Riding Dirty on I-95 (30 page)

“What?”

“Why the fuck you take my motherfuckin' scratch?” he yelled, blatantly accusing her.

Lolly looked like she had seen a ghost and then quickly pulled herself together. “You better get out of here with that nonsense,” Lolly said.

“You know it ain't no nonsense,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out her latest bank statement. “Where the fuck you get this kind of money from? That bullshit-ass assembly-line job ain't paying like this, even with overtime. And I'm sure if
y
o' ass had hit the jackpot at Bingo, you would have told me by now. If you ain't pinch off my loot then explain this shit. Explain this shit right here!” Cleezy screamed, as saliva flew with every word. Cleezy reached down and felt the cold steel of his gun brush up against his side.

Lolly swallowed, still sticking to her guns. “I work,” she answered, but not meeting his eyes.

“It ain't that much work in the motherfuckin world.” Cleezy then reached in his front pocket and pulled out her pay stub and moved in closer to her, backing her into the corner. “Ma, you don't make shit. And I don't see no goddamn overtime.” Lolly
shook as Cleezy continued. “You don't make but ten dollars a motherfucking hour but yet you got sixty thousand g's in your account. Sixty fucking thousand dollars?”

Lolly had tears in her eyes. For the first time in her life, one of her underhanded scandals hadn't played out the way she thought it would. She was cold busted. She looked into her son's eyes and saw a side of him that she had never seen before. Hurt, pain, and confusion crossed his face. He was turning into a monster right in front of her eyes. He was no longer the son that she had nurtured and raised from a boy to a man. Never thinking that she would see the day that she would fear her own son, Lolly stood there petrified.

Cleezy looked capable of doing the unthinkable. He put his fingers in her face as he continued to roar in anger. “Just fucking admit it! That's all I want you to do is fucking confess,” he screamed at the top of his lungs. Then he just lost it; his mind was in another place.

“Cleezy, stop, baby. I love you,” she said, looking into her son's eyes, trying to reach him somehow. “I love you, baby.”

In Cleezy's mind he was in a place that he'd never thought he'd return to again: Paula's murder scene. Though he saw his mother's lips saying she loved him, it was Paula's voice that came out. It was Paula's voice that he heard echoing through his head. At that moment he saw Paula's almost lifeless body on the ground, and as he was taking her life, her last words were, “I love you, Cleezy, till death do us part.”

Never had he regretted taking a life or sparing one, but his heart was heavy with Paula's laughs, smiles, and cries. No amount of money could ever take it away. There had only been two people on the face of the earth that could surprise Cleezy by crossing him: his mother and Paula. His mother had crossed him. He was dealing with a double-edged sword because he had killed the only
woman who had ever been genuine and loved him wholeheartedly. In this case, blood was not thicker than water.

“I want you to know that the sixty g's got blood all over it,” Cleezy said as he backed up off of his mother to let her out of the corner.

Silent tears rolled down her face. “Cleezy, please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I do love you. Please, I'll give you all the money back tomorrow just as soon as the bank opens.”

“Keep it, because it's cost you. It cost you your son. From this day forward you are minus a son.” Cleezy turned his back to his mother and headed towards the door. Before leaving the house he called out from the door, “I mean that shit from the bottom of my heart.” He looked into his mother's eyes and then closed the door behind him as he exited the house to hit I-95.

Cleezy listened to Jay-Z's song about how he needed a gangsta girl to ride in his passenger seat in the song “Get Yo Mind Right Mami.” As he rolled down I-95, he asked for forgiveness and vowed to himself that if he ever encountered a real chick again, he wouldn't let anyone or anything tear them apart. This time it would be until death do them part!

T
he road trip to Miami with Farmer John wore Mercy out. Tired and irritable, all she wanted was a hot shower, something to eat, and to get in the bed. After checking in and getting settled into her hotel room, she picked up the phone and called room service.

“Hi, I would like a grilled chicken sandwich, plain with Swiss cheese only and a side of honey mustard,” Mercy said.

The attendant read the order back to Mercy, and then she informed her that it would be brought to her room in about thirty minutes. Mercy hung up the phone and hopped in the shower. No sooner had she slipped into her silk lavender pajama short set than there was a knock at the door. The timing was perfect. It was room service with her meal. She was so famished that she didn't even wait for the guy to wheel her food into her room. She lifted her tray right off of the cart herself, handed him a five-dollar tip, and sent him on his way.

Mercy bit into her grilled chicken sandwich. Hungry or not, it was not what she expected.

“What the fuck?” Mercy said as she looked down at the sandwich. “Mayonnaise?”

Immediately Mercy picked up the phone and called downstairs.

“Room service,” the voice on the other end of the phone answered. Mercy could tell that it was the same attendant who had taken her order in the first place.

“Yes, this is room 311, and I just ordered room service,” Mercy said, struggling to be polite, although her patience was quickly wearing thin.

“Yes?”

“Well, I asked for a plain grilled chicken sandwich with honey mustard on the side and instead you put mayonnaise on it.”

“First off, I didn't put anything on it. I'm not the cook; I just take the orders,” the attendant said in a joking tone, but Mercy could tell she was serious.
Oh no, this chick didn't disrespect me
, Mercy said to herself. “Secondly, I'm sorry about that. If you like we can bring you another sandwich.”

“You're not the cook, but now you deliver the food?” Mercy shot back. “I thought you just took the orders.” The attendant was about to respond, but Mercy cut her off. “Anyway, I would like very much if you would deliver another sandwich, and I'm certain that for my inconvenience there won't be a charge to my room.” Once again the attendant tried to say something, and once again Mercy cut her off. “Yes, I thought so.”

Click!
Mercy slammed the phone down.

About fifteen minutes later there was a knock on Mercy's hotel room door. It was room service. Mercy opened the door, and this time it was a different man delivering her order. Mercy took the tray, and the man stood there for a minute.

“I know you don't think you're about to get a tip,” Mercy huffed. “Here's a tip for you: Tell the broad taking orders to get it right the first time.”

Mercy sent the attendant on his way. She bit into the chicken
sandwich they had just brought her—and again it had mayonnaise.

That trifling funny-sounding beyatch done this shit to deliberately get under my skin.
Mercy's first instincts were to call that bitch up and check her, but she decided to do her one better. Mercy slipped on a pair of jogging pants over her pajama shorts and her lavender spa flip-flops with the silk flowers on them. She then grabbed both the chicken sandwiches and made her way down to the hotel restaurant.

This simple bitch don't know who the fuck she playing with and the type of day I done had
, Mercy said angrily to herself the entire way down to the restaurant. She even rehearsed in the elevator mirrored doors what she was going to say to the waitress. “I hope your ass is hungry, you minimum-wage beyatch,” Mercy said, pointing to her reflection in the mirror, imagining herself shoving the sandwiches down the girl's throat and making her eat it.

Unfortunately for Mercy, 'cause she wanted to tear into that ass, but fortunately for the attendant who took the order, the woman's shift had just ended. Mercy missed her by less than a minute. The new guy on duty had to bear the brunt of Mercy's complaint. As Mercy stood at the end of the bar raising holy hell about the food, she didn't pay attention to who was sitting at the other end of the bar.

“Damn if ain't Ms. Celebrity,” she heard a male voice say.

“Oh, my God,” Mercy said, surprised to see who the voice belonged to. Although she hadn't seen him in two years, she ran over and gave him a hug. “Hey, how are you?”

“I'm good, now that I see you,” he said, as smooth as Billy Dee Williams.

Mercy couldn't help but blush. “Stop trying to play me, C-Note.” She smiled.

He looked deeply into her eyes and said, “I'm serious, and call
me Cleezy. The last time I saw you shit was crazy, and due to circumstances beyond my control, I pushed you away; C-Note pushed you away. However, I'm a new man, and Cleezy will never let a good woman like you get away.” He winked at Mercy and took a sip of his drink.

“I hear you,” Mercy said, impressed by his words. He looked the same, but there was something different about him. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she liked it.

“Don't just hear me, believe me.”

The attraction between the two of them was magnetic. Mercy had only had those feelings three times in her life, and none of them was with him—until now.

The dominating aura that hung over his head like a halo just swallowed Mercy up. He seemed to encircle her in an unspoken comfort zone. It was almost uneasy for Mercy, because it was a feeling like that of a father figure, like he could be her protector, the same way her daddy used to be. But then again, what little girl from the ghetto wasn't on a quest for daddy?

She didn't know how to take Cleezy's last comment, so she changed the topic of the conversation. “So what you doing in Miami?”

“Business,” he quickly said. “And you?”

She smiled and replied, “Business.”

They continued the small talk, but the lust between them was thick.

“Are you taking your food back up to your room, or will you stay down here?” the bartender asked Mercy.

“Excuse me?” Mercy said, forgetting why she had come downstairs in the first place.

“Your chicken sandwich?” the bartender asked.

“Oh, yeah. I'll take it to my room, so please give it to me to go.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the bartender said, turning away to oblige Mercy's request.

“My man,” Cleezy called to him. “Please let me get my check.”

By the time Cleezy settled up his tab, the bartender had handed Mercy's food to her. “Again, I'm sorry for the mix-up,” he said sincerely.

“No problem,” she said to the bartender and turned to Cleezy. “Are you staying at this hotel?”

“Are you?”

“I am, but we ain't talking about me.”

“Do you like this hotel?”

“Yes, it's cool. Why, where are you staying?”

“With you. Wherever you want to stay. If you want to stay here, we can go up to my suite. If you want to go somewhere else, we can do that.”

Mercy didn't want to seem like a skeezer, but she wanted more than anything at that moment to go with Cleezy. What she didn't want, though, was to be just another Miami fling, so she went with her first instincts. “I am not trying to go with you.”

Sensing Mercy's lips saying no but her eyes meaning yes, Cleezy said, “Look, bottom line is this, shawdy: Life is too short and time is too precious a commodity to waste another minute without you, or better yet, for you or I to not be us.”

That comment was as smooth as silk to her ears.
Damn, this nigga game is airtight
, Mercy thought.

“Yo, I know you think it's game, right? But it ain't. I am dead-ass serious. We've been trying to make this shit happen for longer than a minute. I know a good girl when I see one, and I am not letting you get away from me again.”

She looked him over, searching his face, hoping for something to show her whether he was just trying to get his fuck on or if he could possibly want her for her. Did he know her reputation for
being one of the best and most loyal mules to ever leave her mark on I-95? And if so, was he looking to recruit her?

Mercy sighed. “Look, I'm hungry and tired. Let's just do breakfast in the morning, all right?” Mercy started out of the restaurant, and Cleezy walked beside her.

“Yo, you think I'm playing? I ain't letting you get away from me.”

“Stop playing.”

“Look, three strikes and you're out, and this is our third encounter and I ain't trying to be out.” They stopped in front of the elevator. “So we like glue now, baby. We stuck.” He pressed the button to go up. “We like shoes, a pair.” The elevator door opened, and he motioned for her to get in. She did. He put his key card into the slot so he could gain access to the presidential floor where his suite was located. “We like those Gucci jeans you had on that night—tight.”

“Damn, it's like that,” Mercy chuckled. She knew right then and there that she wasn't about to push button number three. Room 311 would remain vacant that night as the elevator rode to the top floor.