Doin' Me

by Wanda B. Campbell

  “Do you hear me?” he snarled in her ear. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not calling anyone. We’re in this together. Got it?”

  “Yes,” she whimpered, fearing he’d choke her. The ferocious look in his eyes suggested he could do just that.

  He pulled her to her feet by the throat and began grinding against her and kissing her face. Reyna attempted to pull away, and he tightened his hold. “Are you trying to get away from me? I told you, you belong to me. Not that you’re worth anything.”

  Reyna didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t result in more contact with the back of his hand or his fist. She was stuck at the mercy of a drug-controlled madman. Peyton could kill her, and no one would know. She hadn’t told her mother where she lived, and Tyson wouldn’t think to check on her until the five-day grace period for the rent had expired. Even Paige wouldn’t miss her until Monday morning. Wanting to do her own thing, Reyna had alienate everyone in her life. She bit her lower lip and let the tears flow. God, please don’t let my life end like this, she prayed inwardly to a God she no longer believed in.

  Peyton released her throat, and she forced oxygen into her lungs. Maybe he was on his way down, coming back to his senses. Her hope vanished when he ripped open her blouse and groped her roughly.

  “Stop!”

  “Shut up!” Peyton pushed her to the floor and hiked up her skirt. “I’m going to remind you who the boss is around here.”

  She crossed her legs tightly and shielded her face from another blow.

  “Open your legs!”

  Dazed from a blow to the head, Reyna yielded to his demands. She closed her eyes and mentally tried to remove herself from the abuse about to occur. At the sound of his belt buckle hitting the glass table, she imagined she was at Disneyland, spinning in the teacups, laughing. Then the knocking—more like banging—started.

  “Reyna! Reyna!”

  Her name was being called by a voice she didn’t readily recognize. The banging intensified, but only after Peyton ordered, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back,” did she realize the banging was real and not a fantasy. Someone was at the front door.

  Cautiously, her eyes followed Peyton’s shirtless body to the foyer. She didn’t know the identity of the uninvited visitor, but she planned to use the intrusion to her advantage. With what strength she had left, she removed her shoes and straightened her skirt, then stood and walked over to the fireplace and removed a poker. Adrenaline surged through her veins as she gripped the deadly object. She had never played baseball and didn’t know the mechanics of a good swing, but she figured one hard blow to the head would deliver her from Peyton’s evil. Or better yet, the weapon would intimidate him and he’d leave of his own accord. She heard the front door close and lifted the poker to striking position. Tremors shook her body, but she held the poker steady.

  “That was your nosy neighbor,” Peyton said, walking past her into the kitchen. “You left these grocery bags outside on the porch.”

  She stared at the bags as he placed them on the center island. In a rush to confront Peyton, she’d totally forgotten about them. The dinner and celebration, it all seemed like an obscure dream now. In hindsight, her life with Peyton had been a nightmare.

  She lowered the poker but kept enough distance between herself and Peyton just in case she needed to strike if he was transformed once again. Moments earlier he had tried to rape her; now he whistled as he put away groceries.

  After putting the last item away, he turned to face her. “You forgot the eggs and a few other things I need.” He walked past her and retrieved his shirt from the floor. She remained motionless while he buttoned his shirt and removed her car key from the hook. He reached the door and then turned back like he’d forgotten something.

  “I’m going out for a while, See you later,” he said after collecting his paraphernalia in that tan pouch.

  The force of his tongue pressing against her mouth combined with his stale breath sent rolling waves of nausea through her. Before she could gag, he was gone.

  The tremors that shook her commingled with the nausea and sent her running to the guest bathroom to empty the contents of her stomach. Self-reliant and independent, Reyna now knew the taste of fear and degradation. With each heave, a bitter taste rested on her taste buds. Gargling and rinsing removed the tangible residue but did nothing to ease the insecurity and anxiety.

  With shaky fingers, she fumbled with the remaining buttons on her blouse and removed the remnants of it, then discarded them in the trash. Using the vanity to support her weight, she turned on the faucet and reached for a washcloth but stopped short of wetting it. The image captured by the mirror temporarily paralyzed her. Even her tears ceased to fall. The disheveled hair and the swollen jaw and lip were a far cry from beauty marks. At that moment, Reyna felt uglier than the image staring back at her. Until today, stupid wasn’t an adjective she’d use to describe herself, but the reflection said otherwise.

  “How did I let this happen to me? How did I end up living with an unemployed, stealing drug addict?” She didn’t have answers to the questions her conscience asked. “I should’ve known better,” she said aloud.

  Reyna cleaned her face, thinking maybe it was her fault for trusting a man she knew little or nothing about—again. Once he said he cared about her, the trust she had for Peyton surpassed all doubts. Her greatest desire was for someone to love her, but all men did was use her and take advantage of her inexperience. Every man except Tyson, but she didn’t want him.

  Too stubborn to admit she needed his comfort right now, Reyna ignored the temptation to call Tyson and admit he’d been right about her looking for love in all the wrong places. In fact, Tyson had advised her against looking for love, period. “Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing,” he’d say early in their friendship. “Focus on learning who you are, and let the man pursue you.” She might have heeded his advice had he not included a scripture. She’d been controlled long enough by the sixty-six books. It was time to do things her way. Pride prevented her from admitting her way wasn’t working.

  Heavy steps carried her back into the living room. She surveyed the room, as if seeing it for the first time. The cozy, welcoming feeling had departed, and in its place was gloom. A chill ran down her arm, reminding her she wasn’t wearing a shirt. She ignored the coolness and straightened the room. While replacing the poker on the stand, she noticed several figurines were missing from the mantel. Peyton had stolen more of Tyson’s belongings. “What else is missing?” she wondered out loud, then went to check the guest bedroom. She hadn’t checked the room since dusting it over a month ago.

  “Oh, Tyson, I’m so sorry,” she groaned when she turned the light on. The once cozy mauve and cream decorated room had been stripped of a wall-mounted flat-screen TV and most of the artwork. She had to tell him, now, but how? She turned out the light, closed the door, and headed back to the living room for the cordless phone.

  The shaking returned as her fingers keyed in his home phone number. How was she going to tell the one man who’d been nothing but good to her that she’d moved a substance abuser into his home, someone who had robbed him blind right under her nose?

  She was about to disconnect the call when he answered on the sixth ring. “Hello.”

  She hadn’t realized how much she had missed talking to him until she heard his tenor voice. She swallowed, and the soreness sent flashbacks of the afternoon’s events rushing back.

  “Hello,” he repeated.

  “Tyson, it’s me. Reyna,” she said after clearing her throat.

  “I know,” he responded, sounding a little agitated. “I have caller ID. What’s up? Is something broken?”

  If it were only that simple, she thought. “Nothing’s broken, but I need to talk to you about something.”

  She heard shuffling, like he was moving the phone from one ear to the other.

  “Can it wait? I’m about to head out for the evening.”

  Her heart constricted,
and she wasn’t sure why. Then it occurred to her this was the first time Tyson didn’t make himself available to her.

  “It can wait. Sorry I caught you at a bad time,” she said with both resignation and relief.

  “Call my secretary and make an appointment at the office next week.”

  “Sure. Maybe we could do lunch?” she offered, thinking a public place would be best to have the conversation.

  “I have to go. See you next week.”

  Reyna stared at the phone in disbelief. Tyson had hung up on her without saying good-bye. He hadn’t addressed the lunch invitation, either. The abrupt dismissal could mean only one thing: Tyson had gotten over his infatuation with her. Any other day she would have been happy, but right now Reyna needed someone to feed her self-esteem after Peyton had shredded it.

  The more his venomous words and actions replayed in her mind, the angrier she became. He considered her stupid and worthless, yet he was unemployed and basically homeless. The insults to her sexual ability might have some validity, considering she didn’t have much experience, but he didn’t have to be so cruel in expressing his displeasure.

  She had replaced the phone on the base and was starting for her room to take a shower when Peyton’s last words pounded her already throbbing head. Fear gripped her at the realization that Peyton wasn’t out of her life yet. He’d said he’d be back. That didn’t concern her; she wanted him to return her car and get his belongings. What worried her was whether he’d be under the influence or not when he showed up. She turned back and grabbed the poker, just in case the monster decided to rear its nasty head.

  “Reyna! Reyna!”

  Reyna jumped from the bed and swung the poker wildly. She chopped the air three times before realizing Peyton wasn’t in the room with her but was on the other side of the bedroom door, banging on it and begging her to let him come inside.

  “Sweetheart, please open the door. We have to talk.”

  Fully awake, Reyna placed the poker on the bed and tightened the belt on her robe. The numbers on the nightstand clock read 11:38 P.M. Peyton had been gone for over eight hours. “Go away, Peyton. Leave my keys on the table, and get out of my house,” she hollered, hoping he’d comply.

  “Can I at least get my clothes?”

  “Your clothes are in those garbage bags by the front door.” She’d packed his belongings before dozing off. “Now, get your . . . and get out!”

  She heard footsteps retreat, then return to the door. “Please, Reyna. I’m sorry. Please talk to me.”

  A sense of satisfaction surged through her at Peyton’s pleading. “Hours earlier you called me worthless. Now look who’s begging who!”

  “Reyna, please. I didn’t mean what I said. To be honest, I don’t even remember what I said or did. That stuff had me messed up.”

  “You hit me! You tried to rape me!”

  First she heard the sobs and then what she assumed was the thud of Peyton’s body as he hit the door.

  “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. That wasn’t me. It was the coke. I care about you too much to ever hurt you.”

  “Is it you or the coke that’s been stealing me blind?”

  He twisted the doorknob. “Please open the door. I’ll explain everything. Then if you want me to go, I will. I just want you to be happy, even if it’s without me.”

  Reyna paced around the room. The tender Peyton had returned and had weakened her resolve. What if he really didn’t mean all those nasty things he’d said? Drugs and alcohol had a way of altering ones personality. She reasoned, if the words spoken earlier were true, he wouldn’t be begging for forgiveness now. He wouldn’t care. The least she could do was hear him out, then put him out.

  “You’ve got five minutes, and then you’re out of here.”

  “Okay. Whatever you want,” he said in resignation.

  She reached for the poker. “Just in case,” she mumbled and then opened the door.

  Chapter 20

  Tyson’s chest swelled with pride as he looked down into his godson’s face. The tiny white Armani suit fitted him perfectly. After a long lecture from Marlissa, Tyson conceded he’d gone overboard with the silk christening gown, but his godson deserved the best. Although he bore his father’s name, two-month-old Kevin Hezekiah Jennings, Jr., had inherited Marlissa’s complexion and pointed nose. A slight twinge of jealousy rushed through him, and he wished the roles were reversed—that it was Kevin standing at the altar in the role of godfather at the christening of his son. As quickly as that thought came, it passed, and he silently repented for coveting his best friend’s family. He glanced to the side section of the church, where Mylan sat between Starla and Mother Scott, and allowed his thoughts to drift to what a child with Mylan would look like.

  After three months of dating, Tyson still hadn’t had the status talk, but he was growing content with the idea of a committed relationship with the woman both his parents loved. Every conversation with his mother began with, “When was the last time you talked to Mylan?” and Judge Stokes didn’t end a conversation without stating, “That Mylan is a fine young woman. She’d make a good wife and mother someday.”

  Tyson didn’t doubt she would. He had visited her at the center and was amazed at the patience and attention she lavished on the autistic children. Her smartphone took a backseat to her babies, as she called them. Tyson had also noticed that recently she’d begun turning off the phone during their dates. Mylan had also initiated affection by reaching for his hand or stroking his arm and shoulders whenever possible. The gestures should have prepared him for the kiss she gave him on their last date, but it had stunned him. Not that the soft brush wasn’t pleasant; it just didn’t move him like he thought it should have. He liked her, but the beauty and gentleness permeating Mylan had yet to touch his heart, which was a minor detail, since he refused to allow his emotions to control him any longer. He’d learned well from his experience with Reyna that the heart could be deceitful.

  Reyna. He hadn’t heard from her since that strange call two months ago. Whatever she had to say must not have been important, since she hadn’t followed through with making an appointment. Her rent was current, although last month he had to charge her a late fee. She included the additional fee without him having to call and speak to her. Another indication their time had passed.

  Little Kevin kicked his leg against Tyson’s left arm at the same time Marlissa pinched his right one. His mind had drifted so far, Tyson had missed his cue to affirm his commitment to help rear the child up to reverence the Lord.

  “I will,” he responded after Pastor Drake repeated the question. Tyson bowed his head but kept his eyes focused on the chubby face smiling back at him as Pastor Drake stretched his hands and prayed a blessing over the group. Tyson returned to his seat with the baby snuggled against his chest, regretting more than ever the decision he and Paige had made over a decade ago.

  “Give me that baby,” Mother Scott ordered the moment she stepped into the Jenningses’ home for the celebratory dinner after the christening. “I need to impart some anointing to this prayer warrior.”

  Tyson complied without protest. “If you had your way, the first words out of the baby’s mouth would be ‘Thank you, Jesus.’”

  “Get your facts straight, lawyer,” Mother Scott corrected. “His first words would be ‘the blood of Jesus.’”

  Mylan, who sat next to him on the sofa, laughed.

  “What are you laughing at?” Mother Scott said.

  Unfamiliar with Mother Scott’s bluntness, Mylan sucked in her breath and looked at Tyson for help.

  Tyson patted her hand. “Don’t worry. She’s harmless.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me unless you got some demons you need casted out.” Mother Scott laid the baby facedown on her lap and patted his back. “I don’t think that’s the case with you.”

  Mylan relaxed, but the reprieve was short lived.

  “I discerned your spirit during service. You’re saved. You praised God
like you really love Him. You’re pretty, and you and Tyson look good together, but you do know Tyson is not the one for you.”

  “Mother,” Tyson warned.

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” First Lady Drake walked in. “Stay out of folks’ business. You don’t have to tell everything.”

  “I’m just saying. The Lord showed me who Tyson’s wife is, and she ain’t it.” She looked at Tyson. “We all know who she is, but I’m not going to bust you out by stating her name. Especially since she’s not here to defend herself.”

  First Lady Drake took the baby without protest from Mother Scott. “We’re not quite through casting all those demons out of her yet. She’s got some old tough ones, but they’re coming out. I guarantee that.”

  Mylan’s head bounced from the mothers to Tyson. “What are they talking about? Are you seeing someone else?”

  “What do you mean, someone else?” Mother Scott interrupted before Tyson could come up with an answer that didn’t sound flaky. “He’s not really seeing you. He’s just killing time while my baby, Reyna, gets herself together.” Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oops. Did I just say her name?”

  “That’s enough!” Tyson roared.

  Both Mother Scott and First Lady Drake waved Tyson off and continued playing with the baby.

  Tyson stood and beckoned Mylan to do the same. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat. I’ll explain later in private. To answer your question, no, I’m not seeing anyone else. Outside of my mother”—he gestured toward the prayer warriors—“and these nosy mothers, you’re the only woman in my life.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  Tyson didn’t miss the uncertainty clouding her adorable face. Hopefully, by the end of the day, he’d come up with an explanation to reassure Mylan of his interest. More importantly, he needed time to figure out why his heart had fluttered at the mention of Reyna being his wife.