Booty Call *69 (30 page)

Afterwards he just leaves, slamming the door so hard that a few pictures fall down from the wall and shatter. I remain on the floor crying, thinking nothing but suicide. Life is hard. I can’t take this shit anymore.

When it rains it pours. After my blowout with Tyrone, things ease up a little between the two of us and he apologizes for his actions. Of course I forgive him. He charms me with his gift of gab and works his sweet way into my panties to get some pussy. He gasses me up, telling me that our baby is going to be special and smart because it has his genes. He even promises me that he’ll take care of us. When I bring up Chinky, he warns me not to go there. He doesn’t want to hear that bitch’s name in his home. He says he’s going to be home more often—no more staying gone for days at a time. I want to believe him. I have to believe him for my baby’s sake.

For the next few days, there’s nothing but sweet-talking and wicked lovemaking. Tyrone says if I have a boy, he wants to name him Tyrone Junior, which I think is sweet. Then the thought comes up again:
what if it ain’t his baby?
This puts me in a depressed state. I can’t afford to have this baby be anyone else’s.

It seems like things are quickly turning to shit again. Tyrone’s been gone for three days straight, and I haven’t even gotten a phone call from him.

I am now four months pregnant. My mother will sometimes come by and spend the day with me. And both of us being pregnant helps us comfort one another. She’s due in early August, and I’m due in late August. It’s ironic, my mother and me giving birth in the same month. If things get any more ironic—and more fucked up for me—our babies will be by the same guy.

Sandra and Naja stop by to check up on me on a regular, too. Sandra usually tells me what’s going on around the way, while I stay cooped up in this apartment. I’m getting fat, and I see my beautiful shape disappearing more every day. My self confidence is dropping to an all-time low.
Don’t nobody wanna hang out with pregnant Shana,
I sometimes say to myself. I’ve gained twenty pounds in the last four months, and that’s twenty pounds too many for me. I’ve gone from one hundred and twenty pounds to one hundred and forty pounds.

Everything comes crashing down on me by the time Spring rolls around. While taking a shower, I hear a hard knock at the door; it sounds like someone is trying to knock it down. I hurriedly turn off the shower and wrap myself in a towel. I step out of the bathroom stall, dripping wet, to go answer the door. “I’m coming, wait the fuck up!” I shout, annoyed.

“Tyrone Sorbs, this is the DEA. We have a search warrant for your apartment,” a man announces through the door.

“Wh-what?” I stammer, quickly unlocking the door. Eight cops in flight vests, plain clothes and uniform storm past me and rush inside the apartment. I stand by the door soaking wet, holding onto my towel tightly, as a small puddle of water forms on the floor. “What’s going on? Do y’all have a warrant?” I angrily ask.

“Yes, we do,” a tall, slender cop says as he shows me his warrant to ransack the entire apartment. “I’m Agent Childs. We believe your boyfriend is concealing controlled substances in this apartment,” he informs me as the others go through everything and anything, making a mess everywhere. “Do you have any knowledge of his whereabouts?”

Getting emotional, I answer. “No. I have no idea where he is. That niggah comes home whenever he feels like it.”

I hear the other officers rummaging through my bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, where pots and pans are being tossed from the cabinets onto the floor. The apartment is being torn apart.

“Would you like to have a seat?” Agent Childs says.

“I would like for y’all to fuckin’ leave so I can get dressed.”

“That’s not happening. Your boyfriend’s a wanted man,” he states flatly.

I sit on the living room couch, still in my towel, as the cops continue trying to find something. For the next forty minutes or so, they go through everything from room to room. They even violate me by searching through some of my personal belongings, like bras and panties, lingerie and even my tampons. It’s a mess.

They come up with nothing. Tyrone’s not stupid; he’s been hustling for years, so he knows the game.

“Nothing?!” Agent Childs shouts, frustrated with the results.

“This place is clean,” someone answers.

Agent Childs turns to me and says, “We’d like for you to come down to the station and answer a few questions.”

“What? Muthafucka, don’t you see I’m pregnant?” I bark.

“We’re not asking you; we’re telling you,” he replies nonchalantly.
“We’ll give you ten minutes to get dressed.”

I can’t believe this shit. These muthafuckas ain’t got shit on us—or should I say, Tyrone’s ass—and yet they insist on taking me in. I get dressed, throwing on whatever I can put together, seeing that my bedroom is in complete disarray, with clothes tossed out of my closet and dresser drawers. My mattress is turned over, and the television lies on its side on the floor. These muthafuckas ain’t got any respect for people’s personal shit.

I put on a pair of blue jeans, a sweater and a pair of white Nikes, and throw my hair up in a ponytail. The cops escort me out of the apartment. It’s embarrassing; everyone is stepping out into the hallway to see what’s going on.

It’s the same way outside; a small crowd gathers around to watch me being led to one of the cars. It looks like a crime scene outside, with red and blue lights flashing from a small convoy of squad cars.

I get bombarded with questions down at the precinct and I’m given some disturbing details. I also find out that Chinky’s apartment was raided two weeks ago, and the police came up with a shitload of drugs. She’s in custody, but Tyrone’s nowhere to be found. They want her to testify against him, but she’s willing to take the rap for him. The shit they found at her place—four kilos of cocaine, three pounds of marijuana, twenty thousand in cash and a small arsenal of weapons—could have her looking at twenty-five years mandatory. They brought me here hoping I would squeal him out and inform them about anything I know that they don’t. But I know nothing.

They’ve had Tyrone under surveillance for months now, but they don’t have any real evidence to put him away for the number of years they want to. The charges they have pending against him will only allow a judge
to sentence him to three, maybe five years maximum, and the D.A wants him to get more time than that. With Chinky not cooperating, their case looks bogus. W
hat the fuck is wrong with that bitch?
If I got caught with the amount of shit they busted her with, I’d be telling it all. I’m not doing any time for any man. I don’t love a muthafucka that much. And I know Tyrone doesn’t love Chinky. If he did, then she wouldn’t be in the position she’s in right now.

After spending hours in the precinct, I just want to go home and forget about all of this. My life is really turning into shit. As I get up from my chair, a familiar face enters the room; Detective Rice comes over and greets me. “How you doing, Shana?” he asks.

“What the fuck do you want?” I say with a heavy sigh.

“Look, put the hostility somewhere else. It was only a personal greeting—nothing to do with law enforcement.”

I know he likes me, but I got this thing about cops. I don’t date them or fuck them. “I gotta go,” I say walking past him.

He grabs me by the arm. “Shana!”

I turn around and lift up my sweater, exposing my protruding stomach. “I’m fuckin’ pregnant, so just fuck off!” I chide. He lets go of my arm, and I storm out of the room crying.

I catch a cab outside the precinct, but I can’t think of anywhere to go. There’s no way I’m going back to that apartment after what the cops did to the place. And I’m not trying to go to my mother’s in the condition I’m in. Who can I see at a time like this? I think and think about it, and the answer comes to me—Jakim.

It’s funny; after all we’ve been through, I somehow now know that he’ll still accept me in his life, that he’ll still be there for me no matter what.
He was always a caring boyfriend. And he’s the only one who I think I can really find comfort in now, despite learning about him and Latish. And I’ve put that past me. I take a deep breath, dry my tears and give the cabbie Jakim’s address. I believe he still loves me…at least I pray that he does.

One thing I’ve learned from my experience with Shana is that you have to be strong, have faith and cannot let a woman destroy you. I’m hurt and devastated about her being with Tyrone. And I know I needed help the day I was about to kill myself in my car.

I’ve been praying more often, and I’ve found things to do with myself to keep busy. I’ve even started going to church—not every Sunday, but whenever possible. I talk to the pastor on a regular and he advises me. He told me that some people are meant to stay in your life, and some are meant to come and go.

I know that I can’t let a woman change me. I know I’m better than that. I’ve made my mistakes in the past, but I want to become a new and better man for myself. And my pastor says when the right time comes, the right woman will come into my life. God will take care of that. He said that sometimes men and women go looking for love in the wrong places. We
confuse lust and infatuation with love. Love should be unconditional, and love is not perfect.

I’ve stopped drinking so much. And I’ve stopped having sex a lot—especially with different women. It’s unhealthy, and after that night with Latish, I knew I was wilding out. But I thank God that Latish wasn’t pregnant. I came in her four times in one night, and when she didn’t get pregnant after that, I knew it was a sign from God telling me to leave her alone. She was very disappointed and tried encouraging me to keep getting her pregnant, but I broke it off with her for good. She was very upset, to the point where she threatened to have me fucked up. I just blew it off.

Naja and I have a very close friendship. We don’t have sex; it’s just platonic between us. She helped me out a lot through my ordeal; we go out for drinks and just talk. I need that.

I’ve even gotten involved in church activities, and I met a young man named Jamal. His friends call him Spanky. He’s a cool dude, and he has a beautiful wife named Adina. I’ve become very good friends with them.

Sometimes when Spanky and I be chilling alone, we talk about our problems and our lives. He talks to me about marriage and how he fell in love with his wife. He admitted that he wasn’t even attracted to her at first.

I told him about my ordeal with Shana and Tyrone. And he’s the only person that I’ve told how close I came to killing myself one night. We’ve really bonded.

I love myself, and I’m happy now. Gradually, I’m getting my life back in order. The pastor asked me one day if I could forgive Shana. I believe that I already have; I’m not holding any grudges or contempt for her. And I feel that she helped me open my eyes to a lot of things. It may sound strange, but I thank her for putting me through trials and tribulations,
because it’s made me a better and stronger man today. I’ve moved on, and I’m still standing. I’m no longer bent on getting revenge, because in the long run, I’d only be hurting myself. I’ve followed Naja’s advice and let it be. Shana has her life, and I have mine.

The pastor also asked me if Shana were to come back into my life, would I accept her and be able to start all over with her. I didn’t know the answer to that question, and I’m still unsure. I know I’d be nervous, scared even, because I opened my heart to her once before and it ended in pain. I almost committed suicide over Shana, so would it all be worth it a second time? It would be hard for me to trust her again, and trust is a big issue when it comes to marriage and being in a relationship with someone. I know everyone should get a second chance, but it comes with risk. We can’t predict the future. Love is not always certain, and if she were to break my heart again, what would my outcome be the next time around? I don’t know, and I’m probably too scared to find out.