Money-Makin' Mamas (18 page)

“Yes,” I said, holding the door open.

She dropped the cigarette on the ground then smashed it with her pointed-toe heels. “Congrats on the engagement,” she said. “Aren't you going to invite me in?”

I was still in disbelief that she was here. “I am, but I'm a little shocked that you're here. How did you know where I was?”

“Don't ask me any questions. Just be glad that I'm here.”

I rolled my eyes then opened the door wider for her to come inside. She was jazzed up in a short jacket, some jeans, and stilettos. Her braids were in a bun, but like always, several tresses dangled along the sides of her round face. Black-framed glasses covered her eyes, but she removed them and looked around at Marc's loft.

“Nice,” she said. “Real nice. It looks like your man has done pretty well for himself.”

“He has. That's why I'm excited about bein' with him. I hope you'll be excited for me too, but I'on know 'cause you haven't smiled yet.”

Mama turned around and reached out her arms. “Come here,” she said. I walked up to her and we embraced each other. “I'm always happy when good things happen for my daughters, Chyna. Don't you ever think that I wouldn't be.”

“I know you are, but you worry me sometimes. I know how you feel about us and the men we choose to date. That's why I kept Marc a secret.”

Mama backed away from our embrace and moved into the living room, where she sat on a circular soft leather black sofa. She laid her leather bag on the table then crossed her legs.

“You may have tried to keep Marc a secret, but when will you ever learn that your mama knows everything? It's important for me to do my homework and I do so very well. Did you think I wasn't paying attention to your trips back and forth to St. Louis? I was, but I figured you would tell me about those trips when you were ready to.”

I tightened the belt on Marc's robe then tucked my leg underneath me again, as I sat next to Mama. “I wanted to tell you, but like I said, I didn't think you'd approve. And even though I know you be watchin' our backs, I wanted you to believe that my St. Louis trips were all about makin' money. They weren't. They were about Marc. We really do love each other, Mama.”

Mama smiled then lifted my chin so I could look at her. “I really do believe that you love Marc and good for you. Why don't you tell me about him? If this young man is going to be my son-in-law, I want to know more about him.”

I held out my hand and started counting down on my fingers. “First of all, he's very smart and educated. He's in the real estate business, and he makes a gang of money sellin' property and buyin' new property to renovate it, like he did this loft. He's fine as hell; his mother lives in St. Louis and she loves me too. He has two brothers, but he ain't seen his father in years. He used to be a professional boxer, but he did some jail time for sellin' drugs. That was years ago, and he's been on the right track ever since.”

Mama nodded her head as I spoke. “He is fine,” she said. “Lord knows he's fine, but I'm a little concerned about all of the other wonderful things that you said about him.”

My brows rose. “What concerns you?”

Mama reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. She put her glasses back on, removed a picture from inside, and turned it so I could see it. “Is this the Marc you're referring to?”

I felt the bullshit coming down. All I did was nod.

“Okay,” Mama said. “'Cause this right here is Marc Wilson. He dabbles a little in the real estate business, but most of his money comes from drug trafficking. He lives on the south side of St. Louis with his wife and three kids, and they've been together since high school. His mother lives nearby them too, and from what I hear, she loves the hell out of her daughter-in-law and her grandbabies. Both of his brothers are in prison, and Marc will be back there soon, because the police have a close watch on him. His father was killed in 2001, and in addition to all of that, he has a man he's been seeing, too. See, while he was in prison, he had a li'l something going on with another fine nigga he met. Ever since that fool got out of jail last year, the two of them have been secretly hooking up, if you're smart enough to know what I mean. So, if this is the same Marc you see in the picture, please tell me how he is the same Marc you gon' be married to?”

My face had already cracked five times and hit the floor. I blinked away my tears, trying my best not to show hurt, even though I was. I wanted to throw up, and a huge part of me didn't want to believe Mama. I wanted to call her a goddamn liar, I wanted to slap the shit out of her for telling me all of this, and I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs for being so fucking stupid. But I knew better. I knew that I had been calling Marc all morning, but had gotten no answer. I mean, how many meetings could one motherfucker have? I questioned why this place always looked so empty, and as much as I searched through his things, I never found anything because there was little searching to do. Only a few pieces of clothing hung in his closet, and the linen closet was never filled with many towels or sheets, only a few. The whole loft appeared to be just like the apartment that I'd had in Chicago. It was there for only one reason and one reason only. To fuck him.

I tried to swallow the huge lump in my throat, but it wouldn't go down. Instead of forcing it down, I rushed to the kitchen to get some water. After I did, I looked at Mama who sat in the living room, now filing her nails and waiting calmly for me to respond.

“Do you have the address of where he lives?” I asked.

“I do, but you have a choice to make. Either you can pack up your shit and go home with me, or you can go over there to confront him. You're going to put yourself in a bad situation if you do, but as always, Chyna, the choice is yours. Not mine.”

I left the kitchen and went into Marc's bedroom. I looked at the stained sheets where he'd milked every ounce of cum from me this weekend. I looked at the ring on my finger, and instead of tossing it, I kept it right on my finger. I wanted to throw up and cry like a baby, but a child by Taffy Douglas knew better than to wear her emotions on her sleeve. She had warned us about men. Shame on me for not listening. I put my guard down, even when I knew this relationship didn't feel right. The warning signs were all there. I ignored them because I was desperate to find something better than I'd already had in front of the computer monitor.

Not giving it much more thought, I put on my clothes, packed my bags, and went into the living room with Mama. No sooner than I opened my mouth, though, the door came open and in walked Marc. With confusion on his face, he looked at Mama on the couch then shifted his eyes to the bags I had in my hand.

“This must be your mother,” he said, walking into the living room with a forced smile on his face. He extended his hand, but Mama refused to touch it. “Oh, I'm sorry. Did I come at a bad time?”

“No,” Mama said. “I think you came at the right time. Chyna, I'll be in the bedroom. Why don't the two of you go ahead and . . . talk.” Mama narrowed her eyes and gave Marc an evil stare. She then picked up her purse and went into his bedroom, closing the door behind her.

“I don't think your mother likes me,” Marc whispered then laughed.

I folded my arms and sucked my teeth. “Where have you been all day?” I asked.

“I told you I had a meeting. It wrapped up pretty quickly, so we can head out and go to dinner early. I hope you're not leaving this soon. See if your mother wants to go with us so I can get to know her a little better.”

“I doubt that that's goin' to happen, Marc, and after a long talk with my mama this mornin', I've changed my mind about us gettin' married. I think it's best that you stay with your wife and kids because they need you way more than I do.”

Marc cocked his head back and dropped his mouth open, as if he were in shock. “Wife and kids? Huh?”

“Yes, your wife and kids who you live with on the south side of St. Louis.”

The bedroom door came open. Mama poked her head out of it. “You know who she's talking about, nigga. The bitch with the long red hair and light skin. Stop playing games and fess up to yo' bullshit!”

Mama closed the door. Marc stood stunned. He plopped down on the couch, squeezing his forehead as if it ached. “I . . . I was going to tell you about all of that, but the timing wasn't right, Chyna. My wife and I are separated, but I go by there every now and then to check on my kids. I told her that I wanted a divorce and she knows all about you. It's just a matter of time when it will be completely over with us. Then you and I can get married.”

My face twisted. I wanted to slap the shit out of him, but I wasn't done with my questions yet. “Really? That's interestin' because how can we get married when you're havin' sex with another nigga, too? Do you think I'm stupid, Marc? Is that what you really think?”

He was starting to get nervous. My mentioning the nigga he was bumping and grinding with wasn't a good thing. The accusation caused him to get angry.

He shot up from his seat like a rocket. “What? I'm not doing a damn thing with no nigga. You are fucking crazy for getting at me about some bullshit like that, ma. I don't know why you're tripping, Chyna. If you just don't want to get married, then say so and stop playing these goddamn games.”

He reached for my waist, trying to pull me closer to him. I was so mad that I reached out my hand and slapped the shit out of him. “Back the fuck away from me, you greasy-ass, fake nigga! I'm done with yo' ass and—”

I was caught off guard by Marc's hard blow to my face. He punched me so hard that I dropped to the floor and saw stars. In a daze, I blinked my watery eyes and touched my jaw that felt numb. When I gathered myself a bit, I scrambled to find my purse. Marc shoved me back on the floor and he stood over me, darting his finger at me.

“Yo' ass ain't going nowhere. Tell yo' mama to get the fuck out of here, so that we can deal with this shit right now.”

Speaking of Mama, where in the fuck was she? Didn't she know that I needed her right now? This nigga was tripping. Yet again, when I tried to get up, Marc shoved me. This time, he squatted and pulled me by my collar so I could be face to face with him.

“Don't be so damn difficult and do like I tell you to do. Now, get the fuck off my floor and clear that mean ass mug off your face. That ain't no way to look at your future husband. I demand some goddamn respect.”

I released a gob of spit in his face. “There's your respect, nigga. Take it and run with it.”

While still holding my collar, Marc jerked me back and forth, causing me to hit my head on the floor. When he head-butted me, I screamed out, kicked my legs, and tried my best to fight back. Marc was too strong, though. He punched me in my stomach, and I now knew why he was considered a professional boxer. His blow to my stomach silenced me. So much pain rushed through my body. I could taste blood stirring in my mouth and I was dizzy from being jerked around like a ragdoll.

Feeling as if I was about to faint, I looked over Marc's shoulder and saw a blurred vision of Mama, puffing on a joint. A smirk was on her face and she shook her head.

“Girl, I thought you could do much better than this. I must say that I am disappointed in you.”

Marc's head snapped to the side to look at Mama. That was when he stood up and pulled on his suit jacket to straighten it. “Get her the fuck out of here,” he said to Mama. “You can get the fuck out of here too. I'm done with trying to turn a ho into a housewife.”

Mama took a long hit from the joint then bent over to smash it on Marc's glass table. I knew she was distracting him, just long enough for me to grab my purse off the table and reach for my gun. It trembled in my hand, as I aimed it right at his back.

“Shoot him,” Mama said in a calm voice that caused him to swing around and face me. He eyed the gun in my hand and forced a smile on his face.

“Damn, ma, we ain't gotta go out like this. You know I love you, Chyna. Forgive me because I . . . I sometimes get ahead of—”

“Shoot him!” Mama yelled this time.

“Don't,” Marc shouted too. “Please don't! I'm so sorry, and if you'll just let me make this up to you, I will.”

“Bitch, would you shoot that nigga!”

I didn't know why I hesitated, but I did. My mind kept flashing back to the past few days that we'd spent together and how happy I was being here with Marc. Now, it had come to this. It had come to me pulling the trigger, as he'd made another move toward me. I fired one shot, directly at the center of his forehead. His body collapsed and fell right on top of mine. I pushed him off of me then hurried to scoot away from him. I then rushed off the floor and snatched up my purse and bags.

I was so sure that during the investigation of his murder, my prints would be found all over this place. There was nothing that I could do about that, but if the police ever questioned me, I would stick to my same saying: “I don't know what happened. Wasn't me.” The burden of proof was always on the police, but I knew I had better come up with a good alibi in Chicago.

Mama put the strap of her purse on her shoulder. She nudged her head toward the door, telling me to go ahead of her. I did, but when I heard a shot fire off, I damn near jumped out of my skin. Then there was another shot, yet another, and three more after that. When I swung around, Mama stood over Marc and had fired those bullets right into his face.

“Slimy muthafucka,” she said with gritted teeth then spat on him.

After that, we left together. She drove back to Chicago in her car; I drove in mine. I was glad about that because I didn't want Mama to see me cry. I was hurt about what had happened. Never would I ever trust another nigga again. I felt like a fool. I knew Mama was disappointed in me. This was the kind of stuff that she'd spent years and years trying to prepare us for. I had failed the test. It wasn't a good feeling.