The Blackbirds (16 page)

Ten minutes later, as Hakeem snored, Destiny sat up on the edge of the bed, on the new mattress, on the mattress she had loaned Hakeem the money to buy, on the mattress she had christened with Hakeem and broken in. She was frustrated, wanted to cry. The things she had done along the way, the way she had made time for him, when the moment came, she hoped the jury would take those things into consideration. She wished she existed on the other side of this lie. She pulled on her clothing—her motorcycle boots, her leather
DO UNTO OTHERS
jacket, and felt overwhelmingly troubled. She had wanted to tell Hakeem then, after intimacy, when emotions were the strongest, when emotions were also the weakest. If he had been awake, he would have seen her troubled face. The lie of being Kismet had made what could be beautiful become uncomfortable. He loved Kismet Kellogg. She whispered his name, shook his arm.

He was in his twelfth dream.

Sounds of rugged intimacy started again, resounding from feet away in the living room. Destiny cursed. It never ended. Nancy once again was being Eddied like getting Eddied was going out of style.

Destiny needed to leave. It was time for Kismet to creep out the door and allow Destiny to yawn back to life. Three jobs, USC, studying, her dad, her mom, the Blackbirds, Kwanzaa's upcoming birthday, her own needs, too many obligations danced in her brain.

Now Destiny had committed to a relationship using half-truths and a false name.

Hakeem wanted to meet her friends and family. That meant he wanted to see her world, see if she really fit into his life. That meant he wanted to introduce her to the rest of his world.

It was too much—inevitable, but too much. Stress rose and erased all calm brought by orgasm. She pulled her sisterlocks into a low ponytail, then put her black stocking cap on top of her crown. She stepped out of the bedroom, helmet in hand, leather gloves tucked inside the helmet, and tiptoed through the sweet profanity and soft moans coming from Nancy and Eddie.

Eddie was Eddying Nancy real good, had her humming and coming and making strained faces, then the man who spoke softly and carried a big dick looked up. Destiny had hoped Kendrick Lamar's explicit rap would cover her exit, the same way it had covered her entrance.

Eddie panted, took a breath, smiled, and said, “Kismet.”

“Sorry to disturb you again. I'm on the way out.”

Eddie caught his breath and said, “Hang around for a few hours. We were going to breakfast in the morning. Nancy is driving down to El Segundo to the Point so we can eat at True Food Kitchen.”

“Nancy, Eddie, enjoy your morning. I'm out.”

Nancy said, “You do look real familiar, Kismet. I swear I've seen you before.”

Eddie said, “She's been yapping about that all evening. Been saying it for weeks.”

“I think she used to be a child actress. I know I've seen her on television. Or in a movie.”

“Damn, Nancy. I love when you move your sweet little ass like that.”

“Twerking it for you, baby. Twerking it just for you.”

“Don't stop the twerk. Twerk it until it hurts.”

“All the way in, Eddie. Push that anaconda all the way in.”

“Like that, baby? You like it when I do that?”

“You're going to make me come like Kismet was coming for Hakeem.”

Eddie continued Eddying Nancy. As he screwed Nancy, he threw down the lyrics, rapped along with Kendrick Lamar, word for word.

This disgusting lifestyle would change when Destiny moved in.

This would change.

Destiny averted her eyes, tripped over Nancy's trembling legs, stumbled over Eddie's aggressive thrusts, said good night, heard moaned responses, then she left Hakeem's condo.

As she walked away, she heard Eddie call out to Nancy,
“Chug, chug, chug, chug, chug.”

At the same time, Destiny's phone buzzed. She read the text message.

Destiny cursed, ran down the stairs, sprinting to her motorcycle.

Indigo was in Olamilekan's bed, naked, aroused, tipsy from celebrating, wanted him inside, but she stiffened, tightened her thighs, and stopped Olamilekan before he could put it in.

That sound. That irritating sound. That ringtone of love intruded.

She snapped,
“Get off of me.”

“What's the problem?”

“Are you deaf? Can you not hear?
Get off me.”

He complied.

She rolled away from him, sucking her teeth, enraged.

He asked, “What is the problem, Indigo? Why did you stop?”

“Are you deaf? Your phone is ringing and ringing and ringing and that is driving me mad.”

“Let me put it on silent.”

“
That is not the issue, Olamilekan
. Why is the witch calling you at this hour? What could she possibly want from you?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“The girl who thinks she is your girlfriend is calling your cell phone, is calling your house phone, is blowing up all of your phones.
Talk to her.
Tell her to never call you again.”

Olamilekan didn't comply.

Indigo stood and stormed into the bathroom, slammed the door behind her.

She sent text messages to the Blackbirds.

Then the doorbell rang. The doorbell rang as the house phone rang.

The stupid girl had arrived to challenge her. That meant war. Indigo grabbed a white satin robe and headed toward the staircase. Still naked, Olamilekan tried to stop her, but Indigo fought past him, left the second-floor master suite, argued with Olamilekan as she battled him down the marble staircase. He kept standing in front of her, and she kept fighting, stair by stair, to get down to the main level. Once she did, phone still ringing, doorbell still ringing, she fought to get past the spacious living room with the fireplace. Indigo couldn't get by him. The estate was huge, had many doors, many entrances and exits, so she took off running in another direction, and he chased her past the great room, almost caught her, then Indigo raced through the dining area, ducked and dodged Olamilekan and made it past the remodeled kitchen, sprinted past tall beamed ceilings, past his office, ignored the way the lights glistened against the water in the Olympic-size swimming pool. Olamilekan caught her, lifted her up, said he would not let her go until she calmed down. She promised to get back to her right mind, promised to be sensible on her birthday, promised to go back upstairs and let Olamilekan handle whatever misunderstanding had arisen. When Olamilekan loosened his grip, Indigo kicked him between his legs, kicked him with her toes, not the instep, and hurt her foot. Indigo cursed him for grabbing her in such an animalistic manner, and as he crumpled, Indigo limped toward the door, her housecoat open, sweat on her brow, pain in her right foot. Olamilekan tried to crawl toward her, tried to reach out and grab her ankle, tried to stop her from making it to the goal line.

She hobbled toward Olamilekan's front door the best she could, then leaned against the wall, taking a breath, texting the Blackbirds that some real shit was about to go down in Bel Air. Indigo was the fastest thumb-texter in the West. Took her all of five angry seconds to send her group message. Phone in hand, even as she was texting, she hopped on her left foot; made it from furniture to wall to furniture.

Olamilekan made it up to his knees.

Indigo shoved her phone in her robe's pocket, had to hurry before he caught her again. She put her foot down, and kept going, limping to where Olamilekan had taken off his Timberland boots when he entered the estate.

Olamilekan made a sound like he was in agony.

Indigo hoped she had left Olamilekan with his nuts begging for morphine.

The NFL superstar was still down on his knees, in a panic, barking, forbidding Indigo to unlock his front door and let evil inside his home. But it was too late. Indigo opened the door, the large double doors made of imported wood and glass, a door that cost more than a car.

Her heart was full of anger and her hands were not empty.

Indigo faced a stunning South African woman who was as beautiful as Candice Swanepoel and Charlize Theron combined. For a man as rich and famous as Olamilekan, Indigo had expected nothing less than a top model like the one she was facing. The woman cut Indigo up and down with her eyes and commanded her to go and get Olamilekan as if she were talking to a servant. Indigo held one of Olamilekan's large Timberlands in each hand, her fingers with a firm grip on the shoelaces of each massive boot. The woman asked Indigo if she was the bitch who had called her boyfriend's phone. Without so much as one word, Indigo snarled, swung hard, and smacked the beautiful girl in the mouth with a boot. And as lips burst and teeth cracked, as the stunning, stunned girl wobbled and fell to the pavement, as Olamilekan screamed, the real fight began.

While two idiots in Beverly Hills were drag racing the streets, causing a scene and freaking out the moneyed denizens, Ericka and Kwanzaa zoomed toward a $10 million home in Bel Air, where another disruption had transpired. For the emergency, they relied on GPS to direct them to a 1.26-acre property on Stradella Road, an area with 180-degree views of the city and lined with dream estates. The headlights on Ericka's roadster revealed a suntanned girl who looked like she could have been a winner on
America's Next Top Model
running barefoot and naked down the pristine streets from a property at the back nine of Bel-Air Country Club. The top model saw Ericka's roadster and headed for them, flailing her arms and calling out for help. But when Miss Top Model realized it was two black women, and one looked like a miniature version of the one she had just met at Olamilekan's door, at least based on her complexion in the night, she backed away, started running again, but this time the wounded gazelle ran faster. Behind the beautiful girl was a trail of hair, extensions that were blowing in the breeze like tumbleweeds, or
tumbleweave.
Tumbleweave blew along with ginger hair that had been ripped from the top model's head. Behind the girl were the echoes of threats and curses, more of the former than the latter.

The trail of uprooted hair led back to a line of ripped and scattered clothing, high-end, fashion-forward, Rodeo Drive wear. Each piece of clothing cost more than a Walmart worker earned in two months. It all had been torn from Miss Top Model's body in a short-lived fight, one that had left a boot print on the left side of her face. That same trail of
mangled high fashion led back to where Indigo had stopped chasing the girl who had insulted her one time too many. The pristine area had 7,691 residences built on less than seven square miles, and if Indigo had not been winded, if she had been wearing her Nikes, she would have chased that witch past every estate until she caught her, beat her again, then dragged her naked body back to Olamilekan, dropped the coward at his feet, and told him to choose, and to choose wisely. Indigo marched back toward Olamilekan's estate, his huge six-inch Timberland boots on her bare feet, the shoestrings untied, creating a blister with each step. The loose laces flopped across her shins. She was dressed only in a silk bathrobe, the kind made for seduction, not the night air. In her hands was a thong that had belonged to the top model, the fit South African woman she had chased for a quarter of a mile.

If Miss Top Model's hair had been real, if it had not disconnected the way a gas hose at a gas station would separate if a vehicle drove away while the hose was still in the tank, Indigo would still be beating Miss Top Model toward common sense.

That fuchsia Victoria's Secret thong that had flossed the butt crack and covered the pussy smell of Miss Top Model's bottom now belonged to the victor, was Indigo's trophy.

Indigo stood in front of Olamilekan's estate, stood where she could see the glimmer of coins settled at the bottom of the fountain. She ignored the pain in her right toes, pain that was exacerbated by running in oversized boots, pain that was slowly fading. She marched back inside her quondam lover's castle, marched in like a queen, a battle queen who was sweating, breathing hard, and yet snapping her fingers and doing a Naomi Campbell strut.

Olamilekan wore joggers, nothing else, the side of his face sporting a new boot print too.

The pain in his testicles had subsided enough for him to take baby steps.

He looked at Indigo and saw Miss Top Model's thong in her dark and lovely hands.

Indigo waved that eye-patch-for-a-vagina in the air like it was her gold medal, then threw the coochie cover in Olamilekan's face, told him
to smell it, to sniff the material and know how a coward smells, to lick the string and know what a coward tastes like, if he didn't already know.

As Olamilekan opened his mouth to speak, Indigo took off a Timberland, threw it at his head, caught him in the nose. She rained curses on him. She took the other boot off and threw it at his penis. He caught it like it was a football. The ripped high-fashion clothing scattered on the ground and in the grass were all that remained of Miss Top Model.

Indigo looked behind her and saw that Ericka and Kwanzaa had arrived in a hurry.

Nothing had to be said. They knew their Blackbird too well.

They knew it was too late, but they hadn't known how too late this too late was.

Ericka got out of the car and gathered the clothing, tried to make sense of the shreds that were left, came to the conclusion that what she thought was a wide belt was a very short skirt, and the thing she thought was a bra was what was left of a blouse that was meant to cover as little as possible. Walk of Shame booty-call attire by Me So Horny and Fuck Me Now.

Kwanzaa found two battle-scarred Jimmy Choo shoes within forty yards of the estate's front door, designer shoes that now had scratched leather and broken heels, like their wearer had been caught and dragged twenty yards, kicking against the concrete and screaming about sudden hair loss. Kwanzaa handed Ericka the beat-up Choos, then collected the chic purse that was on the ground at the front door and its belongings, picked up the cell phone that had a broken screen, and handed everything to Ericka. Ericka added the shoes, purse, and other items to the pieces of mangled wardrobe she'd already tossed on the passenger seat of her red roadster.

Kwanzaa said, “Hold on. Give me that girl's phone.”

Ericka handed it to her.

Kwanzaa dropped the phone, stomped on it four times, made sure it was deceased, then picked it up, walked past a fire-red Ferrari parked like someone had pulled up at the estate in a hurry, and from there, she threw the phone's carcass. The destroyed Samsung landed in the pond
in front of the estate, sank to the bottom, disturbed the rest of hundreds of koi fish.

Ericka said, “Really, Kwanzaa? I mean really? Was that necessary?”

Kwanzaa said, “I am not giving that skank her phone so she can call 9-1-1, a lot of recessive genes with badges show up, and this time tomorrow we're all found mysteriously hanging in a jail cell like we had a secret death pact. We can't win because our skin is our sin. That nonfat ersatz can make one call, and we will feel like we've been transported back in time and are trying to do that first crossing of that bridge in Alabama during the civil rights movement. Tell me I am lying.”

Ericka nodded. “Yes, that was necessary. I don't need to see inside of Hoosegow. Still, I'm not going to leave whoever she is out there in the dark naked. She's still a woman.”

“When you find her, tell her that calling the po-po won't be a good move. Don't threaten her. Smile, be nice, listen, then tell her to think twice before she opens Pandora's box. Ask her if this is the kind of moment she wants to be broadcast on TMZ and
World Star
.”

“What are we going to do if she doesn't see it our way?”

“Tell the thot we are all best friends with
the
Destiny Jones.”

Kwanzaa stayed with Indigo, became David guarding Goliath's rage.

Ericka left, sped through the streets where the Fresh Prince had once lived to catch Miss Top Model who had dared to confront Indigo, the girl who had been beaten until she was naked. Ericka found her hiding behind bushes, broken down, busted, suffering from an ass kicking that was sure to leave her with some form of PTSD. Ericka had a first-aid kit in her trunk. It was part of the earthquake preparedness kit all Los Angelenos were supposed to have in their vehicles. She dressed the girl, gave her water, put Band-Aids and gauze on her wounds, then headed back to the mansion.