She squinted as she checked her messages, made faces, laughed, deleted messages she didn’t want me to ever see, the ones scribbled in Russian. She made duck faces, took selfies. Moved her braids this way and that way. Made me get in and fake a smile, morning breath and all. She wanted to post them so her cyberworld would know she’d had the best birthday ever.
She started singing again. Not loud. Always singing. Pain rolled down my side. I rubbed my chest. Still smelled chlorine in my pores. Still smelled a rich man’s death in my nostrils.
Rachel said, “You never told me where you were all day yesterday.”
Knowing she would eventually find out, I told her about yesterday, about Margaux. My life, my past, I had told her a lot of it, but not all. I was up-front, didn’t hide who I was. I gave her the option to be here or walk away. She had chosen to be here, with me, not with the Russian.
With a big smile she said, “Your daughter actually called you? I’m happy for you. I hope I can get to meet her one day. I can tell her how wonderful you are, counter the lies she’s heard.”
I told Rachel a bit more, revealed how the sit-down lunch had quickly gone south.
“Fifty thousand dollars? Did your child fall and bump her head on a crack pipe?”
I described the Mohawk, the tats, the piercings, the attitude.
Rachel asked, “Was her mother there? Did she come along for the fun?”
“Yesterday at lunch, it was just me and my daughter.”
Then I told her a little more, about how I had been ambushed on Stocker.
“The idiot banging at your door was her bae, and you had to give stupid a beatdown in front of the building because he was mad that she was mad at you for putting her in her place?”
“Well, he’d better be glad Jake Ellis wasn’t with me when I came home.”
“That boy would’ve ended up on a meat hook being used as an African punching bag.”
“I never should have told you about that.”
“Everything you use to do your dirty work is sold at Home Depot?”
“Nail guns. Sledgehammers. Saws. Chains. Shovels. Plastic. One-stop shopping.”
“I needed to know why you go away to places and I can’t ever go with you.”
“There is no other woman.”
“I know that now. I’ve broken into your apartment and gone through all of your e-mails and personal belongings. It’s disappointing for a sister to work so hard to bust her man, and then find nothing. I mean nothing. Nothing here that made me think you are anything like Jake Ellis.”
“I’m not going to ask when you broke in my spot. Not going to ask how many times before yesterday.”
“There is nothing for the po-po to find if they kicked down the door and tossed it like a jail cell. If there were, I made it vanish and end up in a neighbor’s trash can. You can thank me later.”
“I live the life of a poor man. That’s all they’ll see. I live like almost everybody else in this zip code, from paycheck to paycheck, always fifty dollars short for the month.”
“What’s on our agenda today?”
“Have to get away. Some business came up while you were sleeping. You can’t go.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to go meet with San Bernardino.”
Her tone turned serious. “You told me you were stopping with this lifestyle, Ken Swift.”
“I did. You’re right. I do need to stop. It’s gone on too long.”
“But you never stop.”
“Like bills, I never stop. Being hungry keeps you in the game.”
“You lied to me. You lied to me to my face.”
“I did stop.”
“You’ve had long breaks. A vacation is not the same as stopping.”
“They needed a favor. You know I rise when the eagle flies.”
She was restless. “I’m going to save you. I don’t know how, but I’m going to save you. Get your passport. Leaving California, getting you out of America, that would be the first step.”
“Geesh, Rachel. Don’t do this to me.”
“I don’t want anything from you but your time and your love. Am I asking for too much?”
“I’ve never had a woman love me like that before. It’s kinda scary. And beautiful.”
“Stop talking. I might start crying. I’m ugly when I cry. I look like a chocolate gerbil.”
I needed to get up, had things to deal with, but I collapsed in the bed with her. Rachel pulled me closer, offered me her breasts. I suckled one nipple and pinched the other. My hand found its way between her legs, and with two fingers, I made her dance like she was on the sun.
My mind tried to take me back to the house of corpses I had left behind.
Rachel asked, “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I eased on top of her, and we kissed, dry fucked, warmed up. I sucked her nipples and made fire. She pulled her ankles back to the sides of her ears. I positioned her at the edge of the bed, dropped a pillow on the floor, and got on my knees. She made the sweetest honey. Her eyes rolled and she lost her breath. Rachel wrapped her feet around my calves and anchored herself to me. My body hurt, but I stayed like that, inside her, filling her up, kissing her while she drove me wild. I moved her braids from her face and sucked her lips. It hurt my lips to suck hers.
Bushwhackers had beaten me good. As good as Africans had once upon a time.
She asked, “Why did you stop moving?”
I had almost been murdered, had killed three men.
Pain rose; so did exhaustion. I told her, “I’m dead tired.”
“Hangover?”
“Just tired.”
“You’re going soft.”
“Rain check?”
“Nope. Let me fix that. We’re not having a Deflategate this morning.”
She pushed me off her, went down south, her oral fixation so intense and sloppy I called out like I was being tortured. She looked at me and smiled, stroked like Superhead, tea-bagged, gagged, did it all. When her jaw ached, she took to her belly, raised her bottom as she smiled.
I said, “Fuck. Damn. You know what I want to say, right?”
“I know. I give head like a white girl.”
Then I was bareback, in Italy, on the wildest of wild horses, competing in the Palio di Siena. Mississippi rode Alaska hard, tried not to be thrown off at the treacherous turns in the piazza, stayed with her as we fell from the bed, took it to the floor, out of the bedroom, and down the hallway. Didn’t want her to finish unmounted. My daddy was a jockey, and I knew how to ride.
Sex dulled the pain, made me feel better, became a much-needed analgesic.
I carried her back to the bed, put her facedown, ass up, grabbed her braids like reins.
Skin slapped and Rachel grabbed sheets. “You got me; damn, you got me.”
I said her name like I did when I was close to coming. “Rachel.”
“Come in me come in me I want to feel you come deep in me.”
I didn’t want to let loose a flood of baby making inside her, had flashes of my married life, flashes and thunder in my heart as I stroked like a madman, felt a wave that reminded me of trials and tribulations, thought about the freedom Jake Ellis had had all of his life, about all I had given up, didn’t want to be enslaved again, didn’t need any more responsibilities or obligations, told myself to invade Africa, to come in her ass, or on the sheets, or on her breasts, her face, or feed her every drop. But she worked it, and it felt too good to do anything but come inside her. She put her palms against the headboard, dominated me, had the bed rocking and rolling, the headboard banging like a drum, her moans saying she was ready for jazz. She booty-popped me to heaven, and as my toes curled, another evil arrived. Evil banged on my door like it was the cops or a herd of Citronella Nazis carrying tiki
torches. That made me slow my roll, but Rachel reached back, put her nails in me, told me to not stop. Trouble and hard times banged the door and my headboard did the same to the wall. As the chocolate Alaskan with Eritrean roots worked me into a frenzy, as dark skin slapped dank skin and moans collided, I knew that this wasn’t over.
CHAPTER 33
RACHEL REDMAN GRABBED one of my collared shirts, pulled it on like a robe, only buttoned one button, wanted whoever saw her to see her T and A and know that the man in this apartment was already taken. When she pulled the curtains back and let in a shock of sunlight, she finally saw my body, saw bruises the bushwhackers had left behind. My face was swollen. Bruises were on my torso and legs. The knot on the back of my head spoke to me in tongues.
“Dafuq?” Her face was in shock. “What the fuck? Dafuq happened to you?”
“Rough sex.”
“You weren’t bruised up like that when we came home.”
“I know. I had to step out for a bit when you were sleeping.”
“On my birthday?”
“You were sleeping.”
“You got out of bed and went to work?”
“Work came to me.”
“Fucking San Bernardino.”
“It didn’t start with San Bernardino, but it ended with San Bernardino.”
“What the hell happened while I was sleeping?”
“Long story.”
“You left me in your bed on my birthday?”
“Rachel.”
“Is that who’s at the door?”
“Could be cops. Could be trouble like it was last night.”
“Are. You. Serious?”
“Take my gun.”
“You. Are. Serious.”
“If you’re going to the door before I get dressed and ready, take my gun.”
“What’s the number to call bullshit?”
“Why the attitude?”
“I bet that’s some thirsty thot thumping at your damn door.”
She went to the living room, .38 in hand, before I was dressed. I changed my mind, yelled for her to wait for me to open the door. Her skin was still damp and she smelled like hot love and interrupted orgasm wrapped around sudden concern and profound anger. The swarthy Eskimo wanted any woman who had dared come to my door this early to know this was her goddamn territory. She had cheated on me with the Russian and was still convinced I had a chick on the side. Her guilt needed me to be as wrong as she was so she could validate herself, could have a reason to keep that expensive guitar her other lover had dropped in her lap for her birthday. I was away from Garrett, back to dealing with my personal life. She had searched, needed me to have another lover. Her wish had almost come true last night. I would have crossed the pond.
Because of that guitar. I would have crossed that pond to make myself feel better.
But instead, I almost ended up drowning in a pond in a former sundown town.
I looked out the window. Saw Bernice. She saw me and walked away. Then she came back, laughing, her company at her side, his arms around her. I walked away from my window.
Rachel Redman opened the front door and attitude filled up the apartment.
Negativity came in like a monsoon. There was chatter out front.
I had to wait for my erection to wane. Even after I came, it took a moment. I didn’t want to run to the door fluffed. Especially if it was the cops. Slave catchers would yell I had a gun in my crotch and then I’d be the next resident of Hashtag City. Rachel took her temper to the door and I took my aches and pains to the bathroom, washed up, cooled down, wiped sweat from my brow. I pulled on a fresh pair of joggers and a Black Panther T-shirt. I could barely stay upright.
My house had gone silent.
Then Rachel Redman called, “Sweetheart, can you come here please?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Come tell me who this thirsty thot is, the one who was thumping at your damn door.”
When I stepped into the living room, I saw that my next problem was waiting, dressed in leggings and a red hoodie, her hair now four shades of green with blues and pinks, covered with a pink scarf, almost like a hijab. Margaux was here. Like her mother, she had a lot of nerve.
CHAPTER 34
I GUESS I felt the same way Garrett did when he came home and saw me and Jake Ellis in his kitchen. Margaux was seated on the big sofa. All tats and body piercings on skin pastier than the flesh of Mrs. Garrett. Rachel Redman was across from her on the love seat, my .38 on the small table next to her, the barrel pointed toward a wall. Anger danced with embarrassment.
Rachel Redman said, “She said she’s here to see you.”
“That’s Margaux.”
Swallowing disbelief, she said, “This is your daughter?”
“That’s my daughter. All grown up.”
“Oh. My God. I am so sorry I called you a thirsty thot.”
Margaux adjusted her red Gap hoodie, said, “You know Rachel Redman?”
Rachel Redman was surprised. “You know me?”
“I recognize you.”
I corrected Margaux’s etiquette. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
“That’s better. You don’t just walk into people’s homes and start talking.”
She repeated, “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Margaux.”
“You know Rachel Redman?”
“I know her. She stops by to answer my door every now and then.”
“With a gun?”
“In case a thot shows up thinking nasty thoughts.”
“You’re really Rachel Redman?”
“Yeah, I am. Nice to meet you. Wow. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Have you?”
“You are all Ken ever talks about. Feels like I already know you.”
“I know about you. Well, sort of. I have one African parent, another from Mississippi, grandparents from all over, but I was born in America. You talked about being the first generation of your family in America, being trapped between new ways and old traditions in one of your YouTube videos. I think you spoke and sang in Amharic, Spanish, French, and Russian.”
“You watch my YouTube videos?”
“Well, yeah. I subscribe to your channel. You haven’t posted anything in a while.”
I let my fist hit the doorframe. “Margaux.”
They looked at me and I stared at the child who had threatened me a day ago.
I cleared my throat. “Y’all running a good tag team on me. You here for money? Or you coming at me because I had to put my paws on the fool you say you’re having a baby with?”
Rachel Redman said, “Kenneth Purnell Swift.”
Margaux asked, “Did . . . my boyfriend beat you up like that?”
I asked Margaux, “Where is your pit bull?”
Rachel didn’t like my tone and said, “Kenneth Purnell Swift.”
Margaux answered me. “He’s in the car. Kevin is in the car.”
I asked, “Is your mother with you too?”
“No, she’s not.”
“Kenneth Purnell Swift.”
“Stop saying my name.”
“Answer me.”
“Rachel, your phone is ringing over and over in Russian. Why don’t you answer that?”
Rachel smiled at Margaux. “Nice to meet you, Margaux.”
“Nice to meet you, Rachel Redman.”
“Rachel.”
“Nice to meet you, Rachel.”
I asked, “So why are you at my door this early in the morning?”
Rachel stepped in. “Ken? A moment please?”
Rachel disappeared into the bedroom and I regarded Margaux, my child. She couldn’t choose her father, and I couldn’t choose my child. She looked at me like she knew I had j
ust killed a league of bushwhackers and a misguided soldier to stay alive. She looked like she wanted her fifty thousand dollars. No, her look was desperate. Not malicious. She looked at me like she needed her fifty thousand dollars. I nodded, then turned and followed Rachel, her arms folded across her chest, her back to me. When I pushed open the door, Rachel Redman turned around and she had tears in her eyes. I knew why. My daughter. The bleached skin. The self-loathing, the self-hate.
She asked, “You’re going to be a grandfather?”
“Go shower.”
“Jesus. She saw me looking like this. Fresh off her daddy’s penis.”
“First impressions.”
“And my breath smells like sex.”
“Nobody told you to run your jealous ass to the door.”
“With a .38 in my hand like I’m a hood rat and sex breath like a hooker.”
Her phone vibrated.
“Why is the Russian calling you over and over?”
“Ken.”
“He blew up your phone all evening, all night; now he’s calling all morning.”
“Ken.”
“Is there something I need to know?”
“He’s just jealous.”
“Just don’t Jimi Lee me, Rachel. I can’t take being Jimi Lee’d all over again.”
She swallowed, pulled at her braids. “What happened when you left here last night?”
“People died. I didn’t. That’s what happened.”
“You had fun without me.”
“Well, next time someone tries to kill me, I’ll get you an invitation.”
She took a breath. “Talk to your child. She is what’s most important at this moment. I can see she’s scared. Real scared. Be her dad. Be nice, even if she is mean. She’s in pain.”
“So am I, but no one seems to care. No one has ever cared.”
“I care. I wouldn’t have been here waiting when you came home if I didn’t.”
“With a gun in your hand.”
“In case you had walked in with a thot.”
“And if I had walked in with a thot?”
“Would have shot her without a second thought.”
“Everyone is lying to me.”
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