Abe burst into laughter. He nearly choked.
I stared at him for a moment. “Who would name a child Go Limp?” I said. “Then, they would say all kind of stupid stuff like ‘Cum’ or ‘Explode.’” I talked over his laughter but his gagging forced me to wait until he regained his composure. “From there, guys started calling me the girl with the riddles, then just shortened it. It stuck, so here I am.” I forced a smile.
“I didn’t realize your life was so, riddling. That explains your resolve.”
“I had to be. Been through so much.” We both remained quiet for a few moments.
“Riddles,” Abe said, breaking the silence.
“Yes.”
“What is your birth name?” he asked.
“Chyne,” I said. He laughed again. “Why you laughing? It’s pronounced like shine, like sunshine but spelled C-h-y-n-e.”
“It’s nice to meet you Chyne,” he said then took me into his strong arms and held me tight. We laid there for a moment then Abe reached over and grabbed the remote to turn up the volume on the television. He started to sing along with the song playing on his favorite satellite music station. “You really don’t know a person, huh?” Abe asked.
“Not until they tell you and that’s if they’re telling the truth.”
I couldn’t believe I shared a part of myself with Abe. I liked keeping our relationship at bay. But at that moment, I needed to feel a sense of connection to someone. “Well, thanks for listening because it’s been bottled up inside me for so long. It feels good to let the top off.”
“I know. I carry a lot baggage too,” Abe responded. “You know.” He had shared many stories about his life since we met. “All we need is to find someone willing to help us unpack.”
I didn’t respond. I decided the time had come for me to go. I had been there too long and said too much. And, even though I needed a release, I felt uneasy about opening myself up like a can of Coke then allowing someone to drink the core of my being. I found that people used a person’s weaknesses against them. I never liked to feel vulnerable.
“You leavin’ so soon?” he asked.
“Do I ever stay?”
“Well, after all you’ve shared and with what happen at the club, I thought tonight would be different.”
“Not really. But, again thanks for listening and not judging. I’ve had enough of that in my life, I said as I started to search for my clothes.
“Why you so cold toward me, Chyne?”
“Don’t push it, Abe.” I squinted. “I don’t want to be attached or committed to anyone right now. I don’t think that’s the right thing for me,” I said. “You know I have a daughter and I gotta be careful who I bring into my life and around her.” I started getting dressed.
“So you gone be alone for the rest of ya’ life?”
I didn’t answer but did give him a side-eye stare. Truthfully, I adored him and his pursuits flattered me. But, I promised myself to never be heartbroken again, so I disregarded any thoughts of a possible love connection.
Abe stood up then reached his top dresser drawer for a stack of cash before walking me to the door. Before we reached the threshold, he handed in to me.
I rejected it, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and left.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Hel-lo,” I managed to say after rolling over and answering the phone. The clock read 10:15 a.m. For the first time in weeks, I had slept well and the interruption pissed me off.
“Good morning, Chyne. How are-” I heard my daughter’s father voice.
Oh. My. God.
I knew that voice anywhere, despite not having hearing it for about eight years.
I pulled handset from my ear and stared at it.
“Emerson?” I said putting it back up to my ear. “What? Could you . . .” I shook my head. “Of all people. What could you possibly want?”
“I need to see you. I’m been thinking about the baby . . .”
“The baby?” I cut him off.
“And, you . . .” he tried to speak over me.
“You’ve been thinking about me and the baby?” I repeated. “Well, I’m sorry to inform you but she’s no longer a baby. Besides, she’s not your child. Remember?” An uncomfortable moment of silence hung between us. “My baby thinks her daddy is dead!” It was hard to stay calm. I cleared my throat. “Since that’s how you left her. For dead!”
I hung up.
He should’ve expected that because I hadn’t spoken to him since I gave birth and signed off.
And, how did he get my number, anyway?
I dismissed that thought. He was very well-connected, coming from “good stock” and having served as District Attorney of DeKalb County.
Hearing his voice caused my mind to flood with the memories of him. I fell back on my pillow, thinking about how much I loved him.
Yep, I still loved him.
The phone rang again, and I looked at the caller i.d. I flipped it over and held my breath waiting for it to go to voicemail. Finally it stopped, but before I could exhale, he called again.
I couldn’t talk to Emerson. I stuck the phone under my pillow and tried to shake it off.
I hopped up. Then I just stood there. Something forced me to stay put.
To me, the saddest part about my relationship with Emerson, we once adored each other. Madly in love. He wanted to be with me.
I learned a hard lesson as I let go of those feelings after he realized he had actually fell in love with a stripper. Well, an ex-stripper at the point of his discovery. But aside from that, his family didn’t really approve of me from the beginning. I lacked the proper lineage to marry their son, according his mother. I lost a degree of respect for him since he succumbed to the pressures of being “politically correct” instead of being man enough to live his own life and follow his heart.
So, maybe, I’m the one thing he wanted and couldn’t possess. I plopped back down on the bed, and closed my eyes. Why now? I questioned myself.
My shoddy background, as his parents put it, would have definitely hampered any chances he had at becoming the politician he aspired to be.
Emerson worked as an attorney when we met and knew he would become one since he was a child when his father told him he would enter politics. He went to private schools and attended Morehouse, his father and grandfather's alma mater, then obtained his juris doctorate from Harvard. His parents groomed him for that career path since birth which left them wondering how I managed to “trap” their precious son.
I rolled over, stuck my hand under the pillow and retrieved my phone. I tried to call Tory to tell her he called, but she didn’t answer. She’s the only person I could talk to about him.
I jumped off the bed again, cell phone in hand, but this time I headed to the bathroom.
I probably should have heard him out since we hadn’t spoken in such a long time, I thought while sitting on the cold porcelain seat. Just as I stepped back into my bedroom, the phone rang. Thinking Tory was returning my call, I answered it without looking at the display.
“Chyne. Please. Just hear me out.” Emerson again.
“Why now, Emerson? Why, after all these years, you want to talk?”
“My life is about to change drastically. I need to see my daughter-”
“She’s not your daughter? You don’t have a daughter.” I didn’t like his vagueness. “How will I explain you to her? You wanted us out of your life and paid for us to leave. I’ve done that! So, why are you bothering me now? I’ve finally moved on.”
“There’s something we need to talk about. Besides, just so you know, I think about the two of you every day. Wondering how she looks, talks, walks. All of that. I just want to put my mind at ease. To see her at least once in my life.”
“No.” I wanted him to feel the rejection I felt, even though I really wanted to say yes and sprint into his arms.
“Chyne, please.”
“I can’t right now,” I said.
“Well, her
e, take my number and think about it. Call this number in your phone should you change your mind. I really need to talk, soon. Hope you’ll consider it. Peace.” He faded.
Who is he to think he can just crawl back into our lives?
So many thoughts flooded my mind. I thought about what it would’ve been like had we married. Then again, I didn’t know if I could’ve adjusted to his prescribed elitist lifestyle.
“I ain’t gone let Emerson knock me off my square,” I said out loud.
Since the weather seemed to be the only thing pleasant about that morning, I sat out on the deck and ate my breakfast. scrambled a couple of eggs, toasted a piece of bread, and made a cup of coffee. It went with my mood.
I spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing, trying to clear my brain. But it didn’t work. As I sat on my sofa, it began to sink in that the sole decision to be a stripper had more impact on my life than I’d ever imagined. Yes, I acquired the money and the material trappings, making it appear as if I had done well for myself. But, where is the accomplishment in it all? Tory’s thoughts weighed on me. And I realized, even though I hated to admit it, some of her words rang truth. I didn’t give the “real world” a chance. As a result, I didn’t have my man. I didn’t have any close girlfriends except her. Because I became so guarded, I found it difficult to allow people the opportunity to know me. To really know me.
There were a number of dancers I liked over the years but couldn’t really call them true friends, and I treated them more like acquaintances. As co-workers, we were each other’s competition first and foremost. That didn’t allow too much room for the intimate bonding needed to build a solid, trustworthy relationship.
When comparing my life to Tory’s, I realized I didn’t have much going on. I live in virtual seclusion. That forced me to closely examine myself, as if I peered from behind someone else’s eyes. And I found it to appear dark and perverted.
I began to rub my hands across the arm of the sofa. On top of being unable to shake the thoughts of the murder, I started to feel unhappy, incomplete. Attempting to dismiss the thoughts from my head, I wandered to the back door and stepped outside. The sun beamed. The fresh air and the flowers in my garden made me feel a little better. I stepped back into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of lemonade and headed out to my hammock.
I placed the drink on the small table positioned aside the tree, climbed in and I closed my eyes. I wondered about heaven and if Malibu had entered those pearly gates. I thought about my mother and grandparents being reunited, if such a thing even existed. While Buddhism was my grandmother’s religion of choice, I never knew my mother to subscribe to a faith. Ms. Anna, on the other hand, came to believe in the teachings of Jesus Christ later in her life so she introduced me to Christianity. It seemed somewhat confusing to me. The notion of God and Jesus being these loving and forgiving deities sat well, really well. I just didn’t see too many of the followers who both possessed and demonstrated the two qualities.
My daughter’s grandparents professed to be devout Christians, held leadership positions within their church, yet they denied their own flesh and blood because of her mother’s background.
I didn’t see love or forgiveness in that at all.
For this reason, I sacrificed being with my daughter every day to send her to one of the best schools in the country. I didn’t want her to ever have to do what her grandmother, Ms. Anna, or I did to survive. I didn’t even want her to know the option existed. I wanted her to be able to take full advantage of any and every opportunity afforded to her. In the midst of exploring my emotions, I felt a desire to see my baby.
Maybe I should book a flight to Cleveland.
I took in a breath. The end of the school year was rapidly approaching, and she would come to me for summer break soon. I could wait until then. Besides, I figured I needed the time to get myself together.
I went back into the house and looked around. It looked fairly clean, but I pulled out the feather duster and went to work. I decided to clean out my storage space to find a place to put all the stuff my daughter bring home with her. All at once, energy consumed me so I decided to work out. That’ll help to relieve this stress.
I put on some Spandex gear and hopped on the Stairmaster. Working up a sweat, I remembered I hadn’t worked on my book since the murder.
As I put the machine on Cool Down, I remembered how I started to heal from the rejection.
I really needed to get back to it for that reason. The murder had distracted me. I wrote about my relationship with Emerson. I never intended on publishing it because, along with signing my daughter’s last name away, I’d also sign a confidentially agreement. They made me swear to secrecy. The agreement clearly stipulated I must refrain from making private or public statements, including publishing a book or making a film, revealing the nature of our relationship or my child’s paternity. Maybe someone will publish it after I’m dead.
I finished my workout and headed straight to my computer.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I stared at the words on the screen. My life’s story. I scrolled to the part where I’d met Emerson. I had just started writing it.
We were at her friend’s party. Tory noticed me alone and came over in an attempt to get me to open up a little more. As we talked, a guy stepped onto the patio. She told me all about him, how he came from a very prestigious family. She said his father was a prominent judge, and his mother was born into money. Although highly educated, she never worked a day in her life.
His father’s family, she told me, weren’t as rich financially, but made up for it in contributions to society, as they marked many firsts in historical records. They definitely yielded some power in the community. That meant nothing to me, but she had her eyes glued on him so tight that once he finished his greetings, he couldn’t help but look our way. She waved him over to us, introduced herself and extended her hand. He shook it.
“Yesss. I remember,” he said. “How are-” He stopped mid sentence, looked me dead in the face, and stared into my eyes. My heart beat increased. I smiled.
“Oh, by the way, this is my best friend . . .” Tory said, noticing him trying to dig into me with his eyes. “What’s your name again?”
He told her, “Emerson,” while extending his hand toward mine then with such a sweet and sexy, yet firm voice said, “Emerson Jones. And it’s a pleasure to me you, Chyne.”
“Likewise,” I responded with apprehension.
He went on to compliment me but I looked at Tory, who nodded with an expression on her face that indicated I should be receptive to his advances.
I took a deep breath. Writing helped me to really understand what happened between us and chip away at the grudge toward him about it. I had been amazed at how easily the words had flowed from my head – and heart – to the page. I continued reading.
Being a stripper, I didn’t want to get too close to him. But, he called me every morning on his way into the office and it didn’t take long before we met for meals. He even took me sailing on Lake Lanier. By the time the summer came to an end, our relationship had become more serious. I wanted to tell him about my occupation, but Tory advised I take it to the grave.
“These people are serious about their reputations,” she explained. “They believe you’ll ruin everything they’ve built. It’s about lineage and legacies with them. They’re not going to understand you had to do what you had to do. Ain’t trying to hear that it’s ‘in your blood’ story. And, yes, you’re attending Emory but you’re still a stripper in their eyes.”
Foolishly, I listened. I knew he deserved to know and should hear the truth from me. At the same time, I understood the preconceived notions and perceptions of strippers mainstream people harbored. So I continued to date Emerson without any mention of my work.
I even decided to quit to work a real job.
Once school started back in August, I couldn’t go out with Emerson as much, so he asked if he could visit me. On that occasion, he ende
d up spending the night and making a sexual advance. Nervous as a stray kitten, he noticed my anxiety, and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I’m a virgin.” I told him. Believe it or not, I had danced naked for years and never actually had sex with a man. I hadn’t found one I thought worthy enough to break it as my grandmother taught to hold onto it as long as possible.
“You’re kidding me,” he said.
He smiled and started to caress my body and lick me all over, making me extremely excited and moist before he entered me. I cried like a baby, but he kissed away my tears. It hurt so, I could barely walk afterwards. That following morning, he awakened me with breakfast in bed.
“I’ve grown comfortable with you. And, in that, there are some things I need to know because I want you to be all mine,” he said. “You never talk about your family. Are your parents in Cleveland?”
“They were killed in a car accident when I was a baby. My grandmother raised me,” I responded. That marked the first time I felt self-conscious about my family.
I looked away from the screen and allowed my eyes to roam the large cases installed to cover two walls and accommodate my collection of books and magazines. I took in a breath. Rereading my words seemed harder than I would’ve imagined.
It drummed up so many hurt feeling.
I continued to read. This part was about the first time I met his family, the argument with his mother because I didn’t want to discuss my parents’ occupation, and how the evening ended with me revealing my pregnancy to him once we returned to my condo.
“No. We’re pregnant,” he corrected me then held me tight. I felt his love.
That’s where I left off.
Rereading those last paragraphs inspired me. I started to stoke the keyboard, typing furiously, the words began to flow. I punched the keys. It seemed as if I produced nearly one hundred words a minute. And, for the first time in weeks, I allowed myself to take my mind off of Malibu’s murder. I stopped typing to read some more.
About two weeks after our first encounter on Thanksgiving, I had dinner at Emerson parents’ Brookhaven home again. Like the first time, the table was set elegantly in decorations for the season and service was pinpoint.
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