Like Slow Sweet Molasses

by Like Slow Sweet Molasses

  Darrell’s laugh irritated the atmosphere. “The city needs businesses on the cutting edge equipped with fresh new ideas to get its economy flourishing again. Black entrepreneurs can finally catch a break. Now that my place is up and running I’m just the…backer…to help others with startup costs.”

  “Do us all a favor, Darrell, and don’t create a mess while you’re here. Just because New Orleans is on her knees doesn’t mean she’s asking to get fucked.”

  “Still a gentleman, I see.” Darrell rested both arms on the roof and with a shameless, toothy grin sneered before dropping into the driver’s seat. “I’ve found the opposite to be true in my experience. Later, ya’ll.”

  They watched him jet away spraying water in his hasty departure.

  “Cra-ap!” Chance searched the upper floor windows for any sign of Angela. “Cra-ap!”

  Quantrell Robinson parked and sauntered over to pull on the door. “Are you just going to stand there shooting bullets with your eyes. He’s gone.”

  “But you and I know he’ll return.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “Yeah, man. You’ll need to watch your back.”

  Chance looked at the man who was a brother to him. “I have a visitor upstairs. Give me about five minutes then come on up.” Quantrell’s white teeth were beacons in his mahogany face. “Not that kind of a visitor.”

  His tap on the doorbell brought Angela to the windows. He beckoned her down waiting patiently for the door to open. Steering his bike inside after she cleared the way, he settled it in the corner and followed her upstairs to his living quarters. She remained in her soppy clothes, feet bare and her hair had begun to poof around her heart shaped face.

  “Something didn’t seem right to me.” She deciphered the look he gave her. “I wanted to be ready in the event you called out.”

  “I saw you at the window.”

  “I know.” She halted in the middle of the floor so abruptly he almost knocked her down, catching her close to his chest in rescue. “I have a confession.”

  “What’s that?” he queried. She hadn’t moved and his fingers tightened.

  “I snapped pictures with your camera.” She peeped over her shoulder and his gaze asked why. “Like I said, there was something about that man I didn’t trust. Also, there was a man on the roof down the street. I got him, too.” Angela marveled at how his countenance shed that dark troubled look and lit up his eyes as his roar of laughter ricocheted around the vast open spaces.

  “Excellent!” He gave her a quick kiss on her lips, lingering longer than he should have against their softness, the sensation intoxicating him like he had too many glasses of fine wine.

  “Hm-humph.” Quantrell announced his presence.

  Angela startled, relaxing a little after placing his face.

  “It’s okay. This is my brother,” Chance supplied.

  “This has got…to be…a joke.” With that, she jerked free to head towards the stairs. “They put you up to this, didn’t they?”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “You know very well who.” One foot on the first step and the so-called brother spoke.

  “He is my brother, lady.” He turned to Chance. “Aren’t you tired of this same reaction time after time? It pisses me off.”

  “You used to get a kick out of it,” Chance reminded him.

  “Well, it’s old, now.” As an explanation to Angela, “My parents became his guardian when he was a junior in high school and I was a college sophomore. He’s my brother.”

  “Angela, this is Trell.” Chance’s hands on her shoulders guided her back.

  She relented, “Pleased to meet you.”

  Quantrell wisely kept his thoughts to himself but guessed something blossomed between the two. He wondered if they knew. “Nice meeting you, too, Angela.”

  “Come with me. I’ll get the dry clothes.” Angela’s hesitant steps into his walled bedroom had him reassuring her with a smile. She hung back while he shoved his guitar aside to retrieve the sweats from the chest. “The bath is that way. I’ll be downstairs in the garage with Trell.”

  “I won’t be long,” she murmured.

  “Take your time,” he reassured.

  Now that he was out of the way, she had a good long look at his masculine space—skirting the perimeter of the bedroom, pausing to strum a chord on his guitar, while noting the wall dividing it from the living area was high but fell short of connecting to the ceiling. It framed the bathroom and held a door that also allowed entrance from the main area. Muffled voices scaled the divider, the intonations hinting at the severity of the conversation. She shut and locked both doors to the bathroom, closing herself off for a refreshing shower unknowingly enveloping herself in a cocoon of safety that would later lull her into a very talkative mood.

  Chapter Six

  Voices escalated as the discussion between Chance and Trell stretched on in duration. Chance kept straight to the back of the garage, passing to one side of his prized limited edition Cobra Mustang sitting smack dab in the middle of the floor, to jiggle a concealed latch which opened a section of wall the size of a doorway. He jumped on the assorted collection of electronic equipment ready to review the most recent data provided thanks to Angela’s foresight, which was a boon. Popping in the camera’s memory card, he made his selections and to his indescribable amazement, the clearest pictures of his sparring match with Darrell “Clik” Williams filled the screen. Mousing through each of them set the line firmer around his mouth.

  “Come see, Trell,” he called behind him.

  “H-How?” Trell stuttered. “Those were just taken.”

  “Angela.” Trell’s look posed an unspoken question. “Clik ‘aroused her suspicions’ she said.”

  They poured over the primary ones of interest trying to remain unaffected by the implications of Clik’s surprise visit.

  “She didn’t trust you, either, it seems.” Chance teased while Trell reacted to himself caught in digital format through the darkly tinted glass.

  “That Angela’s good. We need her on the team.”

  “You think that’s outstanding—check this out.” He switched to another picture. Trell’s neck telescoped for a closer look.

  “Isn’t that—?”

  “Tony Rowe, our Clandestine OPS trainee.”

  Trell agreed in a slightly perturbed manner. “That’s him alright.” Then he laughed so hard Chance thought he would bust a gut. “Good thing this was a mock mission. What are you going to do?”

  “Rip him a new asshole for one.” Turning to leave, Chance stopped at Trell’s next statement.

  “She got you good, too. Man, look at your glower.”

  “Trell, Darrell saw us arrive and mentioned her as she stood in the window.” His brother instantly sobered.

  “That’s not good.”

  “I know. At least, he doesn’t know who she is. That’s a small comfort.”

  The brothers sauntered into the garage as the panel rapidly slid to a close behind them. Each mulled over the required tactics to lessen the implicit threats of their nemesis’ pop visit.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Trell confided. “He hasn’t, and from his overt hatred of you—still, will not forget how your travels through the juvenile court systems differed from his own outcome.”

  Chance concurred. “I know. I only thought I was a bad-ass, so the promise of jail time took the crook out of me. Darrell was hardnosed and continued to ask for trouble.”

  “Bottom-line,” Trell summarized. “You’d better sprout eyes in the back of your head.” There was no segueing as he jumped to another subject, bluntly and straight to the point. “You seemed pretty involved when I entered. How intimate is your relationship with Angela?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but you know I just met the lady the other day.”

  “I could’ve sworn differently. I mean, she wasn’t exactly pushing you away.” Trell wondered if Chance was ready to leave the past in the past.


  “I see where you’re going with this. But, my profession is too dangerous, my life too complicated to add another distraction. I simply don’t have the energy.”

  “That’s not what I saw.” Chance’s ‘that’s as far as you go’ glare deterred Trell’s further questioning. “Guess I better get going.”

  “Guess you better.”

  Chance followed him to the door and knew the last discussion was not over by Quantrell’s knowing expression; just suspended. The rush of running water and her soft hum treated him to an undesired lurch in his heart as he climbed the stairs to the upper level for dry clothes. He realized it behooved him to quicken his pace or risk Angela catching him yearning for her with his hardened exterior shelled away, exposing his soft side for her to see.

  The warehouse’s smooth concrete floor curled Angela’s toes on the walk from the bathroom to the bed where he thoughtfully left a plastic bag and laid out a pair of his thick, white athletic socks. She disposed of the soggy bundle in her hands by shoving it into the sack, then stashed the sack in a corner out of the doorway in preparation to slip her feet into the oversized socks. Doing so was no easy task for her balance was still off-kilter when she leaned. She felt it prudent not to sit on the side of his bed, in the event he came to monitor her progress, choosing to take the socks into the living area for propriety’s sake.

  Chance was out-of-sight but hardly out-of-mind as she heard him tinkering on the floor below. She’d already pried and poked into things that were none of her business, disturbing his privacy as she waited on him, to satisfy a haunting interest. From her observations, there were no feminine items nonchalantly lying around. Angela relaxed a bit speculating there’d be no surprise interruptions or unwarranted accusations of why she occupied not only his home but also his clothing.

  Making herself comfortable was as simple as lounging on the primary seating in that part of the room, a supple leather couch in the most amazing color of what she would call inferno red. He watched the big screen television anchored on the brick wall from that focal point. The angle of the furniture let the occupants snoop in on what happened in the kitchen, around the bank of windows with their unobstructed view, as well as keep an eye on the circular stairway entry. Not far from the sofa was an ottoman that if pulled into position actually turned that section of the seat into a space comparable to a twin bed.

  The jack-in-the -beanstalk-sized ottoman, alternatively, became her perch. Dry clothes improved her disposition though no matter how hard she scrubbed in the shower the melancholy feeling remained intact. Her head rested on knees drawn up to her chest, giving notice of her injury. Closer inspection revealed prominent brush burns that cracked the skin there, pulling apart the tears with every move. She blew and fanned the spot, bent on lessening the burning. There was nothing to do as the ache throbbed except tuck her legs under her chin to wait for the discomfort to dissolve.

  Chance stood riveted in place at the top of the stairs enjoying the view before him. She huddled, ignorant of the wholesome beauty in her pose. He sopped up as much of her loveliness as humanly possible through osmosis, filling himself like a thirsty sponge, teetering on the realm of reality. What did he think he was doing? The intentional noise made by the scraping of his heels on the stairs garnered her attention. Luminous gold-brown eyes ran the length of his body causing an electrifying current to travel across the distance. They shared the moment in reverent silence with him passing her to enter the bathroom.

  “Lee and Connie want you to call home.” Salve and bandages shared space in one of his large hands. He sat on the couch, spun the ottoman so that she faced him and gently probed the exposed affected area to gauge the soreness.

  She flinched.

  Angela’s insides quivered as she let him smear the ointment across the abrasions on her knee. The bandage applied covered the kneecap and adhered when he tested his work by holding her at the bend of her knee to flex the appendage. His fingertips went on to smooth her arms below the elbow and both palms. Her eyes welled, a condition she hoped to avoid by mind-traveling to another space and time. His warm, calloused fingers abbreviated her trip when he massaged her skin. Knowing him for all of two days imposed the fact that she trusted him wholly after such a short acquaintance.

  Chance experienced a giddy withdrawal from the loss of contact after releasing her leg. This seemed the proper time to enact a self-imposed exile from her magnetizing charisma. The phone was within reach prompting him to spur her into the act of making the dreaded phone call. “They’re waiting,” he urged.

  Angela sat like a statue. Miraculously, her business card appeared, the one she handed the policewoman on her initial visit to his office. Her eyes sparked as he dialed the number and suggestively shook the phone at her.

  “Hello. Hello? Cookie?”

  She snatched the phone all the while slinging daggers with her eyes. “Yes, Daddy, it’s me. I’m fine. I’ll be home soon.” She listened. “Before dark? I’m not an adolescent. I’ll be there when I get there.” The phone hit the ottoman. She hit the floor flouncing over to the kitchen table.

  “You’re being a little hard on them, aren’t you?” he ventured.

  “How much did Daddy tell you, Chance,” she asked, “about my circumstances?”

  “Honestly, Angela, nothing. I’m picking up bits and pieces and guessing at the rest.” That was partly true in that the bits and pieces gleaned were from the conversation overheard right under her bedroom window as he prepared the grill. At times, their distressed voices broke through to the outside.

  Chance ambled into the kitchen intending to rustle up a couple of sandwiches, putting the peanut butter, jelly and bread on the table. He wasn’t a great cook but held his own as far as bachelor meals were concerned. He hadn’t shopped in days and offered what he had available. Mismatched plates clanked in one hand as the other secured the milk carton and two glasses. The butter knife was the final item to the party.

  Continuing, he asked, “Want to talk about it?”

  “Nothing to tell. I’m a bastard baby, that’s all.” A crimson stain flushed upwards indicating it started from her toes.

  Her admission floored him.

  “My father is a bastard who treated my mom like a rug and loved his children like a drug addict loved getting busted. I don’t consider that a reflection on me.” He began slapping peanut butter on slices of wheat bread using the same knife to dip the jelly.

  “Not the same thing I can assure you.” Watching him fix the first sandwich, she stopped him before he moved on to the next. “Nothing for me. Thanks.”

  He saw the little wrinkle on the bridge of her nose. “Don’t eat peanut butter?”

  “Can’t eat peanut butter. Deathly allergic.”

  “Oh. How about a jelly sandwich, then?” Chance’s big bite lopped his sandwich in half.

  “Can’t.” Beating him to the punch, she explained, “You put the peanut butter knife in the jelly. Any peanut residue can send my body into anaphylactic shock.”

  Chance opened an overhead cabinet to remove a fresh jar of apple jelly and plopped down a clean knife for her use. Angela dug in with relish, rewarding him with a semi-smile. “All these years,” she licked at the jelly off her fingers, “and I never suspected a thing.”

  “Was love from your parents ever a question for you?”

  “No. Never.”

  “So, you admit you had the love of a mother and father throughout your entire life. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  He loved the way she nibbled her sandwich while contemplating her answers to his questions. “Then why let the knowledge that your biological father is other than the father who loves, raised and protected you, blind you to that fact?”

  “Stop interrogating me!” She leapt up from the table, her sandwich a memory. Only his hand locked around her wrist brushing her lightly against the chair. He didn’t let her go, apologizing softly for his actions.

  “My family life blew to
pieces when my father walked out on us and Mom decided to return to her hometown in another state. I’d taken a wrong turn with the law during my early high school years putting me in contact with Freddy Robinson, Quantrell’s father. He took pity on me, prodding me to stay in school, inviting me over to spend time with his family. Said he saw potential that I was ‘blowing out my ass’.” Chance paused to see her reaction. She looked speechless. “The Robinsons welcomed me into their home. At first, Trell and Chanté weren’t too happy with that development.”

  “Chanté?”

  “The Robinson’s daughter. My sister.”

  “They came around, I suppose.” Then answering her own question, “He said as much today, didn’t he, calling you brother.”

  “My point is—love comes in many colors, Angela. I’ll always be grateful that I wasn’t cast aside because of the color of my skin.”

  “My biological father is white,” she blurted. He didn’t look surprised. “You’ve surmised that already, haven’t you?”

  “Your aversion to white people clued me in. I suspected the moment you said your father wasn’t your father. The puzzle pieces just fell into place.” His fingers unlocked at her insistent jerk.

  “You want to know all the sordid details of why there’s no love lost between me and people like you?” She rattled on recklessly, panting hard and hardly seeing him in front of her.

  “Take it easy, Angela.” He was there, prepared and ready to catch the fallout of her traumatic episode.

  “Six months into our marriage, three months into our pregnancy, I thought the world rotated on golden axis. I’d never been happier. Living the American dream. In love with and loved by a wonderful man.” Angela marched away from him to stand at the window, shaking badly enough to cause her voice to tremble as she carried on with her tale. “Or so I thought. Long story short, he loved me as long as I was in sight.”

  “Another woman?” She jumped apparently unaware he’d made his way to her. The back of her hands served to swipe the tears from her eyes. “A white woman?”