Wild Cherry (3 page)

Slim eased closer to me and placed his hand on my thigh. “Don't go rabbit on me now, baby. I thought we was trying to get this money up?”

“You know I am, but drugs ain't my thing,” I told him.

“Princess, we in the street, ma. We gotta get it how we live.”

“I feel you, Slim, but they're giving out too much time for that shit, and I'm too pretty to go to jail.” I pulled down the visor to check myself out in the mirror. Before meeting with the guy in Starbucks, I had applied a layer foundation that was two shades lighter than my actual mocha skin color. I was paranoid to the tenth degree, but it wasn't without reason. My face was correct, as usual, but I was starting to get bags under my eyes. I needed to slow down.

“So, you'd rather keep shaking your ass in them dives for shorts, instead of getting this long money?”

I rolled my eyes. “Shaking my ass won't get me time.”

“But those backroom dances will,” he muttered, loud enough for me to hear. It was a low blow, and he and I both knew it.

I sat stiff-backed in my seat and turned around to face him. “Nigga, you got some nerve. It's them backroom dances that hold you down when you blow your re-up money on dice games and strip clubs, trying to stunt for these lame-ass niggaz out here on some real birdshit!”

I never even saw him move. The only reason I knew he'd swung was because my head bounced off the car window. Tears welled in my eyes as the pain caught up with the deed and my lip started to throb. My hands suddenly began to shake, not because I was afraid, but because I knew I was about to kill this nigga. Slim must've felt it, too, because he quickly pulled over in front of the liquor store.

“Bitch, you better not start tripping—,” he started, but that was as far as he got before I stole on him. The bum-ass engagement ring he'd gotten me a few months prior opened up a cut on his cheek. Slim was trying to undo his seat belt when I let him have two more. On open ground, he would've tore my ass up, but in cramped quarters, I had the advantage. I managed to visit his chin one more time before he was able to release the belt and lunge at me.

“You funky little cunt,” Slim snarled, trying to grab a fistful of my hair. I managed to get the passenger-side door open and one leg out of the car, but not before he got a firm hold on the back of my shirt. Slim swung an overhand left that would've surely put me in la-la land had the top of the doorframe not absorbed most of the blow. Slim's fist landed on my jaw, sending me sprawling backwards and out of the car.

Half my shirt ended up being torn off in the process, but I had made it out of the car. I could only imagine how I must've looked, teetering on the curb with one of my tits hanging out of the shredded fabric, but I really didn't care as long as I had some distance between me and Slim. If looks could kill, I would've dropped dead from the way he was glaring at me.

“I'm gonna kill your ass, Princess!” he screamed across the car. This wasn't the first time he'd threatened to kill me, but it was the first time I actually believed him.

In the blink of an eye, I watched Slim go from my lover to a salivating maniac as he stalked around the car toward me. I tried to think of a getaway. I could've run—but I was wearing heels, and by the time I undid the laces on the back, he'd be on me.

The thought of survival took over my brain, and the word that fell out of my mouth surprised Slim just as much as it did me: “Rape!”

All right, all right, it was a low move.… I know this, but no more so than him trying to beat my ass after I had just risked going to prison for him. One thing that every man should know is not to play dirty pool with a woman; you'll come up short every time. Slim took another step toward me, and I said it again—this time a bit louder as I staggered backward toward the entrance of the pizza shop. The heel on my right shoe broke off, causing me to stumble and bang my shoulder against the door frame. All the hell we were raising out front and my screaming started to draw an audience. People were slowing up in their cars, being nosy, and even some of the corner boys inched closer to get a better look. Good—the more, the merrier. Slim was crazy, but he wouldn't be stupid enough to kill me in front of a crowd … or at least that's what I'd hoped.

“This fool is trying to kill me,” I shrieked.

“You there, stop hitting that girl!” the owner of the pizza shop screamed, leaning out of the pickup window. “You keep it up, and I'm going to call the police.”

“Mind your fucking business!” Slim snapped at the man before turning his attention back to me. “Princess, what the fuck are you doing?” he almost pleaded. It gave me a fucked-up rush to see fear creep into his eyes.

“Nigga, if you put your hands on me again, as God is my witness, I'm gonna put a case on you!” I yelled. Slim looked around cautiously before moving toward me again. His face had softened, but his eyes still said murder.

“Baby, I know I was wrong for hitting you, but don't go about it like this,” he tried to coo, but that sweet shit wasn't working this time. Dick and sweet words had rocked me to sleep for the last time.

“I'm telling you, Slim, if you start this shit, Johnny Law is gonna finish it,” I warned him. From the defeated look on his face, I thought the rational side of his brain was starting to take over and the threat kicking in, but I should've known better. Crazy people don't tend to think logically, and Slim's ass was nuts.

When whatever reasoning that had been keeping him off my ass finally gave, Slim rushed me. With my broken heel, I was like a wounded animal when the wolf came barreling down on me. He deflected my awkward swing and grabbed me by the biceps. The pizza shop owner was still spewing threats, but it was action that I needed to save my ass, not words.

Slim's lips were white, and he was breathing heavily when he hissed at me, “Princess, you better get your ass in the car before I cave the side of yo pretty-ass face in.” I looked into the eyes of that deranged-ass young man and knew if he got me in the car I sure as hell wouldn't be getting out again, at least not on two legs. I had never been very religious, but whenever I found myself up shit creek, I called on God for a miracle, and as always he was right on time.

“Yo, fall back with that shit, son, you making the block hot right now,” One of the corner boys was approaching. His was a face that required a special kind of love, but he was the most beautiful thing in the world to me at that point.

Slim glanced over at the young boy, giving me the chance to make my move. I shot my head at him like a bullet, aiming for his nose, but colliding with his bottom lip, cutting my forehead on his teeth. It probably hurt me more than it did him, but it made his crazy ass let go of me, which was all I needed. One heel or not, I tore around the corner and up toward Lenox Avenue as fast as I could. I heard Slim calling after me, but shortly after that, I heard the sound of glass breaking. He would have his hands full for a minute, so I didn't have to worry about him getting on my trail too soon.

Now here I was, bobbing and weaving up the block like I'm at a football combine, tits swinging and not really knowing where I was headed. One thing I did know was that if the corner boys didn't beat Slim too bad, he'd be on my ass sooner than later. It was a big city, and I knew all Slim's habits, so I could avoid him if I put my mind to it—but for how long? I needed to get my ones up so I could blow town. Luckily, I still had Slim's five thousand to get the ball rolling.

THREE

Gina

I could hear raised voices all around me, but I couldn't make out what they were saying over the ringing of my own ears. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but I ended up sprawled out on the floor, damn near under the card table. From the searing pain in the back of my head, I knew just what Michael Jackson must've felt like when that Pepsi commercial went to the left. Loose strands of hair were all over the front of my blouse, while a thick clump of it lay on the floor next to me. I touched my hand to the back of my head, and thankfully there was no bald spot, but it felt thin as hell.

Still dazed, I tried as best I could to gather myself. When I moved to get up, it felt like my kidneys shifted. I didn't have to see the bruise to know it was there; I'd had enough of them to know the dull ache just before the swelling. I managed to pull myself to my knees and peered over the table at my once-beautiful living room. The card table was now on its back, with beer and God only knew what else soaking into anything that could absorb it. Bilal was picking himself up from the floor, right next to the patio door. There was a slight gash over his eye that looked as if it would start leaking at any minute. He moved in my direction, and for a minute I thought he was coming for me, but his murderous rage went over my shoulder at Jackie.… My Jackie, who was smack-dab in the center of the chaos, with José restraining him.

“Nigga, don't you ever try to puff up on me in my spot!” Jackie foamed at the mouth, struggling against José's grip, with little success at getting free.

“Jackie, you're bugging the fuck out, word up.” José was ushering Jackie toward the kitchen.

“Yeah, Jackie, this shit is bogus. First you slug your old lady and then you steal on Lal, what the fuck is your problem?” Moe stood between Jackie and Bilal, keeping the young boy in check, at least for the moment. Jackie was out of pocket, and he was surely going to let Bilal get a fair shake, but he didn't want it to go down in front of me.

Bilal stalked back and forth, trying to figure a way around Moe to tap Jackie's chin. “You got that one off, Jackie, but this shit is far from over.” He touched the cut above his eye. “That shit was cute, but I ain't no bitch, homey. I'm gonna make you wear this shit.”

“Word, you wanna get it popping, Lal? Yours ain't the only gun that works,” Jackie threatened.

“Hey, the both of you niggaz watch that funny talk,” Moe said seriously. “If you wanna shoot the fair one”—he raised his hands—“that's what it is, but it ain't gonna be no extra shit, so you might as well forget it.” Both combatants stared at Moe, but they knew not to test the old head.

José stepped in front of Jackie and turned him so that they were eye to eye. “Jackie, you outta pocket right now. Look at what you did to your house—shit, look at what you did to your wife.” He shoved Jackie in my direction. I looked for regret in his eyes, but saw only pity.

“Yo, this shit is real whack, fam,” Bilal said. He was still pacing, but some of the tension seemed to have drained away from his body. “Every time you get drunk, you get on ya bullshit, Jackie, and one of these days a muthafucka ain't gonna wanna reason with you.”

“Yo, Lal, you know who I be and where I be—” Jackie spread his arms. “—so quit kicking that gangsta shit like I'm supposed to be impressed. You always trying to call somebody out and then try to backpedal with the shit. You don't be knowing what to say out of your mouth.”

“Both of y'all muthafuckas is faded, so ain't neither one a you gonna wanna see your own wrongs. Jackie, you need to slow up on that bottle, and Lal”—Moe turned to the youngster—“that slick shit ain't gonna get you nowhere, know when to be easy.”

If hadn't been for José reaching down to help me to my feet, I might've forgotten I was on the floor. Watching the scene unfolding between Jackie and his boys was surreal. Had it not been for the intense throbbing in my side and the pinpricks of pain shooting through my scalp, I could've easily been front row at the premiere of an action movie, but the embarrassed looks I was getting from everyone except Jackie were real.

“You okay, Gina?” José asked once I was standing on my own again.

My living room was a wreck, my blouse was torn, and I had managed to break one of the heels on the damn sandals. Was I okay? Hell no, but my pride wouldn't let me say so. “Yeah, I'm cool,” I said, lying through my teeth. I watched Jackie scornfully as the reality of what he'd done seemed to soak in and his face finally softened.

“Baby girl.” He reached out to me, but I moved away.

“Don't,” was all I could say. I was angry and embarrassed. Had I been my mother, I would've picked up one of the tipped-over bottles and gone upside Jackie's head, but I didn't have that kind of willpower. Instead, I tucked my tail between my legs and headed upstairs to my bedroom.

*   *   *

With measured steps, I walked into my bedroom and closed the door. Against my better judgment, I went over to the vanity mirror to assess the damage. My hair was sticking up at an odd angle, and in some sections barely holding on by the roots. It wasn't as bad as it could've been, but I'd have to get it cut so you couldn't tell where Jackie had pulled it out. On the lower portion of my jaw, there were three red welts that were about the length of a man's fingers. In an attempt to make myself feel better, I told myself that it could've been a closed fist, but that didn't make me feel any better. I managed to keep my game face on in front of Jackie's company, but when I got a good look at the horror staring back at me through the looking glass, I broke down.

“This is not how your mother raised you,” I said to the ugly duckling in the mirror. All my life, the importance of being an independent woman had been drilled into me like mental conditioning, but that all flew out the window when it came to Jackie. First there were the wayward friends whom he just couldn't seem to keep his dick out of, and then there was the occasional ass-whipping that I took for the team. I knew he didn't mean to hurt me, but Jackie had a bad temper. Whenever we would get into it, he'd feel bad and try to buy back my affection. I always said that the next time he hit me, I was going to leave, but I never did, at least not for more than a day or two, before I caved in and went back to him.

I'd heard older people say most marriages went sour in the first few years because young people didn't have the patience to work through their problems, but I'll bet the ones who started that bullshit weren't getting their assess kicked by the men who claimed to love them. Still, it gave me something to wrap my mind around in the hopes that Jackie would change, though I was starting to get the feeling he wouldn't. Every rational fiber of my body told me to leave his ass and go for the jugular in the divorce, but I couldn't do it. Jackie was my husband, and I'd vowed to stand by him for good or for bad, in sickness and in health. This is the mantra I repeated over and over so I wouldn't feel like such a fool. The truth of the matter was that I was a silly girl in love, and Jackie was the cross I'd chosen to bear.