Nasty Girls (13 page)

 

A
few days later, we were at it again, arguing and fighting. I was in bed, chilling and trying to heal from our last fight. James came into the room and wanted some pussy. He had some fucking nerve. I told his dumb ass no, and he got upset. Then he tried to force himself on me. I fought him back, and he angrily tossed me across the room like it was nothing. I landed against the television, and it fell and smashed on the ground. I cried out, and again James had no remorse. He came up to me, snatched me up again, and threw me against the wall. He had his hand firmly wrapped around my neck, choking the shit out of me.

I grabbed his wrist, trying to loosen his grip. “James . . . let . . . go, please,” I begged, gasping for air.

“Fuck you, bitch. Why you bein' like this fo'? I just wanna
fuck, that's all. Shit, you my girl. Now look, look what you made me do!” His eyes were filled with rage, and I was terrified to death. I actually thought that he was going to kill me.

But he let loose, and I slid down to the floor, crying. James continued to throw a fit, smashing things in our bedroom and in the living room.

He wasn't done with me. He dragged me into the living room, with me kicking and screaming and then threatened to throw me out of the window if I didn't start cooperating.

“Word, Jade, you think I'm fuckin' playin' wit' you?”

My body felt limp. I had no more strength in me to fight back. James stood a foot taller, and outweighed me by over a hundred pounds. It was like a chicken trying to fight off a pit bull.

For about an hour, my apartment felt like Baghdad—there was no peace until James finally grabbed his coat and left, leaving my home in shambles.

About fifteen minutes after James left, I heard a loud knock at the door. I assumed it was James again, forgetting something. But when I heard, “Police!” I dried my tears and wished they hadn't come.

I didn't want to see 'em, but I knew that they weren't going to go away unless someone answered the door. So I tried to collect myself. I picked up a few things and yelled, “I'm coming! Give me a minute.”

I went into the bedroom to change shirts. James had badly ripped the one I had on, and it looked like I had been in a fight. After I changed, I went to the door, took a deep breath, and opened it.

“I didn't call the police,” I said.

“Well, one of your neighbors did. Said it sounded like a fight
in your apartment, and they thought that someone was being killed,” the officer explained. He was as tall as James, black, and looked to be in his late forties.

“You okay?” the second officer asked. He was black too, younger in the face, and shorter than his partner. He looked at me with more care and concern than his partner had.

“I'm okay,” I lied. I couldn't look them in the eye.

“What happened here?” the more concerned officer asked.

“Nuthin'. Me and my boyfriend had a little argument, that's all,” I said.

“Little argument. Look at your apartment, miss. It looks like someone was in a fight.”

“Well, I was cleanin', that's all.”

“Listen, it ain't my business, but—”

“That's right it ain't none of your business. Please leave,” I said with serious sarcasm.

“C'mon. She don't need us here,” the taller officer said to his partner. He walked off down the hall while the shorter one lingered, looking like he wanted to stay and help. But I made things clear by slamming the door in his face.

I tried to straighten my place up, and get myself back in order. Suddenly, I heard another knock at my door. I sighed heavily and went to see who it was. When I peeped through the peephole, I saw that it was that same cop again. He had come back alone, without his partner. I opened the door for him.

“What is it this time?” I asked, attitude filling the air.

“Listen, miss . . . you can press charges, file a report, and I promise you that he won't touch you again,” he said.

“Whatever! You don't even know what happened. Fuck you care for?”

“Because I do. Look at you. You're beautiful, and I would hate to see you end up dead. You deserve better than this.”

I sucked my teeth. “You don't know me.”

“I'm here to help, miss.”

“Would you stop callin' me
miss
? I ain't that old, and I ain't your mother,” I spat back.

“I'm sorry.”

“Where's your partner?”

“He's down in the squad car. I told him to give me a minute. What happened here?” he kept on pressing. He was cute—I give him that. He stood about five-eight, had a pointy nose and brown eyes. His face was smooth, and his voice was gentle. He looked like Morris Chestnut in a way.

“Just a misunderstandin', nothin' else.”

“Listen, I'm going to give you my card, and I'm going to write down my home number on the back,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He jotted down his digits and handed me the card.

“Don't hesitate to give me a call if you need anything,” he said, staring into my eyes.

I reluctantly took it. “Are you always this kind?” I asked, easing up a bit.

He smiled. “I just care a lot . . . and I'm just doing my job.”

I felt a warm, gentle vibe from him. He wasn't no James, but he was still cute.

“Well, um . . . thank you, I suppose,” I said.

“Yeah. Well, if you need anything, give me a call,” he said again, backing away slowly.

“Okay.”

“Oh . . . ,” he said, halting in his steps.

I looked at him.

“Can I get your name?” he asked kindly.

I smiled. “Jade.”

“Jade. I'm Officer Reese.”

“I'll remember,” I said.

He stared at me like he didn't want to leave, but realizing his partner was waiting in the car, he rushed away and let me be.

I closed the door and sighed.
What a day,
I thought. I looked around my apartment. I had some cleaning up to do. I wanted to tidy up this mess and spend the day alone, wishing James would stay wherever he was right now. I thought about changing the locks, but decided not to. I don't even know why. His temper was becoming out of control, and it always felt like I was walking on eggshells around him.

I placed Officer Reese's card in my jeans pocket and started straightening up the apartment. To lighten my mood, I put in a Mary J. Blige CD and listened to my girl break it down about love and the drama that comes along with it. She needed to write a song about my life. I swear it would go triple platinum.

I
t was always good to see Roscoe. I'd been coming to see him almost every week now. He'd been incarcerated a little over a month. We hugged, kissed, and talked. It was November, and I knew that I was going to miss him even more around the holiday time. I remember last year we spent Thanksgiving at his sister's crib with her three kids. She had cooked up a big meal.

I became one of those women who made frequent trips to Rikers Island, knowing the routine like the back of my hand. I still came dressed cute, but I didn't overdo it like my first visit, wearing pink shoes and shit like that, because once you get through security, you looking worn out anyway. Shit is a bitch.

Roscoe held my hand softly and looked like something heavy was on his mind.

“What's wrong, baby?” I asked.

He looked up at me, and asked, “How you doin' at your job?”

“It could be better. My boss is becoming a dickhead, talkin'
about I'm missin' too many days of work. But you come first, baby,” I said.

He didn't respond.

“Roscoe, what you thinkin' about?” I asked again.

“Listen, James is gonna come by sometime this week, and drop you off some money. It should hold you down for a while.”

“Okay. That's cool.”

The visiting room was crowded, like almost every seat was full. The holidays were coming. This visit with Roscoe wasn't like the others, where he held down conversations with me, and told me to keep my head up and asked me questions. It looked like I was the one holding it down; trying to get him to say what was on his mind. I know my man. I knew when something was bothering him.

“Shy, I got somethin' to tell you,” he began.

“What is it?”

“I might take a plea.”

“What? A plea? Why, Roscoe, please . . . you can beat this, I know you can,” I said, my voice frantic.

“Shit ain't lookin' too good for me. D.A. comin' hard at me with this one, and they about to present my case to a grand jury soon. My lawyer's doin' what he can, but wit'out a gun or some credible witness on my side, shit is bleak right now. If I cop out now, I might get ten, and do maybe six years straight. If we take it to court and I'm found guilty, I'm lookin' at fifteen, maybe twenty years, Shy.”

Tears began to well up in my eyes.
What changed?
I thought to myself.

“Baby, six years. That's still a long time.”

“Yeah, I know. But it's better than doin' twenty. I'll get out, and we can still have a life together,” he said. “Look, Shy, I love you, and you know I'm always thinkin' about us, but I gotta do what I feel is best for me, and you. My lawyer, he ain't a miracle worker. I fucked up. This is a hard one for him. He's turnin' over every rock he can for me, but . . . I'm sorry, Shy. You deserve better, that's fo' sure. You don't need this.”

“I need you, Roscoe. I need you home and wit' me. Why did you have to leave me that night? Why, Roscoe? If you woulda stayed your ass home, none of this shit wouldn't be happenin',” I barked.

“I know, baby. But you know my temper.”

“And? What you had to prove, huh? Look at us. You had to go out and prove in front of your boys that you could pull a trigger on someone, and be the dickhead who ends up in jail.”

“We gonna be a'ight, Shy,” he tried to assure me.

“How you know that? I'm home alone every night, thinkin' about you and cryin' myself to sleep. You promised to take care of me. . . . Where's that promise?” I spat at him.

“Like I told you, James is gonna come through.”

“Fuck James. I'm not talkin' about money. I'm talkin' about us, Roscoe, and our relationship. I'm talkin' about us havin' a family and movin' out of the projects. I'm talkin' about you not bein' up in here anymore. I need you. I need my man. But what I got is pain, sufferin', and fuckin' heartaches.” I started to draw a little attention to myself as my voice got louder.

“Shy, lower your voice. I don't need these niggas bein' all up in our business,” Roscoe whispered.

“I don't give a fuck about them! You feel embarrassed now. How do you think I feel out there on them streets? Everybody
in our business. Everybody knows what went down wit' you, and I'm still fuckin' clueless to what happened. You don't tell me shit. James don't tell me shit. Your lawyer doesn't tell me shit. And I'm your woman, right?”

I was pissed off. He was taking a plea. And what made me mad was Jade knew about this before me. She's telling me about his business before I even knew. We up in the club, and she telling his business in front of everyone like the shit was cool. And I'm barking on her, because I'm thinking she don't know what the fuck she talking about, and she telling the fucking truth.

Roscoe tried to calm me down, but I was heated. Our time was up, and I just picked myself up and walked out. The CO told me that I had to wait—it was procedure for the inmates to be escorted back into lockup before any visitors could leave their seats.

Fuck that. I wanted out. I stood by the locked steel door and ignored their fucking procedures. Of course, corrections caught an attitude with me and threatened to deny my visits if I pulled a stunt like that again.

I was in full tears after I left the premises. I couldn't even take the bus home. I didn't want to be seen like this. So I caught a cab back home.

 

T
wo days had passed, and I was in the shower, thinking about my situation and Roscoe's. Twenty years, ten years—even six years, he was still gonna be gone from my life for a long time.

I sighed heavily, letting the water cascade over my body, and I started daydreaming. It'd been a minute since I had sex, and I
started running my hand up my thighs until I was stimulating myself with wet fingers. I never went without sex for this long, almost a month and a half now. When Roscoe was home, we would fuck on a regular. Sometimes we used condoms, and sometimes we didn't. If he didn't use a condom, then Roscoe made sure he would pull out and bust off a nut on my stomach. He wasn't ready for kids.

I got caught up in the moment, having two fingers deeply in my wet vagina, and caught myself moaning out loud in the shower, thinking about sex.

It took a minute for me to hear the doorbell. So I rushed out of the shower, quickly wrapped a towel around myself, and yelled, “I'm comin'—don't leave yet.”

I scurried into the living room, dripping wet, and leaving a trail of small puddles on the thick green carpet. I looked through the peephole and saw that it was James.

I secured the towel around me tightly and answered the door. “Hey, James.”

James looked at me. “Oh, my bad. Is this a bad time? I can always come back.” His eyes never left my body.

“No. I was just gettin' ready for work. Come in,” I said. He walked into the living room and closed the door.

“I got some money for you. Roscoe said you needed it,” James said, standing in the center of my living room. He reached into his brown Rocawear coat and pulled out a thick white envelope. He came over to me and put it in my hand.

“There's five grand in there, Shy. Enough to hold you down till the end of the month.”

“Thank you,” I said, clutching my towel, making sure it wouldn't fall off me.