The Blackbirds (31 page)

She looked down at her overnight bag, then back at me, and she cursed out loud.

Women knew women. The biggest sluts had Disneyland looks and a princess smile to boot. Nancy hurried by us without a word. She paused when she saw the destruction to Hakeem's Big Wheel. She made a larger-than-life sound of terror, and then she sprinted to her car, saw that it was undamaged, and breathed a sigh of relief. She hopped in her car and sped away, a bandit never slowing at the speed bumps.

Tears in her eyes, the bitch left like she was making a prison break.

Nineteen years old, educated and foolish. I'll bet she was running to Eddie. She would need to damage my name, tell him her version of this night, do her best to discredit me, say anything I said would be a lie, do her best to shame me from a new angle.

I turned to Hakeem, my eyes telling him I wasn't stupid, asking why he screwed her, of all women, knowing it was stupid of me to ask why a man ever screwed another woman, or why a woman screwed another man. Hakeem was a man and Nancy was a woman. No, Hakeem wasn't a man and that bitch wasn't a woman. He was a dick and she was a cunt. So it goes. Some folks were built for infidelity. In a world where some of us wanted a friend to become our faithful lover, too many were naturally cheaters, accustomed to lying, enjoying the game.

Hakeem said, “Nancy knows how to take care of a man. She cooks. Whenever she was over here with Eddie, before she left, she cleaned up the entire condo. You never made up the bed once before you left. I took you out to eat many times; you've never cooked once.”

“I work three jobs. I go to USC. I start my goddamn day before seven in the morning and leave FedEx at midnight. I don't have time to keep my apartment spotless, let alone be a man's personal chef or Molly Maid service. I'm trying to ensure my own success, not live off yours.”

“Eddie tells Nancy he's hungry for a sandwich, and she gets up and makes him a meal. A woman who cooks for her man, that's attractive. A man has to eat three to five times a day. He can look at a woman who takes care of him like that and imagine her taking care of the family while he makes the money. My mom takes care of my dad in that way. Besides that, it was different with Nancy. You're all attitude. You're demanding. Yeah, I liked the challenge. When we met it was cute. You would be soft, sweet. Then you would get frustrated and change up on a bro. The first time we were in bed, you demanded I go down on you.”

“If you can't get it up, you need to go down.”

“The way you said it, it shocked me, and it was like I didn't have a choice. And then you asked me why I couldn't get it up.
I was nervous
. Women don't ask men those kinds of things.”

“I intimidated you. I questioned your virility, your manhood, and frightened you.”

“That is not the issue. I'm just saying Nancy lets Eddie be a man.”

“You can't handle me.”

“That's not it.”

“And finding out I'm the infamous Destiny Jones, this is your way out. I applaud you, Hakeem. Kudos. You have found a convenient way of blaming the victim. This is my fault.”

“I was in high school when you were on the news. My senior year. That was what the guys talked about, Destiny Jones, her night of terror, and that DVD everyone wanted to see. After you were arrested, you were the talk on the Shaw. Seems like yesterday they were slangin' that DVD from Inglewood to Palm Springs to Tucson. They were selling
them right outside of my granddad's barbershop on Crenshaw, curbside, right across the street from McDonald's.”

“Nice to know they were selling Happy Meals and porn for pedophiles on the same block. I get it. Be honest. All of that bull about cooking and me being better in bed than you are didn't matter a few days ago. Keep this shit real. You know who I am. You saw the DVD. You saw the things that people did to me. You know I've been assaulted and you know other people know. You don't want to be with that girl. It's hard to unsee what you've seen.”

“I can't take you home to my mom . . . and she finds out . . . you made a DVD like that.”

“You make it sound like I chose to be humiliated and recorded while I was unconscious.”

“Why go to a motel room with that crew if you didn't go there to get fucked?”

“I went to have fun, to make friends, to dance, not to be drugged, robbed, raped, and recorded.”

“You went to have sex. No one went to a motel with those cats unless they were going to have sex. Don't act like you didn't go to have sex.”

“Wow. I was fifteen. I was naïve. You think I went to have sex with those creeps?”

“I'm just saying, that's the way it is. You had sex, didn't like it, and got mad afterwards.”

“You saw the video. Did it look like I was into what was being done to me?”

“I saw the gang bang. I saw you doing shit you wouldn't do with me.”

“Wow. Jesus. You said that like I gave out invitations to come assault me.”

“Some people said you did all you did just to get attention from the media. I can't . . . I can't take a girl like you home to my parents.”

“A girl like me. Nobody wants
that
girl. I get it. I don't want to
be
that girl. But hey, I sure as hell don't want to take a motherfucker who will Eddie his best friend's girlfriend around my friends either. I would never contaminate them with your presence. You have
no
character.”

“And you do,
Kismet Kellogg
?”

“I never messed around on you. I never cheated. I don't just get in bed with any man.”

“How would I know? You would swing by, have sex, and go. How would I know?”

“You're redoing our history. Wow. You're trying hard to justify being caught with Nancy.”

“You were the one playing the game.”

“When I told you I loved you, I meant it. I meant it, dammit. I fucking meant it. I am the same person. So which one of us do you think is really the backstabbing monster here?”

“You are. I read the blogs. I read what you did online. They called you a monster.”

“Remember that story I told you about breaking up with hip-hop? The way my heart had beat for my culture, for the music that was protest music? Up until today, it beat for you the same way. You had me, Hakeem. Once again I have ended up feeling betrayed and with a bitter taste in my mouth. Once again, I was a fool, nothing but another starry-eyed fool needing someone to love me.”

My expression was cold, as hard as the rebar I had held in my hands.

Voice shaky, he asked, “Think I can get the card for the gate back?”

I threw it on the ground near his feet.

He swallowed before he asked, “Key to my apartment?”

I threw that on the ground too.

He picked both of them up. “Your name isn't on the list at the gate anymore. Actually, now that I think about it, it never was.”

“After this, I guess you and Eddie will draw straws to see who's on first with Nancy.”

“Can I get you to erase what you recorded? I'm not comfortable with you having that.”

“Right, Eddie doesn't approve of you Eddying Nancy and having Nancy Nancy you.”

“Leave this between us. I want to protect Nancy. She's innocent in all of this.”

“Wow. So you want to protect the one with questionable morals?”

“She's nineteen. I'll take the blame.”

“Wow. Was the sneaky little bitch's pussy that good?”

“She made a mistake. Let's not do this to her.”

“I need that inappropriate picture of me erased from your phone.”

“I need that video you took of Nancy and me deleted from your phone first.”

I shook my head. “You took a picture of me naked, my breasts exposed. You're disgusting. I need that and any other photo you took of me. I was
naked
. I know you took more than one. I know you did.”

He said, “Don't you find this ironic? You hate to be photographed, but you just recorded Nancy.”

“From the man who was caught having sex with his best friend's jump-off, being called a hypocrite has no fucking impact. And that is not the definition of irony. Read a book.”

“Regardless, you know what I mean. Don't do this to Nancy. She's young. Come on. You of all people should know the power of one video, how it can destroy a person's life.”

“I was violated. My spirit was violated. My soul was violated. She was being a whore.”

“On the video you were being a whore too.”

“I don't remember anything that happened. I was drugged.”

“Look at the DVD, bitch. You got ass fucked. You swallowed nuts like a damn squirrel. Before you call Nancy a whore, review your own fucking DVD, Destiny Jones.”

Life drained from my face. I had been drugged, but I had seen the video, had seen what was done to me while I was drugged, when I was not conscious. I went numb, my expression hard as the rebar. Hakeem stood like he was trying to think of what to say next, of his next insult.

He said, “Don't just look at me like that. Say something.”

My inability to blink and my thick breathing told him that his words had cut deep.

He had cut away my tongue.

He looked at me and chanted, “ Do the Moe. Do the Moe. Do the Moe.”

My soul had convulsions. Fissures in my heart widened. He chanted the song my rapist had chanted that night.

Hakeem Mitchell said, “You did the Moe, and you did the Moe real good, Destiny Jones.”

I had nothing to say. I felt as defeated now as I had felt in court. Again I had been abused.

He growled. “Crazy bitch.”

He jogged back toward his mattress-less apartment.

I took hard breaths, made the wall between me and the rest of the world touch the sky, fortified my emotions and made myself colder and thicker than two miles of ice. I became harsh land, my vulgar mumbles crueler than winter in Verkhoyansk, Russia. Hakeem was the third guy I had dated since Hoosegow. Loneliness, the need to be touched made us all susceptible, made us all let the walls down. It was inevitable. This was just another failed attempt at fitting into the world. Hakeem was nothing new, but that didn't stop it from hurting.

My throat tightened, face became red-hot, and again it was hard to breathe.

My phone buzzed. Ericka. She'd taken the medicine to my dad. Indigo had texted me wanting to know where in the world was Carmen Sandiego. I didn't reply. Right after that, my phone kept buzzing. Kwanzaa called me back. I didn't answer. My dad called. I didn't answer. My mom called. I didn't answer. Indigo sent another text message. I didn't bother looking at it.

I scowled at the damage I had done in a matter of moments. Hakeem should've apologized for the way he had reacted to my shame. He never should've slammed the door in my face like a master dismissing a slave. You don't have sex with a woman, tell her you love her, get her to love you, wine her, dine her, give her a key, ask her to move in, talk marriage, get busted in bed with another woman before the dust had settled, and then treat her that way. I'm not a dog. That bitch with balls should've manned-up, paid me what he owed, deleted the picture, and I would have left him alone. I never should have said I was Kismet, but then again, I shouldn't have to live in the past. But my past was tethered to me. Tonight it had its fangs deep in my flesh. Each drop of sweat that fell from my forehead and neck felt like blood coming out of my pores.

Once some bridges were crossed, this fucked-up world never allowed you to come back. For some people, the world was their Hoosegow.

I didn't have to be Kismet anymore. Not here. Not with Hakeem Mitchell.

I could kill him for that photo he'd taken of me when I was in his bed, unconscious, sleeping. I could kill him dead.

Rebar in hand I dashed back toward his condo, up the stairs.

He was unable to lock his door so I pushed my way inside.

He saw me the way the others had seen me when I went to get my revenge. He saw the anger in my face. He saw the rebar in my hand.

I said, “Too bad you didn't delete that photo. That was all you had to do. Blood claat, that was all you had to do.”

With the heel of my boot, I pushed his damaged door, kicked it and closed it the best I could, smiled a nasty smile, then sprinted toward Hakeem Mitchell, swung the rebar and showed him Destiny Jones.

I showed him the crazy bitch.

Mr. Jones pulled Ericka closer to him, held her awhile, exhaled, studied her face, gazed into her eyes. She felt him shake, felt his nervousness now, felt his guilt, yet felt his desire, felt that chained desire, same as she had the first time. She felt him about to back off, pull away.

She took his hands, placed them on her butt. He sighed like an angel losing his power to an imp. She touched his face, the face of her friend's father, a nervous man who looked at her like she was Lolita. There was no manipulation, only love. This was her heart talking, not her loins. He was the man who made her laugh, the man who made her smile. She took one of his hands, placed it on her breast, on her heart. She moved the other hand from her butt, put his fingers between her legs.

He kissed her neck, massaged her breast, and hummed an old-school tune. Ericka tingled, lost her breath when Mr. Jones pulled her closer. They kissed. They kissed again.

Just like that she became a star collapsing under gravity, ready to burst into a gigantic super nova. His kisses made her want to explode. So wet.

She was hotter than the surface of the sun and soon she would become a waterfall.

She held his hand as he went to turn off most of the lights, her eyes on his strong arms, on the sexy tribal band on his right arm, and she followed him back to the sofa, to that magical sofa. Things quickly moved from her breasts being nurtured, to her nipples being suckled while she measured him with two hands. She masturbated him with
both hands. She sucked him, sucked and his precome was sweet, nutty, like raw hemp seeds. As they sat on the sofa, it evolved from him pulling away his clothing, to one finger being inside her, to two thick fingers being inside her, to feeling a blinding light, to feeling his weight on hers, to being penetrated, to having sex, having sex on the living room sofa, to sliding from the sofa to the cool living room floor, to neck grabbing, hair pulling, tongue sucking, back scratching, neck biting, to Mr. Jones savoring her pinkness, to Ericka feeling him at the back of her throat, to having her legs around his waist while he stood, his big cock deep inside her as he carried her. She held on to his arms. He was still strong. If he was this strong now, twenty years ago he had to have been hell in the bedroom. They had sex in the hallway that led to the stairs that led to the bedroom, and that shifted to them having sex against the wall, morphed to them having doggie sex on the carpeted stairs on the way down to the master bedroom, then to having sex in the bedroom's doorframe, to having sex at the edge of the bed, to having sex in the middle of the bed, to him pinning her down and making the bed squeak and squeak and squeak, to her riding him, riding and moaning. He took control, took her through five different doggie-style positions. They moved, initiated having sex in a chair. Her phone vibrated as expected, probably Indigo. Or it was Destiny calling to make sure the meds had been delivered to her dad. They all had the same ringtone, the song “Blackbirds,” the version from the movie about a suicidal pop star. Her fear was Destiny walking in her dad's front door unannounced. She would have seen her red SLK parked out front, a car that would be hard not to notice, and thought nothing about it. There was no reason to think anything about it. Destiny would come into the townhome and hear Ericka knocking boots with Mr. Jones.

She didn't want Destiny to see one of her Blackbirds and her dad in the middle of doing the
bow chica wow wow
all over the place. But it was in motion; the passion didn't slow down.

Some fires could be extinguished. Some had too much power. The fire she felt had grown hotter and more dangerous. Pent-up emotions were the fuel. To her, it was as inevitable as it was unavoidable. And even after the flames had died, it could still smolder for years.

The fire burned and the updrafts were powerful.

There should have been clouds in the bedroom.

The fire owned her.

When she was with him, she could feel her heart beat in her chest.

She didn't want to die.

She wanted to fight and live.

She wanted to get to the other side of cancer and fall into the fantasy in her head. While eating oatmeal and turkey sausage at CJ's Café on La Brea with Mr. Jones after he took her to chemo, her crush evolved into the deepest love. When Mr. Jones was diagnosed with cancer, Destiny had cried, Indigo had cried, and Kwanzaa had cried. But Ericka had broken down. She had cried the hardest. She had thought about Mr. Jones dying and not knowing how she felt. She had opened herself up, she had taken a chance, and she had made her feelings known, hoping he had felt half as much for her as she did for him. The sex evolved to her being on her knees on the same chair, and moved from there to the thick Oriental carpet. She only saw it as making love to a kind man. She saw it as finally reconnecting with a man who, despite any perceived fault or disease, in her eyes, was perfect.

This felt like a one-of-a-kind love.

This was part of her bucket list.

She wanted Mr. Jones to hold on to her. She wanted to hold on to Destiny's hardworking, super, totally cool, hot dad. She wanted to hold on to the man she saw as a gift from God.

What she felt for Mr. Jones she had never felt for her ex-husband.

She loved Mr. Jones, and the love she had for him was as poignant as it was full.

She finally knew what being happy felt like.