Sixty-Nine

by Pynk

  And then, while she breathed as though she’d run a marathon, and cried as though she’d been reborn, he licked her secretions from her insides, kissed her clit as he backed away, and within fifteen seconds, he had on a rubber and inserted the full length and girth of his instrument into Darla’s tight, wet, abandoned vagina, inch by inch.

  Darla kept her eyes shut and could hear the juices from her cum that escorted his penetration. Each and every millimeter of her insides that met his hard dick gave off a feeling that she’d never known. She lay back, sniffing the scent of his blue rain cologne, and Darla found the strength to just let it all happen, letting this big man, just the way she liked them, knock the back out of her deepest nooks and crannies, pressing himself in and out at a slow pace, while he lay his long and muscular body on her curves, kissing her earlobe, saying, “You are amazing. I want you. I want you to be mine. I want this to be all mine. I want you Darla. Say you want me, too.”

  “I do.” Her hips accentuated her voice.

  “Open your eyes. Tell me you want me.”

  She inched them open. Her eyes looked wet from her tears.

  Their eyes locked.

  She said as though in a trance, “I want you.”

  “Kiss me,” he said like it was an order, just as he hit a spot that made Darla tighten up.

  The order was followed. She kissed his dark brown lips and sucked his tongue as he ground inside of her and she ground back in exact response. The headboard was pressing against the wall with pounding sounds, and just as quickly as the X-rated sound sped up, it stopped and Grainger ceased his kissing and threw his head back and grunted, “Uuuggh, I’m coming. Ahh, damn, I’m coming. Damn. Tight ass hot pussy got me coming hard. Dammit.”

  Darla felt his pulsating dick shoot his hot fluid into his condom as the fatness of his dick was wall-to-wall. She was full.

  He didn’t die while inside of her like the last time she had sex. His head fell upon her shoulder and he lay on her, and she kept track of his breathing. It was fast and deep.

  She said softly, looking up at the ceiling again, “Oh, my God.”

  “Oh, God, is right.” Grainger lifted his head to look at her face. His nose and forehead were sweaty. His breathing was fast. “Darla. Darling Darla. You came so good, baby. I know men in your life love watching you get off like that. You sure know your body.”

  “You’d think so, huh?” She didn’t tell him he was the first to make her come. And she wouldn’t.

  Before she knew it, Grainger was up, in the bathroom, and then stepping back toward her, placing his excited hands on her baby-making hips, and adjusting his face between her curvaceous legs again for a tongue-ride. “Yep, I knew you had a killer body,” he said, eyeing her down as he again spoke from the giver position.

  She looked down at him as he kissed her anatomy. Her stare was different. Sexy. Liking. Her pheromone rush had caused her to see him in a new, adoring light. Out of the blue she asked, “Chocolate chip pancakes in the morning?”

  He gave her a sexy, liking look back. “My second favorite thing.” And again, he went to work, licking her pussy, moving up slightly to focus his attention on her awaiting clit. He sucked.

  Darla exhaled and squeezed her eyes shut again.

  No voices.

  No sight of Aaron in her runaway mind.

  No sight of anything.

  Just the feeling of being satisfied sexually.

  And the thought of one day enjoying her own house as a home, with someone, maybe Grainger. Maybe not.

  But the orgasms tonight would do.

  Later, they slept.

  She didn’t wake at 4:44 in the morning.

  Grainger by her side, spooning the shape of her thickness, head to toe.

  And then it was breakfast at nine a.m.

  Darla Clark was finally replete.

  Finally orgasmic.

  Having finally lost control of being in control.

  Twenty-Eight

  “Back When”

  Rebe

  INT.—REBE’S HOME—MIAMI BEACH—LATE

  EVENING

  July 17, 2009

  The sale of Rebe’s house would close within three weeks, and she’d take the cash and finalize the purchase of her new home next month. She’d spent two months looking at houses and finally found the one. It was in Broward County, in Hollywood, Florida, in a gated community called West Lake Village. She felt the four-bedroom, pale-yellow stucco, a mile from the ocean, close to schools and shopping, was far enough away from her current place to help her shake off some of the bad memories of the house she’d won in a divorce settlement, the same house she was raped in, nearly killed in, the house where her daughter stabbed her own mom’s attacker.

  The move would be just in time to get settled in before the birth of her second child, decades after the first.

  A little after midnight, Rebe was home wearing an extra-large-tall T-shirt, cuddled up in charcoal satin sheets, still sleeping in the guest room.

  The electric fireplace glimmered an artistic, tie-dye-like glow on the pale blue walls.

  It was a Friday night.

  She was forty years old and nearly seven months pregnant.

  She was manless.

  Her baby would be fatherless.

  She hadn’t yet wrapped her brain around that fact. There was no room for such thoughts yet.

  She was suddenly jerked from her mental ramblings by the ringing of her home phone. Looking at the clock, seeing that time had slipped into the next day, she wondered who it could be as she reached over, saw the caller ID, and picked up the receiver. “Hello.” She sounded like she’d been fast asleep, but she wasn’t. Her tone was tainted more with a self-warning about the caller than that of being tired.

  “Sorry to wake you.”

  “I’m still up.” Her heart insisted she should have an attitude. Her head was too crowded and too exhausted to comply.

  “Good.” The voice was familiar and deep, slow and reserved. “How are you?”

  “Fine, Randall. How are you?” Her words were insincere.

  “Good.” His word was elongated. He paused. His inhale-exhale could be heard. “Listen, I’ve wanted to have a talk with you for a while now. Is this a good time?”

  “Yes. What?” She said both as fast as one word.

  “Rebe, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. For cheating. For lying. For leaving without taking the time to talk about giving us another try. For getting someone pregnant before you had a chance to even file divorce papers. For hurting Trinity. And for the fact of what happened to you with the guy who broke in. It’s bothered me for a while. I want you to know I’m glad you survived.”

  “Really?” Rebe wondered why his speech was so slow. She sensed a slur. Knowing him as she did, she was willing to bet he’d been drinking. It brought back memories. Memories of how the only time he’d talk was when eighty-proof something chased away the fear of communication.

  “Yes. You’ve been through enough with your mom as it is. Really, I’m sorry that happened. I should’ve told you this before now, but when I heard, all I felt was anger over what he did to my ex-wife. I’m sorry Trinity had to see what she saw, and that she has to live with the fact that she stabbed someone. And in our house. It’s bothered me. All of it. I just didn’t know how to say it. Until now.” His breathing was heavy.

  Him saying our house had her on guard. She said what she thought would be best. “I got the card you two sent.” Rebe behaved but couldn’t say his wife’s name. “Trinity told me you guys sent your thoughts and prayers. All that.”

  “Well, we did. But this is from me. I want us to find a way to be okay with all this, good and bad. I want Trinity to see us getting along. I want Chyna to see that. I want her to know you. And, I want your new child to see it, too. By the way, congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Rebe shook her head a bit to make sure her ears weren’t failing.

  He sighed. “Well, I guess that’s what I wante
d to say.”

  She shifted the phone to her other ear. “My goodness.” She just had to ask. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Life. Tired. Trying to find a way to say I’m sorry. To forgive. Hell, to live. Plus, I’m fuckin’ drunk.” He gave a laugh along with his admission.

  Rebe offered a laugh in return, not surprised one bit.

  “I fucked up a lot, Rebe. The life I led in the NFL opened doors that weren’t always the best for me, but still I indulged. Even after, it was just hard to stop pushing the envelope. But, I’m tired of hurting people. Bad decisions hurt people. And hurt me.”

  “I see. Well, I’m fine. But obviously, I’ve been pissed off for a long time. You both know that. Trinity knows that.”

  “I know.”

  She couldn’t not say it. She turned to her side and went there. “And by the way, Magnolia told me.”

  “I figured she would.” He didn’t miss a beat

  “But why didn’t you?”

  “I never would’ve.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Believe it or not, I did it because I could. I didn’t do it to hurt you. Telling you would have been hurting you. I took the small chance that she wouldn’t tell you. At the moment it happened, I went for it. But, I knew when I went to bed that night, doing that only made things worse. Though that was my mentality. I wanted it all. I just can’t do that anymore. At least I know I need to try and do better. And Rebe, Magnolia fought it. She left fast.”

  “Whatever. That was messed up on both your parts.”

  “It was. And to be honest, I was surprised you didn’t call me and go completely off.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I’m just sorry. Don’t know what else to say.”

  “Wow. Those two words, I’m sorry. I think if it’s true that love means never having to say you’re sorry, then I guess I’ve never experienced love before, because I’ve received and owed more I’m sorrys than anyone should ever have to.”

  “You’re strong. You’re a survivor. And I want you to know I’m glad you took this call. Thank you.” He sounded extra drained.

  “Good-bye, Randall.”

  “Good-bye, Rebe. If you need anything, I’m here.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good. Oh, and by the way, good luck with the new house. I got a notice about the sale, verifying the quitclaim.”

  “I know.”

  “Good luck. Maybe we can stay in touch. Call me on my cell.”

  “Bye.” And Rebe hung up.

  She turned to her back and rubbed her forehead with one hand, having never expected that conversation, and placed the other hand on her belly. Randall’s voice was still in her head. “Did he just say he’s sorry?” she asked out loud. “My God.”

  She looked over at the two photos of Trinity beside her bed. One from when Trinity was a toddler. Barely two years old. Trinity was in her white and pink Easter dress with a real, live bunny rabbit on her lap, looking half thrilled and half scared to death. The other was a recent photo of Trinity that was taken while she was in Las Vegas. She stood in front of a roman statue at Caesars Palace with a drink in her hand, looking happy, and carefree.

  Carefree was all that Rebe wanted for her offspring. Not bringing a baby into her confused life was her goal. She wanted that feeling for both her adult child, and her expected baby. A life different from the one she’d lived thus far. She wanted her children to have a life free from pain, free from anger, and free from tragedy. If she could. Or at least, she wondered if Trinity, unlike her, could be normal? And could her new baby be happy with a mother like her?

  Rebe could have sworn she felt a kick. And then another. She said, “If that was a yes, I’m smiling. If that was a no…well, I’ll just believe that two kicks means yes.”

  She felt the new life inside of her in the form of a tiny fetus, and in the form of her own newness, awaiting her own new life, ready to no longer be a product of her childhood, but a shining example for her children of what life can be like, especially when given a second chance.

  She fell asleep. Mother and daughter. Alive.

  INT.—OFFICE OF VICTIMS’ SERVICES—PINECREST, FLORIDA—LATE MORNING

  The next day

  It was a new counselor. One who Rebe was meeting for the first time. The neuropsychologist she had before transferred during the couple of months Rebe stopped going, but Rebe felt it was time to again try to get her mind right.

  Trinity had been attending her sessions, but for the moment was out of town in New York trying to get a modeling agent. She’d dropped out of school and Rebe didn’t push it. Rebe was learning to let go and cut the cord. She gave in to the fact that Trinity was a grown woman, and had been through more than enough to earn her independence stripes.

  The counselor was a bleached blonde, conservative, middle-aged woman, plain Jane type in a tight top and knee-length skirt, oddly bordering on pinup-girl curvy. With her legs crossed, she sat in her small, sparsely furnished office in a tweed desk chair facing Rebe.

  Rebe sat on the tan sectional, with her hands cupped in her lap, wearing a purple top that showed the full shape of her expectant belly, a pair of gray drawstring cotton pants, and gym shoes. She’d taken out her braids and her dark brown hair was flat ironed past her shoulders. No makeup, no expression, just words.

  Ten minutes into the allotted hour, Rebe looked at the woman at times, and at times out the window toward the tropical, butterfly-like palm trees, spanning into the beauty of the heavens above.

  “Dr. Love, my mom’s in jail. She’ll spend the rest of her life in prison. I’m ashamed and I totally reject the blood ties that bind me to her. Violet Palo. I don’t like to say her name, but, Violet Palo is a child killer. Violet Palo is a mother, a woman, and she’s convicted of child murder, and attempted child murder. She’ll spend the rest of her life in prison. Double life. My mother. Violet. Is a convicted killer.”

  Pain was spelled out on her dark face. “I really, truly don’t want her in my soul. I pray every night that she’s not. I’ve been determined to break the like-mother, like-daughter curse. I keep telling myself I’m not the seed of a monster. But I am. My mother is just like her mother. My grandmother, named Opal, committed suicide after beating her own children for simply forgetting to brush their teeth. Her own mother threw boiling water on her husband while he was sleeping, because he was snoring.”

  Rebe waited a minute.

  Dr. Love let her wait.

  “My story was in the headlines back in 1982, you know? Not sure if you heard of it.” Rebe’s big, dark eyes lifted Dr. Love’s way and flashed a question mark.

  “No,” Dr. Love said, showing focus and patience, shaking her head.

  “Ocala, Florida, where I grew up, was on the map. The headlines read that when the prosecuting attorney asked me who hit me on the back of the head with a hammer, I said, ‘My mom.’ Sad.

  “Some of it I remember, some of it I don’t. All I know is my brother Maestro had gotten in trouble the night before and got a beating before he went to bed, as usual. That happened every night. He was fifteen and six foot three, and still got whippings. Every night.

  “By then my father had left my mother and was out there, chasing women, usually the younger women, fed up with my mother’s temper tantrums and her ‘ugly ways’ as he called it. In his absence, my brother found males to bond with. In the streets.”

  Her eyes sort of lit up.

  “He was good at basketball, having played in the neighborhood when he could get out of the house, which was rare. He wasn’t allowed to play sports in school. We weren’t allowed to go anywhere after we got home from school. A lot of rules. I liked to dance, so I’d just dance in my room, to silence. No music allowed in the house either. Another rule.

  “By then, my mother had actually found a way to start preaching at a nearby church. It was the epitome of a holy, sacrilegious, hypocritical, Bible-toting, false prophet, Christian claiming mess. She was the last
person who should have been preaching the word of God. If anyone needed to be literally born again, rebirthed, it was her. Violet Palo.

  “I do remember some of that night when the devil took my joy. And I know it went something like:

  “Rebe come here.” Her loud, raspy voice always sounded like she had phlegm stuck somewhere between her tonsils and her esophagus, like she was about to choke. I wish. She wasn’t a smoker. Not even a drinker. Not on drugs. Just naturally evil. The sound of her words stung from the living room and seeped past my bedroom door, which I was never allowed to close, and right into my ears. My lobes sweat upon hearing and feeling the sound.

  It was about six-thirty and it wasn’t dark yet outside, but the house was dark. Blackout curtains throughout, you’d need a light on to see anything, any time of day. I ran straight from the tiny room I shared with Maestro. He wasn’t home yet. I knew that woman, called my mom, would be in a bad mood just because of that.

  “Yes, Ma’am.” I stood before her, my feet on the tattered throw rug. My toes flexed. My knobby knees shook. Skinny as a rail, I wore yellow shorts and a pinafore blouse. I’d just finished cornrowing my own hair. She never did my hair. Never called her mom, you know. Never did.

  “Barefoot, she was reading the Bible, with only the light of the floor lamp behind her, reclining all the way back in her beat-up black leather chair, and though the Bible was opened to a certain page, her bloodshot eyes were zeroed in on me. The closer I got I smelled the usual calamine lotion on her scaly, itchy forearms and elbows. I still don’t know what caused it. It was nauseating.

  “So. How was your day?” Her gray hair seemed grayer, hanging loose but stiff and broken off, barely touching her shoulders.

  My puberty-ridden stomach turned. “Good,” I told her almost sounding like I was asking instead of answering.