not enough to have a serious conversation with you.”
“Can we talk?”
“We can talk. In English.”
Jimi Lee was six steps away from me. She had returned to t
he scene of the crime. She was eighteen when I met her. Now she was forty. She had the birth date I’d never forget, because it was the same as mine. Her ethnic outfit was tailored, fitted to her curves. She pulled her scarf away. She let me see her face. Revealed beauty and let me see her traveling anger etched in a level of gorgeousness not many would achieve. Her hair was long, natural, wavy, amazing. I wanted her to be bald, fat, and unattractive and have stretch marks that looked like a map of the interstate system for the USA, but time had taken care of her the way servants took care of a queen. Time had been her friend. If she couldn’t pass for eighteen, she could pass for twenty. I used to hold her ass and fill her with my desire.
And at the same time, I remembered the bad times, felt like I had last seen her as a child. Time had passed, and Pennywise the clown had returned to bring me brand-new horrors.
I said, “What are you doing here in Leimert Park parked in front of my building?”
“I tried to call you for hours. Since early afternoon. My daughter called me and told me she had a reunion. And that shocked me. So. Had wanted to try and have a conversation.”
“Margaux told you about our lunch date.”
“She was vague. Very upset and vague.”
“And you decided to put on a stalker’s shoes and come to investigate.”
“Yes. I am concerned.”
“What do you know?”
“She tells me nothing.”
“She has a lot going on.”
“What, exactly?”
“She won’t tell me much more than that she needs money in a bad way.”
“Why would she need money?”
“You have to ask your daughter. She needs money, and she needs a lot.”
“She won’t talk to me about whatever is going on.”
I hesitated. “You see what she has done to her skin?”
My ex made a face like she was ashamed. “She has changed, suddenly cut me out of her life. I thought maybe she had come back to you, that maybe she hated me now for some reason.”
“Welcome to Club Know Nothing. How did she know where I live?”
“My old journals. Old paperwork. She saw the address from old mail I received here.”
Bad Men and Wicked Women Page 20