Crazy Love (5 page)

Tameeka reached down between his legs and cupped his sack and gently cradled it in her hand. Wrapping her hand around his penis, she stroked him and caressed his tip until Tyrell began whimpering. She smiled to herself; she had hit the spot.

“Does it feel good, baby?” she asked softly, and all Tyrell could do was moan. “I know…I know,” she chuckled. She bent over so that her mouth hovered above his penis. Dipping her head, she slowly enveloped him in the warmth and moistness of her mouth.

“Um—Meek, I wanna be inside you,” Tyrell groaned, and Tameeka pouted as she pulled her lips off him.

He reached down for his pants and pulled a condom out of his pocket. “A man's gotta be prepared,” he said in response to Tameeka's surprised expression. She watched through half-closed eyes as he expertly slipped on the condom, then straddled her. Tyrell leaned down and grazed her lips with his. He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, then asked if this is what she wanted, and Tameeka nodded. A smile broke over his face, and his eyes glazed over as he slid himself into her.

“You're beautiful,” he said with each stroke. “You're beautiful!” Pretty soon he was chanting it and Tameeka moved along with his hips. When he exploded she exploded along with him.

“Oh Mohammad!” she shouted as her body shuddered.

Tyrell froze midstroke, then pulled out and glared down at her. “Who the hell is Mohammad?” he demanded.

1. RM Johnson,
   The Harris Men
   
2. Everything Zora Neale Hurston has written
   
3. John Grey (
   Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus
   )
   

T
hrrruuump pow, thrrruuump pow, thrrruuump pow.

“What the—?” Tameeka let out a panicked yelp and turned frightened eyes onto Stacie. It sounded like Stacie's car was about to explode. Yet her friend calmly navigated the car through traffic, looking as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Thrrruuump pow, thrrruuump pow, thrrruuump pow.

“What the hell's wrong with your car!” Tameeka yelled, and clutched the leather seats, her knuckles whitening. The noise roared through the car at an ear-splitting level. And every time Stacie stepped on the gas, the sound mushroomed a notch. It sounded like someone was sitting under the hood whacking the sides of the car with a hammer.

“Oh,” Stacie answered, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “That's nothing. You'll stop in a little while, won't you, Lexie? You always do,” she cooed and stroked the steering wheel. “What's wrong, baby?” she whispered, then glanced down at the gas gauge. “You can't be hungry, Mommy fed you yesterday, so I know your belly is full. Come on, Lexie, please stop acting up,” she begged softly. And to Tameeka's surprise, the noise stopped and Stacie shot her a triumphant look.

Lexie was Stacie's pride and joy. Her 1998 black and silver Lexus was a gift from a former boyfriend, Malcolm. During the six months they were dating, he bought her many gifts, but the Lexus was her favorite.

Tameeka watched her friend, amused by her behavior. “You're sick, you know that, don't you?” she asked while shaking her head in delight. “You need to get it fixed, instead of talking to it like it was a baby. You know what?” she asked. “Take it to the shop on Fourteenth Street, my boy Thomas will hook you up. Remember, he repaired my Escalade a couple of months ago.”

“Maybe I will,” Stacie said airily, lying through her teeth. She didn't tell Tameeka that the car had been making that sound for the past month. Nor did she tell her that she couldn't afford to fix it; her pile of bills was higher than Patti LaBelle's hair. Her fourteen-dollar-an-hour secretarial job, which she was holding onto by a thread—she was one late day away from getting fired—barely allowed her to keep her head above water. She definitely didn't tell Tameeka that she was scared shitless because she was driving around in a thirty-thousand-dollar car that she couldn't maintain. Over the years Tameeka had loaned her so much money that she was embarrassed to ask for any more.

Instead, she vibrantly said, “Grammy's gonna be surprised to see you.” They were almost to her mother's house. Tameeka's grandmother lived across the sidewalk from Stacie's mother. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“A couple weeks ago,” Tameeka replied, then sighed deeply. She absentmindedly watched the passing scenery; the houses were becoming smaller and shabbier and corner stores with names like Big Daddy's and Mom and Pop Liquor were the only stores in sight. “I can't wait to see her!” she said, brightening.

Grammy. A warm smile spread over Tameeka's face at the thought of her grandmother. For the past twenty-two years, Florrie Ann Johnson had served as her mother and father. When she was ten, her parents started paying more attention to their drugs than to her, so Florrie Ann swept in and scooped her up and brought her to live with her.

“How's Nevia doing?” Tameeka asked.

“Cool. She's been working at DeKalb Medical Center for two years now. I can't believe she found steady work. I'm so proud of her. She came a long way.”

“That's for sure.” Tameeka knew Nevia's story very intimately. Back in the day, Nevia was so strung-out on drugs that she had broken into her grandmother's house and tried to steal her microwave. Fortunately, her grandmother had been home and was able to prevent the theft.

They sat in comfortable silence, then, “How's everything with that man of yours? What's his name?” Stacie teased, feigning forgetfulness. “Tyrell…that's it. How is he?” she asked, and grinned when Tameeka began to fidget in her seat.

“Hmmm…he's fine,” Tameeka stammered. When Stacie's brown eyes widened slightly as if she was expecting to hear more, Tameeka said, “He's a nice guy.”

“Okay, listen up. You'd better tell me some dirt or I'ma stop this car right in the middle of the street and not move until you do,” Stacie warned. Then her voice mellowed, “Tell a sistah something,” she pleaded.

“You might be doing Lexie a favor. She's on her last wheel anyway,” Tameeka joked. “It's not that I don't want to tell you. It's just…I don't want to jinx it, you know?”

“Yeah, I understand,” Stacie answered softly, and reached over and squeezed her friend's hand. She was quiet for a heartbeat, then burst out with, “So you feelin' him? What size is he? Is he good in bed? Where's the brother working? What kind of car does he drive? Does he own his own home?” The questions poured out of Stacie.

“Hey! What happened to all the understanding?” Tameeka laughed through mock anger. “ 'K, ask me again. One question at a time, please!”

Stacie smiled smugly. The order of the questions was all jumbled in her head, so she threw out the first one that came to mind. “Is he good in bed?” Confusion colored her face when Tameeka burst out laughing. “What?”

“How did I know that that would be your first question? Miss Hot Panties,” she teased. Then her voice went dreamy. “He's banging in bed! One time T put it on me so good that he made my
toes
curl.”

“It's like that? Dang! So…is he a seven-incher?” Her eyes widened at Tameeka's smirk. “Bigger? Wow!”

“You know what? Your ass is getting too damn nosy!” she said, then playfully stuck her tongue out at Stacie before turning toward the window to hide the blush that was a sure giveaway of her true feelings for Tyrell. No man had ever treated her as well as he did; Tyrell gave her a sense of peacefulness.

“Humph!
He must be a six-incher. Otherwise you wouldn't have the 'tude,” Stacie snickered.

“Whatever!” Tameeka grinned and kept her secret to herself.

“So where's the brother setting down his briefcase?” she asked. Tameeka strained to hear the question. The
thrrruuump pow, thrrruuump pow, thrrruuump pow
sound had returned. She shook her head and glanced at her friend, amazed that the ear-splitting noise didn't bother her. She was still driving along and humming to one of the songs on the radio.

“He doesn't have a briefcase. He drives a bus…a city bus. He works for the City of Atlanta.”

“That's
interesting,”
Stacie said. Then continued to hum along with the music.

Tameeka bristled, then asked loudly, “What's so
interesting
about that?” She had turned in her seat, cocked her head to the side and glared at her friend.

“It's just interesting, that's all,” Stacie answered, then pulled her eyes away from the road to smile weakly at her friend. “Look at you. You own your own business. A
thriving
business, no less. You got a phat ride,” she said. “And you're the smartest person I know. Whassup with a bus driver? How come you can't find a man at all the Chamber of Commerce meetings you go to?”

Tameeka rolled her eyes. The men she met at those meetings all wanted petite women with long, flowing hair and slamming bodies. “He's a good man,” Tameeka said, and let the matter drop. “We should double-date. Me and Tyrell and you and Crawford. That'll be cool. Hanging out with an NBA player.”

Stacie hadn't told Tameeka about Crawford kicking her out of his hotel room; the embarrassment and hurt was too fresh.

“Stacie?” Tameeka called softly when her grandmother's and Stacie's mother's apartment building came into view.

“I'm okay,” Stacie answered, reassuring her friend.

“You're sure?”

Stacie turned a bright smile on her friend and nodded. “I am.”

Tameeka eyed her skeptically. “Well…”

“Trust me, I am,” Stacie said.

Tameeka gave Stacie's hand a comforting squeeze. Growing up, Stacie hardly talked about her father, but when she did it was with a bitterness that left Tameeka wondering what he had done to her friend. Whatever he did made Stacie fearful every time she went home. Even from the grave he's still hurting her, she thought, and shook her head.

Stacie pulled her Lexus into the parking lot and stopped in front of the prison-looking apartments. They were shaped like giant refrigerator boxes; three levels, tall and muddy brown-colored, they were configured into a giant U. In the middle of it all were broken-down picnic tables and naked trees. That's where she and Tameeka had spent summer days playing hopscotch, jump rope and kick ball. Each apartment had a patio, which was really just a piece of cement about the size of a slice of bread, barely big enough to hold a barbecue grill and chaise lounge.

Auburn Heights was just like any other project in the ghetto: women were grandmothers by the time they were thirty, a gold tooth was a fashion accessory and work was harder to come by than a thirty-year-old virgin.

Stacie was halfway out of her car when she remembered where she was. She shook her head and screwed her face up into a frown. The world ran differently in Auburn Heights. There were four classes of citizens: those who sold drugs, those who bought them, those who died either selling or using and those whose daily existence was making themselves invisible to the first three. Egos were galaxy-size; honor was thick and the rules changed on a daily basis.

Stacie surveyed a group of young men and her lips turned up in a smile when she saw a familiar face, her cousin Pimp. She asked Tameeka for money, then ran over and was pulled into a bear hug, which ended with her sticking a fifty-dollar bill in Pimp's pocket. Her car was safe. But that didn't stop her from activating the alarm. Not that that even mattered nowadays; nobody even blinked at a car's hysterical shriek. It was about as common as a baby crying.

“Call me at my mom's when you're ready to roll,” Stacie said as she headed toward her mother's apartment and Tameeka walked in the opposite direction to her grandmother's place.

Stacie walked up the steps to her mother's garden-level apartment, shaking her head at the garbage strewn across the neighbor's yard. Old newspapers, crumpled soda cans and torn candy bar wrappers dotted the postage-stamp-size yard. Then she surveyed her mother's yard. It was a miniparadise. Two rose bushes framed her front door, the little bit of grass, too small to be called a lawn, was lush and green. Two little frogs sat on the top step. They croaked every time somebody came to the front door.

She pushed open her mother's front door and was struck by three things: the sour smell of cooked cabbage, the stench of baby poop and the cloying scent of floral perfume.

“Aw shit!” Stacie groaned, and resisted the urge to cover her nose. She should be used to the smells, but they only seemed to get worse with every visit. Closing the door behind her, she maneuvered her way between a green velvet sectional with overstuffed pillows, a black lacquer coffee table and a twenty-seven-inch TV to the windows, which she raised, hoping for some fresh air.

Turning away from the window, her big toe connected with a hard object and a string of expletives escaped her lips. She reached down to stroke her injured foot and that's when she saw her niece's wooden building block. Her sister, Nevia, had never been a very good housekeeper. Twenty-six years old, Nevia had lived harder than a Snoop Doggy Dogg groupie. At one time, drugs, prostitution and shoplifting were her lifestyle. After a ninety-day stint in the Fulton County jail, she reevaluated her life and decided that she could do better. She had gone back to school sacrificing nights and weekends for a medical assistant certificate.

Stacie plucked up the block along with other toys that littered the floor and turned to her sister's bedroom door, ready to give her a piece of her mind, but got a pleasant surprise instead. Standing at the threshold was her two-year-old niece, CoCo. She had waddled up to the threshold of her bedroom door and stopped; she rarely ventured from her safety zone.

She gave a wickedly delicious laugh like only a two-year-old can, peeked over her shoulder and, knowing an opportunity when she saw one, began to make her way to her aunt. She had her bottle, or her “ba ba,” as she called it, clutched to her chest as if it was a foot-long piece of chocolate.

Stacie bent down and plucked her niece up, showering her face and rounded belly with butterfly kisses. CoCo giggled joyously and grabbed hold of the attention the same way a drowning man would a life preserver. Stacie's nose didn't miss the undeniable pungent smell of baby poop clinging to her niece. She needed a diaper change.

With CoCo in her arms, Stacie strolled into her sister's room and stopped dead in her tracks. She screwed her face up in disgust. The room was a pigsty. Empty fast-food containers littered the floor, a pile of dirty diapers lay in the corner and the bed was heaped with clothes, dirty glasses and wrinkled newspapers. Nausea rose in her throat and threatened to explode through her lips. She covered her mouth as she inched into the room and rooted through the pile of junk for clean diapers and a reasonably clean towel. As soon as she found both, she raced out of the bedroom.