Drive Me Crazy (45 page)

“The elevator is as far as I’ll go.”

She shook her head, disappointed. “I can manage on my own.”

“Sade—”

“One last thing.”

“What?”

So much tension was in her forehead, in her blue eyes. “You know what writing does?”

“Have no idea.”

“It says
I was here. I existed. I was important. I made
a
difference.”
Her eyes were wide, words seeping out on a long, woeful moan. “I don’t exist. I’m not important. I’m not making a difference.”

She took out her passkey.

I asked, “You gonna be okay?”

She answered with a pained smile. “Twelve-letter word. Commensalism. I’d attached myself to a shark and didn’t know how to let go. I’m free. I’m free, Driver.”

I watched her make her way to the elevator. She got on. Then she was gone.

My attention went back to the bar. The news conference started. I held my JD tight and asked the bartender to turn up the volume. I imagined everyone down at Back Biters was glued to the same thing, Pedro leaning over that bar, shaking his head.

A family representative was at the podium. He said that Wolf had received the horrific news while he was visiting his children in Las Vegas. Lisa had planned on going to Las Vegas with her husband, but changed her plans at the last minute citing a family emergency. The representative said that Mr. Wolf was devastated to get this tragic news, as could be expected, but with the love of his family and the community, he’d pull through this crisis. The entire family was shocked that something like that could happen to someone so wonderful, a woman whose family was a pillar of Compton’s and Los Angeles’s African-American community.

They closed in on Wolf, his heartbroken face taking up the entire screen. I saw it in his face. He wasn’t going to turn me in. I knew because when he stepped to the podium and thanked the community for its love, in the end he told them, “There are no suspects.”

No suspects. No spooks would be sitting outside my door.

My hands loosened around my glass. A boulder the size of Texas rolled off my back.

Wolf’s face vanished from the screen. And out of my life.

Friendship was over. That hurt me deep, hurt more than any of the pain I already had.

I went to the pay phone and called Panther. She was watching the news conference.

She asked, “Where are you?”

“On the way back.”

“You can’t keep doing me like this.”

“I love you, Panther.”

She paused. “Wow.”

“Look, what kind of man do you need me to be? Think about that.”

“Driver, you’re about to make me cry.”

“Earl.”

“What?”

“My first name is Earl.”

“I know that.”

“Call me Earl.”

“You want me to call you by your first name?”

“Yeah. Fuck that Driver bullshit.”

“So, you’re gonna start calling me Cynthia?”

“Yeah.”

“Yuck. Earl and Cynthia. God, we have some old, corny names.”

“Don’t bother me none.”

“Where are you,
Earl
?”

“On the way back,
Cynthia
.”

She laughed. “I called some people about cleaning up our apartments.”

“Cool.”

“And I cooked. Rufus asked Pasquale and he said it was cool, let me use the kitchen.”

“Where are they?”

“Outside by the pool. Think they’re playing bones.”

We hung up. I was anxious to get away from this place. The books I’d had,
Manumit
and
Dawning,
didn’t have them anymore. Had left them at the bar. Didn’t matter. Not to me.

I left Shutters the same way I had come in, unseen and unnoticed.

Ten white-and-gold boxes of See’s Candies were neatly stacked on the passenger seat of my car. It was easy to get inside my car. I didn’t have a rear window.

My sobriquet name was on the top box written on a plain white card.

Red letters.

Feminine handwriting.

Driver. Hoped I would never see that name again.

I opened the top box. Chocolates. Two layers. It was uneven. I pulled up the top layer. Money was underneath. Hundred-dollar bills. I dumped the chocolate. Looked like at least ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. I swallowed. Then my eyes went to the other gifts. I opened another one. It held the same distribution in dead presidents. My eyes went to the other eight. Had to be one hundred large. Fifty percent of what angering Sade had cost Freeman.

I looked around. Didn’t see anybody. Didn’t see her silver BMW.

She had just left my ride. The warmth in my seat and the scent of cloves told me that.

The traffic light in front of me danced from red to green to red to green.

Did that a few times, then it stopped. I waited. The stoplight show never started back up.

Arizona was gone to wherever people like her go at the dimming of the day. Imagined her speeding away, top down on her ultimate road machine, hair dancing in the breeze. Bet she had one of those cigarettes up to her mouth, taking smooth inhales, that cunning smile painting her face as she exhaled the scent of cloves to the wind.

She was a hustler.

I was a working man.

I nodded toward the darkness, toward that mystery, knowing I’d cross paths with her again.

Until then I could work on buying my own redemption.

I drove away hoping Cynthia liked chocolates.

Sara Camilli, my wonderful agent, thanks. Here we are at book ten.

My new editor, Brian Tart, and his copilot, Julie Doughty, much love to you and all the peeps at Dutton/NAL. Thanks for being so wonderful and patient with me on this one. Thanks for the support in a major way.

To the people in publicity, Kathleen Schmidt, Lisa Johnson, Betsy Dejesu, thanks.

Omonigho Ufomata, thanks for allowing me to come into your world and ask you question after question. The parts of Folasade that are positive and correct I owe to you. If I made any errors, that was all on me. Hope I represented that fictional woman in a wonderful way.

Thanks to the peeps who read this and its many changes: Amy D. Mason, Dana Wimberly, Anthony Lyons, Jenai Chin, Emil Johnson, Lolita Files, Yvette Hayward, Olivia Ridgell, Sibylla Nash, and Tiffany Pace. Okay everybody, group hug. Mmmmmmmmmmm. Not so tight. Again. Mmmmmmmmmm. Better.

And Tish Tosh wanted to see her name in my book. She didn’t do anything. she was just feeling left out, hating on everybody, wanted to see her sobriquet in print. Here ya go, Tish Tosh, o ye queen of the runners. Watch out, I might catch up with ya before you get to the top of Valley Ridge ... soon as I find a cab. Now go buy my book. And read it. There will be a quiz.

ejd
05-06-04

Read on for a preview of
Eric Jerome Dickey’s novel

Available from New American Library

She rests on top of my body, naked, wrapped around my leg, her head on my chest. Her skin is still hot, set fire by too many orgasms to count. I’ve never been with a woman who came so hard, so often. My tongue tastes like her secrets. Her lavender aroma lives on my flesh. She stirs. My leg is sticky where her vagina rests on me. My come drains from her, adds to her wetness. I stroke her breasts, fingers pulling at her nipple, and she purrs. Her hand holds my penis with a never-ending longing, holds my flaccidity as if she wishes it were hers to keep.

My cellular vibrates, hums like her favorite carnal toy, dances on the dresser.

We both jump, startled away from our private world.

Her cellular glows and sings an urban beat, a hip-hop ring tone. Usher. My confession.

We don’t reach out to answer, just hold each other’s guilt and wait for peace to return.

We grip our silence as if speaking were the bigger sin.

We kiss. Touch. Her kisses are intense. I whisper, “We should leave.”

“Little bit longer, baby?”

“They’ll look for us.”

She sucks my tongue, bites me with passion. “Please?”

Her tongue finds its way down my chest. Her mouth covers my penis.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

My fingers stroke her hair, hand encourages her rhythm. She looks up and smiles at me, rubs that rigid part of me against her face, glows as if it has healing powers. Her mouth covers me again. She hums. Sounds starved. Heat. Sweet, sweet heat. The wet sounds arouse me.

I moan, let my hand gather her hair into a fist, keep encouraging her motions, her head moving so smoothly. Every nerve comes alive. I writhe toward an undeserved heaven. My flaccidity hardens. I look down at her. She smiles, proud of the power she has over me inside of this moment. Kisses me and my insanity escalates. She pulls me to where she needs me.

Her legs open and I climb on her. The lips of her vagina whisper my name.

She takes me inside her and there is a shift in consciousness as we integrate in sin. She moves and I fall into her anxious rhythm, her undercurrents. Her words are soft, her moans are soft, and her skin is soft. They all create a spark. And that spark becomes a raging fire.

I put her ankles around my neck, hold her ass, pull her into me a thousand times. She looks down to witness our connection, then stares into my eyes. My measured strokes go deeper, create madness. She grabs my ass, shudders, tells me she wants me faster, deeper.

Her arms flay side to side. She yanks the sheets, finds a pillow to cover her mouth, give that softness her wild sounds. Her legs shake. I yank the pillow away so I can see her face. Have to watch her. Her eyes close tight. She tremors and grabs her breasts, squeezes them so tight. Her legs spread like wings. Under my every stroke she flies and cries like an eagle.

I turn her over, position myself between the bed and the wall, use that wall to give me power. She can’t move. Can only take what I give. She’s there. She’s coming strong and often.

Oh, how she quakes.

Oh, how her expressions morph into a beautiful ugliness.

The room sounds like an exorcism in progress.

In between my grunts and moans, I call out to her, say rude and demanding things.

She whispers things to arouse me even more, growls, touches herself, then licks her own fingers, touches herself, then feeds me her juices, grabs my ass, tells me to fuck her, fuck her hard, whines and moans and squeals and tells me how hard I am, how strong I am, how good I’m fucking her, how deep I’m going, demands my steady thrusting to never stop, goes insane and tells me I can come anywhere I want to, that she will take it in any orifice or drink it like wine.

I turn her over, take her to the center of the bed, suck her breasts while she reaches for my hardness, rushes me back inside her, those hips of hers thrusting upward, taking me with her own measured strokes. I’m not moving, just holding my position, trying not to come, struggling not to go insane. We have breathless kisses, devour and bite each other, so gone, and I’m somewhere else, someone else.

Time stops.

My senses are focused on her.

I lose control of myself.

There is no fear. There is no guilt.

She loses her breath, tenses up, back arches, and she sings my name in three octaves.

She comes. She comes. She comes.

Then we rest. Sweat dripping from our flesh, we fall away from each other and we rest. Minutes pass before I can collect my breath and move. I can barely turn my head to look at her.

She moans. “I think I just had an out-of-body experience.”

We look at each other’s worn expression; then we laugh.

She asks, “Ready to go again?”

“You’re insatiable.”

“I’ve never been like this with anyone.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

She puts her face in my lap, hums, then sings part of a love song I don’t recognize.

She whispers, her voice sounding disturbed, “God, what have you done to me?”

I don’t answer. I could ask her the same, and my question would go unanswered as well.

“You make me tingle.” Her voice remains a song. “Make me horny. Think of you and I get wet. You’re very intense. The way a lover should be. I find you damn sexy and tender.”

Her hand traces my flesh; then I feel her tongue on my skin, licking my sweat. She takes me in her mouth again, does that like she owns me. In her mind I am hers. She nurtures me. I arch, I jerk, get the jitters, but flaccidity remains. That doesn’t discourage her, doesn’t wane her madness. She is determined to raise the dead, determined for this not to end.

My phone vibrates again.

Her cellular sings again. Usher, still confessing.

She is not mine.

She is my wife’s sister.

This is our affair.

How does an affair begin?

I think that mine, like most, started unintentionally. I’m not malicious; that is not in my nature—hurting someone I love, that is.

My wife. Genevieve.

She is thirty-two. Has been turning thirty-two over and over for the last five years.

Her name has been Genevieve since she turned twenty-one, the day she marched to court and rid herself of the name her mother had given her. In her eyes her birth name was too urban. Too Alabama. A reminder that her ancestors had been slaves and that her family still lived in chains, some physically, some metaphorically, some in the psychological sense.

She is not one of
them.
Not cut from the cloth of people who name their children after cars and perfumes and possessions they cannot afford, or have a home filled with bastard children, each of those bastard children named after drugs the parents were addicted to at the time. She is not one of the people who took a simple name and bastardized its simplistic spelling to the point that it looked ridiculous on paper and sounded ludicrous as it rolled off the tongue, then pretended the name was that of an unknown king or queen, its origin rooted in Mother Africa.