Whos Loving You (11 page)

When Onyx didn’t answered, I glanced over and saw she was asleep. I tuned my radio to 102.9, then set the volume to low.

“I can’t make you love me if you don’t,” streamed through my speakers.

Tears clung to my eyelids as I thought of Grant. With the exception of the last day I spent with Grant, all of my memories of him were good. What I wouldn’t give to hold him in my arms again.

Tapping Onyx on the shoulder, I whispered, “We’re home, baby.”

Entering through the garage, I helped Onyx upstairs to her bed, then went downstairs and opened the door to my room. I flicked on the light. “What the hell!” I yelled, quickly drawing my gun from my purse.

“Whoa, it’s me, baby. Put that away. I thought you’d be happy to see me,” Grant said, frowning, with his hands held in front of him.

I wanted to say, “You could get a bullet in your head doing some unexpected shit like this.” I wanted to wake up each of my girls, except Onyx, make their asses come downstairs, and seriously beat all of them for letting Grant or any man into our home without calling me first. But all I did was place my gun on my dresser, quietly close the door, then stand in the middle of the floor, waiting for Grant to come to me.

T
here were no accidents in life. Some men were unarguably mentally fucked up, and they needed to be put to rest for the greater good of womankind.

A husband dehumanizing his wife, a pimp mercilessly beating into submission women he claimed as his whores, and a whole gang of evil men who raped women and children had one thing in common, a disillusioned desire to control females by any forceful means necessary. What gave any man the right to abuse women? His dick? His balls? His barbaric strength? His inability to maintain or obtain what he desperately fought to acquire, namely power?

Standing over my king-sized bed, which was covered with a blue comforter, blue silk sheets, and matching pillows of different shapes and sizes, I stared at Girl Six. She was a true sleeping beauty, but I wasn’t going to miss her. I tapped her shoulder. “Get up. It’s time to get you to the airport.”

After hanging up with Lace, I’d booked Girl Six a red-eye flight that would get her into Atlanta in the morning. I had to sever her emotional attachment to me; Girl Six had to go.

“Huh?” She yawned, stretching her hands toward the wooden headboard. “What? I’m leaving right now? What time is it?”

I peeled away the covers to take in the image of her perfect body. This was probably the last time we’d see one another. “Come here,” I said, opening my arms to her. “You know I’m going to miss you terribly. I promise not to leave you in Atlanta one second longer than necessary.” I held her chin so it faced mine. “If any one sneezes on you or looks at you the wrong way, you’d better let me know.”

I tried to give her the reassurance she needed to get on that one-way flight to a place she’d never been. I imagined that could be frightening for any nineteen-year-old.

Smiling, she made her way to the edge of the bed and hugged me. “Go,” I said, ushering her into the bathroom. I poured myself a goblet of merlot, then sat in the living room, on the sofa. My body shivered when I saw what was on television.

The commentator said, “More than four million women in the Democratic Republic of the Congo have been massacred. Millions more have been raped in front of their powerless husbands and their empathetic brothers, who have died for refusing to follow military orders to rape their wives or sisters.”

Oh my God. Women were being raped by one bitch-ass man after another after another after another, gang-raped every day for months and months, and somehow they managed to survive. Ejaculating inside of a woman’s uterus as target practice for her unfertilized eggs wasn’t enough for these men. I heard the commentator say, “After raping the women, the men take machetes and slice the women’s vaginas. Or even worse, these military men shoot the women between the legs, leaving them for dead, or they impregnated and abandon the women.”

I turned off the television. I’d heard enough. Like many of the African women, some of the prostitutes in Las Vegas would end up carrying, from conception to birth, a child conceived in hatred. And if the children weren’t taken away, or given away, they’d end up at the bosom of their mothers, fatherless.

I knew what I had to do. I’d been contemplating this way too long. Their time had come. I was going to kill each pimp that I had on my list to arrest. I knew exactly what I was doing. In the line of duty, I was getting ready to save generations of women from suffering. A part of me wished I could journey to the Congo villages, with war paint splashed across my face and semiautomatic weapons strapped across my back. With tears of blood streaming down my cheeks, in broad daylight, I’d wrap my fist around the handle of the sharpest machete, the same machete they’d used to slice those beautiful women’s vaginas, and I’d cut off the dicks and sever the balls, one at a time, of every man that had raped or mutilated a woman or a little girl. Then I’d cast their naked, dickless bodies into a venomous-snake pit laced with gasoline and burn them like trash, because they were the filthiest kind of trash, and they would leave an unforgettable stench embedded in the hearts and souls of innocent women and children.

A flutter in my heart made me pick up my home phone and dial a number I hadn’t forgotten in more than a decade. Waiting for someone to answer, I wondered what I would say. Where would I begin? How could I explain the things I’d done? Why should I have to? So much had happened since the last time we’d seen one another. I couldn’t deny or confirm that I was a cold-blooded killer preparing to kill once more. But killing was in my job description.

I had a reason and had to exercise my license. The strange thing was, I knew I’d kill again tonight, but I couldn’t harm the person I was calling in any way. I’d die first. What made me capable of taking a person’s life without remorse yet love someone I didn’t truly know with the same heart? The dichotomy of my heart and my brain terrified me. Perhaps I’d come back home after dropping off Girl Six. Maybe I wouldn’t kill anyone tonight, that is, if the right person picked up the phone.

“Hello,” a deep voice answered.

Speechless, I froze. Instantly, my feet and my hands felt like they had been soaked in gasoline and then had accidentally touched a flaming match. Heat raced up my arms, all the way to my face, my brain. Hot flash! No, I was too young. I was mad as hell. Sweat beaded at the crown of my skull, wetting my hair, neck, and shoulders. My dress clung to my body.

“Hello,” he repeated.

It was him. I hadn’t wanted him to answer. Ooh, if I could have killed him through the phone, I would have. I wanted to hear my mother’s voice. I opened my mouth. Not even air escaped my lips. All I could think was I shouldn’t have called. Racing into the kitchen, I grabbed the entire roll of paper towels, turned on the cold water, held the roll under the faucet, then pressed the clumped, cool, wet towels against my forehead.

Click.

He’d hung up.
Probably best,
I thought. I didn’t know why I’d called my mom, but I regretted it the moment I heard Alphonso’s voice. Turning on the shower in the guest bathroom, I removed my wet clothes, then stepped in, letting the cool stream soothe my body.

“Ah, cold water feels so good. Oh, damn,” I said aloud. Stepping out of the shower, I stared in the mirror. “Wait a minute. Had Lace answered her phone, ‘Grant, is that you?’ She had. Couldn’t be. There is no way she could know the same man. I sucked his dick twelve years ago. No fucking way.”

I wanted to call Lace back, but how could I ask her if she was referring to Grant Hill? I didn’t have enough information to track him down. Then again, if he still lived in D.C., maybe I did know enough to find him.

“I’m ready,” Girl Six said, standing in the doorway, dressed in a sharp all-black pantsuit, white stilettos, and a matching bustier. Her hair was partially up, with the hanging portion flowing down her back.

“Damn, you clean up good. Let’s get outta here before I change my mind.”

The drive to the Las Vegas airport was less than fifteen minutes, but it gave me time to lay out my instructions.

“When you get to Lace’s house, act normal,” I said, glancing at Girl Six. “Do not tell her you ever stayed with me. Pay attention to everything, but pretend not to. Don’t ask too many questions. If you get a glimpse of a bank statement, a deposit slip, or anything pertaining to where she keeps her money, memorize the name of the bank and, if you can, the account number. Oh, and if you hear her mention the name Grant Hill, call me immediately.”

Shaking her head, Girl Six said, “You want me to be your spy. Is that why you’re kicking me out?”

“Our spy. You’re doing this for us.”

“But why? I know she treated me bad, but what are you asking of me? To get myself killed?”

“I’m asking you to do as I say. I can’t explain all of this in fifteen minutes. Get out. And call me when you get into Atlanta,” I said, softly kissing her on the cheek.

I watched Girl Six until she disappeared behind the sliding glass door and into the ticketing area. Her walk wasn’t as confident as her wardrobe. “For her sake, I sure hope she doesn’t fuck up,” I muttered. Neither Lace nor I would show her mercy if she did. No matter what side of the prostitution game a pimp, a hooker, or a cop was on, one mistake could end up deadly.

Before I could change my mind, I headed to the Strip on my way from the airport. The casino I stopped at was sparsely crowded. Half of the crap tables were empty. The slot machines were quiet. Taking a seat at the bar, I greeted the bartender. “I’ll have a double Hennessy straight up, heated,” I said, keeping my eyes on everyone around me. I glanced over my shoulders frequently.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Grant and wondering if he was the man Lace knew. Part of me hoped it was him. Every time I ate peanut butter and strawberry preserves, I thought about him. We’d been young and foolish. I hoped he didn’t think I was a slut for sucking his friends’ dicks, too. Grant didn’t complain when I did him. I’d do him again in a minute, except this time, if I had the chance, I wouldn’t do any other man. My heart raced with each thought. If that was him, what was his connection to Lace? Hopefully, he wasn’t one of her clients.

Black Jack, an amateur pimp, sat across from me with his whore. Peripherally, I observed him schooling his whore on how to approach certain men. His whispering and nodding gave him away. How any woman would work for him was beyond my comprehension. The fact that Black Jack didn’t recognize me meant he was a wannabe pimp who looked like a college dropout. He was a total misfit.

“Here you go, beautiful. Compliments of Black,” the bartender said, sitting my drink in front of me.

Acknowledging my appreciation, I held up a glass, then took a sip. Black Jack had more than twice the number of prostitutes as Valentino, but Black’s tricks were cheap, raggedy chicks from small towns. From their paid-less shoes to their frail, dollar-store outfits, those women could’ve done better by working for minimum wage. Word was Black would make them suck a dick for a dollar if that was the only dollar they’d bring him.

“Yo, Black,” Long Money yelled, walking up to the bar. Then he tried to whisper, “A busload of Little Bo Peep–looking high school students just hit Tropicana. You in?”

If Black said, “Sho’ nuff,” it might prove his best decision of the night. Looking at me, he said, “I’ll catch up to you.” Then he pushed his trick off the stool. “Take this bitch with you. She can lure a few pretty young things to you. Drug them. Then bring them to my place at midnight.”

Dirty bastards.
That was exactly how he had so many young girls. The sapphire in me came out. I despised the way these pimps kidnapped and drugged these young, innocent females, and then put them on the stroll. This was why I’d gone undercover as a police officer, and now it was time for me to avenge these women.

Picking up his drink, Black Jack came and sat next to me. “I see you here and there. What’s up with you, oldie? You got a pimp?”

“Of course,” I lied. Not anymore, anyway. Once upon a time, about twelve years ago, Pretty Ricky was my pimp.

I started out sucking dicks for fun. Then, after I ran away from home and ended up in Vegas with Pretty Ricky, I had to do whatever a paid client wanted me to.

Putting a little bass in his voice, Black Jack said, “You know the rules. Give me yo’ money, bitch.”

The unspoken rule was if a prostitute spoke one word to a pimp who wasn’t her pimp, then she had to give that pimp every dime she had in her possession. Reaching into my top, I handed Black Jack three hundred-dollar bills. He was lucky I didn’t pull out my badge and gun instead and shoot him in the head. In time. Three hundred dollars didn’t mean anything to me, but it was probably the most money he was going to make tonight.

Black Jack squinted and stared at me before asking, “Haven’t I seen you around before?”

“Obviously not,” I snapped. “I wouldn’t be the same fool twice. You wanna take a ride?” I licked my lips.

“You that cop Bleu I heard about?”

“Who’s that? You wanna ride or not?” I asked him, rubbing my nipple.

“For sho’,” he said, pushing back his stool. He tossed back his double, ice and all. “Damn. You sho’ all you got is three Cs hidden underneath those big-ass titties?” Black Jack asked, massaging his dick.

“That’s it, Daddy. Where to? I ain’t got all night to entertain you.”

“Bitch,” he said, slapping my face. “Don’t ever question me again. Shut the fuck up and let’s go.”

Throwing one of the hundred-dollar bills I’d just given him onto the bar, Black Jack led the way, trying to walk upright, with his shoulders back. The tip was a payoff for the bartender not to kick Black Jack out of the casino and not to report his illegal activities.

I followed Black Jack to his car, which was parked out back. I hopped in on the passenger side and kept quiet.

“You gon’ make me some money tonight, but first you gon’ suck my big-ass dick,” Black Jack demanded, pulling into a vacant parking lot off of the Strip.

The rip of his zipper reminded me of the first time Pretty Ricky recruited me as one of his substitute prostitutes, sending me out on the stroll when one of the other girls was too badly beaten.

Leaning my head on his lap, I reached for his little dick with one hand and for my gun with the other. He motioned for me to wrap my lips around his swollen head. I moaned, right before swiftly wedging the barrel on my gun between his nuts.
Pow!

I pulled the trigger with no remorse. Blood splattered across my face. Calmly, I propped his body up straight, then stepped out of his car and walked away, refusing to look back. Eventually, someone would realize he was dead. Black Jack wasn’t the first pimp I’d killed. Long Money was next. I was saving Pretty Ricky for last, the pimp that had personally beaten my ass for fun.