Apple Brown Betty (29 page)

“That's right.”

“Should I be looking into that gesture for something more? I mean, does it signify something about our relationship? Or is it just a dinner?”

Desmond took hold of her shoulders, turned her to him and fingered her chin. “It most definitely signifies something about our relationship, Miss Wonderful.”

Cydney's cheeks bubbled like hot chocolate. “You haven't called me that in a while.”

“Miss Wonderful.”

Cydney could feel that familiar warmth coming to her midsection, that tingle of desire. She turned away from him, did something useless with her hands, moving things on the counter that didn't need moving. “We've got to watch this movie first.”

“Miss Wonderful,” Desmond whispered, moving directly into her view. Cydney turned away again.

“Ruby's Bucket of Blood,”
she said. “D-didn't you, um, say you loved Angela Bassett?”

Again he chased her gaze. “Not as much as you, Miss Wonderful.” Desmond licked his lips.

Cydney stopped running. “You're killing me, Desmond.”

He took the bowl of popcorn and Cydney's wrist. “Let's go in the other room…To the couch.”

 

Saturday.

Nighttime.

Guilt.

Slay tapped on the front door of Knocking Beats Records. He could see a small army of men in the back of the record store gathered around two turntables. Rafael, who owned the store with his brother, Ramon, indicated the place was closed by pointing to the sign. Slay made a gesture with his shoulders, moved closer to the door. Rafael squinted his eyes, smiled and moved to open the locks.

“Damn, dawg, my bad,” Rafael said as he opened the door. “I didn't see it was you. I'm not wearing my contacts today.”

“I was about to say,” Slay said as he stepped in, “as many dollars I done put in your pocket and you dissing me like that.”

They clasped hands and pressed shoulders in a ghetto hug.

“What's the word?” Rafael asked.

“Chilling. You?”

Rafael looked around the store with pride. “Trying to get those ends, B.”

Slay nodded. “Right, right.”

“That new Nas
Godson
joint isn't in yet,” Rafael said. “I know I said November but it isn't coming to December. The seventeenth I think.”

Slay shook his head. “I wasn't coming for Nas, actually.”

Rafael made a playful gesture as if the ground was coming out from under him.

Slay smiled. “You heard of Phyllis Hyman?”

Rafael hunched his eyes, nodded his head. “Yeah, man. She was beautiful, dawg. Underrated but mad talented. Her shit was deep. She did herself on a night she was supposed to perform at the Apollo.”

Slay was taken aback. “Did herself? She killed herself?”

Rafael nodded. “Yeah. Tragic shit, B.”

“You have any of her CDs?”

Rafael smiled. “You're trying to get some ass tonight or what, B?”

Slay threw a weak jab at Rafael's shoulder.

Rafael turned and walked toward the CD bins. Slay followed.

“We got
Prime of My Life
and
I Refuse to be Lonely.
”

“Give 'em both to me,” Slay said.

Rafael snickered. “You really want the panties, dawg. Play your chick ‘What Ever Happened To Our Love' off this CD—” he flipped the second CD over “—and ‘Why Not Me' off of this one. I'm not sure which one of those songs, but I know I busted the hardest nut of my life off one of 'em.”

Slay crinkled his nose. “You had to go and ruin them for me before I even listened. I'm gonna be thinking about your gorilla face when I hear them shits now.”

Rafael laughed. “That's twenty-five beans, B.”

Slay handed him a fifty and Rafael went to the register to get change. He stopped, tapped his head. The drawer was empty. He pulled the money for change from his pocket. “And yo, Rafael,” Slay said, “can I get a receipt?”

Rafael looked at Slay. “What, you filing taxes now? You buy so many CDs it's a tax write-off or something?” He smiled, rung up the sale on the cash register and ripped the receipt from the paper roll. “For your accountant,” Rafael said as he handed Slay the receipt. Rafael balled a fist to give Slay dap. Slay balled his fist and they tapped hands.

Rafael walked Slay to the front door so he could lock up behind him. Slay nodded his head at the group in the back surrounding the turntables. “What's up with that?”

Rafael turned to the group. “Something I do after closing. Teach some of these little knuckleheads how to DJ. Keep 'em off the streets and out of trouble. So much shit out there for them to get sidetracked by, or killed by.”

Slay nodded, gave Rafael dap for a second time, and walked through the door.

 

Cydney rolled over onto her back and accidentally bumped her head against the leg of the coffee table. “Shoot!”

“You okay?” Desmond asked. He sat up, supporting himself on the floor with his arms. His boxers draped on one shoulder, a used condom hung on his flaccid penis.

“I'm fine,” Cydney said, rubbing her head nonetheless. “Okay, I mean it this time. We're watching the movie now.”

Desmond rolled off the condom, pinched the open end and tied it in a knot so his life juice wouldn't leak out. He took the boxers and pulled them on. “Think of that as the previews before the movie. Or pretend you were in line waiting for soda and popcorn.”

“You owe me another ten minutes then,” Cydney said. “The previews, or standing on line, they never go that fast.”

“What!” Desmond reached for her, started tickling her rib cage. “You think you're a comedian, huh?”

A gasp left Cydney's throat as she tried to move away but found herself pinned by the coffee table. “Stop! Please, I'm sorry! Stop! You're going to make me pee!”

“Good.”

“Please, I'm sorry!” she begged.

Desmond stopped tickling her and touched his mouth to hers. He could feel passion, energy in her kisses that he'd never experienced before in life. In fact, Desmond hadn't particularly liked kissing until Cydney came along. Now he could kiss the night away. He stopped short, though. “We can't. We've got to watch this movie.”

“In a minute,” Cydney said. She pulled him back to her, found his lips again.

 

“Welcome to Cush. How many in your party?”

Slay eyed the beautiful black woman greeting him. He remembered her from last time. He scanned the restaurant to see if he spotted Desmond anywhere. He didn't. He looked to the woman. “Actually, I wanted to know if I could get something to go?”

Karen smiled. “Sure, we can handle takeout. Do you know what you want?”

Slay twirled his hand, looked toward the ceiling. “That dessert thing…with the apples and the pudding, bread crumbs.”

“Apple brown betty?”

Slay pointed at Karen. “That's it.”

“We can do that, but I hope you aren't traveling far. It's best served hot.”

“I'm going to see my girl, Kenya. She doesn't live too far from here.”

Karen smiled. “Kenya. That's a beautiful name.”

“She's a beautiful girl.”

Karen stopped one of the passing waitresses and told her to bring out an apple brown betty dessert to go. Karen told Slay he could wait right where he was but she'd appreciate it if he stepped aside if anyone came in. Slay nodded.

Slay scanned the restaurant again. “You guys sure are busy.”

“It's a Saturday night,” Karen acknowledged. “Probably our best night for business.”

Slay turned back to her. “What time is it—” he squinted to read her tag “—Karen?”

She turned up her watch. “Seven thirteen. I get a quick break at seven thirty.”

Slay nodded. “Thanks. I brought Kenya here once. She loved the place. I remember you…and the owner, he came over and talked with us. He's not in tonight?”

Karen shook her head. “No, he was in earlier.” She crinkled her mouth. “He's off spending some quality time with this new love in his life.”

“That's good. That's important.”

Karen smiled halfheartedly. “Yes, it is.”

Slay extended his hand. “By the way, my name's Shammond Slay, my friends call me Slay. You can call me Slay.”

Karen reached forward and took his outstretched hand. “Nice meeting you…Slay.”

 

Felicia's nipples were sore from the young thug's unkind hands and the teeth of one of the most brutish of the four. She struggled to catch her breath. She looked down at herself, her clothes all wrinkled and hanging off of her, one of her breasts bulging out of her bra as a reminder of the violation she'd endured. Her panties lay in a puddle by the door. She crawled the few feet and snatched them up, held them in a fist. Her vagina ached. They hadn't entered her but they'd done nasty things down there with their rough fingers. She wondered if she could still be considered a virgin. The insides of her thighs were badly bruised and the majority of her nails chipped and broken. She touched her throat and grimaced as she swallowed saliva. One of the four had pressed down on her throat as they attacked her. She wished he would have squeezed harder. She closed her eyes and sat back against the concrete wall. She wanted her mother, her father, her brother.

What she didn't want was thug love.

 

Slay killed his BMW's engine just outside the apartment tower. He ripped the plastic wrap off the two Phyllis Hyman CDs and tossed it out of his propped-open door. He grabbed the white bag that held the container of nicely packed apple brown betty and exited the vehicle. He closed the door, engaged his alarm and walked toward the building. As he walked through the unsecured lobby he noticed the black clock on the wall. In spite of himself he frowned as he thought about what had happened not too far from here in the past hour.

He moved to Kenya's first-floor apartment and did his little two-knock tap-on-the-door thing. He waited a moment and no one answered. He could hear the television playing loudly, so he knocked a second time.

The door opened to Kenya, looking sleepy-eyed and haggard. Slay smiled at her but she didn't return it. She had on big fluffy slippers and one of those long pajama shirts that women wear. Sweat stains darkened the aqua-colored shirt under her arms and across her chest. Her hair looked as if she'd run her fingers through it chasing after some elusive scalp itch.

Slay held up the white bag. “I got some of that apple brown—”

“Who dat, Kenya?” a deep and unmistakable voice called from behind her.

Slay's shoulders sagged and he looked at Kenya. She had her gaze on the ground. He could feel his heart start to race in his chest.

The voice moved closer and soon was right behind Kenya. “Sham, what's going on, son?”

Slay forced a smile to the only person who called him Sham.

Boom.

“What's up, yo,” Slay said. “When did you get home?”

Boom brushed Kenya aside, took her place in the door. “Today, Sham. They had a nigga sweatin' this time, son. I didn't think I was getting out. My lawyer, though, she was on point with hers. I wasn't supposed to get sprung until, like, December but this chick went all out to get me home for the Thanksgiving holidays. Made me feel like I had Johnnie Cochran instead of PD reppin' me. Bitch had some nice green eyes, too. I tried to talk her into hooking a brother up during his conjugal visits.”

Slay looked at Kenya, cowering behind Boom. “Yeah, Kenya told me the other day you might get out before the end of the year.”

“I didn't tell her about this latest shit,” Boom said, “in case it didn't work out. Have me on some ol' Denzel Washington, Hurricane vibe, up in that piece pressing my fingers to the glass, telling Kenya to go on with her life without me and shit.”

Slay forced out a laugh that hurt his sides and made him feel as if he would vomit any minute. “You crazy, Boom.”

“Until they put dirt on me,” Boom said, agreeing.

“You doing aiight, though?” Slay asked. He had to force himself to speak. His head swam like Greg Louganis.

Boom patted his own chest and then pulled Kenya close to his side. “I'm cool, Sham.”

Slay looked at Kenya, her head still down, and then back at Boom. A lump filled Slay's throat but he managed to speak through it. “I was just checking in, making sure everything was cool with your fam.”

Boom nodded. “Kenya said you looked her and her kids out while I was down. I appreciate that, Sham.”

Slay shrugged. “We soldiers in the same war, Boom. You know I got nothing but love for you all.” He looked behind him, signaling his own exit. “Aiight, then, I'm gonna let you all do your thing. It's good to have you back.”