The Blackbirds (18 page)

A moment ago, Yaba the Laker had called while Indigo was in the throes of passion, had called during the hours of restlessness, jump-offs, and booty calls, had called while he was parked outside the gate. He was in his Range Rover, had seen Olamilekan's luxury car.

Now Olamilekan was the one upset; he was the one with Indigo's cell phone yelling at his rival and making threats because now he had found out that Yaba the Laker had been to the birthday party, and that Indigo had swam with him. Yaba blew his horn over and over.

Indigo snapped, “At least no one is at my door in the middle of the night.”

“What is that
mumu
, that idiot, that imbecilic imbecile man doing here at this hour?”

“Because I called Yaba and told him what you had done to me on my birthday
.”

“Why would you call Yaba? You are still seeing him. You are his lover. I know you are.”

“May God set you ablaze. I am not his lover. Yaba and I are friends. He does not get in my bed and I don't care who is in his, not anymore. No man has touched me since you.”

“Is he better in bed? Does he make you moan the way I make you moan?”

“I moan when I have cramps. I moan when I stub my toe. I moan when I am constipated, and I moan when I take a shit. So what, I moan? Every moan is not a good moan. I moan with you. Maybe I moaned better with Yaba. Maybe he made me moan from my heart and not from boredom.
Don't think you have done something special. Now move, move so I can go see what Yaba wants. He is my friend. At least he feels my pain and apologizes for breaking my heart.
You have no shame
. You lie and believe your own pathetic fabrications as if they are the truth. Move out of my way. Move away from me, Olamilekan. Move or I will kick you in your pathetic dick harder than I did before.”

“Are you really going to him?”

“I am going to him the same way you went after that South African whore.”

“If you go out there and go to his car, if you go to Yaba, you will never see me again.”

“I know you will leave. The problem is you come back. You will be back tomorrow. Or I will run back to you. Maybe one of us needs to leave and not answer when the other calls.”

“Is that what you want? Tell me never to call you and your wish will come true.”

“No.
Tell me what you want from me
. I can't keep doing this, Olamilekan. I love you with all of my heart, more than I ever loved Yaba, but I can't keep doing this over and over.”

“After all I have done for you on your birthday, this is the gratitude you have?”

“Did you not hear a word I just said? Are you deaf? Get your head out of your ass.”

“Yaba is here because he senses you are weak and wants to take advantage of you.”

“The same as you always do? You are afraid Yaba is a real man and loves me more.”

“Did he come to have sex with you on your birthday?”

“My birthday was yesterday, and
you missed most of it
. You failed to call me at my moment, but Yaba did not fail to call me and wish me happy birthday. He cared. You didn't.”

“Did you have sex with Yaba when he was here yesterday? Is he back for more?”

“I did not have to have sex with Yaba yesterday for him to know I'm sweet like tangerine. He knew before you. This was his, but not any
longer. Because he cheated. Now answer me this, Olamilekan. Did you have sex with the South African woman who answered your phone?”

“No woman answered my phone. I lost my phone. You see I have a new phone.”

“You will give one of those girls, one of your groupies, the belly, but it will not be me.”

“There is no other woman. You are the woman I want to marry, and you know that.”

“When will you ask? You say words. You make promises. But there is not a ring sparkling on my finger. Until there is, you have no say as to who comes to my gate, and for whom I open my gate is not your concern. You will not continue to lie and drag me to the middle of nowhere.”

“You attacked someone at my door, and she is now in the emergency room. I will have to pay to repair her car.”

“Not because she was at your door, but because she called me out.”

“Do you think I have no intention of marrying you?”

“You look me in my face and tell lie after lie like Pinocchio. Your nose should look like an erect penis on your face. I'm sure the South African model would love to sit on that as well.”

She cursed him and said mean things in Yorùbá, and Olamilekan did the same. Kwanzaa had to do a one-minute shower and dress quickly without drying off any more than the hot spots to not be late. Yaba had gotten out of his car, was standing on Crenshaw near the busiest intersection in the area, and the star Laker player had been spotted by fans, and now traffic was slowing down. People were running to him from bus stops to get an autograph or beg him to take a selfie. It was hard to be a giant in a land of Lilliputians and not be noticed. He ignored his admirers, was concerned only with getting Indigo's attention. Kwanzaa had seen it all as she hurried to her car, now dressed in all black and carrying her Starbucks apron. As she drove out the gate, Kwanzaa slowed down her hoopty and said a few hard and hostile words to Yaba. Yaba was still out of his car, and when the gate opened he was about to go inside. Kwanzaa threw her car in park, jumped out, blocked his path, and begged him to not cause a scene, to not be here when Olamilekan
came out because there would be a fight, and he was drawing a crowd, so there would be witnesses, and there would be press, and the police would be here soon if he kept holding up traffic, and that could get ugly real fast, and he needed to think about his career, about his brand, about his endorsements, about how it would look in the online papers and all over social media with two Nigerians brawling in Inglewood, and if they had a fight they would be called animals, the NFL would get involved, the NBA would get involved, both of them could lose their contracts and end up on
Dancing with the Stars
trying to make a comeback, and for those reasons he should go back to the Palisades, back to his luxurious life, and not add more drama to where Indigo lived. She told him Indigo wasn't coming outside because she was with her boyfriend, reminded Yaba he had had his chance, that Indigo was his woman, but he crept out to be with an Ethiopian girl. Kwanzaa told Yaba that his heartbreak was of his own design. Indigo had moved on and he needed to do the same. She told him that if he was worried, to just check on her later in the week. Miserable and lovesick, Yaba the Laker walked around fans who were trying to get a photo of the giant. Today Yaba was not Yaba the Laker, he was just a man trying to earn back the love of a girl he lost. His currency no longer held any value in Little Lagos. Yaba spat on Olamilekan's ride, spat on the Nigerian prince of Bel Air's chariot over and over.

Yaba said, “I should piss all over his car door.”

Kwanzaa said, “Only if you want that on YouTube before you can shake the snake dry.”

Yaba looked at the people holding up their smartphones, barked at them, told them to stop recording him, to go mind their own business, to leave him alone, then galumphed back to his own luxury ride, eased his seven feet of jealousy and broken ego inside, then sat there holding the steering wheel, staring at the apartment where the woman he wanted back lived, and called again. His call was sent to voicemail. On the verge of breaking down and crying, Yaba revved his engine, ready to screech away. But Yaba backed up, rammed into the back of Olamilekan's car, then clipped the rear of that hot ride as he pulled away. Horns blew as he almost ran a handful of cars off the road. Fans turned ugly, cursed
him, cursed Africa, and said they would never support his black ass again, hoped the Nigerian
nigga-nigga-nigga
was traded to Utah or Milwaukee, yelled that he would never be in the Lakers record books like Magic, Kareem, or Kobe. As cheers turned to jeers, Yaba beat his steering wheel and joined in the morning road rage as he raced down Crenshaw toward the onramp for the 105 freeway.

Kwanzaa sped down Crenshaw too, in the opposite direction, in a hurry to clock in and push caffeine and sugar to the addicted, but none would be as addicted to coffee as Yaba and Olamilekan were to Indigo's sweetness. Yaba was finally gone, but by ringing Indigo's phone at this hour, by parking outside the gate so his car could be seen, by blowing his horn to make his presence known, by calling again and again, Indigo's ex-bae had done irreparable damage.

Ericka and Destiny banged on Indigo's door until they were let in the apartment, then both did their best to separate Indigo and Olamilekan. Indigo was in her panties and Olamilekan was still nude. She had thrown his clothing out the bedroom window and his things were in the Mexicans' backyard, their fleet of dogs chewing at everything. Indigo once again had Olamilekan's Timberlands in each hand, and would swing when he came close to her. His nakedness was the only reason he hadn't gone outside to confront Yaba. One man would never confront another man with his fluffed coconut tree and balls exposed to the world. That was an unwritten rule.

As two of the Blackbirds tried to calm the fire, Indigo and Olamilekan called it quits.

She swore to God she was done with him. He swore that he was done with her.

*   *   *

When Olamilekan returned home to the bleached clothes and flood that had been left behind, he called, screamed, threatened to sue for the damages Indigo had caused to his estate. The breakup lasted two days, until sixteen dozen roses and diamond earrings appeared at Indigo's door. But for those two days, she had spent time with Yaba, had cried on his shoulder, had let him console her, had kissed him many times, then dumped him again, went back to Olamilekan the way an addict returned to her dealer.

Kwanzaa Browne jerked awake, nude and sweaty, underneath an unmoving ceiling fan, in a strange bed in a strange loft after having bareback sex with a stranger, a handsome man she had seen occasionally during her mornings as a barista at Starbucks in Inglewood.

The stranger, the man who was one in five million, was next to her, as naked as she.

She eased the sheets back and looked at the blessing between his legs.

It had not been a dream.

Hours ago, on the eve of her birthday, Kwanzaa was out by herself, taking herself on a quick pre-birthday date,
mastur-dating
being the proper term, at the latest and greatest spot called the Club. It was a high-end hot spot, one you could get into only if the bouncer liked how you looked, because Hollywood was about as postracial as its casting, and one day might be as liberal as its casting couch. Bloggers had called it the West Coast version of Studio 54. It was built for the young and the restless.

End to end, the club was decorated with long, flowing drapes and had sensual sitting areas decorated with soft cushions for the rhythmically deficient wallflowers. There were plenty of looky-loos, those who came to the trendy and overpriced hot spot to experience ear-deafening house music and the ultimate comfort while they sipped on overpriced drinks, did lines in the bathroom, pretended to be as important as the decision-making women and men in the venue.

L.A. wasn't a party-all-night town. Clubs started to close around 1:30
A.M.
, as soon as last call was announced, so most of the revelers were already in full swing by 10
P.M
. Some who wanted to be famous were giving what they hoped would be career-advancing blow jobs, on their knees underneath the Italian tables. The front windows offered views of the nighttime traffic and normal debauchery on Sunset; there was a glowing pool in the back that offered a view of stars, but only a few could be seen through layer upon layer of toxic smog.

Kwanzaa was actually away from the Blackbirds in case Marcus Brixton called, since she knew her friends would go off on her for even
thinking about being in his company. While she bounced to the beat, in between sending and receiving text messages, she looked into the crowd and recognized someone.

As she sipped a cosmo, she saw the tall, golden, and handsome stranger who frequented Starbucks, the man who always wore Hugo Boss and always ordered an iced coffee. Tonight he wore a fashionable black suit paired with a striped shirt and a solid red necktie.

Kwanzaa knew he'd never seen her out of her Starbucks uniform, had never seen her in makeup, had never seen her with her Brazilian hair whipped to perfection by the Dominicans on La Brea. He had never seen her in princess mode, but he recognized her. Since her face was made up in colorful dramatic tones, her eyes in blues and hints of gold, her lips seductive red, her fingernails hot pink, and since she was in high heels and a very short dress and looked nothing like a conservative college student or a boring barista, she assumed the man in Hugo Boss recognized her because of her fashionably colored hair, despite its wicked style.

They made eye contact, held it as the music bumped, and then he moved by celebrities, wannabe celebrities, and used-to-be celebrities, squeezed through the crowd, eased toward her.

It took her a moment to realize that he was not just coming her way, but to her.

Her heart raced. She hadn't expected that reaction, that nervousness to envelop her.

She had responded to him the way all the Latinas at her job responded to him. Maybe when she was engaged, her ring had protected her from his energy, from the possibility of his life-force mixing with hers, of there being some synergistic response if they ever interacted.

When he was close, he proffered a gentle gesture that asked her to dance.

It was house music. People just danced. Most didn't need a partner. Many were in their own zone. He had broken protocol. He said nothing, just made a confident gesture. Him coming to her with that silent sureness, direct eye contact, and soft grin had put a thousand butterflies in her belly, made her reach to touch her engagement ring, but it wasn't there.

It wasn't there.

Music bumping, Hugo Boss extended his hand and Kwanzaa capitulated, gave him her fingers. As they touched, as she felt the power crackle in his flesh, no words were exchanged.

He led her through the dancing crowd. She hid her fear. She hid her excitement. She hadn't told anyone, but part of her always smiled when the man in Hugo Boss entered Starbucks. Her coworkers became horny when he peacocked in the door, all wanting to serve him more than an iced coffee, and now he had picked Kwanzaa from the bunch, asked her to dance. The Latinas at her job wouldn't believe this, would all drown in envy. Her birthday eve was wonderful, perfect with this high-energy, cosmo-infused moment.

They found a spot near two femme guys dancing, both celebrities who played masculine roles on television. On the other side of them were two girls half drunk and coked up, arguing over another girl. Hugo Boss started his groove. Masculine. Suave. Kwanzaa started out slowly, warmed up, felt the music in her blood, turned it up, and danced with him for fifteen minutes, long enough to start to feel the heat in her twenty-two-dollars-and-ninety-cents-before-sales-tax LBD—Little Blue Dress—from Forever 21, and feel the pain in her six-inch FMPs—Fuck Me Pumps—she had bought for fifteen dollars, marked down seventy percent at DSW.

New heels made a woman learn how to be cute and dance without much movement of the feet. Heat rose and there was barely a place to stand. It was impossible to squeeze through the crowd without making her body parts molest the body parts of more strangers. In the loud, overpacked room, she stayed in her cozy spot, let the stranger slide his strong arms around her, figured if someone was going to press against her ass and touch her tits, it might as well be one person and not every hungry, swollen penis in the arena. She felt his strength, the dominance that was both intimidating and comforting. It didn't feel lewd, didn't feel like an aggressive come-on. But she knew it
was
a come-on; it was almost her birthday, and she wasn't born yesterday.

When Kwanzaa finished her drink, Hugo Boss took her glass, swam upstream, and came back with a fresh cosmo. She guessed that he sensed
she was committed to alcohol and bad decisions. He observed her, not in portrait mode, not only her face, but in landscape mode. He examined the topography beyond her expression, focused on as much of her as possible. She did the same with him, drank him in, liked what was presented, then returned to enjoying the pounding music. She sipped. He didn't talk. She didn't mind not talking.

The less men talked, the fewer lies a woman had to hear.

The fewer lies a woman heard, the more she liked a man.

He had said nothing. The meticulous man in Hugo Boss remained perfect.

It was strange how seeing this man over and over, knowing what he ordered, made him feel so familiar. She had seen his self-assured walk, had been in his presence separated by a counter. Those minor interactions made this stranger seem like less of a stranger.

She had met thousands of people in her life who never really meant anything to her, and still, in her heart, she wanted to find the one who would change her life forever, in a positive way.

Marcus Brixton was supposed to be the man who brought her happiness.

She wanted to
unthink
Marcus Brixton, if there were such a thing as
unthinking
.

She assumed that unthinking was more powerful than forgetting. Forgetting could be temporary, reversed by a song, a picture, or just a sudden thought. Unthinking was a complete reset, a
CON
TROL-ALT-DELETE
on unwanted memories. She wanted that Marcus Brixton sector of her mind scrubbed, with nothing left but space for new memories, then be able to use McAfee to keep a single thought of Marcus Brixton from ever popping up anywhere in her brain again.

Maybe a new lover was just as good as a memory scrubbing and McAfee.

The tall man in the Hugo Boss smiled at the not-so-tall woman wearing Forever 21.

His body language told her that he was impressed and thought she was gorgeous tonight.

Still, no words were spoken. No lies were told. The illusion of
perfection remained. She couldn't be in the grueling process of unloving one man and have the energy to smile at another with decent intentions. Her heart and morals had never worked that way. She was all or none.

She fanned herself, hot. Hugo Boss took her hand, led Forever 21 through the crowd, and took her outside near the pool. Cool air moved across skin and felt like heaven.

As they stood and bounced a bit to the rapid beat, he removed his necktie, eased it off and put it in his inner coat pocket. Kwanzaa realized women were watching the strange man in the Hugo Boss, watching him as if seeing him take off his necktie had aroused them all, as if they wanted him to keep undressing. Men nodded his way, gave secret handshakes of the mind, some transmitted conversation. Kwanzaa and the stranger maintained the groove. She saw men buying the svelte ingénues drinks in hope of recruiting candidates for the next sunrise's Walk of Shame.

This was a normal night; this was how the sexual exchanges, the infidelities began.

Her ex had said the Chilean girl had meant nothing, that sex with her had meant nothing. And that was worse. If he could have sex with a woman and it meant nothing, he could have sex with any woman, at any time, because it wasn't about emotion, only about space and opportunity.

That stupidity from the man she had wanted to eventually marry. That bullshit from the man she had loved. If not for the present his cheating had left behind, if not for the contamination, if not for the discharge that had sent her to her doctor, Kwanzaa never would have known she'd been poisoned. That played in her mind now, as she danced against the cool breeze.

She needed more alcohol. The damn memory refused to be drowned. The fire from the hate wouldn't diminish, so she might as well add some firewater to keep the flames burning.

She raised her empty glass to Hugo Boss, and he nodded, took her hand, led her back inside, and she stood to the side as he bought her another drink.

She sort of wished the other Blackbirds were with her. But then
again, they would all have been drink-stopping and cock-blocking and girl-preaching by now, especially Destiny.

Destiny didn't want any woman to experience what she had experienced.

And Indigo would be throwing out a thousand phrases in Yorùbá.

Ericka would be in some sort of overprotective mommy mode.

Back on the dance floor, back in the middle of the heat and energy and controlled madness, Kwanzaa Browne sipped her way into Tipsyville, and soon drank her sensibilities toward the border of Throbbing Clit and Bad Judgment. It didn't help that the house music in the Club boomed with the power of a vibrator. The powerful beat resonated and felt like a prelude to sexual intercourse. The rapid, thumping, booming, reverberating bass was an invisible stimulator causing thumping, booming, reverberating clit-tickling foreplay.

The man in the Hugo Boss was tall and muscular. In a packed room where most of the intoxicated revelers yelled into their phones, squinted to read messages, posted the irrelevancy of their lives on social media, or texted messages to people standing next to them, she had let a stranger caress her from behind, ass against unknown genitals, not exactly doggie style, but it still brought that impersonal sexual position to mind.

She felt the girth of his blessing against her bubble, against the thin material of her discounted dress. His impressive bump touched her and a chill of need navigated her spine. That contact, combined with the beat that had become an invisible vibrator, sent a series of tingles dancing across her thighs. She eased away from his girth enough for the contact, the pressure to be removed. She exhaled slowly, those chills now heated. Kwanzaa shifted from heel to heel, became a brown cat on a hot tin roof. She sipped, enjoyed the music, kept time, danced like it was 1999.

Kwanzaa enjoyed the sensation of floating higher, but soon frowned. She wondered where Marcus Brixton was, if he'd remember her birthday moment was in a few hours, if he had set an alert in his phone, if he cared enough to text, or had the audacity to call. With that, she was about to tell the stranger thank you, leave, and go home, knowing en
route she would end up drunk dialing, then somehow finding herself at Marcus's front door. She had almost done that on Indigo's birthday. She had left to go see Marcus, but had changed her mind, was too tipsy, and turned around, went back home, then, too ashamed to say she had been weak, lied to Ericka and said she had made a tampon run. Tonight she would visit Marcus Brixton. She didn't know if she'd end up fighting or fucking, or fighting then fucking, or fucking before fighting, but she would bang at his door, and no matter which path she chose it would not be pretty. By the time the sun came up again, she'd have regret.

But then the guest deejay broke the pattern of the house beat and soca music came on, the music of the Caribbean, and the room erupted like it was the fete of all fetes. As the stranger dry-humped from behind, she planted her feet, backed it up, and rolled against him. They danced like they were having public sex. She danced, hummed, sang, sweated, and enjoyed the music.

Attire by Hugo Boss danced its grind on couture by Forever 21. Kwanzaa tried to figure on which side of his pants rested his virility. Felt like it was across both sides. He did his smooth dirty dance against her backside, massaged her butt with his fluffed blessing. She reciprocated with moves like she was the kind of girl who gave wickedness as good as she took wickedness.

She sipped the last of another cosmo. Memories gagged, fought for air, were drowning.

Again Hugo Boss took her empty glass and came back with a fresh cosmo.

She thanked him wordlessly, with a grin and nod, then worked on the new drink as they resumed dancing. She was tempted to do a Fantasia, kick off her shoes, and bend over until it was six thirty. Having a fresh drink in her hand, she bent over only so far. She channeled Patra, Fay-Ann Lyons, and Alison Hinds. The way Kwanzaa moved her body, her trio of besties would have slapped the drink out of her hand and pulled her off the dance floor kicking and screaming.

Frustration had to go somewhere, had to be sweated out.