Deadly Satisfaction (3 page)

“Mom, I remember growing up you used to work all day, take Lauren and me to piano lessons and soccer practice, and still manage to cook dinner, help us with our homework, and whatever else we needed. I don't do half that, so I think I can handle dinner and a walk down the grocery aisle.”

Charlene smiled. “I've said it before and I'll say it again. You're gonna make some woman a very happy lady one day, and I hope that day comes soon.”

“I know you're determined to drag me out of bachelorhood, but believe it or not, I'm doing just fine.”

“I'm not saying you have to get married right now, but . . .”

“Here it comes.”

“Don't you think it's time for you to start considering the idea of having a committed relationship? You date so many random girls who fly in and out of your life that I can't keep up with them all.”

Phillip rose to his feet, clearly not wanting to have this conversation. “I'm having fun, and I'm honest with all the women I see. I don't lead anyone on, and I'm straight up about where I am as far as a committed relationship goes.”

“So they're all fine with being one of many?”

“You make it sound like I have a harem or something,” Phillip joked.

Charlene raised her brow. “You said it, not me.”

“I'm being careful, and above all, I'm being honest. I thought that's what women want.”

“We do . . . but trust me, no woman wants to be one of many. If you date a woman who doesn't mind being placed on a list, she's not wife material.”

“That's my point, Mom. I'm not looking for wife material. I'm dating and I'm having fun, and the only list I'm thinking about right now is that grocery list you need to text me.” Phillip smiled and leaned over to plant a kiss on Charlene's cheek. “I'll be back in a little while.”

Charlene shook her head as she watched her son walk out of the room. She used to stay out of her children's business when it came to their relationships. But ever since the fiasco two years ago involving Lauren's ex-boyfriend, which ultimately led to the unraveling of Charlene's marriage, she'd been very concerned about who her children dated. When Lauren had brought her college boyfriend home to meet the family, they learned that the young man was actually her half brother, the result of an illicit affair that Charlene's husband had carried on years ago.

She sighed. “I hope that boy settles down.” Charlene knew she shouldn't worry so much because Phillip was a grown man who was capable of making his own decisions, and so far he'd made good ones. But there was something that she knew she needed to worry about, and that was the breaking news interview with Vivana. She picked up the remote control and turned on her television.

She looked at her watch and noted she had five minutes before the interview was set to air. She quickly sprang to her feet and headed into the kitchen. “I'm going to need this,” Charlene said as she reached into her refrigerator for a bottle of chardonnay, and then pulled a wineglass from the cabinet above her head.

With her wineglass and chilled bottle in hand, Charlene returned to her place on the couch just in time to hear the evening anchorwoman's voice as she began the broadcast with the breaking news segment. This was the moment Charlene had been stressing over all afternoon. As soon as Vivana's face appeared on the screen, Charlene's breathing became shallow. Unlike when she was in the salon earlier today, she didn't have to curtail her reactions, and she could take more time to fully digest what was being said.

Charlene listened closely, paying careful attention to every word coming out of Vivana's mouth, but more important, her lawyer's. Charlene knew from firsthand experience that Vivana was a loose cannon who was subject to say and do just about anything. The woman had no impulse control, which had made it very easy to frame her. But Vivana's attorney was a different matter, because she was the complete antithesis of her client. Leslie Sachs was composed, direct, purposeful, and above all, she was very smart and extremely careful. Leslie was so smooth in her approach that people never felt her bite until after they were bleeding. She was skilled and ruthless, and she never took a case unless she knew she could win. This knowledge made Charlene more afraid than ever.

Charlene had first met Leslie more than thirty years ago when the two of them had worked together at a prestigious, good ol' boy law firm in downtown Birmingham. Leslie had been a mousy, timid young woman who didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the rising stars at the firm. Charlene had been the only first-year associate who'd befriended Leslie, partly because she felt sorry for the woman, and partly because being the only African American associate on staff, Charlene knew what it was like to feel like an outsider. The two women formed a bond and they looked out for each other.

Leslie's timid streak came to a halt on a hot summer night that ended in murder. She'd been working late with one of the senior partners, and he'd invited her into his large corner office for a drink to ease the tension of their long workday. One drink turned into five, and friendliness turned into unwanted advances. By the end of the night the senior associate was dead, and Leslie had blood on her hands.

Leslie had made what everyone had thought was the colossal mistake of representing herself in the murder case. But it turned out to be the best move the timid young woman could have ever crafted. She successfully argued her case, was acquitted of all charges, and became a legal star. She'd been successfully representing accused killers ever since.

By the time the five-minute interview was over, Charlene had drunk half the bottle of wine and her nerves were even more frayed than before. Neither Vivana nor Leslie had said much, and that was what made Charlene's heart race. She knew this was Leslie's strategy—bait the hook and then reel in the fish. Leslie knew her client was innocent; otherwise she wouldn't have taken Vivana's case, and that meant she knew that the real killer was still out there, and that they were probably watching the interview for clues—just as Charlene was doing.

Charlene pressed the power button on the TV, turning it into a black slate of silence so she could think. “I need another drink,” she said as her unsteady hand struggled to pour more wine into her glass. She was about to guzzle the chardonnay when she was startled by her ringing cell phone. She looked at the caller ID and nearly dropped her glass when she saw Leslie Sachs's name flash across the screen.

Charlene temporarily stopped breathing as her lungs filled with panic instead of air. A million thoughts raced through her mind, but the one thing she knew she had do to was snap out of her haze and answer Leslie's call. She took a deep breath and pressed the Answer button. “Hello, Leslie,” Charlene said in a voice so calm it surprised even her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

“How are you, Charlene?” Leslie asked, sounding as polite as a concierge.

Over the years Charlene and Leslie had drifted apart as their lifestyles and careers changed. The high respect they had for each other still remained, and they kept each other's number in their phones, but these days the only contact the two women had was when they briefly saw each other at political functions or women's networking events. They would chitchat and catch up on each other's lives in polite but quick conversation. Now Leslie was calling her in the early evening on the eve of a holiday, out of the blue. But Charlene knew this wasn't really out of the blue, that there was a purpose attached to Leslie's call. She responded with caution. “I'm well, Leslie. And you?”

“I can't complain.”

Charlene didn't follow up on Leslie's response. She'd already asked the woman why she was calling, so the ball was in Leslie's court. Charlene decided not to say another word. She took a quick sip of wine as five seconds of silence passed before Leslie spoke.

“Did you see the breaking news tonight?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What did you think?”

Even though Charlene was shaking inside, she kept her composure. She didn't want to say too much, but she also didn't want to beat around the bush trying to figure out Leslie's angle. Charlene prided herself on being a woman of purpose, and she liked to confront things head-on. “Leslie, do you need my assistance with anything?”

Leslie paused for a moment, and Charlene knew it was intentional. “As a matter of fact, I do,” she finally said. “I need your help on the Mayfield murder case. Both the victim and my client were your constituents.”

Charlene gulped. “Yes, they were, but I'm not exactly clear how I can help you.”

“I'll fill you in when we meet. How does coffee next Monday morning sound?”

Charlene bit her bottom lip. That was five long days away, but she knew she had no choice. “Sure, where and when do you want to meet?”

Leslie hesitated again. “The Whole Bean Café, at ten.”

Charlene's heart began to race again. The Whole Bean Café was where she'd first met Johnny. She nearly gasped, but instead she smiled into the phone. “Sounds good. I'll see you there.”

“Oh, and Charlene . . . have a happy Thanksgiving with your family.”

“You too, Leslie.”

Charlene leaned back into the couch and drank the rest of the wine in her glass. She wanted to run and hide, but she knew that was out of the question. She wondered what Leslie had up her sleeve, and intuition told her that whatever it was, it couldn't be good. “Calm down, calm down,” she whispered to herself.

Charlene breathed in deeply. She wasn't sure what her next move was going to be, but she knew that whatever she did, she had to use her head, just as she'd been doing ever since she'd killed Johnny Mayfield and framed Vivana for the crime.

D
ONETTA

D
onetta picked up the remote control and turned off her TV in pure disgust. “That crazy-ass woman is nothing but trouble, and she looks even more deranged now than she did on the witness stand during her trial.”

Donetta had just finished watching Vivana Jackson's prerecorded jailhouse interview. Every time she thought about the woman, her blood boiled and then ran as cold as ice. She knew from direct experience that Vivana was the type of person who could make you mad enough to slap her, but also make you think twice about doing it because she was more dangerous than poison.

“Geneva has finally gotten her life back together, and now this heffa has to come along and turn it upside down again.” Donetta shook her head as she thought about the sheer havoc that Vivana used to wreak upon everything and everyone she came into contact with. She was a devious, conniving snake, and although Donetta was one of the very few people who'd never been fully convinced that Vivana had killed Johnny, she knew the woman was very capable of murder and much more.

“I wonder what kind of evidence they have?” she said with curiosity. Donetta knew that if Vivana was truly innocent, and the real killer was still out there, justice needed to be served. But at the same time, the thought of Vivana roaming free was a scary proposition.

Donetta sucked her teeth and frowned as her mind drifted to the past with the memory of how she had first met Vivana at Heavenly Hair Salon, where she and Geneva used to work. The way Vivana had made up a false identity so she could openly stalk Geneva had been more eyebrow raising than any work of fiction a novelist could write.

Donetta remembered seeing the gleam in Vivana's eyes when she'd sit in Geneva's chair and say things to intentionally piss Geneva off. But she didn't stop there; she would spread her venom across the entire salon, upsetting and irritating stylists and customers alike. No one liked her, but Vivana hadn't cared because she'd been on a mission.

“There's something about that woman that ain't right,” Donetta had told Geneva. “Watch her, because I have a feeling she's up to no damn good.”

Donetta shuddered when she thought about how close Geneva had come to sharing Johnny's fate. During the murder trial, Vivana had testified in open court that she'd wanted to kill Geneva first, and then do away with Johnny. But someone had gotten to Johnny before she could carry out her plan, causing her to forgo it entirely.

“What a psychopath,” Donetta said aloud, shaking her head. “I hope she rots in jail, because even if she didn't kill Johnny, I'm sure her deranged ass has done something that justifies keeping her behind bars.”

Thinking about Vivana, along with her hectic day at the salon, had made Donetta's head hurt. And it didn't help that she'd just started taking a new dosage of hormone replacement therapy. Her new prescription, combined with her daily dose of anti-androgens—meant to further suppress what little testosterone she had left in her body—had left her feeling tired and a little light-headed. “Maybe if I eat something I'll feel better.”

Donetta walked into her kitchen and rummaged through her pantry in search of something she could throw together for a quick meal. But she came up short, so she searched her refrigerator and then let out a frustrated sigh. “This is the only part of my life that's just like a damn man,” she said jokingly, and then paused. “Yep, that's definitely the only part.” Donetta looked down at her flat crotch and leaned against her gray quartz countertop. She ran her hand over the area between her legs where until a year ago, a bulge had been. Thanks to her gender reassignment surgery, she no longer had to worry about binding the penis and testicles that had never felt like they'd belonged on her body.

Over the past ten years, and particularly the last two, Donetta had embarked upon what she could only describe as an odyssey. She'd completed male-to-female transformation, or MTF, as it was commonly referred to in the transgender community. At times she'd felt anxious, excited, frustrated, and scared. But more than anything, she was grateful to finally be able to live comfortably as the woman she'd always known she was meant to be.

For as far back as Donetta could remember, she'd felt as if she'd been living in a body she was never meant to inhabit.

She'd been born Donald Eric Pierce, named after her maternal grandfather, who had been the epitome of an overtly masculine alpha male. But instead of little Donald inheriting his grandfather's qualities, he'd leaned toward the exact opposite, acting dainty and more feminine than the girls in his neighborhood. When he was a child he'd gravitated toward Barbie instead of G.I. Joe, and he favored jump rope over stickball. He loved reading his grandmother's
Redbook
magazine, and secretly longed to wear the green uniforms the Girl Scouts proudly sported to school, instead of their counterpart's blue one that his mother had forced him into.

Donald was five years old the first time he realized with absolute knowing that, despite the fact that he looked like a boy on the outside, he was 100 percent female on the inside. It had been his first day of kindergarten, and his teacher announced that the class was going to take a bathroom break. She asked everyone to line up according to gender—girls on one side and boys on the other. Young Donald instinctively walked over to the side where the girls were standing.

“Donald,” the teacher had said, “I don't think you heard me correctly. The boys are on the other side.”

The children giggled, and they all thought, along with their teacher, that Donald had misunderstood the directions. What they didn't know was that Donald fully comprehended what the teacher had said, and that, in fact, he'd gone to the line that he believed he was meant to be in. After a moment, Donald complied and walked over to join the boys because he didn't understand, let alone know how to articulate his position at such a young age.

As Donald grew older, he learned how to hide who he was, not wanting to bring embarrassment to his hardworking but insensitive single mother, or physical harm to himself. His father had checked out of the picture the day before his seventh birthday, and his mother had blamed him. “Your daddy didn't want to raise no sissy, and that's why he left,” Donald's mother had told him. Donald had never gotten along with his mother, and she, too, eventually abandoned him at the start of his sixth grade year. “Your daddy didn't want to raise a sissy, and I'll be damned if I'ma raise a punk,” she'd said. One day when he came home from school, all her clothes and furniture was gone, and that was how he came to live with his grandma Winnie.

 

Junior high school was miserable for Donald, and high school was torturous.
Gay
,
queer
,
fag
,
fairy
,
freak
, and
homo
were all words he'd become used to hearing associated with his name. If it hadn't been for his beloved grandma Winnie, whose husband Donald he had been named after, he wouldn't have survived. She was the only person who showed him unconditional love. “Baby, you a part of me, and I'm a part of you, so we both gon' make it, you hear?” she'd often tell him. He knew if he had a part of her goodness inside him, he could do anything, and that's what helped
him
become
her
.

Donetta ran her hand across her soft, curvaceous C cups, and smiled. It had been a year and a half since she'd had her breast implant surgery, and she still couldn't get over how much she loved the difference it made in her appearance. “Real boobs!” she'd said to Geneva when she showed her best friend the amazing results of her perfectly-shaped breasts.

Although Donetta had always been effeminate when she'd lived as a man, she'd tried as hard as she could to repress her feminine side for years, which helped protect her from retaliation in the rural South Carolina town where she'd grown up. But once she moved to Amber several years ago to enroll in cosmetology school after earning a degree in business from Florida A&M, she'd finally felt comfortable enough to break out of her shell. Little by little she took baby steps toward her dream to live fully as a woman.

She had always been slender, with narrow shoulders and lean muscles, which made looking female slightly less challenging than it was for many trans women she knew. She'd started off slowly, dressing androgynously in women's blouses, low-rise jeans, and flat sandals. Then she stepped it up with accessories by wearing chandelier earrings that highlighted her long, slim neck, styling bold bangles that clanked at her slender wrists, and rocking a midlength weave that gave her a fresh look. She accentuated her feline-shaped eyes with black liner, smoky shadows, and perfectly arched brows. Her cheeks looked rose-kissed after applying the perfect shade of blush, and she played up the contours of her near-perfect bone structure with strategically applied bronzer.

But no matter how much estrogen she took, clothes she wore, or makeup she applied, Donetta knew she would never look the way she wanted without taking more drastic measures.

She smiled to herself as she remembered the day her late grandma Winnie and Geneva had sat by her side in the waiting room of the Gender Wellness Center, where she'd gone for her first hormone replacement therapy. She'd known that HRT was going to be a permanent part of her life from that point forward, and the thought had been a little daunting. She was glad she'd taken her primary care doctor's advice years ago to not only seek clinical therapy, but to join a good support group to help her deal with the multitude of physical and emotional changes that were ahead.

During her first few months of HRT, Donetta had been sorely disappointed that the only noticeable results she'd experienced had been bloating, mood swings, and hot flashes. But slowly, the estrogen and anti-androgren drugs kicked in and began to transform her body. Her skin's slightly rough texture started to soften and become smooth. Her flat chest began to morph into small breasts. The hard muscles in her arms, thighs, and legs seemed to melt away. Her weight slightly increased, and her body fat began to redistribute to her butt, hips, thighs, and legs, giving her a more womanly shape. But even with all those transformations, there were a few things the hormones couldn't come close to touching, and her voice and facial features were two of them.

Donetta enlisted the help of a voice coach whom she trained with for six months to learn how to control the inflection in her tone and pitch when she spoke. Each morning on her drive to work, instead of listening to the radio, she practiced out loud, as if she was giving a speech to a room full of people. By the end of the summer, her voice mimicked the sound of a perfect Southern belle.

The next thing Donetta knew she had to address was her facial features, and although it had been costly, after much research she'd decided to undergo facial feminization surgery to further soften and enhance her good looks. Her first step had been to get her trachea shaved. She'd been nervous the day of the procedure, but the end result had made her jump with joy and forget she'd ever had a single worry. After she healed, she and Geneva had flown to Brazil, where medical procedures were much cheaper, to have her forehead, chin, jawline, and hairline cosmetically reshaped and repositioned, and after she recuperated from that, her once androgynous features now looked undeniably feminine.

Her transformation had come at just the right time, shortly before she and Geneva opened G&D Salon on the other side of town. Many of the clients and a few of the newer stylists at the salon had no idea that Donetta had once been a tall, good-looking, girlish-looking guy, because now she looked like a diva straight from the pages of
Essence
magazine. She turned heads wherever she went, and she felt confident and beautiful for the first time in her life.

Donetta knew all the sacrifices she'd made were well worth it, along with all the ups and downs she'd experienced. However, just like everything, there was a price to be paid, and she was experiencing a big one now as she looked around her gourmet kitchen that didn't contain anything of substance she could cook. “All I have is a can of cream of chicken soup and some expired milk,” Donetta said with a sigh, shaking her head. “This is a damn shame.”

There had been a time when her pantry and refrigerator were always stocked, even with her busy days and long hours at the salon. But ironically, ever since she'd been living full-time as a woman, her kitchen had turned into a wasteland. “I'm tired, I'm hungry, and my damn hormones are raging,” she said in frustration. “I need a good meal.” She picked up the to-go menu from her favorite restaurant and placed her take-out order.

Five minutes later, after changing into a pair of light gray leggings and an oversized gray sweatshirt, Donetta slipped on her hot pink Uggs and walked out her door, headed to Sebastian's.