The Blackbirds (27 page)

She was going to speed to Marina del Rey, race to Marcus Jesús Delgado Muñoz Brixton's condominium off Lincoln, the place she used to spend weekends waking up with a view of the world from thirty stories high, with windows open to the distant sound of the ocean, to a sweet salty breeze, and let the Destiny Jones in her incensed soul come to life.

She started her car and took to the streets, sped toward the freeways.

She was going to go after Marcus. She was going to take this to his front door.

She would go Straight Outta Compton on his ass, show him what she was really made of, stop being nice, and be the next one on the Gray Goose to Hoosegow.

She would lose all she had struggled to gain over what Marcus had done to her.

She trembled, recalling every soul-crushing word Mama Brixton had said.

A thousand curses left her mouth.

She had to pull over near Los Angeles Street.

She was too upset to drive.

Again, Kwanzaa cried, this time torrentially, her hands gripping the steering wheel.

She cried her eyes crimson. She cursed as she wiped away her tears.

If she did what she was thinking, she would end up in jail.

Marcus would be free.

There was no victory for her to have.

He had betrayed her, lied, fucked her over, and he would get away with it.

The storm ended. She was hot. Sweating. And then she made two right turns, drove east until she was back in the Arts District. She eased out of her car, took deep breaths, did her best to fix her hair, straighten her clothes, put on more lipstick and headed back toward the converted warehouse. She went back to the man she called Hugo Boss.

She returned to the door of a stranger.

She rang the doorbell, wondering if another woman had already been invited inside.

She knew he knew it was she. Kwanzaa saw the security camera above the door.

She knew he had seen her on a monitor before he undid his locks.

She turned to walk away.

Hugo Boss opened the door.

She stopped walking, turned around, went back to the door.

He smiled. His beautiful eyes made her eyes do the same.

He disarmed her external fury, but the storm raged inside her.

In a calm, soft voice she said, “My name is Kwanzaa Browne.”

“I'm Cristiano Gonçalo Bernardo.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

The smells of downtown enveloped them. They stood in silence for a moment.

He asked, “Are you okay?”

“Allergies. Just my allergies acting up.”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

Kwanzaa wiped her eyes and asked, “Are you expecting someone else tonight?”

“No, no one is coming.”

“Did I disturb you? What were you doing?”

“Was wondering why you left so soon.”

“Oh.”

“Did I turn you off?”

“Not at all.”

“You sure?”

“I'm back at your door. So I would say it's the opposite at this point.”

Again they stood in silence, the cool breeze and sirens blanketing the night.

Still strangers, only familiar with the anatomy and orgasm of the person they faced.

He asked, “Would you like to come back inside?”

“Would I be breaking protocol?”

“There is no protocol.”

“Yes, I would like to come back inside, if that is convenient for you.”

“Are you okay?”

“I want to sit down a moment, but I don't want to be on the streets in my car.”

“Okay.”

“I can't drive right now.”

“Your allergies.”

“Yeah. They're acting up.”

“Tipsy?”

“Not tipsy. Just a little upset and can't drive at the moment.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing to do with you.”

“You don't look very happy right now.”

“Don't want to sit in my car in the dark out here.”

“Understood.”

“I'll try to not cry in front of you.”

“Allergies don't scare me.”

“We don't have to talk.”

“I will leave that up to you.”

“I just want to sit down a moment and think.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“I need something strong and stiff.”

“Really?”

“And make it a double.”

I was here as Destiny Jones, not as Kismet Kellogg.

I dreaded the moment I was about to face.

I walked nervously down the hallway, asked myself what I was doing.

I could admit I was in the wrong. I could vanish.

But he had photographed me naked.

I stood in front of Hakeem's condo for what felt like forever wrapped in eternity and stretched across infinity. Soon I heard Nancy on the other side of the door. Same as she had been doing many of the nights I had come by after work, she was making love as rap music played. Nancy was loud. Eddie was probably Eddying Nancy all across the living room floor.

I took the key out, then put it back in my pocket.

Kismet had been given an open invitation.

Destiny had not.

I rang the doorbell, interrupted love in progress. Waited. Heard angry, impatient footsteps. The door opened a few inches, wide enough for me to smell the scent of grilled salmon and maybe veggies and baked potatoes. I expected to see Eddie's sweaty face, maybe Nancy. It was Hakeem. When he heard the doorbell ring, he knew it was going to be me. I'd never seen such a disgusted, harsh look on his face before. I needed him to see my face, see my sincerity, see my fear, my pain, see my love, and hear the same in my voice.

Terrified, heart aching, I whispered, “Can we please go somewhere and talk?”

“You're Destiny Jones.”

In a distraught tone I asked, “Who told you?”

“You didn't.”

“I was going to tell you. I swear. Every day I wanted to tell you.”

“Why didn't you?”

“This
. I was afraid of this. I hadn't planned on loving you and didn't think I'd let you inside my heart. But I did and after I had, I was afraid of your reaction. I was going to tell you, eventually.”

“I asked you to move in with me. No wonder you kept me from your family.”

“Lying is shameful, yes, but everything else I told you was true. I go to USC. I work three jobs. I am
not
seeing anyone, and my mother
is
an attorney, my father
is
an engineer. Only the
name
was misleading, but that's the name I use with everyone I don't know. I was already using that name when I sell Fire Sticks. I use that name at my jobs. I didn't make up that name just for you. I'm still the
same
person, the same Kismet you've been kicking it with. I'm the same person.”

“Look, Destiny Jones, I need you to get away from my door.”

“Can we get past the lie I told? There is no chance we can work this out?”

“We're done.”

He closed the door.

I knocked until Hakeem opened the door again.

Hakeem snapped, “What?”

Heart throbbing, barely able to speak, I said, “If we're done, give me my money.”

“I don't have it.”

“Then find a way to get it.”

“I know you don't want to have the police come arrest you, Destiny Jones.”

He slammed the door in my face like that was our denouement, our epilogue.

Hands dank, fingers trembling, I used the key in my pocket to open the door.

The door caught at three inches. The silver security chain had been put on.

I didn't care if Eddie was Eddying Nancy into seventh heaven, or Eddying her into the floor, or if he was in that crazy position where Nancy milked him like he was a freaking cow—something I wish I had never seen. The disgusting way Hakeem said my name, that hurt, and the way he dissed me at the door like I was a solicitor for Jesus verified that he'd already told them all about my past. I didn't care what they thought. I didn't allow people to treat me that way.

My world became the hue of fresh blood. I was the sun.

None of the Blackbirds were here to talk me down.

I took a step back, grunted, and flat-kicked the wooden door.

The chain snapped.

So had I.

Indigo coughed once, sat up and sipped more delicious chicken soup, then stared at the six-foot-tall Channel Islands surfboard in the corner, at the colorful bikinis hanging over almost every door, at perfume on the worn dresser, at classical European art on the dull walls, at candles, at two dozen pairs of dirty shoes scattered across the wooden floor, at piles of clean and wrinkled clothes thrown across chairs, at a closed laptop whose case needed cleaning, at a twin bed with four pillows and a gigantic teddy bear, then stopped evaluating Rickie Sue's life and evaluated herself. She gazed in a circular, unframed mirror on the wall as music played on Rickie Sue's phone, the sound piped through a wireless Fugoo speaker. Nina Simone sang “Do I Move You.”

She picked up the phone, the one that was a clone of her father's.

He had many texts and emails, but nothing incriminating. He had messages coming to him from Japan, from China, from Nigeria, from New York, from Amsterdam, but all were on a business level. She scrolled back over weeks of boring correspondences. There was no evidence of any immoral behavior. Her mother had been wrong. She was happy her mother had been mistaken this time. Indigo put the phone back down, grinning, glad to know she had good news.

Soon she would need to see Olamilekan so she could clone his phone.

She wanted the specifics. She wanted truth beyond his lies.

She, like her mother, wanted to be able to sleep at night without worrying.

Indigo looked at her braids, the funky style that made her look like
a fashion model, looked at what Rickie Sue had done with ease and minimal pain, then lay back on the portable massage table. Worn socks were on her feet. Vicks was on her feet underneath those huge, comfortable, man-size socks. She stared at the ceiling, hummed with Nina Simone, waited for Rickie Sue to come back from the kitchen and start rubbing her naked body again.

Indigo was sure the things Rickie Sue had done had ensured her a place in Nigerian hell.

Indigo's cellular rang, Olamilekan calling for the fifth time.

She didn't answer.

The diatribe her mother had given had put her in a mood.

One that was not positive so far as Olamilekan was concerned.

Rickie Sue came back into the small bedroom, nude, but she had on socks, the same sort of white, man-size socks that had been put on Indigo's feet. A man's shirt hung in the doorway between the living room and bedroom. It was obvious Rickie Sue really had a boyfriend.

Indigo's phone buzzed. Now there were twelve texts from Olamilekan.

She hadn't answered any of his messages. She hadn't read any of his words.

Indigo sighed.

She liked a challenge, and Olamilekan was the ultimate challenge.

Every woman wanted to tame the wild one. The wild ones were exciting, and always seemed worthy. But a subjugated scorpion would still sting you one day. It was in their nature. Maybe she needed to start over, find a man who would see her as she saw herself, not wait for him to change, not try to prove to him repeatedly she was worthy of love and monogamy.

She was tired of chasing a man who wasn't chasing her in return.

She was loving and supportive. She loved to cook and loved to cuddle. She didn't like to argue, but would if given a reason. Still she preferred peace to foolishness. She had her own everything and wasn't needy, had never been a clingy woman, was ambitious and had many goals, but would do what she had to do to spend time with her man. She longed to spend as much time with her man as she could, to be generous with all she had to offer, to give slow kisses and have amorous nights in
every season. She didn't have to go out all the time, was just as content cooking her man dinner, making love, then cuddling naked and watching Netflix. She was a Netflix-and-chill kinda girl. She went out because she was restless, because her man was never available, went out to keep herself occupied, but never to look for trouble guised as a new lover.

She was honest. She was loyal.

In a soft voice Rickie Sue asked, “How are you feeling?”

“My coughing is easing up.”

“You've sweated it out.”

“Yeah. My fever is down.”

“Am I the best nurse ever or what?”

“You're incredible, that I will admit.”

“You've been under my care for three hours.”

“Feels like I just arrived here.”

“Someone is looking for you. They are ready for you to leave Wonderland.”

“It's my bae. I'm ignoring him today and it's driving him crazy. He probably thinks I am out somewhere cheating on him. He probably thinks I have hooked up with my ex-bae as revenge.”

“Wouldn't he be surprised?”

“Very. He would be very surprised. As surprised as I am that this has transpired.”

“You're cheating on him.”

“A woman can't cheat on a man with another woman.”

Rickie Sue laughed at Indigo's silliness. “You really have a boyfriend?”

“Told you, I'm not a lesbian. I was with a woman once, out of curiosity, but I am not a lesbian.”

“You were with a woman. Was she this attentive?”

“No, you're very attentive. I'm comfortable. Too comfortable.”

“I make it do what it do. Did the woman you were with make it do what it do?”

Indigo paused. “I'm joking about being with a woman. This is my first and last time. I came for the chicken soup and you wanted to see if I tasted like chicken.”

Rickie Sue laughed. “I don't think you're joking.”

“You massage your bae a lot?”

“All the time.”

“Bet he's madly in love with you.”

“And your bae thinks you're creeping with your ex.”

“He's jealous. I used to date a basketball player before I met him.”

“Pro or college?”

“Pro. He plays for the Lakers.”

“You're joking. You used to date a Laker?”

“We dated. Broke up. Dated. Broke up. Now I am dating another athlete. And we date and break up and date and break up and date and break up and date. Might have to trade him too. He's developed a thing for a model, some South African woman who recently came to America, and now needs a nose job and a new weave before she can seek gainful employment.”

“I would think you'd be with a white boy.”

“Why?”

“You're smart. You're sexy. Smart black women usually leave the black man's foolishness behind, especially when they realize a white boy will do anything for a black woman.”

“Men will be men, no matter what race. All women, all races, all ethnicities have the same problems. If I dated a non-Nigerian, I would never hear the end of it from my family.”

“A Nigerian Laker . . . hold on. Wait a minute. No way.
Yaba
is your ex-bae?”

“We dated. So much drama.”

“Are you famous or something?”

“I'm just a girl going to university so that she can one day end up on the Supreme Court.”

“Why did you and Yaba break up?”

“You know how ballers are.”

“Too many options.”

“Way too many.”

“White girl?”

“Ethiopian.”

“At least he stuck with a black woman. Most of the brothers start off broke with a loyal black chick, start off like Michael Jordan, then when all is said and done, the sister and his starter kids are in the rearview mirror and a white girl is at his side reaping the benefits.”

“Magic Johnson didn't change up.”

“Magic Johnson didn't have a choice.”

“You have an interesting perspective. I don't agree, but it's interesting.”

“Which baller are you seeing now? Another Laker?”

“I changed sports. Have you heard of a football player named Olamilekan?”

“Get the fuck out. You dated Yaba, and now Olamilekan is your
current
man?”

Indigo set free a mild cough. “You can pronounce Olamilekan's name with no problem?”

“I'm a
big
sports fan. He's fine as hell. I have his jersey in my closet, or in the dirty clothes, if I didn't leave it at my bae's apartment. Olamilekan? And he's your billion-dollar bae?”

“He's not a billionaire. Never will be. His debt-income ratio is out of control. I am more sensible. I would have him live modestly, invest wisely, and save tremendously, if I were his wife.”

“You're getting ten-year, one-hundred-and-thirty-million-dollar-contract dick?”

“Never thought about it like that.”

“That's at least twelve million an inch.”

“You've turned his penis and income into a word problem.”

“And I bet Yaba had more inches.”

“One could assume, but one could be wrong.”

“Does he?”

“When a man with a big penis is having sex with one, we only groan and do not complain.”

“Girl, forget going to school and managing an apartment building in Inglewood, you better get pregnant by one of them and get out of the hood. Hey, get pregnant by both at the same time. Have twins by different daddies and get two checks. That could be your retirement plan.”

Indigo laughed, then coughed more, still ill, but now not as congested.

“You like the soup?”

“Best soup ever.”

“Like the way I braided your hair with the sides going back and the top like a Mohawk?”

“My hair looks awesome. You braid better than my Dominican beautician on La Brea.”

“Like the way I make it do what it do when I did what I did when you were on your back?”

“I didn't like it. I did my best to resist your powers, but I failed. It won't happen again.”

“You were tense.”

“I've been stressed.”

“You came so many times. You came so hard you almost fell off the massage table.”

“No, I didn't. I am an epileptic with Tourette's and both were acting up simultaneously as I did the Holy Ghost dance and spoke in tongues. Sorry you mistook those incidences for orgasms.”

“That stress came right out of you.”

“Most of it. I feel lighter.”

Rickie Sue laughed. “Now be honest. Am I your first?”

“I am not a lesbian. I have not been influenced by Western culture.”

“I read in this magazine that one out of—”

“
One
woman. A college professor. She taught literature. I saw her twice.
Twice
. She was ten years older. She was well traveled, mature, beautiful, very ambitious, and experienced.”

“Which one of us did you enjoy the most, her or me making it do what it do?”

“This was the bomb, but I don't want to become accustomed to being treated this way.”

“And I don't want to get used to treating a woman like this.”

“We're on the same page. I'm glad to hear that.”

“You're very attractive, Indigo. Men and women find you very tempting.”

“Of course they do, but I only notice men in a sexual way. I'm not a lesbian.”

“You ride a motorcycle and you can change a flat faster than a mechanic on speed.”

“I can bake a cake, clean a home, and sew a new dress too. What's your point?”

“But what about the fling with the college professor? Were you curious?”

“It was something
she
wanted. I think I was flattered that she was so enamored by me and she wanted to do
that
to me, so I let her have her way. Long time ago. Hated myself after. It's not my forte.”

“Could've fooled me.”

“You're a lesbian pretending to be straight, Rickie Sue. I know you are.”

“No, I'm not. There is nothing lesbian about me, Indigo.”

“You have a lesbian's tongue. You made me walk through heaven.”

“I imitated my boyfriend. And I'm better at that with a man than I am with a woman.”

Rickie Sue ran her vibrator across Indigo's breasts, then sucked Indigo's right nipple, sucked as she moved the vibrator south, suckled as she moved the hum inside Indigo bit by bit.

Indigo's back arched and her left hand raised, pulled at her braids while she bit her lips and tried not to roll her hips. The vibrator entered her, its song muffled. Tingles moved throughout her body. With each gentle movement, with each ingress and egress, with every measured stroke, the brightest hues flashed behind Indigo's eyes, sparkles that rivaled Venezuela's Catatumbo lightning, the everlasting storm with two hundred flashes an hour. Soon Indigo felt explosions so bright she imagined they could be seen for over two hundred miles.

She imagined she could be heard all the way back to Lagos.

Rickie Sue suckled Indigo's breasts, sucked her nipples, did that while multitasking with the toy, then with her free hand, pulled the towels away from Indigo, pushed Indigo's legs wider. Rickie Sue eased the vibrator in and out over and over until once again Indigo was an epileptic with Tourette's doing the Holy Ghost dance.

“Gbe fun mi gbe fumi gbe funmi.”

Indigo's cellular started blowing up. Alessia Cara sang the ringtone for Destiny Jones
.

“Fi si nu mi.
Yes, yes, yes.
Fun mi fun mi fun mi fun mi.”

Indigo was in another place, too far away, was being tongue-kissed by Rickie Sue.

She gave smooth and even strokes with her vibrating toy.

“To ba je okunrin ma fe e
.
”

A girl was kissing Indigo the way a man kissed a woman, and with her eyes closed, with full lips against her full lips, with a small tongue chasing her small tongue. Indigo gave in, enjoyed the tenderness. It had not been like this when she had tried this two times before. Just like men, women could be bad lovers, could be clueless, or were unable to adapt when they changed partners. Rickie Sue had adjusted, had adapted to Indigo's needs, to the way her body responded. Indigo hadn't had to tell her anything, hadn't felt uncomfortable all evening.