Authors: Dakota Knight
Biker Chick (9 page)
Chapter Twelve
I waited for something solid and sure . . .
I should have known that the yellow in my brick road wasn't gold. When I began relying on others, I lost sight of myself. Yeah, I was living large with my man, letting him take care of me so I didn't have a care in the world. I was so in love with Ray that I made him the center of my life. I even gave up my own hustle. We celebrated the perfection of our relationship in every way. It seemed like time sped up, went into overdrive. Three years passed by in a blink of an eye. Everything happened so fast, it seemed like a dream.
Three years later, nothing had really changed. I was living a lavish lifestyle with Ray. We ate in Columbus's best restaurants and he supported my addictions for Prada everything, Fendi and Louis Vuitton bags (real ones, no less), Jimmy Choo shoes, and one-of-a-kind boutique shopping by supporting my habit with a seemingly endless amount of cash. And yes, I became an addict. I was dressed in designer something everyday and all day. I basically became a wifey. The woman of a dealer who holds it down at home while the man brings home the bacon laced with crack cocaine and weed.
I played my part. I was a willing participant in the game. I kept myself in shape and made sure to look good for my man 24/7. When we weren't eating out, I always made sure there was food on the table when Ray came home. Don't get it twisted, I didn't cook a thing, but I found a personal chef that would make complete dinners that I stored in the refrigerator and could warm up during the week. And Molly Maids kept our house in excellent condition. Despite all the good going on, something was missing. Or, should I be more precise, something was goneâthe promise me and Ray made to each other to live a legit life.
I never asked about Ray's business activities at first. I had been around the streets of the Meadows long enough to know what the deal was without having it thrown in my face. Plus, I never thought to ask. In fact, I put everything on the backburner until Ray started spending more and more time away from home. He was going on business trips, he said. Then he told me he couldn't tell me where he was going. I took it all in, but then something started tugging in the back of my brain. Something in his voice, the way he looked at me when he tried to explain why I'd be spending another night in a cold bed. In the midst of my growing loneliness, it occurred to me that Ray's constant planning to get out of the game had faded. And with the time he was putting in with the Cruz, it appeared that he was only falling deeper into the rabbit hole.
“I'm sorry, Ma, it can't be helped. The Cruz got me ridin' hard, taking care of business. I'll make it up to you when I get back.” Ray bent down to kiss me, aiming for my lips. I turned my head and his heavenly lips landed on my cheek. Despite my frustration and irritation, the warmth from his lips spread from my face down through my body.
I resisted my body's attempt to undermine my mind's emotions. I stepped back, folded my arms across my chest, and pouted. “Why are they sending you off again?” I asked like he would really give me details.
“Why are you trippin'? You know the deal.”
I pouted again and began tapping my left foot. I may not have been tired of the life, but I was tired of the game. It was time for me to broach the subject we hadn't touched on in a long time.
“When are you going to quit the Cruz. It's been years . . .”
Ray's irritated grunt interrupted me. “Oh, please, Cristal, I don't need that right now. I'm under all kind of pressure and I don't want to get into the future. I got to worry about the present. I got to worry about taking care of you and me.”
Maybe it should have ended there, I don't know, but the line had already been crossed, and I was still in the race.
“So when are we going to deal with it, Ray? Huh? I'm sick of these late nights and sitting here all by myself. I want us to go out. I want us to do things like we used to. I want us . . .”
Ray pointed toward our bedroom. “And you know what else you want? You want those designer clothes, purses, and shoes. You want your ride looking good. You want to sit on your ass while I'm out there trying to get it done.”
I raised my hands. “Hold up, Ray, that's foul. You know I was hustling on my own. You're the one that asked me to give it up. You're the one that said âLet me be the man, baby, and take care of you.' ”
“Yeah, and I didn't hear you complaining too much about putting a halt to your gigs, did I?”
I didn't like where the conversation was going. I was hot and breathing heavy for all the wrong reasons. But the wound had been opened, and the blood was starting to pour.
“Oh, so it's all on me?” I asked, my voice raised. “You're the one that promised me the stars, Ray. You. And three years later, all I have to show for it is an empty bed and a stomach full of worry that one day you won't be walking through that door.” My eyes began to water as I walked up to Ray and put my hands on his chest. “Ray, you said you were going to get out. Now is a good a time as any. We can live legit, like you said.”
Ray stared at me for a moment before pushing my hands away and turning his head. “You think it's that easy?” He asked, his tone low and serious. “You think I can just go up and say, âI'm done. It's time for me to live the straight and narrow.' You should know it's not that easy to sever the ties with the Cruz.” He turned to look at me again, his gaze intense. “You, of all people, should definitely know that.”
My lips began to tremble as tears fell down my cheeks. “Don't you dare bring my dad into this! Remember, he did get out. He kept his promise. That's what a man does. Keeps his promises.”
If looks could kill, the look Ray gave me at the moment would have stopped my heart midbeat. Mom had told me never to question a guy's manhood, that it was the surest way to totally piss him off. As usual, Mom was right. Instead of responding to me, Ray shook his head, dug into his pockets for his keys, and headed for the door.
“Oh, you can't speak now? You had so much to say a minute ago. You're the one that tried to drag the past into this conversation and now you're headed for the door.”
Ray turned around and opened his mouth as if he was going to speak. He looked sad, regretful even. He opened the door.
“You need to keep your damn promises!” I yelled as the door shut in my face.
For the first hour after he left, I actually convinced myself that he would walk back through the door, ready to say he was sorry. I would apologize too, and all would be well with the world. I sat on the couch and stared in the direction of the door. I kept staring. During the next hour, I decided to take a nice bath. The stress of our argument had started to get to me. I felt bad. Maybe I had crossed the line. Maybe. And if I smelled good with some sexy lingerie on when Ray came home, maybe we could put our current troubles behind us for a while. Maybe.
I bathed and slipped into a nice thong and lacy bra. Ray still hadn't come home. For the next hour, maybe two, I lay in the bed, thinking about Ray next to me, on top of me, kissing me, caressing me, inside of me. I was addicted to him.
During the fourth hour, I called his cell. I immediately got his voice mail. I hung up the phone without leaving a message. Five hours passed before a chill settled in and I wrapped warm sheets around my body. Once again, I fell asleep . . . alone.
Chapter Thirteen
But clouds could only hold me for so long . . .
After our big argument, Ray didn't come home for two days. I called his cell repeatedly, but all I got was his voice mail. He didn't return any of my calls. That first day, I was angry as hell, throwing stuff around, cursing, hating the world. But being there in that house, without Ray, let me know just how lonely I was.
As the years passed, my bonds with the Trio had loosened. I didn't even notice it at first. There was a time when I was with my girls everyday. Then, everyday turned into every couple of days. Next, it was once a week . . . a few times a month . . . every month or so. I think we tried to maintain the ties as best we could. Phone calls became our preferred mode of communication. But even then, those conversations were few and far between.
Over the past year, I had talked to Dymond maybe seven times. I had talked to Lala only twice. I remembered those conversations with Lala because they were fairly short. Mainly because I called her and she told me that she was busy. I stopped calling after that. Basically, Dymond and Lala were both doing their own thing. And, in my own way, I was doing my own thing too.
The bad thing about losing contact with folks is that it's not easy to reconnect. Especially when you have a problem. Sitting at home by myself, I wanted to call my girls, but I didn't want to unload my mess after being so distant. Instead of sitting alone and sulking for another day, I decided to unwind with the best therapist in the worldâFoxy Baby.
Three years later and my steel was good as new. It rode like the wind, its engine growled like a ferocious beast, and I still tingled every time I straddled it. That day was no exception. As I navigated the roads of Pickerington, the air felt heavy. Beyond the familiar smells of car exhaust, oil, and other street odors, there was something unfamiliar lingering in the wind . . . a warning maybe.
My destination was a bookstore on the east side of Columbus, Jam-Book-Ree! A long time ago, in another life, it seemed, I would visit the store from time to time. Since I graduated from high school, I couldn't count the number of times I had been to the bookstore on one finger, if you know what I mean. It was a large bookstore, not Barnes & Noble or Borders-large, but large for the type of books it carried. It was a black bookstore, around since the early 1990s. It carried some mainstream stuff too, but mainly, it was all about the blackness.
Jam-Book-Ree! was the main store sandwiched between a couple smaller stores in a strip mall near Eastland Mall. On the right of the bookstore was a hair salon. On the left side, there was a music store. There was also a convenience store and a check-cashing place located in other spaces. I parked my ride near the bookstore's entrance. It was a Friday afternoon, payday for most, and it was fairly busy. Women from the salon, with hair styles in various states of readiness, were flowing in and out of the salon. Some of them were going into the bookstore to pick up a book or magazine while they waited at the salon.
I positioned my helmet under my arm, holding it as if I were giving someone a bear hug. I nodded at some of the women as I headed for the shop. They weren't familiar with me, and I recognized what lay behind their staresâ
What's a girl looking that young doing with hair looking like she belongs in a nursing home
?
What's a girl looking that young doing with hair looking like she belongs in a nursing home
?
My hair had turned almost completely white with a silvery sheen. I had a few strains of black left on my head, but the black was more like mini-highlights than anything else. I had let my hair grow over time, and it flowed past my shoulders. I thought the length made me look more my age. Some people thought my hair was a wig, maybe some Halloween thing I became attached too. I have to admit, sometimes, I wished that it was temporary, that it was something I could pull off and pack away for good. But unless I wanted to go bald, which was out of the question, I had to work with what I had: a head full of silvery-white hair.
I paused to look through the windows before I entered the store. There were displays of the latest books from Carl Weber, Eric Jerome Dickey, Roy Glenn, Donna Hill, Monica Jackson, and E.N. Joy, to name a few. The book covers almost made me wish I was in a reading mood, but I'd come to the store to get something else. When I walked into the store, I immediately noticed the store's owner, Ola Brock. I nodded and smiled, and she returned my gesture with a half-smile, raised eyebrows showing her curiosity. I knew she remembered me, I mean, who could forget a young chick like me with the silver do? Thankfully, a woman with a handful of books went to the counter so I didn't have to worry about Mrs. Brock coming over to ask me any questions.
Despite the fact that I hadn't been there in years, Jam-Book-Ree! hadn't changed much. It was neat, with bookshelves lining the walls of the store and display cases in the middle of the store. A large part of the store was dedicated to religious, self-help, and historical books, but some popular stuff was starting to dominate the shelves. I walked farther down the aisles, saying “excuse me” a couple of times to people taking up too much space. Then, I finally reached my destination. Jam-Book-Ree! was also famous for its large selection of goods and knick-knacks. Figurines, Tyler Perry DVDs, CDs, stuff like that. I imagined that the store was sort of like what my old hustle would have been if it was legit.
I glanced up at one of the bookcases lining the back wall of the store. I stared at the collection of journals populating the shelves. There were plain-covered journals in every color under the rainbow. Latin-inspired journals in bright blues and yellows with various colorful prints. There were even a couple with the Virgin de Guadalupe. Then there were the African-inspired journals, with their rich hues of reds, blacks, greens, and oranges. Ultimately, I chose an East Indian design. The dark red journal with the gold pattern laced over it just called out to me. I flipped through the empty pages, imagining my words inside.
After I selected the journal, I chose a thick penâone of those pens with the thick rubber around the middleâto write with. I convinced myself that writing down my feelings and what was happening to me would make me feel better. I browsed through the romance section, wondering why my life couldn't be like the tales that Gwyneth Bolton and Niobia Bryant weaved. My life with Ray was sort of like the authors' stories in the beginning, all hot and sexy with plenty of love. We'd had our heartache, our trials, and our tribulations, but now I wanted the happily ever after.
Before I headed to the checkout counter, I grabbed a couple of style magazines. Even though my spirits were down, my love for fashion was still sky high. I walked slowly to the counter, waiting in line as a couple of women talked about their latest reads. I listened in on their conversation.
“Girl,
Wet
was all that. Joylynn did her thing with that one. Did you check that one out?” a brown-skinned lady with microbraids said.
Wet
was all that. Joylynn did her thing with that one. Did you check that one out?” a brown-skinned lady with microbraids said.
The woman Microbraid Lady was talking to, heavy-set with the smoothest cinnamon skin I had ever seen in my life, responded, “I had that one on the first day it came out. But I'm still tripping off of
My Husband's Girlfriend
. What kind of woman lets her man have a mistress?”
My Husband's Girlfriend
. What kind of woman lets her man have a mistress?”
Another woman turned her head and joined in the conversation. “Who wrote that âGirlfriend' book? That sounds like what I need.”
Cinnamon Lady smiled and said, “Cydney Rax.” She pointed to the fiction aisle. “I saw a copy over there. You better get it while you can.”
The woman got out of line to find the Rax book. I inched up a bit, hoping that Mrs. Brock would make it speedy. I was ready to get back home and start writing. The women in front of me continued to gush over books. It sounded like they loved the drama. They eventually let the woman with the Rax book back in line in front of me. I wanted to protest at first, but I kept my mouth shut.
Finally, I reached the counter. Mrs. Brock regarded me for a minute. I could tell she was still trying to remember my name. Her thin brown face wrinkled when she smiled at me.
“Crystal, right?” she asked with a hint of confidence.
I nodded. “How'd you know?” I asked.
Mrs. Brock chuckled and said, “I never forget a face or a name. I may be getting up there in years, but my mind isn't gone yet.” She reached for my purchases and began to ring me up. “I remember when your mother used to leave you at the old Livingston library during the summer. You were good . . . until you met up with your friends.”
It was my turn to chuckle. “Dang, Mrs. Brock, your memory is good.” It was for damn sure better than mine. I had forgotten that she was a librarian before she opened up the bookstore. She had worked at the Livingston Branch, where Mom dropped me off sometimes when I was younger. She had always been nice to me back then too. “That was way back in the day,” I told her, smiling.
“Back in the day, huh?” Mrs. Brock sniffed. “Well, all I know is that you always had a lot of potential. What you doing with yourself these days?”
I grimaced and stared down at the counter. What could I say? I wasn't doing much of anything. I thought about lying, but I couldn't weave anything in time for a response. I decided I would be as vague as possible.
I sighed and said, “I'm doing a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I wish I could say I was doing something special, but I'm just grinding like everyone else.” I tapped on my helmet and said, “I'm riding too.”
“Hmmm. Well, at least you're looking nice and healthy,” she said, her smile thinning out. “It'll be nineteen forty-seven.”
Just as I pulled out a twenty, a group of women entered the store talking loudly. They reminded me of the women who had just left, except there were ten of them.
“They loud, ain't they?” I said to Mrs. Brock as I handed her my money.
“As long as they spend money, they can be as loud as they want.” Mrs. Brock chuckled again as she handed me my change and my bag. “Those are some of the women from the Gettin' Together Book Club. They've been instrumental in keeping my store alive. It's busier than ever since they've offered their support.” She sighed before continuing. “So busy, in fact, that I may need some help soon.” Her statement was suggestive, like she was offering me something. I couldn't take the bait though. The thought of working for someone else made me queasy.
“I'll keep my eye out to see if anyone's looking,” I said, positioning my bag so I could prepare to leave. “I'll just tell them to stop in.”
Mrs. Brock nodded in understanding. “You do that,” she said with a half-wave. “And remember, they're always welcome to stop in. Anytime.” She winked at me and I nodded with a bit of understanding of my own.
I walked past the book club members as I exited the store. They all seemed happy, like they really enjoyed each other's company. Images of Dymond and Lala flashed in my mind. I knew I would have to visit them, and soon. I was so busy staring at the ladies that I didn't notice someone walking into the store until it was too late. I saw a shadow before I bumped right into the dark figure standing before me. The force of the collision caused me to loosen my grip on my helmet and my bag, and they both fell to the floor.
I immediately bent down to pick up my helmet and bag, and couldn't help but notice the men's dress shoes with the âI just got 'em shined' look. My glance was followed by a deep male voice saying, “I'm sorry.” A strong hand gripped my forearm.
I shook off the man's grip, grabbed my stuff, and stood up. The man in front of me was at least six-four, with broad shoulders that seemed to fill the doorway. He was wearing a crisp white shirt that contrasted nicely with his dark skin. He was clean-shaven with a strong jaw line and nose, dark eyes and a fresh fade. Something stirred in meâthat feeling of admiration I would get from time to time from seeing a brother that was well put-together.
“Excuse me,” I said, avoiding eye contact as I looked past him to the exit.
He raised both his hands and said, “I was just trying to help you out. I didn't mean to get in the way.” He shifted to the left, turned around and pushed the door, holding it open. I brushed past him without speaking.
As I walked into the parking lot, I heard footsteps running behind me. “Hey! Hey!” a voice called out. It was the guy I'd bumped into. I stopped, but didn't turn around.
The guy came up behind me, but then walked in front of me. “I didn't catch your name,” he said, smiling. I stirred again.
Girl, you got a man, remember that
! I told myself.
Girl, you got a man, remember that
! I told myself.
“I didn't throw it,” I said flatly. I couldn't give this guy an inch. I walked up to my ride and began to secure my purchases.
“It's like that?” he asked. “I'm just trying to be polite and you're giving me the cold shoulder.”
“Actually, I've got two shoulders,” I said as I prepared to strap on my helmet. I tried to look serious, but I couldn't stop the smile spreading across my face.
His own smile widened. “Ahhh, she has teeth, too, and a nice smile.” He reached out his right hand. There was something inside of it. “I'm Tristan Grant. Nice to meet you.”
Tristan reached his arm out further and I noticed the business card in his hand. I hesitated before reaching out my own hand to take the card.
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