Whos Loving You (8 page)

T
iffany Davis…runaway, abducted, kidnapped. Height: five feet six. Weight: 135 lbs. Eyes: brown. Hair: brown.
At the age of sixteen, I was listed as everything except voluntarily missing.
Last seen on Broadway, near Lincoln High School, in Los Angeles, California. If anyone has any information or has seen Tiffany, please call your local police department.

How ironic that as an adult, I had ended up working for an agency that couldn’t find me when I was a minor. When I was growing up, my family wasn’t rich or affluent, I didn’t live in an upscale neighborhood, and the public high school I attended wasn’t famous for anything positive. I wasn’t born with natural blue eyes or blond hair. So I wasn’t surprised that the police department didn’t find me. They probably never tried. Or perhaps the underlying reason my mother never found me was she cared more about her husband than she cared about me. I’d been missing from home for fourteen years.

Now I was thirty years old, with the perfect career, but I still missed my mother every day. I was passionate about my job, but in my personal life, I’d never had a man who loved me for more than sex, so I married my job to keep my mind off of wanting a husband and a family. Being an undercover cop in Vegas, working the Strip a few days a week—some days solo, others on a sting operation—arresting guys who solicited sex was what I wanted to do. But what had thrilled me most recently was busting Valentino James and taking his money.

I dialed my associate’s number.

“Hey, lady. What’s up?” she asked.

“You keeping track of my client?” I asked her.

“But of course, and the status remains the same. I’m starting to hear some rumors, though, about it being a summer day in springtime. I’ll keep you updated if the weather changes.”

“Peace,” I said, ending our conversation.

I jotted my phone number on a blue sticky, then sealed it inside of an envelope addressed to Valentino. He hadn’t received any mail, but his baby mama, Summer Day, was working to get him out on bail. It looked like I’d have to pay her an unexpected visit.

After I’d arrested Valentino, I’d made certain he had no viable contacts outside of prison. I’d encouraged Lace to take all of Valentino’s girls to Atlanta. I’d threatened Benito to keep his dumb ass out of Nevada. Valentino’s security staff had become unemployed the second I put the cuffs on Valentino. No pimp that I’d ever arrested had been released on bail or had made parole. My intent was to make sure Valentino wasn’t the first.

Walking into the living room, I asked Girl Six, “You good?” I lounged on my blue sofa, next to her and stared at her, waiting for a response. “You good?” I asked again.

“Yeah. Yeah,” she said, rubbing her thigh. “I’ve been here for nearly three weeks, and I don’t understand why you keep asking me the same question every day. That’s all.”

Whenever I wasn’t sure of what was on a person’s mind, I frequently engaged them in conversation. I put
The Pimp Chronicles
on mute. I eased my hand into hers. I needed to persuade her to trust me, ’cause I didn’t trust anybody, including my mother. I’d never intended for Lace to keep the money I’d given her. The fifty million I was letting her hold for me was a decoy to lure Valentino straight to her, that is, if Valentino’s public defendant couldn’t be bribed to mis-represent the case.

Lace had no idea she was the scapegoat, but she was about to find out. Girl Six wasn’t my girl. She could never be my girl after working for Lace. I had no idea if Girl Six was loyal to Lace or me. It didn’t matter. I was sending Girl Six where she belonged, with Lace. But I was sending her with my agenda.

I questioned her. “Who killed Sunny?”

“I told you I don’t know. Lace sent me home that night.” Scooting away from me, Girl Six added, “Look, if you want me to leave, just tell me. I hate being drilled every day.”

I didn’t want her to leave. I needed her to get the hell out of my house. I’d delayed important job-related matters to baby-sit Girl Six. My arrests of pimps and johns could no longer wait. Valentino’s hearing was coming up soon, and I had to find out what Summer was up to. I’d missed out on arresting a few other pimps because I wasn’t leaving Girl Six in my house overnight while I was at work. In a few days, I planned on visiting Valentino, and I couldn’t take Girl Six with me.

I asked Girl Six, “Are you happy living here with me?”

My place was casually decorated, with little more than the necessities of life. It had a moderate two thousand square feet, two bedrooms, two baths, a living room, a kitchen, and a dining area and was tucked away in a gated community on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Before letting Girl Six move in, I was seldom home at night.

“Yeah, I think so,” Girl Six answered. “I don’t know what I want to do with my life. Prostitution is all I know.”

Girl Six was of the majority. Most prostitutes, especially the young ones, didn’t know what to do outside of selling themselves. “You miss the life? You regret not going to Atlanta with Lace and the other girls?”

“Definitely not. She’s a bitch. The worst kind. One of these days she’s gonna kick the wrong person,” Girl Six said, staring at the flat screen.

We’d watched this DVD together at least five times. Picking up the remote, I turned off the mute feature to hear Katt Williams say, “It’s called self-esteem, bitch. Esteem of your motherfuckin’ self. How am I going to make you feel bad about you?”

Ordinarily, this was one of the funniest parts, and we’d laugh out loud, but this time we didn’t. Lifting my leg onto the back of the sofa, I said, “Here. Play with my pussy and talk to me.”

Girl Six didn’t mind getting me off whenever I asked her to. Gently, she parted my lips. Up and down, she massaged my pussy. Her touch excited me. I’d been so busy working sunset to sunrise, I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed having someone, anyone, to talk to or to touch me.

I enjoyed the pleasure. “I’m sending you to live with Lace,” I told her.

Girl Six shook her head. “You can’t make me. I’m not going.”

The hell if I couldn’t. “Yes, you are.”

Girl Six sprang from the sofa. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m not, and you can’t make me. I’m getting my things, and I’m outta here. I’d rather live on the street!”

Following her into my guest bedroom, I forced Girl Six onto the bed. Grabbing her biceps, I asked, “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy? You can’t stay here, and you have no place else to go.” I wanted to slap her but didn’t. “Get yourself together, because, yes, you are going to Atlanta.”

Frantically, Girl Six shook her head. “Every time I get close to someone, they leave me. I’ve only been here two weeks, and now you’re putting me out.”

Almost three to be more exact. I had never told her I was putting her out. Had I? Well, maybe I had, but…Was she serious? Could a prostitute suffer with abandonment issues? Or was Girl Six faking it? “You had your chance to go with Lace. So what’s the real reason you asked to move in with me instead of going with her?”

“Sapphire, I’m in love with you. I knew I was in love with you the minute you walked into that hotel room to say good-bye to Lace. If it hadn’t been for you, I probably would’ve gone to Atlanta.”

Okay. I must be stupid. Am I supposed to believe her? “We can talk about this later.” I didn’t believe a word of what Girl Six had said, and I wasn’t finished cuming. She might as well relieve my frustrations since she’d created the tension. Opening the dresser drawer, I pulled out my dual dildo. “Here, lick the head,” I said, easing it in her mouth. “Now lie down and lick this end.”

Easing seven inches of one end inside of Girl Six, I positioned myself missionary style on top of her, then inserted the same amount of inches inside of me. With four inches of the eighteen-inch dual dildo between us, Girl Six wrapped her legs around my hips. My pussy tightened. Slowly, I thrust my pelvis into hers as she tilted her ass upward.

Our rhythm was in sync. “Aw, yeah. You feel great,” I whispered in Girl Six’s ear. “I’m not abandoning you. I need you to do this one favor for me. And I promise when you’re done, if you want, you can come back here and live with me. But right now, I want you to cum for me, baby.”

Sex always made women vulnerable. Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. I kissed them away, then held her closer. I did all the shit I knew women liked. “Let it go. Whatever is bothering you, release it and let it go,” I said softly. “You’re beautiful. Letting all of those strange men fuck you night after night made you feel bad about yourself. Don’t. I know they didn’t love you. They only wanted to use you for their pleasure.”

Her lips quivered. “You don’t love me, either?”

She had put me on the spot with that one. Should I tell her the truth or tell her what she needed to hear? “I do love you,” I said, thrusting a little deep. My nipples pressed hard against hers.

Did we crave compassion so deeply that we were willing to have sex outside of our preferences to feel the power of love? I had plans for Girl Six, but what I hadn’t planned on was developing feelings for her. Not sexual feelings. The human emotions drawing us closer disturbed me.

She was nineteen; I was thirty. Maybe this was all a façade, and all Girl Six needed was to be held by someone who cared about her. Maybe our connection had nothing to do with me or my emotions. Maybe I was the one with abandonment issues. It didn’t matter. I sincerely enjoyed her as much as she appreciated me. Kissing her lips, I said, “Lie here and relax. You’re going to be all right.”

Gently, I removed the dildo, went into the bathroom, placed it on a towel, sprayed it with sex-toy cleaner, scrubbed it, rinsed it, then dried it off. I’d been sidetracked for a moment, but it was time to get back to business. I put on a pair of shorts, then sat on the sofa in the living room, holding my cordless phone.

Lace had taken her deceased sister’s name, Honey Thomas, to escape the morbid prostitution arena, and I’d selected the identity of Sapphire Bleu when I was hired as an undercover cop. My new name best described my personality. Sapphire fit because I was hot-tempered, and I had no problem shooting a rapist between the eyes if I had to. Bleu suited me because I had never known the meaning of the word
love
. Next to Sunny, Girl Six was the closest I’d come to caring for anyone. Sunny and I had shared a different kind of love. We’d been emotionally intimate, with no desire to become physical.

The time to make my phone call to Lace was now. The difference between us was Lace’s mother had kicked her out the day before her sixteenth birthday, whereas I had tired of crying myself to sleep at night and had left home, refusing to return to parents who’d fought and argued more than they’d displayed affection—that, and the fact that my stepfather, Alphonso Allen, had raped me more than he’d had sex with my mom. Running away from home hadn’t allowed me to escape the haunting memories I fought daily to suppress.

What had made him do that repeatedly to me?

After I ran away from home, I learned that I was one of several million teenagers that had run away that year. I was certain each of us had had a valid reason—primarily abuse of some sort or depression—that most of our parents had ignored us until we’d left or turned up dead, and that our parents were then the depressed ones. Did my mother miss me at all?

How had Girl Six ended up in this lifestyle? What was her story? Every woman had one. I peeked in the bedroom. She was underneath the covers. Her eyes were closed. The covers were up to her shoulders. Quietly, I turned off the light.

I went back into the living room and replayed
The Pimp Chronicles.
As a teenager I’d been trapped in a society that was apathetic to my generation, unwilling to embrace our freedom of expression, and unable to recognize, and protect us from, sexual predators in our own homes. I couldn’t believe how many mothers had allowed their family members, boyfriends, and husbands to rape their daughters—until I’d seen the stats.

My parents had been chronic complainers, had lacked effective communication skills, and had seldom talked with me. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up? Don’t say another word,” my mother would say. “I’ve heard enough.” Nothing could have been further from the truth. Problem was my mother hadn’t heard a word I’d said when I’d cried to my stepfather, “Please don’t rape me again.” That was enough of thinking about my childhood. What I was really doing was procrastinating about making that call.

I reached for my cell phone, and I dialed Lace’s number.

If my mother had listened to me or tried to understand me, maybe I would’ve felt safe telling her the truth. I was too young to protect myself. Once my mother married Alphonso, he changed, acting as though he owned everyone and everything under our roof, including my mom’s house, her car, her money, and me. Their certificate of marriage was more like his fake-ass license to manhood, making his spine straighten and his voice escalate with authority as he looked down upon us. Because of my stepfather, I swore I’d never get married or have children. Did I have any sisters? Brothers? Only if my mother had more kids. I had no idea who my real father was or where he was. I sure as hell wouldn’t lay claim to any children Alphonso or my father had.

Lace eagerly answered. “Hello. Grant, is this you?”

Did she respond that way to all blocked callers? “No, it’s not. It’s Sapphire Bleu, and, bitch, I’ma kick your ass, and then I’ma kill you.” I knew I’d caught her off guard by sounding crazy, but that was my intent. Most people were easily manipulated.

“Say what? Who the fuck you think you talkin’ to? I’ve been trying to reach you. Where the hell are you?” Lace asked. “We need to talk.”

Addressing the real reason I’d called, I said, “I need you to chill on spending my money until I get to Atlanta. I’ll be there as soon as I finish handling Valentino.”

“I don’t have any money for you,” Lace countered.

“The fifty-million-dollar cashier’s check I asked you to hold. That’s mine. Not yours. I hope you didn’t deposit it.”

“Deposit? Wait one minute. I never asked you for anything. I’ve spent half. Put a few million into my business, and I have eleven girls living in my house with me, and I have plans for the rest of the money, too. We need to live—”