Bittersweet Chocolate (14 page)

Disgusted, she turned away from Rick’s pathetic crying and headed for the door. “Let’s go.”

A sudden movement on her peripheral drew her attention and she whipped around. From his position on the floor, Joel held a gun, pointed at her.

“Die, bitch,” he rasped out and pulled the trigger.

Graham leapt in front of her, knocking her to the floor. Her friends outside rushed in. Frank jumped Joel and wrestled the gun from his hand. Graham fell against Brad and both went down. Not believing what she’d seen, for a moment, Marissa remained motionless.

Snapping out of her stupor, she crawled over to Graham. He reached out and she took his hand, wincing from his convulsive grip. Numb with dismay, she couldn’t utter a sound, and still couldn’t cry.

Graham was speaking, his voice a thready whisper. She had to put her ear close to his mouth to hear him. “Baby, I’m glad it wasn’t you.” He smiled. “Kiss...”

She glanced at Brad, who shook his head but diligently maintained his efforts to stem the flow of blood from the wound in Graham’s chest. Tears clogged her throat as she pressed her mouth on his.

“I love you, Marissa,” he murmured.

She watched the light fade from his eyes as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Several friends picked up Graham and hustled him out to his car. “Frank, I’ll take him to the hospital,” Brad said and glanced at Marissa.

Frank nodded and grabbed Marissa’s arm when she started to follow Graham’s lifeless body. “I’ll see she gets home. She can’t be involved,” Frank reminded Brad.

“Agreed.”

Marissa remained immobile, watching until Brad drove away. Turning back to the apartment, heart thundering, fists clenching and unclenching, breath expelled in rapid, controlled bursts. She tried to yank her arm from Frank’s grasp. He tightened his hold and started walking away from the complex, tugging her behind him.

“Frank, wait!” She stopped moving, jerking him to a stop. “I dropped my purse back there. Get the car, I’ll be right out.”

He nodded absently, motioned to a few friends, and yelled, “Go with her. Have her out here when I bring the car around.”

She insisted she go in alone while they kept watch. “Someone must have heard the shot and called the police.”

“Girl, hurry up.”

She rushed into the apartment. Rick was gone. Joel lay on the floor, unconscious. Moving to his motionless body, she dropped to her knees, straddled his torso, grasped his hair, and yanked his head off the floor.

“Joel!” No response. “Joel,” she growled close to his ear. His lashes fluttered, eyes opening, he blinked several times, stared directly at her, but seemed bewildered. She wanted recognition. “Joel, can you hear me?” Her gaze darted to the doorway.

Through cracked, bruised lips, he muttered, “Marissa?”

“Oh yeah, it’s Marissa.” She spoke in hushed tones.

His gaze cleared. Hatred and anger replaced his dazed expression as he struggled to pull his head away. With her legs pinning his arms at his sides, in his weakened condition, he didn’t even have the strength for that small task. She tightened her grip on his hair.

“Bitch, you’re going to regret this.” He spat blood in her face.

“You first.”

Leaning forward, she grabbed his shirtfront, wiped the blood away, and held his gaze while reaching into her back pocket. A rush of adrenaline surged through her veins when Joel stiffened, his riveted stare registering his fear.

Oh yeah, no mistaking the sound of that soft menacing click, distinguishable even without seeing her switchblade. If his frantic struggles were an indication, he recognized. His arrogant look of hatred disintegrated, replaced by raw terror. She relished the moment. Tightening her hold on his hair, her action slow and deliberate, she calmly ran the blade across his neck. It cut deep, and blood spurted.

“Marissa!” She flinched, the intrusive sound interrupting her euphoria. “Girl, come on,” one of her friends shouted.

Releasing Joel’s head, she leapt to her feet. Ignoring the gurgling emitting from his throat, she scanned the room and spotted what she needed. She hurried to the bed, grabbed a corner of the sheet, cleaned her switchblade, rubbed blood from her fingers, and returned the knife to her back pocket. As she turned to leave, she caught sight of her reflection in a mirror.

Specks of blood spattered her forehead. She hastily swiped them away with her sleeve as she hurried through the apartment door, pulling it closed behind her. Outside, she could hear the sound of sirens approaching. Frank’s car screeched to a stop at the curb, he climbed out, grabbed her arm, and shoved her inside. Her friends scattered, heading off in different directions.

Frank slid behind the wheel and drove away.

Marissa and Frank rode home in silence.

Her plan entailed the group returning to her apartment when they had finished. She and Frank didn’t arrive until two in the morning. Inside the apartment, Frank looked at her, opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace. Neither said a word, but the tears finally came.

She cried for the baby she’d lost, cried for the babies she’d never have, but most of all, she cried for Graham. It should have been her.

When she brought her emotions under control, Frank held her at arm’s length. Gaze scanning her body, head to toe, his eyes widened and she knew he’d spotted the blood on her sleeve.

“Marissa?” She walked to the balcony door, stepped outside, and he followed. “How did you get blood on your clothes? Gray fell against Boo when he went down.”

Their gazes met, but she wouldn’t answer, and his hands tightened on her shoulders. “Damn it, you didn’t have a purse, did you?” He mumbled several profanities before he held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

Everyone in the gang knew she carried some sort of weapon. Usually a sharpened fingernail file, but sometimes she carried her switchblade. And who would know better than Frank. He’d given her that knife as a birthday present when she turned fourteen.

She pulled it from her hip pocket, handed it over, and Frank broke it down, stuck his head into the room behind them, and whistled. One of the guys appeared and accepted the remnants of the knife from Frank. Not a word was spoken, but she knew the drill. The pieces of her knife would disappear, scattered.

Frank hugged her. “I hope you were true.”

“Can’t be sure. I had to rush out, didn’t have time...” Her voice trailed off when the doorbell pealed. She clenched Frank’s arm. Neither moved for several seconds. Then he pulled himself together and went inside.

From the balcony, she watched Brad enter the bedroom and move toward Frank. She lingered outside, working up the courage to approach them. It wasn’t until Frank stepped away from Brad that she rushed inside. Frank had gone to gather her friends together, and as they filed out of the apartment, she hugged and thanked each one. Frank followed, leaving her alone with Brad.

“I should have been with Gray at the end,” she whispered, eyes brimming with tears.

“Graham never regained consciousness.” Brad pulled her into his arms. “He understood the rules. I’m sure your kiss meant a great deal to him.”

Brad held her until her sobs subsided. Then he helped her into bed. Moments later, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Marissa opened her eyes and frowned into the sunlight streaming into the room, and she noticed Darien sitting in the corner across from her bed.

“I’m so sorry about Graham. I really liked him.”

“What did Brad tell you?” she asked, choosing to ignore Darien’s words of sympathy.

Darien recounted what her cousin had told her. Being a gang member outweighed family ties, and members followed specific street rules. People not involved, didn’t need to know. Brad had told Darien the same story he’d given the police at the hospital. Marissa didn’t contradict him.

“Is Brad still here?”

“He stayed all night. He’s waiting to talk to you.” Darien stood. “I’ll check with you later.”

Marissa nodded, knowing she’d never see or speak to Darien again, not amicably.

Brad entered the room and said without preamble, “I think you should let your father know about Joel. He’s alive, although it’s doubtful he’ll ever speak clearly again.”

“Good enough. The little asswipe should have died.”

“Marissa...honey, if you’re not going to let your father handle this, I think you should go away for awhile, at least until this dies down,” he advised. “If the police believed me, they’ll be all over the gang network, asking questions, prying. They might discover your relationship to Graham...connect it to the rape, and Graham’s death. I want you out of this, in case someone talks.”

“Does Frank know Joel is alive?”

“Yeah, nonetheless, you should leave. If you don’t move back onto your home turf, it will be tough for him to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection.”

“Marissa—”

“Okay! Don’t say it. With Graham dead and everything else I’ve been through, what reason is there for me to stay? I’d rather leave than tell my father what happened. I want to take care of my own affairs.”

“Where will you go?” Brad asked.

“There’s a position open with my company in California. I had looked into the possibility of leaving when things started going downhill with Joel, then I met Gray.” She sighed. “I’ll put in for a transfer.”

“Good idea. Put as much distance between you and Joel as possible. Short of C and D taking him out ourselves, too much has gone down lately, the cops will be watching us. Neither gang can watch you all the time, in this part of town, without looking suspicious.”

“You’re right,” she remarked. “I’ll do it for you and Frank, to keep both of you from going after Joel and getting into trouble.”

“Joel will come after you.”

She exploded. “I hope the hell he does! I’ll welcome the opportunity to have another go at him. Jesus Christ, Brad, he’s taken everything from me.” She inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm down. “What more can he do, kill me?”

Brad’s pained expression spoke volumes. People like him had contributed to what she had become. Shaking his head, he smiled sadly and pulled her close. “So pretty, so dangerous, and I want you gone because I know you. Given the chance, you’ll take another shot at Joel. I’m keeping
you
out of trouble.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“When can you be ready to leave?”

“Not until after Gray’s funeral. I’ll put in for the transfer. My boss knows what happened to me. I’ll play on that to move to the top of any lists. It shouldn’t take more than three, maybe four weeks. Who’s making the arrangements for Gray?”

“I’ll let you know. We’ll go together.” Brad gave her a quick hug and left.

Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.

-Maria Robinson

Mason-Dixon Line

Pennsylvania/Maryland Border

December 29, 1969

Her dad always said
you should
never leave enemies able to come back for revenge,
and as usual, she didn’t heed his advice. If she had, she wouldn’t be driving out of Philadelphia in her recently purchased ‘67 Mustang Fastback
GTA.
Conversely, taking his advice might have left her dead or in jail, a possibility that still existed.

Marissa had crossed the Pennsylvania/Maryland border before she consulted her map. Even though temperatures had warmed enough to melt the snow in Philly, weather forecasts for most of the northern states predicted extreme cold. She had snow chains, but she didn’t want to risk driving into a blizzard, especially with the extra weight of pulling a trailer. By dropping down to Highway 70/Interstate 40 and taking the southern route across country, she might be able to avoid unnecessary complications.

She hated this, leaving home while the country was in an uproar over integration, the added friction from the Martin Luther King, Jr. assassination, and the Black Power movement. Hell, crossing the Mason-Dixon Line, she’d officially entered the South, which brought to mind the disturbing media coverage images of the civil rights movement. What kind of treatment should she expect as she drove across country, when she stopped for gas, or needed to stay in hotels?

Geez. Born and raised in the North, bigotry had never been an issue for her. Moreover, with her thuggish background, how would she react if confronted by hatred, racial slurs, or refusal of service instigated by prejudice?

Her family had traveled extensively on holidays and during the summer. Their trips had encompassed the northeastern seaboard beaches and amusement parks of New Jersey and New York―Coney Island, Palisades Park, Rock-a-way Beach, Atlantic City, and Wildwood. All were moneymaking enterprise areas where only one color mattered―the color of money.

With so little experience outside her comfort zone, odds were, her trip across country would become another lesson in humility.

In hindsight, she could see she had become a hellion, despite the Catholicism that adequately burdened her with all its strict morality. She’d had thirteen years of Catholic school, Kindergarten through twelfth grades, church every Sunday and every day during lent, with confession on Saturday to purge the soul.

Lest she forget, there were uplifting catechism classes, every damn day during elementary and high school and the classes were not electives. You’d think that ample foundation of moral integrity would have averted deviant conduct―not.

She had behaved like someone possessed, narcissistic and arrogantly aggressive, flaunting her sexuality, demeaning males, thinking her shit didn’t stink. And there was that one particular adage her father always quoted—
what goes around comes around
—and again, she had ignored him. Damn if the
goes around
didn’t come back at her with vengeance, taking a big chunk out of her ass.

In addition, she’d considered herself a badass, no fear, until Joel. He gave her the definition of fear by teaching her the true meaning of hatred. He’d sadistically dug deep into her soul and extricated an unfathomable rage. Oh yeah, she had fear. Fear of what she’d become.