Sexual Healing (27 page)

Twenty-Eight

2006

T
he thrill of gazing at the stacks of money that lined the dresser had started to wear off. In fact, Cruze was getting so irritated waiting for Ramona, he was about to call Sameer
and get a ride to the strip club. But, nah, he couldn't make a sucka move like that. He'd never live it down if Sameer found out how bad Ramona was clowning him.

Lying on the bed, fully dressed with his hands clasped behind his head, he glared at the red digital numbers on the clock. It was four in the morning and Ramona wasn't picking up his calls. The last time she'd pulled this shit, she promised it wouldn't happen again, and like a fool, he believed her.

Obviously, their relationship wasn't anything but a game to her. Maybe
it was time for him to pack his shit and roll out. Shit, the money he
was planning to spend on an engagement ring for her and an upgrade on
their apartment could be used to get his own spot, brand-new furniture
, and a set of wheels. He wouldn't be able to buy a brand-new 2006 joint, but he could get something nice.

Cruze hopped off the bed and made a path to the closet, kicking out of his way Ramona's shoes that were strewn about, bags of dirty laundry, and an assortment of tote and duffle bags that she used for work.

Fuck her! He was sick of living in a pigsty, anyway. Strands of weave
hair were all over the bathroom floor, and it clogged up the drain in
the
sink and tub. Ramona's toiletries, hair products, and makeup were scattered all over the bathroom counter. In the kitchen, dishes were piled sky-high in the sink and a bunch of funky trash bags were stacked in a corner because they always managed to miss trash day.

Cruze used to keep track of trash day, and also used to clean up behind Ramona, but ever since Moody had elevated his position, he didn't have the kind of time he used to have.

Cruze stopped dead in his tracks, grimacing as he thought about the bloody job he'd been assigned to handle tonight. Rolling through the streets, riding shotgun with Sameer and collecting Moody's money was a come-up, and he appreciated not having to hustle nickel and dime bags on the corner, anymore. But dumping bodies for that nigga, Moody had taken shit to a whole different level. Sameer had been excited about it and was looking forward to making more easy money, but Cruze doubted if he had the stomach to touch a dead body, ever again.

Even though he hadn't killed the muhfucka and therefore, didn't have any blood on his hands, his involvement still wasn't right. His mother was probably turning in her grave. He swallowed down a hard knot of guilt and shook his head. What he needed to do was get out of the game completely before something bad happened. It wasn't too late to enroll in a junior college and see about getting back into basketball. Shit, his jump shot was still nice—he hadn't lost his skills.

Needing luggage for his belongings, he angrily dumped all Ra
mona's stripper gear out of the duffle bags. Stilettos clunked to the floor and unwashed lingerie that held the scent of cigarette smoke, liquor, and
musky pussy floated out of the bags, joining the rest of the mess that littered
the floor in the cluttered bedroom.

Prepared to grab his clothes out the closet and stuff them in Ramona's bags, he opened the closet and gawked as he realized he'd need Sameer's
car, after all, if he planned to transport the ridiculous amount of sneakers
he'd accumulated.

Holding his cell phone and while his finger was poised to call his boy, he heard the familiar click of Ramona's heels against the wooden stairs that led to their third-floor apartment. Deciding he'd listen to what she had to say before he made a rash decision, he slid the phone back inside his pocket. He swung the door open and rushed down the stairs to meet her halfway.

Seeing his baby looking good in a tight, yellow dress and observing the
way her curly, blonde ponytail bounced on her left shoulder, Cruze's pent-up anger instantly evaporated, and all he felt was intense love.

“Damn, babe, what took you so long to get home?” he inquired, relieving
Ramona of the heavy duffle bag she was lugging. Even though she was
dead wrong for staying out that late, Cruze didn't feel like arguing about
it. She was home now, and that was all that mattered.

“There was a bachelor's party, and I had to stay,” she said, looking weary.

It wasn't unusual for Ramona to whine and request a piggyback ride up the three flights whenever she wasn't in the mood to deal with all the steps, and so Cruze extended an olive branch. “I can tell you had a hard night, so come on . . . hop on my back.”

“No, I'm good,” she said, stomping up the stairs like she was upset with
Cruze.

“What's wrong with you?” he growled, his irritation with her returning.

“Nothing,” she said at first. Then she sighed and muttered, “We gottta
talk, Cruze.” Her voice was low and strained and she wouldn't look him in the eyes.

Eyebrows furrowed, he stopped in the middle of the stairs and studied her face. “Talk about what, Mo?”

“I'll tell you when we get in the house.” She rushed ahead, impatiently
. Baffled, Cruze stood for a moment, stroking his chin and trying to figure out why she was acting so cranky and weird when she was the one who'd fucked up, again—not him!

Maybe her period came on, he surmised, disappointed that he wouldn't be able to dig in that pussy tonight. He could tell by her pissy attitude that she wasn't in the mood to give up any head.

When Cruze entered the apartment, he slammed the door and dropped
her bag in the middle of the living room. “What the fuck is your problem?”
he demanded.

She gazed at him with pain evident in her eyes. “I can't keep lying to you. I'm sorry, Cruze, it's over.”

He flinched, his features contorted in agony as if she'd kneed him in the groin. “What's over?”

“Us.” She glanced down at the floor. “You can stay here; I'm leaving.” She turned and moved hastily toward the bedroom.

Cruze raced behind her, grabbing her by the arm when she reached the threshold of the bedroom. “Hold up! How you just gon' bounce without telling me what I did wrong?”

“Don't put your fuckin' hands on me. I'm not dealing with that shit tonight.” Ramona yanked her arm from his grasp and glared at him.

“What you gon' do?” he bellowed, pushing her inside their room, causing
her to trip over the clutter on the floor. She jumped up and started
swinging at him and he knocked her into the dresser. A few of the rubber-
banded money stacks thumped to the floor.

Ramona wrinkled her forehead. “How'd you get all that?”

“Don't fuckin' worry about it, trick-ass bitch!”
Eyes bulging and
enraged, he picked up one of the fallen stacks and used it to smack Ramona
across the face repeatedly, and then he commenced to beating her about
the head and shoulders with the thick packet of bills. “I was gon' take you
shopping for an engagement ring. And this is how you do me? I should have known better than to try to turn a hooker into a housewife.”

“I'm not a hooker, and you know it,” Ramona declared, crying.

“Yeah, whatever. Yo, you fuckin' want to leave? Then, what the fuck you waiting for? Get the fuck out, you dirty bitch.”

“Stop it, Cruze. It's not even like you to be acting so ugly and calling me disrespectful names.”

“Oh, no? Then, what should I be doing—begging you to stay and crying like a little bitch?”

“No.”

“Then tell me what you expected?”

“I expected you to understand that with you only being eighteen and me being twenty-five, there's really no kind of future together for us.”

Cruze made a sound of disgust. “You so full of shit, Mo,” he snarled. “Age wasn't nothing but a number when I had my face between your
legs and when my dick was up in those guts. But now my age is suddenly
a problem.”

“I met someone, Cruze,” she said, taking steps away from him.

“Who?”

“It don't matter. But me and him . . . we're serious. He's gon' take care of me.”

“What the fuck have I been doing?” Cruze jerked his head toward the money on the dresser. “How you think I got all that paper—by sitting on my ass? I did shit for you that I wouldn't even dream of doing for anybody else.”

Cruze punched the wall, creating the sound of an explosion. Ramona
jumped and then rushed to the closet and began snatching items of clothing
off hangers and quickly stuffing them inside her bag.

She hurried to exit the bedroom, and then paused in the doorway. “
I'm sorry it had to end like this, Cruze. I do still love you. I always will
, but I have to do what's best for me.”

“Fuck you!” He threw a stiletto, narrowly missing her head.

Looking shook, Ramona backed out the door. “I'll be back for the rest of my stuff tomorrow. And in case you plan on acting the ass, I'ma have five-oh with me,” she threatened.

“Whatever, bitch!” He stalked across the room and grabbed her. As
Ramona thrashed and clawed, Cruze dragged her body down the hallway and through the living room and then forcibly tossed her out the front door.

His mother had once cautioned him to hold his emotions inside and to never let anyone see his sensitive side, and so he stood stock-still and didn't make a sound as he listened to Ramona's clacking heels as she ran down the three flights of stairs. When he could no longer hear her foot
steps, he bit down on his bottom lip so hard, it bled. With the taste of blood
in his mouth, he kicked the coffee table over, knocked the TV off the stand
, and unable to hold back the tears any longer, he fell to his knees and bitterly cried.

Twenty-Nine

“I
love you . . .”

Arabia cringed. The way he said
I love you
made her skin crawl. The whole time they'd been
seeing
—okay,
fucking
—each other he'd never used those words, not once.

Now, over the course of a week, he'd used those three words numerous times. Too many times to keep count. In fact, she'd stopped counting after he'd said it the thirty-eighth time. And here he was saying it again.

She sighed, wondering why he had to make this more complicated than it needed to be.

“Eric. You don't love me.”

“I do, baby . . .”

Baby.
She couldn't stand hearing him call her that. Not now. He disgusted her. One thing she couldn't stand was a begging-ass, whining man.

She shook her head. “Eric, stop. I'm not your baby. Okay?”

“No. That's where you're wrong. You'll always be
my
baby, Arabia. Always. Mine. And I still wanna be with you.
You
, Arabia; not Gwen, baby.
You
. I left her for you.”

Oh, he sounded ridiculous. There was something seriously wrong with this man, and it had nothing to do with
her
. Well, that's what she needed to keep telling herself.

“Have you been drinking?”

Eric sniffled. “No. I'm hurting. Not drunk.”

Oh. She didn't know what to say. So she said nothing.

Eric sighed heavily into the phone. “I walked away from everything to be with you, Arabia.”

She frowned, quickly finding her voice. “And there lies the problem, Eric. You had no business leaving your wife and family for
me;
especially when I didn't ask you to.”

“You didn't have to,” he said. “I left her because my heart was with someone else—you. I couldn't keep living a lie. I was no longer in love with my wife. And you gave me a reason to want out.”

“Then don't say you left her for me. You left because that's not where
you
wanted to be.”

“You're right, baby . . .”

There was that word again,
baby
.

“Eric, look. You have to stop this. Stop calling me. Stop texting me. Please. We're not going to be together. Face it. Please. I don't want to sound callous. But I can't do this with you. It's over. And—after the way you threatened me in those text messages, then showed up here and embarrassed me down in my lobby, I'd never trust being anywhere alone with you.”

“Please don't say that, baby,” he said gently. “I didn't mean those things. I didn't mean to come to your place like that. I was just so fucking angry with you for abruptly ending things between us the way you did, then refusing my calls. It hurt me. You hurt me. Still, I know I was wrong. I had no right to speak to you like that.” He took a breath. “I've never spoken to a woman like that before, and I had no right to do it to you, baby. I love you. I'd never do anything to hurt you, Arabia. Ever. You have to believe that.”

Arabia didn't know what to believe. She really didn't think he would hurt her. Or do anything to try to ruin her life, although she had no clue what he could do to possibly ruin her. But okay. Still, she didn't want to believe that he'd come swinging through her
door with a hacksaw or anything crazy like that, either. But she didn't know what he was capable of.

She'd purposefully over the years only involved herself with men who had a whole lot more to lose than she, for fear of something like this. Thus far, it had worked for her. But she hadn't considered the possibility of having a man willingly give up everything to be with her. Then what?

What happened when a man felt like he had nothing else to lose?

Arabia shook the question from her head. No. Eric had only spoken in anger like he'd said. He hadn't meant what he'd typed in his text to her that if he couldn't have her, no one else would. So its cryptic meaning held no real meaning. Did it?

For whatever reason, she felt the need to apologize to him again. In case he hadn't heard her the three other times. “I'm sorry, Eric. Really I am. I should have handled things differently.”

“You've broken me, Arabia.” His voice was low, slightly above a whisper.

She swallowed. “Eric, that wasn't my intention; to break you.”

“Then why'd you do it, huh, baby? Why?”

Arabia massaged her left temple. She felt a headache pressing its way to the front of her head. She closed her eyes, and breathed through her nose. A part of her wanted to hang up on him. But the other part of her, the small piece of her that really did
like
—or care about—him wanted to hear him out. Didn't she at least owe him that much?

Maybe.

“Baby, are you there?”

She sighed. “Eric, you can't keep doing this. Calling me like this. What do you want?”

He sniffled again. “I want you to tell me what kind of woman comes into a man's life, then fucks him over, huh, baby?”

Arabia frowned. “I didn't fuck you over, Eric.”
You did.

“Why can't you be honest with me, huh? Just tell the truth for once. Can you do that, baby, huh?”

She ignored the question. “Eric, what have I ever lied to you about? Please tell me.”

He snorted. “No. How about
you
tell
me
. You're the one who likes playing with motherfuckers' lives. Stringing them along, then dismissing them. I was good to you, Arabia.”

She swallowed. He was right. He had been. “Yes. You were, Eric. And I'll never forget the times we shared to—”

“Fuck all that,” he said, cutting her off. “Why'd you do it?”

Surprisingly, he wasn't yelling or screaming or cursing at her like he'd done in previous calls. In fact, he was eerily calm. Too calm. A nagging voice in the back of her mind told her to not continue this conversation. Hang up. Change her number. And move on.

But . . .

“Do what?” she asked.

“End it? And don't bullshit me. You owe me that, Arabia.”

She sighed. Had he really thought all those times she tried to encourage him to stay with his wife that she'd done so out of some sense of duty to her? No. She'd encouraged that he stayed for her. She knew the truth was rather silly in the grand scheme of things. But, still, it was
her
truth. It didn't need to be his. So she told him, “Because you left your wife.” There she'd said it.

She heard him sigh. “If you didn't want me, why did you string me along? For two fucking years, Arabia. You dangled that sweet pussy and all that wet dick sucking you did over my head, kept me coming back. For what? So you could turn around and fuck me in the end?”

Arabia felt her stomach lurch. He made it sound so damn dirty. She hadn't sought him out, though. He'd wanted
her
. He'd wanted
to continue seeing
her
. He'd wanted to leave his wife for
her
. She hadn't asked him to. Hadn't pressured him to. He'd done it because that's what
he'd
wanted to do. So why was he blaming her?

He snorted. “Ain't this some shit. So you're telling me had I stayed with Gwen, you and I would still be together?”

Arabia took a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. “Yes. More than likely.”

She heard him curse under his breath. “What a sick fuck,” he muttered. “So you really never had any intentions of having a life with me, did you?”

She shook her head as if he could see her. “No,” she said softly. “Well, yes. I mean, not one where we'd run off and get married. I'm sorry.”

Eric grunted. “No. Fuck that sorry shit, Arabia.” There was an edge to his tone, but he managed to keep his voice low and steady.
“Bit . . .”
He caught himself from calling her a
bitch
. He took a deep, steadying breath. “Do you have any idea what you've done, huh? Do you?”

There was a deafening silence over the phone. And then she heard it. Sniffling. Then sobbing.

Arabia blinked.
Is he crying?

She groaned inwardly. Oh God, no! He
was
crying.

“I g-g-gave you my heart, A-arabia. And you took and twisted a knife in it.”

She blinked again. Stunned that Eric had broken down in (or perhaps
resorted
to) tears. She didn't know if they were real or not. But they
sounded
real. And
he
sounded wounded.

She didn't need
this
today—a grown man crying on the phone.

“All y-you had to d-do w-was t-tell m-me the truth before I got all caught up in you.” He sniffed, then blew his nose. “Unh, shit. I can't believe this shit. Crying over a fucking woman. All you had
to do, Arabia, was tell me before I put a fucking ring on your finger that what we had wasn't going anywhere.”

She swallowed. “I know, Eric. I should have. I tried.”

“You
tried,”
he repeated as if he hadn't heard her. “Well, obviously you didn't
try
hard enough. All it takes is opening your mouth and saying what's on your mind. Not once did you say, ‘Hey Eric, I'm only with you for as long as you're married' or let's try this one: ‘Hey, asshole, I'll keep fucking you for as long as you want as long as I'm your mistress.'
You
accepted my engagement ring, Arabia, as a promise to spend your life with me. Not play fucking games, then turn around and dump me.”

But she hadn't been playing games with him.

Had she?

No, no, of course not.

She'd never told him anything other than what he wanted to hear. And most of it had been true. She
had
wanted to be with him, as long as he stayed married—okay, so she hadn't come out and told him
that
part.

Eric blew his nose again. “You're nothing but a user and a liar, Arabia; you know that, right?”

Several seconds ticked before she finally said, “Eric, I never used you. Ever.”

He sniffled, then grunted. “Bullshit, baby. And you know it. I know I said I wouldn't call you out your name again. But face it. You're nothing but a heartless
bitch
. How many other men have you used, huh, Arabia? How many other lives have you fucking destroyed?”

Okay, so maybe she didn't respect men like him, but she wasn't
that
heartless.

Was she?

She didn't seek out to destroy men. And she resented him for saying that. She wasn't the malicious bitch he was trying to paint her out to be.

She bit into her bottom lip. She was trying desperately to remain empathetic to his misery, but she was slowly losing her patience. He was pushing her to the edge. And she didn't know how much more she was going to sit here and allow him to blame
her
for his mess. He and his marriage had both been broken long before he'd dragged (yes,
dragged
because she was minding her own damn business—thank you very much!) her into his world.

She let out a breath. “Again, I apologize. I don't know what more to say, Eric.”

“Just say what a fucked-up human being you are, Arabia. Say it.”

“Okay, Eric. I'm a ‘fucked-up human being.' There I said it. Satisfied?”

He grunted. “Hell no. You fucked my life up, Arabia.”

She sighed again. Clearly he believed what he believed and she needed to let him.

“Eric, why are you blaming
me
for this? I didn't do anything to you. Or take anything from you that you hadn't wanted me to have. Like I said before, I didn't use you. Ever. Nor have I used anyone else. You make it seem like I plotted on you. Like I pursued you. You're trying to make me out to be some predator who lies in wait to strike my next kill.”

Well, she did—lie in wait when she had her sights on someone. But she hadn't with him, so he didn't need to know that he was right.

“Who else are you giving that pussy to, huh, Arabia? How many times were you whoring around on me, huh . . .?”

She blinked.

“For all the whoring you do, you're always so quick to judge me,” her mother had said nastily.

“I don't judge you, Mother. I simply find what you do, bouncing from husband to husband for his money, disgusting.”

Claudia snorted. “Ha! Arabia, get over yourself. And you think what you do, bouncing from married man to married man for his hard dick
is any better? What's disgusting is you. Every man I've ever been with put a ring on my finger and made an honest woman out of me. Not parade me around as his dimwitted concubine.” She stared at Arabia, and sneered. “You're nothing but a reckless, heartless whore, my darling daughter. Then you have the nerve to want to justify why you sleep with another woman's husband. I didn't raise you to play second best to anyone, Arabia. Ever!”

“No,” Arabia snapped. “You raised me to be a gold digger! Same difference!”

“No,” Claudia countered. “The difference is, I raised you to always be a lady in the streets, but to know when to whore for your own
damn husband! Not another woman's. And everything you hate about me is what you see in yourself. So do not think for one moment you can ever pass judgment on me without passing it on yourself. Remember that.”

Arabia shook the memory from her thoughts. She was nothing like her mother. Nothing. And she refused to believe—

“Huh, Arabia? Tell me. I asked you a question,” Eric said, bringing her back to their conversation.

She let out an aggravated sigh. “Tell you what, Eric?”

“Tell me how many other married motherfuckers you're fucking over?”