The Eleventh Commandment (22 page)

T
wenty minutes later, she turned on to Thunderbird Trail and followed it to the hotel's driveway, bypassing the valet option she'd normally use and heading for the hotel's covered self-parking. She reached for a pair of sunglasses that were kept in the glove compartment and put them on.

“Why do you have sunglasses on, Mommy? It's dark!”

Stacy opened her door and went around to help DJ out of his car seat. “Because Mommy is cool, that's why.” After retrieving a pair of DJ's sandals from the trunk that had thankfully been forgotten and left there in a backpack, she took her son's hand and walked to the garage elevator.

Surreptitiously eyeing the lobby as she entered, she kept her head down and headed for the elevators. Fortunately, no one else entered and they were quickly whisked to the floor housing the suite number Bo had given her. She knocked on the door, and waited.

“Girl, get on in—” Bo's mouth dropped.

“I had an accident,” Stacy said quickly, before Bo could get his mind and mouth working again. She hurried into the room, turning to give him a look and a quick nod toward her son as she did so. “I fell.”

“Oh.” Bo went from oh-my-God to no-big-deal in a heartbeat. “Did you trip over your own two feet?”

“We almost fell down the stairs,” D.J. offered.

The adults' eyes met, volumes communicated in the look. “Listen, Bo. I woke Darius up from a sound sleep. Can he lie in your bed for a little while?”

“I'm not sleepy anymore.” DJ walked over to the couch and plopped on it. “I want to watch TV with Uncle Bo.”

“You heard what your mother said.” Bo walked over to where DJ sat and reached for his hand. “Come on. If you go to sleep now you can get up early and head to the pool with me. And that's after we have your favorite pancakes with strawberry jam.”

“Okay!” He jumped off the couch and took Bo's hand.

“I'll be right back,” Bo said. Within minutes, he returned to the room. Stacy had dropped the strong-woman-mommy facade and now held her face, in obvious pain. “What the hell happened ?” Bo hissed, looking over his shoulder to make sure the door was tightly closed.

“Tony,” Stacy said, tears finally forming and running down her face. “He hit me.”

“That muthafucka.” Bo knelt in front of Stacy and pulled her hands away from her face. “Damn, girl. I can still see his hand imprint. He slapped the shit out of you! And your jaw? Look, we need to get you to the hospital. It might be broken.” Bo was already up and looking for his keys.

“No, Bo, wait. Just let me think for a minute. I have to figure out how I want to handle this.”

He whirled around. “What's there to think about? Muthafucka hits you. Muthafucka goes to jail. End of story.” Walking over to the table in the dining room area, he threw down his keys and picked up his cell phone. “It's about to be nine-one-one up in this bitch.”

“Bo, please!” Stacy said, her voice rising before remembering that her son slept not fifteen feet away. “Please,” she again whispered. “Just come sit down and help me . . . think.”

Bo walked over to the bar, bypassing the champagne that chilled in a bucket and reaching for the bottle of Courvoisier. He poured two shots, threw one back, and refilled the glass, then brought the two over to the couch. “Drink this straight down,” he commanded. “It will help calm your nerves.”

She obeyed his instruction and, not being much of a drinker of hard liquor, began to cough as the liquid burned her throat. Bo immediately ran back to the bar to pour her a glass of water. He gave it to her, sat on the couch, and with compassion and anger in his eyes, watched her carefully drink a couple swallows as best she could considering part of her lips were swollen. Again, he jumped up. This time it was to retrieve the phone he'd left on the bar and walk over to Stacy. “We need to get some ice on that jaw. But first, get up and come stand in the light.”

“Wait, Bo. Just let me sit for a minute, get it together.”

“Uh-uh. I have to do this right now.”

“Do what?”

“Take these pictures. I want to get them while that muthafucka's handprint is still on your face and your jaw is poked out like Dizzy Gillespie playing a bent trumpet.” Stacy nodded. However she decided to handle this situation, getting pictures as evidence was a good idea. After taking more than a dozen pictures, Bo seemed satisfied that he'd properly documented Tony's abuse. “Okay, Spacey,” he said softly, walking over to the bar and placing ice cubes in a towel. He placed the ice-filled towel in her hand, guided it up to her jaw and sat beside her. “Now, tell me what happened.”

Stacy recounted the argument. “When I called him an asshole, it's like he snapped,” she finished. “I didn't even see the hit coming. And then I reacted by grabbing his foot and making him fall. That really pissed him off. He accused me of messing up a knee that was already jacked up and got a look in his eyes that I have never seen before. It really was like I was looking at another person. I've been tiptoeing around his uptight ass for months, navigating his errant behavior, treating him with kid gloves. Tonight, I just wasn't in the mood.”

“I can't believe he put his hands on you! Yeah, he's a big muthafucka, but I never would have pegged him as the type.”

“The Tony I married isn't the type. But this man tonight? He hit me like it wasn't the first time he'd beat a woman down.”

“You know you have to file a police report.”

Stacy nodded. “I know. I just have to handle this the right way. Once I tell them who assaulted me, there's a good chance it will be all over the news. And if my brothers see how I'm looking right now, there's going to be trouble. I'm not trying to see one of them catch a murder case. At the very least they'd be arrested for some serious felonious assault, and I just can't let that happen. So I need to keep this under wraps until this imprint goes away and the swelling goes down. By the time I tell my brothers, I have to look . .. okay.”

Bo nodded slowly, understanding Stacy's dilemma. He'd never met her brothers, but knew from previous conversations that they were not to be messed with. “Okay, here's what we're going to do. You are going to call Darius and let him know that we're bringing over DJ.”

“Right now I'm not sure I want Darius to know about this either. He can be as hotheaded as my brothers, and while he wouldn't do the deed himself, he'd hire some thug and I'd still have a man's murder on my conscience. Although at this point, I'm thinking,” she said as a fresh stab of pain shot through her jaw, “that's exactly what Tony Johnson deserves.”

They were both silent a moment. “What do you want to do?” Bo asked softly, wiping a tear away from Stacy's cheek.

A wisp of a smile scampered across Stacy's face. She was remembering another time and another place when Bo had come to her rescue, and had taken care of her like a mother hen. “Can I stay here with you?” she asked. “Tony won't know to look for me here, and honestly, I can use some of that TLC that you're so good at. Probably just two, three days, a week at most and I'll be ready to make my next move.”

“Sugar, you can stay here as long as you'd like. In fact, tomorrow I'll have us moved to the Presidential Suite. It has two bedrooms.”

“No, Bo, that's not necessary.”

“It most certainly is. I'm just looking for ways to spend money; you being here is doing me a favor.”

Someone knocked on the door. Stacy froze. Bo calmed her fear with a wave of his manicured hand. “Don't worry, Stacy, that's probably just my champagne order.” He opened the door and two Biltmore employees entered pulling a dolly that was loaded with boxes. After they'd placed them where Bo had directed, they accepted his tip and left.

For the first time since fist met flesh, Stacy thought of something other than Tony. “There is champagne in all of these boxes?”

Bo nodded.

“Dang, Bo. You'll never drink all of this stuff!”

“Did you think I was kidding about the bath, sistah? I'm getting ready to bathe in some bubbly.”

“Sounds sticky.”

“It feels delicious. Don't knock it till you try it. In fact, I'll place another order tomorrow so you can experience the bliss.”

Considering the fact that Stacy had just left home with nothing but the money and cards in her purse and the clothes on her back, she thought that expense might serve better in her purse than in a bathtub, and told this to Bo. “I have no idea how I'm going to make it. I just know I'm not going back there.”

“Don't worry, Stacy. You're the mother of Darius's son. Mr. R and B will take care of you.”

D
arius was so deep in thought that he jumped when the phone rang. He hurriedly reached for it, hoping, praying, that it was who he wanted it to be. Seeing an unfamiliar number, he frowned, pressed the silencer and tossed the phone back on the couch. A minute later, his message indicator beeped. Whoever it was had left a message. Darius accessed his voice mail and pressed speaker: “Darius, this is Tony. I'm looking for Stacy and DJ, and thought they might be over there. Uh, if you see her, you don't have to tell her that I called. I'll try her cell phone again.”

Darius played the recording twice, immediately intrigued. To hear him tell it, Tony couldn't stand his “faggot ass.”
And now he's calling her ex-husband for his wife's whereabouts?
He promptly ignored Tony's suggestion to keep his inquiry a secret and dialed Stacy's number. When her phone went to voice mail, he called Bo. Their unlikely friendship was genuine and knowing that Stacy's one good local friend had moved to Dallas when her husband got traded last year, there was a good chance that, considering it was late and she had her son with her, Stacy was with Bo.

“Bo, it's me. I know you're probably looking at the phone and frowning right now, but for once, I'm not calling to apologize. Again. I'm not calling to beg you to come back home either, even though I miss you like crazy. I'm calling because Tony just left me a message looking for Stacy. And since he can't stand us, you know how crazy receiving that call is. So if Stacy is there with you, please let her know that he called. Okay? I love you, baby.”

Darius ended the call and followed it up with a quick text: Don't delete the message from me. It's about Tony. Then he sent a text to Stacy's phone: Your boy just called here looking for you and DJ. Is everything okay? Please call me. You know I'll worry.

Now fairly certain that he'd hear back from one of them shortly, he returned to his journey down memory lane. He'd spent much of the last hour thinking about Bo and all of the good times they'd had. His mind meandered all the way back to the beginning, to the party in West Hollywood where he'd first spotted Bo, wearing a loud, leopard print shirt, tight black leather pants, and a cocky attitude. Darius was on the serious down low at the time—already a popular face in the church community and well known on the revival and conference circuit as a much sought-after musician. He spent most of the evening pointedly trying to ignore Bo, and flirting with a girl who interested him about as much as Miss Piggy. The next day, if asked, he wouldn't have been able to tell you her hair or eye color, or name for that matter. His mind's eye had been filled with leopards, leather, and Bo's lips, which had never stopped moving. Clearly, Bo was popular and the life of the party.

Toward the end of the evening, Bo cornered him out by the pool. “Since you're waiting for me to make the first move, here it is. Bo Jenkins.” He'd held out his hand.

“Darius Crenshaw,” he'd responded, adding a bit of bass to his voice and raising up to his full six feet. He added another foot of space between them, just in case someone was watching.

Bo simply smirked. “I see that clothes and shoes aren't the only things you're keeping in the closet,” he'd murmured, giving Darius the once-over. “I left my card under the sink in the guest bathroom by the front door. If you're interested, call the number. Soon.”

Darius had prided himself on waiting a full thirty minutes before going to the bathroom and finding Bo's card stuck exactly where he said it would be. He was further impressed that he managed to wait a full three days before he called him, just to prove that he could do so. That first call lasted an hour; their first “meeting” lasted all night. They'd pretty much been inseparable since then, which was why Darius's heart hurt way more than his bandaged rear end.

Just thinking of the puncture to his right butt cheek made Darius aware of the gauze still over the spot. He'd gone to his private doctor where several stitches, a shot, some medicinal lotion, and a prescription for pain pills had made him almost as good as new. But the only thing that would make him totally whole again was Bo, back in the house and Darius's arms, where he belonged. As if on cue, the phone rang. But it wasn't his husband.

“Hey, Stacy.”

“Hey, Darius.”

Darius sat up. “What's the matter with you? You sound funny.”

“I'm kind of groggy—drunk a couple shots of Bo's liquor.”

“You drank Courvoisier?”

“It's been a long night.”

“And an interesting one, if Tony calling me is any indication.”

“Yes. We had an argument and I left the house.”

“Why didn't you come over here?” Suddenly, Darius was quite jealous that she'd chosen Bo's company over his.

“Because I knew that's exactly where Tony would think I was and I didn't want to take the chance of being there if he came over.”

“What do you mean ‘take the chance'? What happened over there, Stacy?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. It was a bad argument and we were both very upset. I'm going to stay with Bo a few days so we can both calm down and I can . . . figure things out.”

Darius listened to what Stacy told him, and pondered all of what she could possibly be leaving out. “I'm off for two days before flying to LA. I can keep DJ if you want.”

“Thanks, Dee. I'll probably take you up on that.”

“You'll always matter to me, Stacy. If you need anything, money or whatever, just let me know.”

“I did leave the house rather quickly so ... I'll probably take you up on that too.”

“Are you sure you're all right?” The more they talked, the less he believed her.

“I'm okay. Just sleepy.”

“What's the room number? If you'd like, I can come get him now.”

“Hold on a minute.” A mumbled conversation told him that Stacy had placed her hand over the speaker and was talking to Bo. “It's late and he's already in bed,” she said. “You can come get him tomorrow. I might not be here,” she hurriedly added, “but Bo will meet you in the lobby when you come to pick him up.”

Darius hung up the phone and experienced his first genuine smile since Bo left the house a week ago. In less than twenty-four hours, he was going to see his baby. In the lobby, and probably for just a few minutes, but he was going to see him, to look in his eyes and let Bo see all of the hurt, sadness, and love that was there.
And then he'll come back to me,
Darius thought, rising from the couch and heading to the bed that still carried the scent of Bo's cologne.
My baby will see me and come back home. He's got to.