Smile Like You Mean It - Tarot: Eight of Swords
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Smile Like You Mean It - Tarot: Eight of Swords
By
Jolie du Pré
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Smile Like You Mean It - Tarot: Eight of Swords
Copyright ã 2005 Jolie du Pré
Cover art and design by Martine Jardin
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2005
Look for us online at:
www.zumayapublications.com
www.extasybooks.com
Dedication:
Thanks to everyone at the Erotica Readers and Writers Association, Tina and Stefani at eXtasy Books and my darling husband.
Chapter One
Mark’s place is a shitbox. I lie on his couch, once firm with bold stripes of color, but now lumpy and dingy. Looking around, I see ashtrays full of butts and empty beer cans scattered around. It’s dark and it reeks of stale cigarette smoke, like walking into some hole-in-the-wall bar. The curtains are drawn. A hint of sunlight seeps in and I want to open them, but I don’t.
“Get up, Hope! You got work.” Mark shouts at me from inside his bedroom. Today is Tuesday. Kirby’s is closed on Monday, so Mark stayed home last night. It’s just him and me in his apartment this morning. No young stud shared his bed.
I sit up, slowly. My head feels like it’s been tortured with a hammer and I’m so nauseous that whatever is inside of me could erupt in any second. I glance at the clock. “If you’re late again, you’re out,” my manager had warned me. Now it’s 11:50 and work begins at noon. There’s no way I’m gonna make it.
My eviction was five months ago. I only had half the rent and the owner didn't want to deal with me anymore, put all my shit on the street. Mark needed a roommate, so I begged him to take me in. He agreed as long as I helped with the rent. Now I owe him money. I’m fuckin’ up.
“Come on; move your ass!”
“Yeah, okay, getting dressed.”
My uniform lies where I left it, in a pile in the corner. The marinara that splattered on my apron is still there. My manager would bitch if she saw it. No matter, I have no time.
I squint when I walk outside into the sunlight. Fourteen tries and my car finally starts. A stupid engine I have no money to fix. Five after twelve and I make up excuses.
As I drive, I see Lonell walking down the street. I pull over and honk my horn. He stops, looks at me and smiles. Black skin, deadly handsome, tattoos up and down each arm, and only twenty-two, with a rap sheet a mile long.
I roll down the window. “You got something? I’m dying.”
“Yeah, some real good shit, but I ain’t got it wit’ me. It’s at the crib.”
“Fuck!”
“Calm down, baby. It ain’t far. Let’s go.”
“I can’t. I got work.” I look at the clock. Twelve-fifteen, what was the point? “Okay, get in.”
I needed it and I got dizzy thinking about it. We turn the corner, drive over railroad tracks and past store fronts. Traffic turns congested and music blares out of car radios as we speed by. Dark faces, unemployed, roam the sidewalks. Lonell lives in a brownstone that has been divided into rooming houses. When it was built, it was cool, but it’s a pit now. We park the car. People sit on the stairs and he talks to them. Inside, loud music and more people, some on chairs or the couch, others on the floor. Every time I come to his apartment, Lonell is never alone.
“Come on, girl. It’s in here.”
We’re in his bedroom, door closed. Lonell heads for his VCR, pushes open the flap, reaches in and pulls it out. Like a sledgehammer, my heart pounds in my chest.
“Yeah,” he says, “this some good shit!”
Lonell lights the pipe and I smoke it. Straight to my brain, the smell of scorched metal fills the room. I smile at him, lit. I want him to join me, but he won’t. “I sell the shit, but I don’t fuck wit’ it,” he always says.
I kiss him. His large soft lips cover mine. I’m one of his white girls and I don’t know how many he has. Blocking out the thought, I kiss him harder, pressing my body against his.
His tongue is in my mouth and his hands are on my tits. I reach down and grab his crotch. His large dick is already hard against my hand.
“Get on the bed,” he says, and I do.
He pulls my work shirt off, followed by my bra. Then he puts his mouth on my breast. My hands cradle his bald head as I watch him roll his tongue over my nipple.
Just as he’s about to take off my pants, there’s a knock on the door, a deep voice. “Hey, Lonell?”
“What you need, man? I’m busy.”
“We need to talk, dog.”
“Damn! Wait here, baby,” he says to me. “I’ll be back.”
I lay on his bed topless, staring at the ceiling. Soon, in my haze, I fall asleep.
* * * *
Mark is in his living room when I return in the early evening.
“Where ya been?” he asks.
“Ah…work.”
“You weren’t at work. I called. Now your ass is fired.”
I knew that.
“I need someone who’ll pay me my fucking money. You gotta go. Tommy’s coming tomorrow.”
“Tommy? Come on, Mark! I need a place to crash. I’ll work it out.”
“You had your chance. Forget about the money. Just pack your shit and leave. I want you out in the morning.” Mark walks into his bedroom and slams the door, leaving me alone in the living room.
He’s right. I did have my chance.
Tears well up in my eyes as I change my clothes and throw the few things that I own into a bag. Mark drinks like a fish and snorts coke, but somehow he holds it together. He has a job, and he pays the rent on his apartment even without money from me. I don’t try to change his mind. With nine dollars and eighty cents in my pocket, all the money to my name, I get in my car and drive.
Chapter Two
Oak Lawn is a lily-white community with perfect lawns. Jean, my sister, has lived there for ten years. Her husband, a fire fighter, treats her like a queen, and he adores their only child, a daughter, Michelle.
I haven’t seen Jean in three years, not since she kicked me out. I don’t know what brought me back to her home, but that’s where I end up. I park my car on the street, embarrassed. This neighborhood’s got brand new SUVs and mini vans, not junky cars that are ten years old.
I ring the bell.
“It’s Hope!” Little Michelle answers the door, but she’s not so little now. Only three the last time I saw her, yet she still remembers me. I fight back tears.
“Go back and finish your dinner.” It’s Jean, staring me in the face. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh, hi. Can I come in?”
She gets right to the point. “You can’t stay here. You know I don’t allow drugs in my home.”
“Jean, please, can’t I just talk to you?”
“Please, Jean?”
She stares at me for what seems like an eternity. “All right, come in. But just for a minute.”
I take a seat. The house is picture perfect, clean and nicely decorated. It feels good to be in it.
Michelle walks up to me and hangs onto my leg. “Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”
I can’t stop the tears now. Michelle is this beautiful, smart little girl whose life I had missed.
Jean is not fazed. She takes a seat in the chair across from me. “Leave your aunt alone. She’s tired. Did you finish your dinner? Go finish your dinner.”
As soon as Michelle is out of the room, Jean looks me up and down. “Are you on drugs?”
I wipe the tears from my eyes. “What? No.”
“Look at you. You’re way too skinny. When did you eat last?”
It had been two days since I ate, but I didn’t want to tell her that.
“Look at those dark circles under your eyes and your hair is so stringy and greasy. You used to have such beautiful blond hair. You’re on drugs. Don’t lie to me.”
“Jean, you don’t understand…”
“No, you don’t understand. Are you working?”
I say nothing, unable to tell another lie.
“Of course not,” Jean sighs. “Hope, we’ve been through this before, remember? I’ve made a nice home here and you’re not going to ruin it. We tried to help you. We really did. You were okay for a while. But then you went right back to the drugs. Jesus, I heard you even got arrested.”
“Yeah, went back to rehab, got myself a place and a job.”
“So, you’re clean?” she smirks. “So what’s the problem? Why are you here?”
“Jean, please. I lost my job and I don’t have a place to stay. I need help, Jean.”
“Are you using again?”
I look at her, but I don’t speak.
“Answer me!” she screams.
“Yeah,” I say softly, “yeah.”
Jean gets up, walks to her front door and opens it. “Then I can’t help you. Please leave. I don’t want to see you here again.”
* * * *
Back in my car I break down, bawling like a baby. I’m weak. It’s pulling at me and I can’t ignore it.
I’m low on gas. Knowing I’ll never make it, I stop at a station and put five dollars’ worth into my tank. Then I return to the city, to Lonell.
* * * *
It’s dusk and faintly light when I arrive at the brownstone. Police cars and people surround it. Behind tape I see Lonell, lying on the ground, dead. I’m frozen.
“What happened?” a woman asks.
“They shot his ass when he was comin’ in,” a man replies.
I stumble along the sidewalk, losing focus. Darrell sees me walking and comes up to me, along with one of his homies.
“Hey, Hope. Vice Lords been chasin’ that muthafucka for a while, baby. You all right? What you need?”
“You know damn well what I need!” I scream. “All I have is four dollars and some change, man. That’s all I got.”
“It’s cool, baby! I’ll let you slide this time.”
He hands me the rock and I grab it out of his hand. My pipe’s in my car. I head for it.
“Yo!” Darrell calls to me. “I got some Remy back at the house. You want some?”
I turn to look at him, “Fuck off!” I say.
I hear him talk to his boy as I leave. “That’s one a Lonell’s crack hos, dog. Fuck that hype.”
* * * *
My head is spinning and I can’t get my car started. So I walk away from the cops surrounding the brownstone. But I’m a strung-out white girl in the hood, and soon a police car pulls up beside me.
“What? What did I do?” I ask.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m walking, can’t I walk?” I reach into my pocket and put my hand on the rock and the pipe. It’s too late to hide it or throw it away. I just wanna smoke, right there in front of them, and put myself out of my misery.
“Put your hands against the car.” The cop is behind me, patting me down, searching my pockets.
Handcuffs are on and I’m in the car, headed back to jail. I lean the back of my head against the seat. Lonell’s dead, just the way I wish I was.
* * * *
Cook County, what can I say? I sit here going insane. Jail is no place for an addict. I’m sick. I wanna pound the walls and pull my hair out ‘cause I need it, but I can’t get it.
Shelia’s my cellmate. She’s in here ‘cause she forged some checks. I just wanna smack her face in because she cries all damn day. I think she misses her kids, but I can’t stand the noises she makes.
Dinner is in an hour. I don’t even want it. The food tastes like it’s been sitting around for days. I don’t eat enough, so I’m constipated, which is fine ‘cause you can’t take a shit in private anyway.
I got no money for bail or a lawyer, so I sit and wait for my court date. Here for three fuckin’ weeks until it comes.
I don’t leave my cell much. I just keep to myself and watch my ass in case someone tries to fuck with me.
Chapter Three
I got out two months ago, and now I’m living in a shelter. Been drug free since jail, and I’m completing the court rehabilitation program. I owe it to my lawyer, Karen. Public defenders don’t give a shit. They're overworked and underpaid. But she turned out not to be as bad as I thought. She’s the one who told me about Cary House. It’s all women, no men. I guess that’s kinda nice. I’ve met some cool people here, like Chris, my drug counselor.
We’re sitting in her office. She has a stress ball that she lets me grip. Kinda stupid, but it works. Today I don't feel like squeezing it, so I throw it up in the air and catch it.
“Nice catch!” Chris says. “You’re looking good. How many pounds have you gained?”
“I don’t know, ‘bout fifteen. I’m turning into a cow, right?”
She laughs. “No, you look good. You’re healthy.”
“I feel pretty good. Been thinking about Lonell, though. What’s that on your desk?”
“Oh, these are Tarot cards. A friend of mine gave them to me.”
“What are Tarot cards?”
“Well…one thing they’re used for is to examine a person’s life.”
“Looks like some new age shit.”
She laughs. “I’m not a reader, but they’re of interest to me. This one is the Eight of Swords. I’ve been thinking about your situation in relation to it. Look at the card. The woman is in a blindfold, wrapped in a rope and surrounded by swords. She looks like she’s trapped, but she really isn’t, because in reality she could free herself. She could escape the situation if she put her mind to it. Hope, you have the power to leave the track you’ve been on, and what’s so wonderful is that you’re doing that right now. You’ve made a lot of progress here at Cary House.”
“Yeah, I guess I have.”
“You know that we’re completely committed to helping you stay on your feet, and I’m always here for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Anytime.”
I look at her and I want to hug her, but I don't. So I stare at the floor, steady, like an anchor. It's safer that way. I feel like I want to trust her, but not completely yet.
“Hey, smile for me,” she says.
I look at her and I try to smile, but I hate feeling dorky. I'd rather smile when I feel like it.
“Smile like you mean it.”
She makes me laugh when she says stuff like that, and I guess she really does care. I relax; my smile big.
* * * *
Amber’s another reason I like Cary. She’s been here about eight months. Her parents are loaded, so she’s a rich chick, but she was a heroin addict, started when she was fifteen. Her folks blew her off for seven years, but now they’re talking to her
again. She’s been to jail and lived on the street before she came here. Fucked a lot of guys for money.
“When do you start your new job?” Amber asks me. We’re sitting in the lounge. They’ve made it nice for us, comfortable chairs and stuff to read. We all pitch in to keep it clean. Amber is carrying a sketchbook. It’s with her all the time.
“In two days. This time I’m not gonna mess up.”
“No, I won’t let you. What restaurant is it again?”
“Arnie’s.”
“Yeah, I like working at the art store. My parents are looking into a studio for me. They’ve got some nice ones on the North Side. Hey, I’d like to show you my latest sketch? It’s you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, I drew you.”
I look at the sketch. It’s me. It looks exactly like me, but I’m naked. She got everything right--my tits, my bush. “This is really good, but where are my clothes?” I try to joke, but suddenly my insides are burning. It all feels so weird.
“You look like that, don’t you?” She looks into my face, but I quickly look away.
“I think it’s time for dinner,” I say. “We should go.”
“Okay, let’s go,” she says, closing her book and jumping out of her seat. “I don’t want to miss the mushy beans!”
She walks ahead of me and I watch her leave. I‘ve never had a girl draw me naked before and now my mind is kind of messed up by it. She’s healthy now, kicked her habit. Sometimes she draws, under the sunlight, by a window, the rays on her long red hair.
Truth is, I think Amber is beautiful. But I’ve never told her that.
Chapter Four
Amber invites me to her art show. It’s outdoors; the sun is shining. I look at her work. Young women and men drawn in charcoal. It’s good. Behind a tree, she stands away from the others and motions for me to come over to her.