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Baby Momma Saga, Part 2

Page 10

by Ni'chelle Genovese


  He pinned me back against the wall and made figure eights, grazing my bare skin with his course beard. I’d just gotten my mouth tooted up to call a time out when he decided to go all hungry wolf cub on my ass. Big growled and bit me on my side. I squealed and pinched him. It wasn’t bad, he just caught me off-guard. Before I could do more damage, his mouth made a swirling ball of heat around my nipples. I didn’t want to breathe anymore. Air in my chest would expand, drawing him closer, but eventually I’d have to let that air out. I didn’t want my skin to be any farther from his lips than it had to be. Forgetting where I was, I had one of those “throw my head back and be cute” moments. My head smacked the wall and I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping Big didn’t catch that very unsexy Kodak moment.

  “Um, was our meeting cancelled? Because, I didn’t get the message.”

  My eyes fluttered open and were met with Big’s. He gave me an irritated “get you later” stare down as he slid me gently down the wall. Standing behind him for cover I clumsily put my top back on. I didn’t hear the door open or anything.

  “Nah. My bad, T. I got sidetracked. You know how it goes. Why you ain’t hit the cell?”

  “I did, several times actually. Figured, what the hell, I’d just roll through.”

  “Shit. Um, Desivita.” Grinning, he glanced back to see if I was dressed. “Let me introduce you to my business partner.”

  I nodded at Big, but I couldn’t bring myself to look Angelo in the eyes. It was easier to talk to the floor in between us. “We already know each other, Big. That’s my fiancé, Angelo.”

  “Wait, Testa is ya man? King, the boss of Miami. Oh, fuck.” Big ran his hand over his forehead and sat down hard on the leather couch.

  I glanced at Angelo. It was like looking at a shipwreck survivor, well, a rich one anyway. He’d rolled through all right. His ass rolled right out of bed, into his wrinkled-ass man capris, Ralph Lauren button down, and them preppy boat shoes that I hated. He could have rolled through a shower and a brush first.

  “Yes, King Angelo Testa, the Boss of Miami,” Angelo snapped at Big.

  I looked down and rolled my eyes. Was he really standing here in his Carrera shades, looking like a spoiled brat, spouting his name, when he won’t nothin’ but a daddy’s boy?

  Angelo leered at me. “All I’ve done for you and you’d cheat on me?”

  “You’re mad, because I’m out here doin’ exactly what you’ve been doin’? Late nights and early mornings, huh? That’s not what the lyrics mean, Angelo, you were doing it all wrong. Climbin’ in our bed from Lord knows where for what? Some stale-ass morning dry humps. Fuck outta here with that.”

  There’s always that point in an argument when you know you’ve gone too far. The words leave your mouth and you know they should have stayed in your head. They hit the air and the other person’s ears and they’re the kind of words that change your life forever. Yeah, his dick game was wack, but I didn’t have to actually say it out loud, especially not with Big right there. I’d heard Angelo and his boys say that “get outta here” or “fuck outta here” line at least a hundred times a day. Hearing it from me was just salt and vinegar in an open wound.

  “I ain’t been doing anything, Honey, except meeting with this one”—he nodded at Big—“to go over investment business models, and then catching red eyes back and forth to Key West. I’ve been spending money planning a surprise wedding so you’d be able to walk around for a weekend without feeling like a fish in a fishbowl.” Angelo reached into his pocket and threw hotel reservations, snippets of cake pictures, and business cards onto the floor in front of me.

  He was really serious about that marriage thing. Why wouldn’t he be? You said yes to the man, in front of his daddy, and you’re wearing his ring. What the hell did you think would happen? Maybe one of us would die first and I wouldn’t have to be bothered for real. Or something like what’s happening right now would happen.

  Why couldn’t the floor have just opened up and swallowed me. His lips were drawn in a grim, thin line, as his nostrils flared angrily and tears ran down his cheeks. There wasn’t even a “sorry” I could give him, because I wasn’t sorry. I just wasn’t in love and had never been in love with him. If anything, I was sorry he’d fallen in love and had decided to go all in with me.

  Time felt as though someone had laid an hourglass on its side, stopping the sand all together. The room seemed quiet—too quiet. Waiting for Angelo to react was like watching lightning and counting the seconds waiting for the thunder. I couldn’t tell if the storm was going to move on, or just quietly building up energy.

  “Desivita?” a woman’s voice called out from the shop door.

  The muscle in Angelo’s jaw was ticking. I looked around him to see who or how someone had even seen me. Either them pills were kicking in and I was hallucinatin’, or there was an entire fucking studio of paparazzi outside. Big got up and stormed over, locking the door to keep more of them from getting in.

  “Hi, Desivita, so is it true? Are you the Angel of Death?” she asked, waiting for me to answer her dumb-ass question.

  “No, and this is not a good time for any kind of an interview. I’m sorry.” I tried to sound polite but her question rattled me to my core.

  “You made your movie debut in Revived 2 after the original producer, Albert Meekins, was found murdered by his lover who committed suicide. Sadira Nadeshce had already completed over eighty percent of the movie when you replaced her under mysterious and unexplained circumstances. There were even tweets about you trying to attack Sadira, the star of your current film on set with a metal bar during a scene with your on screen love interest.”

  I gasped and looked at Angelo, who surprisingly hadn’t stormed off yet. No way? Al and Jasper weren’t a drug deal? But, I’d never heard anything about a producer dying; no one ever made a peep about it during filming. Unless they were too scared or threatened not to talk. Fuck, Don Cerzulo, what the fuck did you start?

  The woman continued, “First there were sketchy rumors of you being spotted on the balcony and leaving the hotel of co-star Kai Nimako after his alleged “fall” from the sixteenth floor. Now, not moments after the release of Scanetti’s alleged suicide, Sadira announced via Twitter that she’s being replaced on yet another film. Her replacement in the leading role is none other than you, Desivita Dulce’. So again I ask are you the Angel of Death? Is that nefariously dark angel ring more than a fashion statement? Is America’s new ‘it girl’ killing her way into our living rooms? What kind of woman are you?”

  Angelo spoke this time without looking at me. “I’ma tell you something my pop told me. He said a woman can only be one of three things: foal, fowl, or foul. What that means is she’s either gonna be a bird, always waitin’ on you to throw her some crumbs, with no real values, flyin’ from coop to fuckin’ coop because she don’t know better; or she gonna be a fuckin’ thoroughbred, loyal ’til the day she dies. You might have to put that crop to her ass to show her who’s the boss. But, end of the day, she a winner.” His voice got scratchy and he cleared his throat. “Or she foul. Fouler than . . . fouler than the stench of a slaughterhouse, in the middle of a heat wave, with a jilted freezer, and no power.”

  With that, Angelo turned on his heel and strode out, letting in the mass of people who had been dying to hear what was being said. His insults lingered, burning my ears, weighing down the atmosphere. They always say angry words are the truest words. They just don’t say how much it’ll hurt to actually hear them. Both rings on my fingers felt heavier than usual; one was suddenly an ugly, embarrassing reminder of my fake-believe engagement.

  The other sparked my fear that Don Cerzulo Campelli was using me for something else, something big and wrong as fuck. Now that I didn’t have Angelo in my corner I had no way to predict or defend myself against him. I had to have done something, said something; maybe Angelo found the texts from Big that very first night. None of it mattered; what did matter was getting myself away from Miami and this fairy t
ale bullshit. People were yelling and snapping pictures all around me, and all I was thinking about was how long it would take me to get to my little girl.

  Chapter 12

  All of Y’all Crazy (Back in VA)

  I was sitting at the kitchen table leaving a voicemail for the office. I needed to get a few properties sold and I needed someone to start sending me listings so I could find something somewhere that felt safe. The kids were down for their afternoon nap when I heard a floorboard creak behind me.

  “Trey?” I quietly called his name before stuffing the rest of the chocolate chip cookie I was trying to enjoy in private in my mouth. I folded the bag back up as quietly as possible and slipped it back in the cabinet. These were mine and yes, I snuck and ate them. Sometimes I even hid them in my clothes and took them in the bathroom. Trey and Lataya had enough snacks to fight over. It was probably selfish of me, but I couldn’t help it. Mommy had to share everything from her bed to a cup of water, which became their cup of water after they’d put backwash in it. The only things I wanted right now were peace and quiet, and my damn cookie.

  The house actually felt like a home again. Without Momma there to clutter it up I was able to throw everything away that didn’t have a social security number on it. If we could just keep her on her meds maybe it would stay this way. I peeked in the living room; seeing nothing I went down the hall. The door to the kid’s room was cracked.

  If that boy is wandering around not answering me I am gonna wear him out. I know he heard me calling him.

  Both of the kids were still in the bed sound asleep. Poor Trey, my baby ain’t have no covers on his behind. Kissing each of their foreheads, I carefully unraveled the blankets from around Lataya. I didn’t know how that girl did it. To be so tiny, she always managed to burrito herself up, stealing every inch of the comforters and sheets. I made sure the pillows beside the bed were still stacked nice and high and left just as quietly as I went in, pulling the door closed tight behind me.

  The wind made the branches scrape wildly against the siding on the house and I tried to familiarize myself with the sound. I’d pulled my gun on that sound the first few nights when I’d heard it in the middle of the night. It reminded me of the sound I’d heard that night I was tortured.

  Counting down no longer worked when I was anxious or afraid. Not after being nearly suffocated with snakes slithering all over my neck and in between my legs. Sample a small piece of your worst nightmare, and see if it doesn’t change you. Because, in the beginning I always thought the worst that would happen was they’d kill me. I never considered all of the sick and twisted things that a person would do just out of revenge before the killing actually happened. Things that I’d have no control over if I got caught off-guard, and the thought alone made me feel frustrated, angry, and nervous.

  Making my way back toward the kitchen I choked on a scream as we collided in the hallway. Something hard and metal slammed hard into my chest and rattled loudly. I fell back, checking myself for a stab wound or blood.

  “Shiiiiiit. You can’t see where da hellllll you goin’?”

  If Wild Irish Rose, blunt smoke, and fried chicken grease could talk, it would look exactly like the little withered woman croaking up at me in the dim hallway. The voice belonged to a skeleton-thin, slightly older version of Momma White. I did a mental up, down, and sideways double take on her. This heffa was actually wearing skin-tight pleather leggings with a tube top. She was busy adjusting the tangled 1B/27 bird’s nest propped on top of her head, giving me an irritated look. If you asked me, I might’ve knocked it straight because she repositioned it into some kind of crooked craziness.

  “I’m Michelle; um, how did you get in? I mean, I didn’t hear the doorbell or anything like that. Do you have a key or something?” I asked as politely as I possibly could.

  Where the hell did I put my purse and car keys? Rah always said his auntie was a crackhead, and even Momma said she comes in here takin’ . . . Hold up, is that my toaster she’s holding?

  “Don’t need no key. Mona ain’ neva nee’ a key. Keys are why y’alls is slaves to the sys’em now. Stop believin’ in keys an’ you can go anywhere you wanna go. Like me.” She slurred all her words together as she stumbled, turned, and began walking in the complete opposite direction of the front door.

  “Where are you going, Mona?” I called after her, worried she was about to march herself through the kids’ room. The only thing in that direction was Momma’s room and the bathroom.

  Let me find out I need to hide the shower rings and soap dishes, too.

  I got up and followed to see where she was headed. She mumbled as she walked into Momma White’s room, crawling across the bed toward the open window that I knew was closed and locked.

  “Goin’ out the way I came. An’, let my Reena know I’ma see if I can borrow ’bout ten dolla’s from her damn illegal natives.”

  Her illegal natives?

  “Umm. You’re talking about the Illustration?” The fact that I even knew the right wrong name to correct Mona with almost irritated me a little.

  “Mmm hmm. An’ her toaster,” she muttered as she shimmied out the window.

  I sighed, calling down out the window after her, “Ah, that’s my toaster, Mona.”

  It wasn’t like I was expecting her to say, “Oh sorry,” and bring it back or anything. I could always buy another toaster. Guessed that’s why Momma was adamant about staying. Mona would get in somehow and someone needed to be vigilant, or “a vigilante” as Momma had put it. I could see Mona coming back with a shopping cart next time.

  “Oh. Well I’m borrowin’ yo’ toaster, honey. Tell the ’ministration to pay me for you. I mean you for me. Ah, hell ask for yourself, they parked right there on the corner,” Mona called out over her shoulder, pointing as she jogged down the street, toting my brand new toaster under her arm. She stopped at the corner next to a black Altima and I watched her tap frantically on the window. It rolled down and a woman threw out a few bills that fluttered wildly into the street. I ran to get a better look out the front door, but it sped off with the tires squealing and smoking. Mona was there and gone so fast I thought I might have imagined her.

  If Mona could get in and out, hell, anybody and they damn momma could. Lord, I needed help some kind of bad right now. Who the hell was that in the car? It had VA plates; she could have rented a car, it couldn’t have been her. Did Mona tell her anything? Who would believe Mona? That woman acted about as nutty as Momma. Nutty or fiending and willing to sell someone out . . .

  I went back to Momma’s room and closed and latched the window. When I pulled to make sure it was secure, it wouldn’t budge.

  She must’ve used something to get it open. This house, this arrangement, just wasn’t gonna work. I needed to find us all a place fast.

  * * *

  “Trey, baby, don’t slurp the noodles; you’re gettin’ sauce everywhere. And eat your toast. You asked for it, so eat it.”

  I’d made spaghetti for dinner because it was quick and easy, but with the mess the kids were making I immediately regretted it.

  “This not toast, Mommy. You put it in the stove, and toast go in the toaster. Oun’t like it,” he whined, dropping it square in the middle of the table.

  “No nost. No. no. no nost, No no no no no,” Lataya chimed in singing and banging her empty sippy cup on the table. She was all grins with spaghetti sauce all over her little cheeks and chin. I tried to get her to at least stop clanking the cup. Trey was frowning, tapping the table with his fork.

  He’d barely taken one bite out of it and was already complaining. I always made garlic bread in the oven, which he didn’t like, so I’d make him buttered toast instead. Without my damn toaster, I had to make Trey’s buttered toast the old-fashioned way.

  “Boy, it’s still butter on a piece of bread. So eat it before I butter that ass. Your sister’s eatin’ hers without a problem.”

  “Eat, eat, eat. Eat . . .” she sang, silencing herself with a
fistful of spaghetti.

  Trey dropped his fork and slumped back in his chair. “G-ma and the walls said she not my sister and when my daddy—”

  “Lord, help me,” I actually groaned out loud. This boy and all his G-ma talk; and when did he decide to shorten grandma to G-ma? I didn’t even know. I wanted to wring both her and Trey’s necks at the moment. He was saved by my phone.

  “Ms. Laurel? It’s Dr. Harrington.”

  I smiled into the phone, thankful for the distraction before I snatched Trey up from the table. I’d been secretly hoping he’d call and ask if I’d reconsidered. My nerves were still on edge from dealing with Mona and that car. An adult conversation would take my mind off things, even a brief one; it would make me feel so happy right about now. Even though I’d coached myself over and over to tell him no, I could feel the cogs spinning in my brain.

  “Yes, this is she,” I replied sweetly.

  Damn, I’d need a sitter. Maybe he’d consider a child-friendly date. No, that would be awkward. Trey would ask too many questions and Lataya would get fidgety. We wouldn’t get any kind of conversation in. I didn’t have anything to wear. We couldn’t even do happy hour anywhere because I didn’t know who to trust with the kids. Not after that car earlier. No one knew I was back in town. I could have called one of my girls from the bank. But if Honey was having me followed, they wouldn’t know what to do if confronted—

  “Your mother’s had a small stroke. She’s stable and asking for you.”

  His words sank into my ears and settled in the pit of my stomach with the rest of the gloom that seemed to be hovering over my life, and my shoulders slumped. “I’ll be right there,” I replied, disappointed and worried about Momma.

  The hospital took up the first two floors. They’d obviously had enough drama with patients self-inflicting wounds, having heart attacks, and enough seizures to require one on site, and for that I was thankful. It was also a relief not to go through half the security I went through on my last visit. I felt naked leaving my gun in car, and if I’d known it was going to be so lax I would have kept it in my purse.

 

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