Black Queen, Dark Knight_A Bad Boy Romance

by Amarie Avant

  I close the photo album and sniffle a few tears.

  “Don’t you do it.” My mother slides out of the breakfast nook and heads for the stove. “Don’t you dare do it.”

  “We agreed that you caused this. That you would start, and I would only be obliged to cry, too.” I whine like a child. Even though I’m an educated black woman, I’m still prone to tears on occasion. This is the perfect occasion.

  “Girl, I am holding back my tears. I have you for one more day. I will cry tomorrow and the day after that… and the day after that… so on and so forth. Who actually ever wants their children to leave the nest?”

  My sniffles turn into a quick chuckle. My mother expects the best. Honor roll. Volunteer work. She just forgets how independent she wants me to be at times. Now we’re both sniffling.

  “This is a beautiful photo album, Mom. So, help me keep from crying here?”

  With her back to me, she stirs a pot of black-eyed peas and rubs at her eye. “I’m not crying, Mikayla. When you get to Washington, I want you to open that photo album every time you are homesick,” Mom adds. “I want you to laugh, no tears allowed.”

  “Joyce, will you leave that girl alone. She has friends waiting for her,” my dad calls from the front door.

  Oh, crap. My past memories had me feeling so fuzzy inside, I forgot about going out tonight. I’m fresh from a shower, wearing a terry cloth robe. I arise from the breakfast nook and pat the album in my hand. “I’m going to put this away and get ready for–”

  “Did you tell Cree?” She pretends to be more interested in finishing cooking all my favorite dishes. When we both know she’s been stressed about the breakup for a while now. My mom opens the wall oven door to check on the enchiladas that will be sent with me tomorrow morning.

  “Tell Cree What?” My boyfriend steps into the kitchen. He’s a beautiful dark brown-skinned man, with a fresh fade and the friendliest smile. He's traded in the usual computer geek attire, khakis, and a polo shirt, for faded jeans and his Black Bone Ryder vest. Oh, he’s added a button up. I guess I can call that his attempt at sprucing up for my favorite restaurant Gianni’s. “Hey, Mrs. Bryant. You're looking as beautiful as ever.” He hugs my mother and keeps his gaze on me. “Tell Cree what?”

  His eyes twinkle. I cringe inwardly. What do I have up my sleeve? The end of us.

  “I have a surprise for you this evening,” I blurt. Hum, what should I offer? My virginity before heading off to medical school at Howard University? No, I plan to keep that intact until marriage. I glance at my mother, though my expression is full of happiness, she knows I’m not ready to let Cree go.

  “Oh, I have a surprise for you, too, beautiful.” He hugs me. Over his shoulder, my mother is mouthing “tell him.”

  And here he goes, complimenting the aroma in the house. “Black-eyed peas, honey baked ham, is there Mexican food, too?”

  “Yes, there is.” I kiss him.

  “Yes, my baby is leaving home with all of her favorites,” My mother says. “Tell him.” she says to me and grins silently, once again. Isn’t she quite the diplomat, insisting that I break up with Cree before heading off for good? He’s a good black man. Like me, he also has a Bachelor's. But the Black Bone Ryder stuff appeared out of nowhere when we turned sixteen. They aren’t a bad crew, and don’t promote any illegal crap. The Black Bone Ryders just loved the breeze in their face. Something I never understood. Oh, and to play with their own lives by doing stunts on their bikes. My mother has had her fingers crossed, since then, that I leave Cree no matter how respectable he is. She says it’s too dangerous. I am on the track to become an emergency physician so the irony of dating someone who does handstands on his Kawasaki isn’t lost to me.

  My boyfriend’s fingers twine with mine as we start out of the kitchen. We live in a predominantly black neighborhood in Long Beach. My mother scrubs everything like the day she did back when they bought their first home, when I was six years old. We walk together down the hallway, with even more framed photos that I’ll miss. There are so many darn photos; the wall is full of them.

  “Where ya’ going, Cree?” my father, an English professor, inquires in his mock-authoritarian voice from behind us as we start up the stairs.

  I grin as we turn around. My dad reminds me of one of those sitcom fathers from back in the day.

  “I’m just going to…” Cree stops, folds his arms and leans against the banister as I head upstairs with a chuckle. My parents are old school, and I love that about them.

  In my bedroom, which is filled with boxes, medical textbooks are the only things that haven’t been packed and are scattered on my bed. I remove the robe from over the silk dress I purchased at Nordstrom. The dress stops mid-thigh, yet puffs out, covering the shape my mother gave me. My adoptive mother is part owner of a soul food restaurant, so there’s more of me down low. I have thick hips and thick thighs from sampling delights while doing my undergrad studying. I love the dress even though the damn thing cost most of my internship money. It brings out the golden undertones of my skin and hair, which is in a tight bun on top of my hair. I planned to ride on Cree’s bike this evening.

  I smile, as the thought clicks that this can be my surprise. The sound that his bike makes scares me. And the injury and death statistics, those are staggering, too. A bundle of anxiety has always forced me to hate and decline traveling on the damn thing, for longer than a cruise around the block, in the past. Tonight, I’ll do it.

  ***

  Parked in front of my parent’s three-car garage are six motorcycles, when I open the garage door with Cree.

  “Are you driving, or am I?” he asks, cocking his head to my Honda Accord.

  “You can.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” He holds out his hand, but I don’t toss over my keys.

  “Let’s go, big boy.” I wink.

  “You’re gonna get on the back of my ride?” His pace falters.

  “You’ve got three seconds…” I toss over my shoulders to him, while heading out to meet our friends.

  “Kayla!” My cousin, Brittany, claps her hands. She looks badass in leather pants, and jacket. See, this is what my conventional mom said Cree would love once I stop being the sanity in his life. A woman who dressed like a streetwalker. I can’t recall what exactly my mother said, but she’s always in our ears. Except, Brittany let her words of wisdom trickle from one ear through the other.

  “Heck no, Britt!” I hug her.

  “What?”

  “The tiara. Tonight’s my night.” I point a stiff finger at my chest, grinning ear to ear.

  “Oh yes, this is for you. It wouldn’t fit in my purse.” She bows halfheartedly while removing the cubic zirconia diamond tiara from her head. “The best that the Del Amp Swap Meet has to offer. For little miss prissy pants.”

  “Really, you still shop there?” I giggle while she bestows the thing on my head.

  “Smarty pants,” Ronald cuts in, giving me a hug.

  I hug the rest of the team, and Cree offers me his leather jacket. The jacket snuggles around me since it has his body heat, and it feels amazing against my skin. I shove up the arms of it, as he gets onto his bike first. “All of y’all turn your head, so my lady can climb on discreetly,” he instructs the crew, sweetly.

  Though each of these guys I would vouch for, and have known most of my life, I hock my leg over the bike as quickly as I can. The lack of etiquette clears my mind of the ride ahead, that is until the engine starts.

  “Hold on tight,” Cree tells me, rubbing his hand over the back of mine.

  ***

  The eight of us are now seated in Gianni’s. It’s a crowded Friday night, so we have to squeeze in two extra chairs. Brittany is talking about driving with me to Howard and all the Tupperware she plans to sneak bites out of when in he walks, and the witty reply about all the food my Mother was determined to cook for my departure, is gone from my mind. Just the sight of this white guy–gold really–leaves my mind rocked. His blond hair
is in a messy bun, and I instantly assess that he’s sex on a stick. Not like me, but a slew of women who have bad boy fantasies. Heck, Cree is a Netflix kind of guy if he isn’t fixing a computer or stunting on his motorcycle.

  But the man, who I pass off as hot as sin and too taboo, is more than just a man. It takes ages for my eyes to slide down from his chiseled bristly jaw to his broad shoulders, down to pleasantly muscular legs. I can appreciate a perfect physic, and he has it. As tall as he is, my eyes take their time to roam up and down him in a hungry manner that I should be ashamed of. Just not yet.

  Brittany clears her throat, glances over at him and loses her train of thought.

  “As you were saying,” Ronald bumps her knee under the table, which causes her to flinch against me, and restore the firing synapses in my brain.

  “I was saying.” She turns to me with a smile. “That I’ll be traveling with Mikayla to Washington. How will I get home?”

  I sigh. This is a setup. My cousin is dating Cree’s best friend. Slowly my heart begins to sink. I’m supposed to be breaking Cree’s heart, slightly, later on tonight. It’s like getting a divorce where you must choose a friend. Cree didn’t get the memo and Brittany refused to choose.

  “We could always tag along,” Ronald speaks up.

  “Hell, I don’t mind a round trip,” Franklin, Cree’s older brother adds. “Y’all know I’m gonna have my chopper, though.”

  Sensing that this is getting awkward, my boyfriend says, “Nope. You can’t just bogart your way into a vacation with my woman.”

  He reaches over and kisses my cheek. My boyfriend is smart; he must know we have come to divergent paths in life. I should turn, sample his lips for a tasteful amount of time, but the stranger has found himself a seat at a table across from us. He tips his beer to me and winks.

  “Kayla, that man is fine. Can I borrow your tiara, I do believe it did the trick, causing him to see nobody else in this crowded ass restaurant but you,” Brittany murmurs under her breath.

  “Ha!” I’m aware of my beauty. I swallow my shape with running pants for school, but I know I’m fine.

  She places a hand at her flushed neck. “I’m getting hot.”

  Before I can respond, her hair flips into my face and she’s making out with Ronald. Well, that makes sense.

  “I’m getting hungry…” I grumble. “Too many people have learned about this place.”

  “Oh yeah,” Cree pushes a wisp of hair behind my ear. “Wish I could buy the place out for you one night. Maybe we could get married here…”

  I’m startled. The stranger winks at me. He seems to notice my discomfort.

  “It was a joke, Mikayla.”

  “I know.” I arise abruptly. “I’m headed to the ladies’ room, Brit?”

  In the same precise instant, she scoots back her chair. The server arrives with our food.

  “You’re a big girl. I think you can handle going on your own,” she says, licking her chops.

  So much for sticking together, I guess. I get up and head to the restrooms, alone. When I enter, there’s another woman, who passes by me in the tiny space. We offer each other a small smile. I start into the stall and hope she’s headed to wash her hands. I’m unapologetic about germs. Instead of running water, the door closes. Dang, I shake my head, in disgust.

  While I’m removing a seat cover, I hear a tiny puff sound. Not sure how else to explain it but a quick expelling air and then a sudden drop. I pee as quickly as I can.

  “Hello?” I call out, feeling the urge to hightail it. I open the stall door slowly, and head to the travertine tile and stone sink. The faucet has an ancient façade, with one of those fountain handles.

  As fast as ever, I use a paper towel to wipe my hands and open the door.

  I’m met by eyes the color of turquoise gems, no, even more gorgeous than that. Like a hot stream that you want to dip your toes in. But the man who owns them has shoulders so wide that they almost brush the door frame on both sides. I can’t see over or around him.

  I shuffle back in my heels as the stranger places his hand over my lips. Jesus, but this man is even larger up close and personal…

  Jagger

  She hasn’t cried, begged, pleaded or bargained. Most men do. Even the powerful, rich ones have something to say. On occasion, I’ve been offered more incentive from the mark than what was on the original X Member profiles.

  The punishment for voiding a contract by taking a bribe from the target is death. On occasion, I’ve toyed with the idea not to assassinate said victim and take the money and other offerings instead.

  And I’ve seen it all. Pissing in fear. Shitting their pants. Falling to their knees, begging. Heard it all, too. But Mikayla Bryant takes the honorable way… until I place her on the back of my bike.

  I shift between two cars, at the last second, and glide through the line just as it clicks to red. Is she letting go? I grip her hand, pinching it as a reminder to hold tight. I would hate to have her fall at 60 Miles an hour on a busy street. She clutches tighter to my chest. If I was any other man, I’d swear the girl was attempting to crush my ribs, yet the solid muscle overlaying them offers her no slack. Then I hear it. Her friends are in hot pursuit. There are two on my six and nine. They don’t present much more than a minor annoyance, more dead bodies.

  My eyes narrow, having adjusted to the dark. There’s a police cruiser ahead. Now that’s a fucking problem. The cops can’t catch me, but if they dispatch a chopper, I will regret the few beers I had this evening. My reaction time is down a tad.

  The instant the red and blue lights begin to blare, I’ve kicked a foot down, spin a 360 and stop before the motorcycle gang, which I believe is more of a “let’s learn to jump on the seat while driving 30 miles per hour” than anything. Her fiancé, or whatever the fuck she wants to call him, is headed straight toward me.

  You’d like to play chicken? I stay there in the middle of the road.

  Let’s do it.

  The squad car is half a block out. The emergency lights swirl in my rear view.

  “Let me go, asshole!” Mikayla shouts.

  I tune her out. She starts to untwine her arms, I give her another pinch.

  “Fuck!” She exhales in pain.

  “Don’t disobey!” My engine roars. I gun straight for Cree. He might be sporting a Kawasaki, but I truly believe the Boy Scouts would pose more of a threat. These guys in their patches are fit for the Circus. My ride might look non-threatening, but the engine is a Tomahawk. Nothing in this world is going to catch me, as long as Mikayla keeps her damn arms around me and shuts the hell up.

  He’s twenty yards out. I aim and target his arm.

  Cree’s bike misses me and Mikayla’s left leg by a twig of hair. Even though I did her a solid and didn’t aim for his chest or head, just the force of the bullet sends the bike slamming the asphalt and zipping around.

  The sound of the crash is loud, yet above the noise, I hear Mikayla screech. She acts as if I’ve just slid a serrated blade into her heart. Little does she know that I don’t have the heart to kill him. But, it’s his dumbass fault if he doesn’t know how to protect himself against the fall.

  The next motorcycle ahead, I aim for the helmet and shoot.

  He’s dead, obviously.

  Through my left side mirror, I see a squad car jumping over the rider. I cringe. Not only am I selling Mikayla to a royal wolf. I’m also killing her friends.

  There are now seven squad cars in my wake. Off in the distance, a bright light beams down. Fuck. Eyes in the sky. Those are a tad harder to shake. The police helicopter is navigating from the direction of the freeway, precisely where I needed to go. At the next intersection, three blocks prior to it, is 12th Street. My mind transforms into a map. I’d only had a day to choose to pick up the mark at Gianni’s.

  I have a fifteen-mile radius of the restaurant in my brain. I slow, kick out my leg and turn onto 12th Street, which has a dead end. The helicopter will need time to steer. At the
rate I’m going, palm trees blur together. With the cops turning, I target a sidewalk ramp that leads over the brick wall and into a housing tract.

  Please hold fucking tight, Mikayla! I scream internally.

  My bike lifts from the ramp and over Denarius Avenue. There are a few cars on the street. Most are parallel parked in front of homes. My pace slows. Rap music is blaring and helps mask the sound of Mikayla’s whimpering. I travel toward a row of cars just as I see the helicopter’s lights begin to shine over the street. I park between an Acura and an Impala. After pressing a button, the matte black shade of my bike transforms into a glossy bright green. This color is begging people to stare at me. The best way to go incognito is to show off to your enemy, give them something blatant and they won’t be bothered to take a harder look.

  “Make a move and everyone in that helicopter is going down. Got that?”

  “What?” She heaves into my back just as we are flooded with lights.

  The helicopter continues illuminating down the row, and then into the backyard of where the music comes from.

  I slowly begin to ease down the street and merge into traffic. Glancing down at a digitized clock, I have an hour to make it to the checkpoint. Yes!

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, I literally feel her wet tears seeping on to my back. We are at an overnight parcel and trucking company, where a private cargo plane has been chartered to land, without having to deal with airport customs. The lots are empty. When I click off the clutch, and slow to a stop, I roll my shoulders and feel that my back is saturated with her tears.

  “You can get off now.” I have to harden myself to her. I can’t deny how gorgeous she is. Her body is warm and innocent against my back. Her creamy brown legs cling to me. It almost hurts feeling as hard as I do for her.