Lovers & Haters (16 page)

Xavier smirked devilishly. “Oh, I feel blessed that you are going to ‘grant' me this opportunity.” He laughed.

“You don't have to give me a lecture, man.” Samantha giggled. “Get on with the question.”

“When we saw each other for the first time—remember, you were sweatin' a brother like a sauna?”

“Why do I feel some lies coming on?” Samantha said, laughing.

Xavier smacked his lips together. “When we first met and a brother was trying to run game, you shot him down by mentioning that you didn't do bad boys. Am I still a ‘bad boy'?”

“Your status has been upgraded to just Your Majesty.”

“I see you still won't let that joke go.” Xavier chuckled.

“Don't get me wrong, big head. I've never dated anybody like you. Do you know how hard it was for me to convince Daddy to let me enroll at Coleman?” A sadness fell over her face, almost like she was caught up in a silent moment. “I love dancing and Coleman has the best dance instructor. It is my dream to be a professional choreographer, a dream that you would have to kill me to stop me from achieving. And those guys in the auditorium that day could've almost . . .” Her voice trailed off into silence. Samantha was making a Herculean effort to hold back the tears.

Xavier removed his napkin from underneath the silverware and handed it to her.

“Your mascara is running.” He offered a smile. “Would you dry your eyes before the waitress comes back to the table and thinks that I'm harming you?”

Samantha wiped her eyes and sniffled.

Xavier stuck out his tongue and looked cross-eyed. “Would you date a guy if he looked like this?”

Samantha was cracking up. She snorted again as she bent over sideways to get out the hysterical laughter. The big, pink-lipped brother at the next table finished grubbing and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He grabbed his wallet and paid the bill before getting up to leave.

Xavier waited ‘till the dude was gone. “The brotha was serious about his fried chicken. Look at his plate. Jesus! He didn't leave anything but a chicken skeleton behind.”

Samantha put her hands over her mouth and giggled.

“And all a brother was trying to do was get his lips greasy”—he nodded at the vacant table where the big chicken-smashing, greasy-lip brother had sat—“like the Negro version of Shrek.”

“OMG,” Samantha said, laughing with a paper napkin up to her mouth. “I thought one of our eyes would be taken out by flying chicken debris.”

“Okay. Now that was funny,” Xavier said.

The food finally arrived and they found themselves in a delightful conversation while eating.

“So, Xavier, for your punishment, have you started gathering the information for your report on black inventors?”

Samantha's proper table manners were tickling Xavier. Coming from a home where he and his little brother had entertained themselves at the kitchen table by farting and belching, it was strangely intriguing to watch her take the time to properly cut her chicken and lettuce into manageable portions.

Xavier tried to be polite, but was losing the battle to primal instinct. He made no apology for smacking, and sometimes talking with a mouthful of food. “I've already started.” He chomped on his food. “I'm actually kinda excited about this. I feel like I'm going to learn a lot about our history and all the dope things black people have done to uplift the community and whatnot, you know?”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you were an egghead, Xavier? I mean it in a good way. Outside, you're all rough and rugged, but you have a decent heart, and the intelligence of a thugged-out nerd.” Samantha giggled and took a sip of water.

“Very funny, you Laurieann Gibson-wannabe.”

“That is a huge compliment, Xavier. Laurieann Gibson is my idol. She's won awards for her choreography and directing and she's worked with Lady Gaga, Diddy, and Nicki Minaj. That's one black lady I don't mind modeling myself after.”

“And she has one of the tightest booties in the industry.”

“I can see caveman written all across your forehead, Xavier. Is that all you guys think about?”

“Nope. I think about lips, too. And yours look like Kerry Washington's. If we press ours together we probably could make a scandal up in this piece.”

“Speaking of dancing, Xavier, are you taking me to Coleman's last dance of the school year in May?”

“Sure, but I gotta warn you I'm a lousy dancer.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls. And I also bet that you're light on your feet.”

Xavier laughed, “Yeah. And I'll be heavy on yours.”

Samantha looked at her watch. Where had the time gone? It was ten o'clock. Her father had given her an eleven-thirty curfew. They were on the deep east side of Detroit, which meant that the ride back to Xavier's house would be almost thirty minutes. Factoring in another ten to say her good-byes and twenty minutes to get back to Birmingham—Samantha would probably be walking into her front door a little after eleven. She couldn't afford for anything to go wrong. Samantha had lied to her father about where she was going in the first place. The old man wasn't so thrilled about Xavier. He'd hit the roof if he knew that his innocent, wholesome daughter was keeping time in the company of what he called “ghetto trash.” As far as her old man knew, she was out with one of her girlfriends, shopping.

“You are silly, Xavier. But I think it's time to head back. Don't want to miss my curfew.”

Xavier summoned the waitress and paid the bill, leaving a decent tip. They were on their way out of the restaurant when they bumped into trouble. Dylan Dallas and Dutch Westwood were standing in the restaurant foyer surrounded by a group of their goons. Knuckles and Dirty were with them. Xavier just knew things were about to get ugly. Romello, Tyson, a few skanks from school, and a couple Zulu goons had gotten a room at the Marriott, not too far away. Xavier hated to break up their little celebration to come bail him out. But he had no choice. There was blood in the water and the sharks were starting to circle.

Samantha had recognized the danger—she'd heard the rumors at school. Now it looked like they were about to finish what they'd started. The switch had flipped. Just like that, Xavier had gone from comedian to someone who was easily capable of shedding blood. There was a hallway leading to the restroom area off to the right. Xavier took Samantha's hand and led her in that direction. It was there that he placed a call on his cell phone to Romello.

While the phone rang, the voices of the enemy began to escalate into a hostile pitch. They were all getting hyped and talking trash about Xavier. It was a matter of time before somebody got up the nerve to try a direct assault. Romello's phone stopped ringing and voice mail picked up. Xavier tried him once again. This time the phone went straight to voice mail. Maybe his battery was dead? Xavier didn't have time for the particulars. He tried Tyson's cell.

Straight to voice mail.

Alex was chilling with his girl on the other side of town. By the time homeboy would be able to mount up a cavalry on a rescue trip, Xavier would probably be a body lying on the cold ground behind yellow crime scene tape, uniformed officers, detectives working for leads, and the piercing red and blue lights of police cruisers and ambulances illuminating the dark night.

After trying a few more numbers, yielding the same fruitless results, Xavier put his cell phone away. Nobody picking up—one gigantic coincidence. While there was no look of concern on his face, Samantha's grille told another tale. Stress lines were embedded there. Xavier knew that, even without having told her, the girl knew what time it was.

“I'm not gonna let anything happen to you,” Xavier quickly told her. But his promise did little to diminish the strained expression on her face. “We're gonna step out. Stay close to me.”

Without further words, he grabbed Samantha's trembling hand and led her through the lobby.

Before Dylan Dallas and Westwood started nutting up, the lobby had held about a half dozen customers. They'd scampered once the profanity started. City folks were brutally aware that once young folks started getting aggressive, trouble wouldn't be too far behind.

In one fluid move of his right hand, Dylan had a few of his soldiers block off the exit. Knuckles, Dirty, and three rough-looking fools were dressed in jeans, jackets, and Timberland boots—Mitchell & Ness pom pom knit skul-lies with the throwback flare capped their domes.

“Oh no, nephew,” Dylan said to Xavier. “I believe we have some business to finish.”

Dutch Westwood moved within grabbing distance of Xavier. “My dude, you and those Zulus have made it real tough for me to get my bread on. We have to correct that. Don't know who you thought you were, coming between a man and his loot, but we are about to handle this right now, cuz.”

Xavier stood his ground. He was never easily rattled, always ready to handle all the drama that challengers brought his way. Even though he stayed calm, part of him just wanted to run his hand through Westwood's chest and pull out his skeleton by the spine like the creature in
Predator
. Xavier was more concerned about Samantha. Although they had not made a relationship commitment, in his heart, Samantha was his and he would fight to protect her.

“Nephew,” Dylan said to Xavier while wearing a victorious smile. “You don't seem so confident and cocky without your boys at your back.”

Samantha was standing right behind Xavier. Westwood tilted his head to get a better view. A stupid smirk split his mug, like he was about to say something seriously disrespectful. “Wait a minute, Dylan, I think I like his backup. Matter of fact, Samantha—that is your name, ain't it? I tried to speak to your stuck-up ass a couple times around the school. You blew me off, like you were all that.”

“Samantha, you're not gonna respond to my dog?” Dylan sarcastically asked. “That's all right, Westwood.”

The more Dylan popped off at the chops, the ballsier he became. The ultimate mistake was him walking up on Xavier without having his guards up.

Sad mistake.

While still holding on to Samantha's hand with his left, Xavier fired on Dylan. The right punch was precise and on target, catered by bad intentions, solidly connecting with Dylan's right temple and knocking spit from his mouth. The funniest thing happened to Dylan on his way to the floor. The boy's body began to shudder violently, like he had stepped on a downed power line. Xavier's mind was now in hyper speed. He let go of Samantha's hand, getting ready to do some major damage, when two uniformed police officers walked in the doors of the restaurant.

“Okay, boys and girls, freeze,” said the taller of the two. This was a black man with a no-nonsense look gracing his round face. The cop also had a hand on the handle of his service automatic.

Everybody did exactly what they were told—which wasn't hard for Dylan to do, since the floor had collected his unconscious body.

“You know the routine—assume the position,” the second officer ordered. He was a white dude and put Xavier in mind of a clumsier version of Eminem.

In the process of getting everything straightened out, the white policeman placed a call to dispatch and had an ambulance on the scene within five minutes. While the paramedics worked on Dylan, both parties were relieved of IDs and placed in separate locations. Xavier and Samantha were questioned by the white officer in the men's restroom. Westwood and his crew were being interrogated by the black cop in the lobby.

The paramedics carefully put a brace around Dylan's neck, lifted him onto a stretcher, and loaded him into the ambulance and drove to the emergency room of a nearby hospital for treatment.

After a half hour of interrogations, the only thing that the police had established was that both parties claimed that horseplay had been the reason behind the boy lying out cold on the floor. Even considering the animosity that Xavier and Westwood shared, the two boys respected the street code pertaining to snitching. Which led the officers to turn to the staff with questions, including the cute hostess who had placed the 911 call. As usual, nobody had admitted to seeing anything. The “snitches get stitches” credo was universal and left a trail of fear across every ethnicity. Running your mouth to five-o could earn you a vicious beating or get your Facebook profile picture on an obituary of your family's choosing.

Of course the policemen knew the game, but it was the proverbial wrap without any witnesses. There was absolutely nothing to hold the delinquents on, so the boys in blue had to kick 'em loose. To avoid the same type of “horseplay” from happening in the parking lot, the police ordered Westwood and his soldiers off the premises first. Dutch Westwood's driver's license showed that he was seventeen, and other documents—such as a car registration and valid proof of insurance—proved that the 2006 black Dodge Charger sitting on chrome twenty-inch rims in the parking lot belonged to him.

If Xavier wasn't sweating the minor scuffle with Dylan, he was sure stressing the black officer's latest question about how he and Samantha had gotten to the restaurant.

Samantha didn't say anything, but she was seriously tripping on the outright lie told by Xavier—that they had traveled to the restaurant by cab. What was he supposed to tell the officers—that he didn't possess a valid driver's license? Yup—like that was about to happen.

As he finished answering a few more questions, Xavier noticed that Samantha had stepped off to the side and started talking to somebody on her iPhone. Where fear had once taken up temporary residence in Samantha's eyes, Xavier could now see confusion and hostility. He knew once the police left all hell would break loose for him. Where he couldn't stand the police before, he was hoping that they would sort of hang around because Samantha was about to flip the script.

“Mr. Hunter,” the black police officer said, “you know we can stick around until you get a cab.”