The Blackbirds (24 page)

Kwanzaa wore only her skin. She was sweaty, bent over a steel industrial desk, getting it doggie-style. Hugo Boss stood with one foot on the floor and the other on the edge of the desk, in a very yoga-ish position. He entered her at an amazing angle, with athleticism. She held on to the edge of the desk, trembled, trapped, her feet not touching the floor, aroused, on fire, legs moving in a swimmer's motion. She swam toward the shores of orgasm, toes tight, swimming and being stroked, feeling him fill her up, then abandon her, pull all the way out, only to forcefully fill her up again. Each time she felt the difference between left and right, the alternating intrusion spectacular.

This was how he had amazed them all.

He did it over and over. Over and over. Over and over.

She wondered how many women he had had in that spot, that sexual position that seemed to have been performed many times. She was amazed, mouth open wide, spasms coming in waves. He was flexible. His repetition was as impressive as it was strong. He kept that groove until he grunted, held her hips like he was falling, became desperate, and with her sounds, with her actions, the way she moved back into him, with her body, she begged him to come. She moved into him and commanded him to orgasm, her groans echoing in the converted warehouse and begging him to get his nut. It felt good. It felt so damn good. Orgasm embraced her, wrapped its arms around her, heated her, made her want to moan and cry. It felt like she had vanished from life, had been sent to some warm, tingly place far, far away. Soon she felt Hugo Boss
slowing down. She was still chock-full of penis, but he had lessened his grip, slowed his stroke, and was catching his breath, eyes opened, floating down toward sanity.

She panted, realized he hadn't pulled out.

He had finished inside her.

She had been reckless.

It pulled her from the act of madness and propelled her into a moment of fear and concern.

But in two ragged breaths she said to hell with it, what was done was done.

Besides, where he had come, that was not the route to the egg.

She waited for him to slow down and withdraw himself from being inside her. She was surprised when he did the opposite, pulled out, shifted, reinserted, and started back again, the sensation feeling like she was with a second man, one equally as powerful as the first, but with a little less length and a little more girth. But it was all him. He resumed his stroke from a slightly different angle, and that surprised her. She worked with him, determined to not embarrass herself and let this man outperform her.
Damn
his uniqueness. But,
damn,
his uniqueness. First-time sex was always about performance. She knocked things from the metal desk, and as notepads, bottled water, remote controls, pens, coasters, and books crashed to the wooden floor, she extended her arms and pushed against the brick wall, got her wind, inhaled, exhaled, took it all, grinded against him until he had to put his foot down to restore his balance. That small victory made her grind harder. She growled and became aggressive, followed his erection wherever it went. He couldn't handle her groove. He slowed down, picked her up by her waist, and soon they were on the bed, him between her legs, one of her ankles on his neck, almost in a cheerleader's split. He had her where she couldn't challenge him with her moves. It was fine by her. Let him do all the work. Let her rejoice in this miracle of a man. She took deep drowning breaths, on the way to coming again, coming as good as she had while she was bent over the desk, every part of her alive and once again shaking. He grew inside her, grew and gave her madness until she felt him come. The spurt hit her insides and she shook. It felt like a river had
been released, the pressure amazing, and with that she came again. As flush moved across her breasts, as sweat sculpted her tricolored hair into some original and obscenely tousled mess, she shifted her hips and felt him fill her up with his orgasm. Her adrenaline was high and what should have been pain was sheer pleasure. She set free her high-pitched sounds, put her nails in his flesh as he worked to get his sin out of his soul, growling his manly growl, a growl she could hardly hear because she was in her own special place. Forever passed before he slowed down, before her hips stopped dancing, before his urgency dwindled, before her jerky dance calmed. A moment later it was them panting and wiping sweat from each other's faces, staring into each other's eyes.

Strangers.

Kwanzaa had felt his energy gush inside her. She felt the alcohol in her bloodstream. She felt uneasy. She felt regret.

Hugo Boss rubbed the curves of her body, felt up her ass, was massaging her. She was going to move his hand away, but didn't. It felt good. Having a man touch her felt wonderful. She didn't like that it felt that damn good. That should have been someone else's hand on her flesh.

Attorney Marcus Brixton should have called by now.

No matter what had happened, she would've taken him back for one night.

A thirsty woman would always return to a familiar well.

But she was here, a stranger in a strange place with a unique man, his strange hands on her as if he were trying to learn the topography of her flesh and curves. He stopped massaging her. She sighed. She was glad she was at his place. It would be easier to leave abruptly, much easier than using him like that, then being rude, and telling a guy he couldn't stay the night at her crib, telling him he had to wash his dick in some other bathroom, making sure he left before the Mexican neighbors' roosters crowed or the first morning flights landed at LAX.

They lay there, not talking, but breathing, recovering, and absorbing the moment. She wanted to ask him to turn the ceiling fan on, or to open a window and let in some desert chill, but she didn't. She was in the middle of the unsure feeling a woman had when she'd been with somebody new, but someone old was still percolating in her system.
Eyes closed, a stranger's hand caressing her breasts, her nipples erect, Kwanzaa felt like she was resting in the middle of nowhere. She thought about her ex. Wondered where he was, wondered if they were both having meaningless sex at the same moment, wondered if the bitch he was with was the one who had given him the STD, wondered if the bitch wore Peruvian hair or wore it natural, wondered if she was as attractive as the stranger whose come drained from inside her to red sheets.

Her phone rang, Destiny's text tone, but Kwanzaa didn't pick up the phone. She couldn't tell if she was awake or dreaming. She felt like she had entered another world, one where dreams and fantasies came true. Where she was, everything felt intense: sight, touch, taste, smell, all she heard.

She throbbed in the spaces he had filled.

She was awake.

The inside of her mouth tasted sweeter than the icing on chocolate cake.

The diphallic man eased from the bed and went to the bathroom.

Kwanzaa positioned herself so she could have a clear view of his genitalia when he returned. She had been with twins, fraternal twins. She wondered if this travesty could be considered a ménage à trois between two people. He came back and gave her a towel. She went to the bathroom, a stark white bathroom that had no signs of a woman's hair on the floor. She ran hot water on the towel, used Dial soap. She could see the bed from the bathroom, could see the stranger resting on his back, stared a moment, still astonished. But soon she closed the door, still intrigued, still in awe, but not comfortable cleaning herself in front of him.

She was ready to put on her LBD and FMPs and go and find her trio of Blackbirds. No one would believe what she had experienced. She didn't believe it. Eight women had been waiting on him to come home. Now she understood why. This uniqueness could become an addiction for women who had a weaker resolve. Kwanzaa joined him once more, sat on the edge of the bed. She hand-combed her tousled mane, ready to execute a wordless exit. He put his hand on her shoulder. She gazed
back at him. He pulled her back toward the bed and she lay on her back, let him kiss her and crawl between her thighs. Seconds later, with no discussion, Hugo Boss was inside her once more, deep in her pussy, being the boss of her, stroking, working part of his equipment toward firmness, turning her this way and that way, making her growl and grab sheets. He had her so damn wet. Again she was taken from behind. Her entire body trembled and shook with acute orgasm.

Not long before midnight, nervous, Ericka Stockwell whipped her car from Stocker to Don Lorenzo. She whizzed past Terra Nova Townhomes where she had lived when she was a preacher's wife. She remembered her husband, the days when she was a first lady, her era of being regretfully married. Talking to Debra about her life over the last two decades had resonated, had caused her to hold up the metaphorical mirror and reevaluate her life all day long. She was over thirty and divorced. Hadn't seen that coming. It was still a shock to her system. She never imaged that would be the top line of her relationship résumé. But then again she hadn't seen cancer coming either. Still, the divorce and being childless were on her mind. She'd always thought that she and her ex would have a baby there, eventually lease out their townhome, then find a property on the other side of Stocker in View Park. What a fool believes.

On the half-mile-long, two-lane avenue, she curved to the left and arrived at the next set of properties in Baldwin Hills Estates, where Destiny's father had his townhome.

Each time she came this way she experienced déjà vu, felt nostalgic and foolish.

The memories of living in Baldwin Hills made her twist her lips and sigh. Hers had been a three-bedroom, three-bath in the 4600-something section of Don Lorenzo that had cost over $350,000. It was the newest development in Baldwin Hills. Mr. Jones was in the neighboring community in the 4650-something block of Don Lorenzo, the tan-colored
townhomes built in the 1980s. He had scored a townhome—that now went for at least $445,000—at a fire sale price. The value of her property was upside-down when she divorced, so there had been nothing to argue over, not financially. She let the ex have the mortgage, removed her name from the debt, and focused on getting her credit score back to a respectable number and her health back on track. The downturn in the economy had destroyed some families, but others had taken advantage of the miserable moment in time and found unbelievable deals. At least she got to keep the cherry-red SLK, the two-door roadster. It was a depreciating asset, but at least she didn't leave the marriage childless
and
empty-handed. And maybe having no kids was all for the best. If she had requested child support, the man of God she had married would have snapped and the next thing you know there would be a choir singing “Ave Maria” at a funeral.

That from a man who was a minister of a congregation that saw him as God.

Ericka pulled over and slowed to a stop in front of Parkview Estates.

She turned Beyoncé off, put the top up, turned the heater off, made sure her windows were all the way up, and turned her wheels facing the curb. She checked her face in the mirror. She chewed spearmint gum for one minute, long enough for the flavor to sweeten her breath and saturate her tongue. Chewing gum also improved a person's mood, while decreasing anxiety and stress. Going to see Destiny Jones's dad this late at night had left Ericka anxious and stressed.

She put on lip gloss before she opened another button on her purple blouse.

Ericka nodded at her cleavage, then looked at her gray skirt, fretted about panty lines, then remembered she didn't have any on, but she had a thong inside her purse.

She tried to decide if she should put on high heels. Too obvious. She put on a pair of flats. Changed her mind. It was a Friday night. Friday night was made for heels. She put the five-inchers on, new shoes from ShoeDazzle. Sexy. Colorful. Mr. Jones probably wouldn't notice. And if he did, she would say it was Kwanzaa's birthday and they were going to hang out.

She looked in her rearview, checked Don Lorenzo for people and traffic, looked for the coyotes that came out at night, then with the Kaiser bag in one hand and a plastic bag with food sealed in Tupperware in the other, she hurried through broken light into shadows toward the gate. She walked with her wedding-ring finger stuck through her sorority key chain that held her house key, car keys, and two vials of pepper spray. Seconds later she headed up the concrete stairs and rang Mr. Jones's unit. Anxiety swelled. The buzzer sounded to open the gate.

She went up a dozen more concrete stairs, so nervous she almost stumbled.

The units faced each other, so anyone who was awake would see her. Cute little dogs barked. She walked by three units on her left, same number on her right.

Mr. Jones was there. She wasn't ready to see him yet, wanted a few more seconds. Destiny's father waited with the door open, the light from inside his home illuminating the back of his head. Mr. Jones was smoking, the tip of his rolled-up cigarette lighting up as he inhaled.

He blew smoke. “Miss Stockwell, is that you?”

“Good evening to you too, Mr. Jones. Nice to see you again.”

Mr. Jones put out his smoke, its scent medicinal, and that triggered sensual recollections.

Explicit memories flashed before her eyes and she felt desire come alive as tingles.

She said, “You don't have to stop on my account.”

“I was about done for now.”

“You okay?”

“Skin was feeling a little irritated. That would give me trouble sleeping.”

“Mr. Jones, you know if you eat a mango before smoking weed, it heightens the effect.”

“Really? Will grab a few mangoes from Superior supermarket tomorrow.”

“Just an FYI from an expert.”

“You've learned a few tricks along the way.”

“I swore by mangoes and several brands of Kush when I was going through chemo.”

“Where is Destiny?”

“I guess she's at work. She sent a text for one of us to drop the medicine by ASAP.”

“You look nice.”

“Thank you. You look handsome as usual.”

“Kwanzaa's official birthday moment is in a few hours. After two in the morning.”

“You remembered?”

“Destiny programmed my phone with the alerts, and an automatic text.”

“Of course.”

“You came by yourself?”

“Coming by yourself is called masturbation, Mr. Jones.”

“When the other Blackbirds aren't around, you're full of surprises, Miss Stockwell.”

“So are you, when it's just me and you.”

“You caught me red-handed.”

“You're smoking like you just don't care.”

“I just lit this about a minute ago. Only took six or seven puffs. I felt pretty good today, then was a little irritated.”

“You're up late.”

“Just made it back home.”

“Hot date?”

“I go to the Nuart in Santa Monica for late showings.”

“Really?”

“They showed
Raiders of the Lost Ark
tonight. I go almost every Friday night. Keeps me from sitting in the house with nothing on my mind but cancer. I saw
Dracula,
the one by Coppola, last week. I think I saw
Showgirls
the week before that, or might've been
Clue
.”

“You like movies?”

“Movies and television. I watch everything. I've become a movie and television buff.”

“You always impressed me as being so serious.”

“A documentary about the Black Panther Party is coming to the Nuart, too.”

“Really? We never really hear anything about them.”

“The government was terrified of the Black Panther Party, ran a smear campaign. They sent in Uncle Toms and set them up to be assassinated. Get the public to hate them, so when you murder them the public will cheer. They applaud white militant groups with guns, but when the Black Panthers had guns, and were law-abiding with those guns, they were ready to change the laws. Anytime we get close to having a black messiah, anytime we've had anyone about to get us to the next level, they have been either discredited or assassinated. They did it to Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X, and to the civil rights movement. Keep the minorities from organizing and having true power. It's important because now we're seeing history repeat. The government and media are spreading propaganda and trying to use the same tactics to discredit the Black Lives Matter movement, only they can't control Black Twitter.”

“I should go see the documentary so I can see the connection on that level.”

“You should. I'm going to go with Vince.”

“Kwanzaa's dad? You're going with Mr. Browne?”

“Yeah, we're going to check it out. It's going to play for three or four days.”

She paused. For a moment she had thought he was asking her out on a date.

For a moment she had felt like a girl being asked to the prom by her secret crush.

Now she realized he wasn't asking her out, that he was only making conversation.

Mr. Jones said, “I wonder what it would be like if for every crime committed in the United States, if for every arrest, if for every shooting, if for every bombing, I wonder what it would be like if they never stated race, but only stated the religion of the so-called offender.”

“That would be interesting. ‘Christian shoots Christian at nine on CBS. Christian mom drowns Christian children. Another Christian enters schools and kills more Christians.'”

“Nah, they will never do that.”

“It would tell a lot more than the hue of the epidermis.”

“It would be different.”

“Would love to hear those news reports on Fox News.”

“Where red Christians tell lies about blue Christians.”

They laughed. She loved his laugh. It was the sweetest sound she knew. Laughter dwindled as awkwardness rose.

He took the heaviest bag, reached for the other, but she said she could carry it. He nodded, then stepped aside and invited her in. Ericka moved by him, her body touching his, and she moved on, let him follow her quick sashay toward the living room. She realized that he had waited at the door to get the package. He hadn't meant to invite her inside, but she hadn't walked away. She didn't come this far to hand him the bags, then return home. Her thoughts raced as her heart palpitated. Her palms were damp.

Mr. Jones turned on the lights in the living room, made the space unromantic. In the living area there were two dozen framed photos of Destiny, prints of her when she was in diapers and reaching up toward the camera, of Mr. Jones holding her on his hip when she was about two. There were pictures of Destiny on her first bicycle, of her swimming in a pool, of her in school uniforms, of her over the years sitting in different Santa Clauses' laps at Fox Hills Mall. All were pictures of Destiny before the
incident
. It was as if Mr. Jones was trying to control time.

There were no pictures of Destiny's mother. That made Ericka feel easier, but not totally comfortable. She knew that Destiny had wanted her mother and father back together.

Sometimes she sensed that Destiny still hoped that would happen.

Her parents' breakup had scarred her. It had damaged her ideal view of the world. It had been a watershed moment.

Ericka looked at Mr. Jones. He wore slim Levi's jeans, a Dan L. Steel Engineering tee, no shoes. Even as he battled cancer, he looked better than most men half his age. He looked fit. He caught her staring. Ericka smiled at him, a smile that held a memory, and then she looked away.

He led the way and she followed him into denial.

She said, “Look at how much you love your daughter.”

“My pride and joy. Best mistake I ever made.”

They laughed.

Ericka walked back and forth, smiled as they started a conversation about nothing important, only otiose questions about traffic, the drive over, nothing serious. Her hands were twisting, folding and unfolding the top of the Kaiser bag in her hands. Last time she had dropped off something on Destiny's behalf, Mr. Jones had given Ericka a quick tour. It was a trilevel townhome, a home that had been all but destroyed by the previous owners who were enraged due to foreclosure and had stolen every appliance and fixture, then left profanity spray-painted on every wall. With the work Mr. Jones had done with his own hands, patiently, over the last five years, it looked sparkling and new. He was a true handyman, a degreed blue-collar man, and while Destiny was away at Hoosegow, to maintain his sanity, this was how he had stayed busy.

This was much nicer than the townhome Ericka had lived in when she was married.

Watching a man keep a spotless home and clean up after himself, that was sexy.

“How's Mrs. Stockwell?”

“She's fine, Mr. Jones.”

He nodded. “Tell Mrs. Stockwell I said hi when you see her again.”

She almost said that would be on the twelfth of never, but sighed and replied, “Sure.”

Ericka took out her phone, did that to see where Kwanzaa had checked in on Yelp. The first check-in had been on Sunset, then the second had been near downtown. She wasn't home.

Ericka said, “I think the birthday girl is club hopping.”

“Going to meet her?”

“Was thinking about it, but I walk in those house music spots, and everybody is barely twenty, so I look like I'm the older loser chick trying to get her cougar on. You ever club hopped?”

“We used to hit four clubs a night back in the day.”

“You partied like that on a Friday night?”

“Friday and Saturday, from Orange County to Hollywood, then hung out at Venice Beach all day on Sunday with the chain saw jugglers.
Michael Colyar would be there telling jokes on the boardwalk. Used to take my gear and roller-skate almost all day on Sundays. I met Destiny's mom on Venice Beach. Saw her in the crowd. Thought she was the prettiest woman ever made.”

“Who is Michael Colyar?”

“Shit. I am officially old.”

“You met Destiny's mother on the beach?”

“Carmen was wearing a pink-and-blue bikini, had her skates on, and was spinning and dancing to ‘Atomic Dog' with the crowd. Had to be a hundred people in that crew. I skated my way over next to her, and we got our bounce on. That used to be the thing to do every weekend.”

“Love at first sight?”