Big Juicy Lips (22 page)

The grimace on Dane’s face spoke volumes. “Quickie brain surgery? How the fuck he do that?”

“He’d knock the patients out with electroshock and then insert an ice pick underneath their eyeball.”

Dane couldn’t help from squirming at the idea of a sharp instrument anywhere near his eyeball.

“He’d take a hammer and drive that ice pick up into the frontal lobes of the brain. Then he’d wiggle it around to make sure he was hitting every dark corner of their violent, depraved minds.”

Dane felt nauseous. “Seems like that would have killed ’em?”

“Nah, it calmed ’em down. Calmed ’em real good, from what I heard. Those mental patients didn’t make much of a ruckus after they had ice pick surgery.”

“That’s fucked up.” Dane felt violated by having to listen to his drunk-ass father rant and talk trash. He doubted there was even a thread of truth to what his father was saying, but didn’t feel like arguing. He wanted information. He didn’t know why it was so important to know, but it was. He always wanted a brother to run around and wreak havoc with. For his own peace of mind, he needed to know if their uncanny resemblance was a quirk of fate or if the deceased Shane Batista had been his brother by blood.

“But the mental health department…the feds or somebody came in and put a stop to lobotomies. So, by the time I was working there, those days were long gone. Most were made to relax with medication—Thorazine and whatnot. Those that didn’t respond to the medication had to be held down with leather restraints.” His father produced a reminiscent smile. “That’s where I come in the picture.” He took a deep, rejuvenating breath. “They needed young, strapping fellas like myself to wrestle with ’em and hold in place, and help cuff ’em to metal tables. Problem was you couldn’t keep those people cuffed up twenty-four hours a day. So, me and several others were called on and told to use what we were blessed with to keep the ladies nice and calm.” He gave his son a meaningful wink; his eyes roamed down to his groin.

“Now, you’re lying.”

“My hand to God. The doctor hisself gave permission to me and a few others. Told us we could sex down females as long as we kept it among ourselves and confidential. Doctor told us, don’t think of it as rape; think of it as therapy.”

“Aw, man. That’s sick.”

“I think banging an ice pick up in their skull is sick, but once upon a time, the medical profession thought it was therapeutic.”

“So, you was up in the crazy house raping bitches?”

“No, I gave therapy sessions.” Dane’s father laughed hard. It was loud, shoulder-shaking, knee-slapping, coughing-up, phlegm-rattled, raucous laughter.

Dane glared at his father.

“Why you looking at me like I’m wearing a shit suit? I did my job well and received extra perks. See, back in those days, they didn’t have hidden security cameras all over the place, taping niggas while they were giving behind-the-scenes therapy sessions. Shit, working in a crazy house could make a nigga lose his own good mind, if he didn’t have a way to relieve some of that job-related stress.”

“Did you know a woman—last name, Batista?”

“Puerto Rican bitch?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Puerto Rican bitches were okay to work with, but the doc was as prejudiced as they come when it came to us black men sticking our dicks up in the white patients.” He frowned at the memory. “White women were off limits to us blacks.” He tapped his hand with his forefinger, indicating his brick-red complexion and then shook his head at the shame of such blatant racism. “Humph! That man sure didn’t want a bunch of black dicks up in those white schizos. You wanna know something? A lot of interracial mingling went on behind closed doors. We figured what that doctor didn’t know, didn’t hurt him.” Marshall gave a burst of raucous laughter. “The joke was on the doc and the hospital—every time one of those crazy white women pushed out a half-black baby.” There was more knee-slapping laughter, followed by a bout of phlegm-filled coughing.

“Wasn’t none of that DNA mess. They didn’t investigate workers. They just blamed the patients, said they were all hot for each—too crazy to be separated by race. The kids got put up for adoption. Foster care and whatnot.”

Dane always knew his father was slimy, but he now realized he was worse than slimy. The man was bona fide crazy and he could only pray he’d hadn’t been contaminated too badly. He didn’t want to end up an alcoholic, talking about his glory days of raping and pillaging schizophrenic women in a nut house. Damn, his pops was worse off than he’d thought.

Still holding the picture, Dane pointed out Tariq.

“So, you admitting that you fathered these brothers?”

“Hell no! That yella one ain’t none of mine.”

“They’re twins, Pop.”

“I wouldn’t give a shit. That yella boy looks just like ol’ Roger Smallwood. Roger was a high-yella pretty boy. If memory serves me, Roger went in and calmed Marguerite down right after I did my work on her. He didn’t want to, though.” Marshall scowled. “Damn, sissy!” he snarled. “That’s probably why he had the last name Smallwood. You get it?” He laughed hard, coughed up and spit out phlegm. “Nah, he didn’t wanna tussle with that wildcat, Marguerite. Even after the long hard ride I gave her, she was still spitting and clawing. Me and the other fellas pushed Roger in the room with her; made him stand up like a man and take his turn. A woman like that needed two or three strong backs to calm her all the way down. The rest of us couldn’t give her no more therapy until our dicks recharged.”

“So, you expect me to believe that a woman can have twins by two different men?”

“Damn straight. Those boys ain’t identical. The mean-looking one is most likely your brother. But, that sweet-looking boy is the spitting image of Roger Smallwood. I know my own blood when I see it. Boy, we come from a long line of fierce Cherokee Indians. We made out of Cherokee and African warriors. There’s no white blood mixed up in my veins. I can’t make a male child who looks as soft and sweet as a girl. That yella twin ain’t none of my seed.” Marshall took a deep, satisfying breath. “Now, when can I meet my son?”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s dead. Killed hisself.”

Disappointment contorted Marshall’s face.

“Yup, your son, Shane is dead and gone,” Dane informed him with a large measure of satisfaction as well as a modicum of sorrow over the personal loss of the brother he’d never known. “His twin is dead, too.”

“Umph!” His father uttered in disgust and turned the bottle back up to his lips. He took a long swig. “What about Marguerite? How she make out?” He looked hopeful, like there was a possibility for a spur-of-the-moment hook-up.

“She’s calm. Peaceful,” Dane taunted, deliberately fucking with his father for abandoning his parental responsibilities without a lick of remorse.

“Say what?” Marshall reared back in shock. “You mean to tell me that spitfire is actually taking her meds?” He gave a snort. “I’ll believe that when I see it. How can I get in touch with her?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“She’s in her grave.” Dane glared at his father. “It don’t get more peaceful than that, Pops.”

“Damn!” His father spat out the word and then kicked out his foot, angry and regretful at having lost his last shot at schizophrenic sex.

C
laiming illness—a high temperature and cold sweats, Thomasina Bernard stayed home from work for two days in a row. Yeah, she had a fever all right. Love fever. She felt flushed just thinking about her hard-muscled, young lover lying in her bed.
Umph!
She smiled as she flipped pancakes in the skillet. Another pan contained scrambled eggs and cheese, bacon was crisp and waiting inside the microwave. Cooking for a man felt good—felt as natural as if she’d been doing it her whole life.

This morning, she’d really tried to get out of bed and get herself ready for her job, but after making love twice before six a.m., she didn’t have the strength or the will to put in a day’s work. “I’m still sick; can’t make it in,” she told her boss, using the convincing, throaty tone of someone not feeling up to par.

She replaced the phone in the base and two strong arms instantly wrapped around her waist. “You still sick, Ma?” Brick whispered, his lips nipping and teasing her ear. “Want me to make it better?”

She blushed, kissed one of his iron-hard arms. “If I keep messing with you, I’m going to wind up dead. The coroner’s gonna take one look at me and say this woman was obviously loved to death.” She broke out laughing.

Brick didn’t find it funny. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I was just kidding, Baron.”

“I know, but I don’t even like you to play with the word
death
.”

“All right. Who would have ever thought you had such a sensitive side?”

“I’m sensitive when it comes to you.”

He seemed to have swiftly and seamlessly transferred his love and adoration from daughter to mother. How was that possible? Brick had issues. Inevitably, Thomasina would have to start peeling away layers of his psyche and try to get to the bottom of the matter. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Being realistic, she had to accept that his presence was only temporary. She hadn’t heard a mumbling word from her trifling daughter, but it was just a matter of time before Misty turned up to collect her meal ticket. She lived off the money Brick made from doing only God knew what. Dark clouds loomed, threatened to take away the sunshine from Thomasina’s work-free day.
Lord, please don’t let me find out Baron’s a hired killer.
She wouldn’t put it past Misty to have him out there maiming and murdering for her own greedy purposes.

Thomasina pushed aside the dark thoughts and allowed herself to bask in the joy of having an unselfish, long-lasting, and youthful sex partner.

Diving under the covers, she drew Brick’s large, swelling phallus inside her mouth. Becoming skilled at oral sexing his enormous dick, she ran her tongue up and down the length of his shaft, swirled circles around the smooth head, moaning as she tasted his chocolate sweetness, sucking until she heard the harsh groan of masculine satisfaction.

“Breakfast is ready,” she sang the words.

Brick bounded down the stairs and strolled into the kitchen, wearing jeans and a wife beater that displayed his bulging muscles. Feeling good—better than he’d felt in years, he bounced over to the spot where Thomasina stood in front of the stove. He palmed her butt cheeks, uttered a low moan and then proceeded to fondle her big, round ass while kissing the back of her neck. “Mmm. The grub smells good…you smell good…that ass is looking good. I’m in love, Ma.”

“How is that possible?” Thomasina giggled and motioned for him to take a seat. He reluctantly tore himself away from her and pulled a chair up close to the kitchen table.

She set a plate heaped with breakfast foods in front of him. Brick dug into the scrambled eggs. “Yo, this is banging. You can burn, Ma.” He nodded his head as he threw down on her home cooking, something he hadn’t had in years. A sudden dark feeling came over him. It didn’t seem right for her to miss work to stay home and keep him company. It was real fucked up to be grubbing on food he hadn’t bought. Brick put his fork down. “You need some money, Miss Thomasina?”

She cocked her head in surprise. “Where’d that come from? Boy, hush and eat your breakfast.”

“Seriously, I have a couple hundred on me to help out with food and whatnot.”

“What’s wrong?” She stared at him, her eyes focused on his scar; surprisingly the jagged cut no longer repelled her. She could look beyond it and see his good looks, his loving and trusting spirit.

“Misty already paid for you to stay here. To be honest, I was thinking about giving the money back.” Feeling embarrassed and slightly off kilter, Thomasina turned her gaze away from Brick. “Even if you decide that this isn’t what you want…if you and Misty get back together—”

“I’m not going back to Misty. I’m through with that life. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I’ve been here and I figured out something about myself.”

“What?” Thomasina was curious.

“It feels good to be treated nice. I never knew how it felt to be treated like I’m special.”

“You are special.” Thomasina raked her hands through her short, thick hair. “Good sex feels like love, I guess. That’s probably our only connection.”

He cocked his head to the side. “It feels like love to me. All I ever knew was mad, sad, scared, and lonely.”

“You’ve never been happy?”

Brick shook his head. “Back when I was a kid, I used to think I was happy if a day went by and my foster father didn’t whip my behind.”

“What about Misty? Weren’t you happy before whathisface came into the picture?”

“I worshipped the ground Misty walked on; I put her up on a pedestal, treated her like a queen. I didn’t mind how she treated me. I was grateful to be with her. So, I can’t blame Misty. Plus, that’s the way I was raised. My foster father told me to be grateful for whoever took care of me.”

“But Misty didn’t work or take care of you.”

“She taught me the ropes. I was grateful for that.”

“Do you still love Misty?” Thomasina figured he did, but she wanted to hear the words straight from his mouth.

Brick nodded. “Yeah. I’ll always love Misty. She gave me my heart.”

“What?”

“She took me under her wing, taught me to defend myself and how to make money for us.”

Sorrow clutched at Thomasina’s heart. Her daughter had manipulated this sweet soul and she had personally treated him with enormous disrespect. Pounding it into his head that he wasn’t good enough for her selfish daughter. “There’s been a lot of hostility between us—in the past. And I’m sorry, Baron. I really am.”

“Yo, I ain’t been no saint. I had plenty of harsh words for you, too. I apologize as well.”

“Deep down, I always knew that my child was corrupt down to her core.”

“She’s not all bad. Misty’s spoiled,” Brick said in Misty’s defense.

“And I’m the one responsible for her spoiled, rotten ways.” She waved her hand, silencing him before he could defend her daughter again. “I don’t want to know what Misty had you out there doing to earn all that money; I really don’t.” She shook her head emphatically. “But whatever you were doing has got to stop. Right now. Today!”

Brick reflected on Thomasina’s words. “I can’t let Misty take the blame for everything. See…” Brick inhaled, gathering his thoughts.

Thomasina shuddered.
Please, Lord, don’t let this man tell me he’s a hired assassin.
“I said, I don’t want to know. The past is the past. Me and you…we’re going to move forward. Together. We’ll take small steps. No point in making a whole lot of promises. Let’s just treat each other good and see how far this can go.”

Brick smiled—wide and broad, making his scar even more pronounced. Thomasina didn’t care. She wanted him—scar and all.

“First thing tomorrow, I’m going out to look for a job. I never had a regular job before. But I’ll flip burgers or do whatever I have to do to take care of you. Y’ah mean?” As Thomasina beamed over the thought of a young strapping man coming home and paying some of the bills, Brick’s mind wandered to Misty’s fat stash. He’d never asked her for much of the money he’d brought in—a couple dollars here and there. She owed him and right about now, he could use some of that cheese. He looked at Thomasina. “I don’t want handouts. I can hold my own.” Brick shrugged. “I can do better than that. If you let me be the man in your life, I’ll take good care of you.”

Thomasina had never heard sweeter words. She couldn’t help from blushing; she imagined a deep, red color blazing across her brown skin. Then reality hit. “What about Misty? She may not want you anymore. But knowing about me and you…” Thomasina shook her head ominously. “She’s not going let you go easily.”

“I don’t owe Misty anything. Being her mother and all, I guess you feel like you’re doing her wrong. I can’t tell you how to feel but I do know that Misty is happy; she’s really in love,” he remarked without a trace of bitterness.

Thomasina searched his face. “Are you using me—you know—trying to get revenge?”

“No, ma’am.” Brick shook his head.

Thomasina inhaled, closed her eyes as she squeezed her vaginal muscles. She loved the way Brick switched it up, going from speaking intimately, calling her baby and then addressing her respectfully as ma’am. Mmm. The dichotomy was unbearably sensual.

“On the real, Misty did me a favor. The way we was living—it was starting to wear me down. She wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy.”

“What do you need to be happy?” Thomasina sincerely wanted to know.

“It don’t take much.” He looked up in thought. “I want to experience real love. Does it exist?”

Thomasina shrugged; hell if she knew. She’d been used and abused in all her relationships—truth be told, she’d never experienced real love either.

“Besides wanting to be loved, all I need is weed, booze, food, and sex,” he said, laughing. “But, I’m gon’ work on some of those bad habits. Gotta get ’em outta my system. I don’t know if you noticed, but I ain’t smoked no weed or drank a brew since I been here. Now that’s a miracle.” He gave her a wink. “It’s all because of you,” he added with a grin.

His words warmed her; melted her heart. But she needed to stay focused, keep her wits about her. Happily ever after hadn’t happened to her and it wasn’t likely to start now; especially not with her daughter’s ex-boyfriend. “A few nights ago, you were miserable, tried to end your life.” She assumed a serious expression and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “So, let’s be honest about our relationship. Misty put us together because she was feeling inconvenienced. She’ll call you back when she’s good and ready and I doubt if you’ll be able to tell her no.” Thomasina’s eyes swept downward in shame. “I spoiled her something awful. Made her think her looks were all she needed to get somewhere in life. Being average looking myself, I enjoyed all the attention of having such a beautiful daughter. But I ruined her. The way she is…selfish and inconsiderate—it’s really not her fault.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself. Misty’s a grown woman. Grownups have to be responsible for their own selves,” Brick commented wisely. “I thought you said we could take small steps—toward a future together.”

Thomasina tilted her head questioningly.

“Well, right now, all we need to focus on is me and you.” He reached out, pulled Thomasina on his lap. “I know I’m a big boy, but you put enough food on this plate to feed a couple of troops.” Thomasina looked at his plate: bacon, eggs, pancakes, sausages, grits, and toast. Brick forked up pieces of pancake. “Here, baby, help me eat some of this.”

She sat uneasily, moving her hips around trying to adjust her ample butt and hips into a comfortable position. Brick carefully guided a forkful of pancakes toward her mouth. “Open up,” he coaxed and then ate the pancakes himself, as if proving to a young child that food was indeed good. “Mmm,” he said, prodding Thomasina to sample her own cooking. “Eat, boo. You gotta stay in shape. You know I like all that baby phat.” He patted her hip, squeezed her thickness, murmuring sounds of appreciation.

She gave a girlish giggle. The sound so surprising, she covered her mouth and then removed her hand and self-consciously parted her lips. Brick fed her and then kissed her on the cheek as she chewed. In no time at all, Thomasina grew comfortable and began to enjoy the attention Brick was giving her. When he picked up a breakfast sausage and slowly slipped it between her lips, the sexual imagery was instant and powerful. As if they’d been simultaneously shot in the loins by Cupid’s arrow, their eyes locked in lust. “We can finish that later,” he told her. Utensils clattered as Brick pushed the plate away. He scooped Thomasina up and speedily headed for the stairs.

Carrying her in his arms, Brick glided up the stairs. Thomasina was literally floating in the air. With her arms wrapped around Brick’s neck, she stealthily pinched her wrist. I’m not dreaming, she assured herself as her muscled young love gently lowered her onto the bed.