Unconditionally Single (6 page)

A
woman’s strength was determined by how much she loved herself.

Could she forsake all others to live her life the way she wanted? Could she learn to embrace happiness even if it meant losing the only man she’d ever loved?

Determined to hear Grant say my name, touch my breasts, fall asleep in my arms, I had to get home. I yearned to lay my head between his legs, kiss and sniff his balls. I craved to wake up exhausted from making love. Delirious from standing more than two hours in the heat, I fantasized to forget, if only for a minute, all the gruesome things that had happened to me.

My immediate agenda was to get home, to notify my banker to freeze all account activity not originated by me, and to take a long hot bath—in that order. Onyx was the only person authorized to access my money. I knew she’d do anything to save my life, but I prayed she hadn’t given away my money. I had to check on my girls, my business, speak with Sapphire, ask her to track down Valentino and Benito. Better to have Sapphire kill Valentino and Benito than for me to do it.

Toot-toot.
A handsome man in a burgundy Benz waved, kept going.

“Don’t honk at me, give me a ride! Why won’t anyone give me a ride?” I yelled, resenting the hundreds of drivers that had zoomed by me. My feet were numb, I couldn’t feel my toes, but it was too hot to take off my shoes. Too hot to sit. Too hot to walk. Too hot to stand much longer. Weary, I was on the verge of passing out. Fidgeting, I scratched my neck, pulled my hair, then massaged my left breast. What if I had a heart attack, fell to the ground? Would a stranger stop to help me?

What if Valentino or Benito had killed me in that parking lot? My millions of dollars would matter the most to those who deserved it the least. I had no will. No husband. No kids. No burial instructions. No next of kin that I’d acknowledged, including my parents. The state of Georgia would claim my assets. What had the government done for me except take, take, take? I wasn’t dying without a notarized last will and testament.

My body swayed; I stumbled. “That’s it,” I said. “Somebody is going to give me a ride.” I used my left arm to support my right arm. Holding up my thumb, I leaned against the pole. More cars zipped by. I cried. “Damn, does everybody in Atlanta have hitchhiker phobia? Where are all those church members of Reverend Dollar’s ministry?” Couldn’t blame them for not stopping. Strangers begging for a ride were usually running from something or someone. The recession made people leery of strangers. Giving up on holding my thumb in the air, I started crisscrossing, flagging, flopping, and wailing my arms at each driver like I was a kid.

Yes, there is a god.
My arms collapsed to my sides. Finally, a white commercial van with two windows on the driver and passenger sides and no rear windows parked a short distance ahead of me. Lowering her passenger window, the stranger tooted her horn.

Staggering to the van, I stared at her license plate, memorizing the number as I approached the passenger window. I rested my arms on the door, leaned my head inside the van. A cool air-conditioned breeze, a friendly smile, warm round dark brown eyes accented with crow’s feet and long dark lashes greeted me.

She appeared about thirty-five, forty maybe, depending on how well she’d taken care of herself. Approximately five foot ten inches, two hundred pounds, give or take five. Black shoulder length hair matched her nail polish. Large breasts protruded under a plain black long-sleeved T-shirt. Faded black denim jeans loosely tapered her thighs and black tennis shoes covered her feet. There was a cell phone in the cup holder closer to her, a brown paper coffee cup with a white lid in the other. The caged metal barrier behind the seats separated her from what was back there.

“I’m not a crazy woman,” I said, observing every detail I could inside her van. Not much else to see.

In a deep sweet raspy voice, she said, “You’re too classy to be one of them kind, suga’. But you do look worn. Hop in.” She turned off her engine. “These gas prices are killing my pockets.”

Was she serious? Gas prices had dropped significantly.

“I’m headed north. Off of Piedmont and Roswell. I’ve had an unbelievably rough day. Mind if I see what’s in the back of your van before I get in?”

Her smile vanished. “Geez, sweetie. Are you an undercover cop or something? I’m the one trying to help you out here.”

“No, I’m not a cop. Mind?”

She leaned over, pushed open the passenger door. I glanced behind the seats. The barrier blocked my view. I braced my hands on the gray vinyl seat. Placed one foot on the mat, left the other on the ground. It bothered me that I couldn’t see back there.

Being a former prostitute, I’d learned women who were too trusting sometimes got gang-raped because they didn’t check out the backseats and trunks of johns’ cars. At times, I hated the part of me that couldn’t let go of my past. Everyone was suspect.

Looking at her clear glossy lips, I asked, “Don’t mean to sound pushy but can you get out and open the back doors? I can’t see back there.”

“You want a ride or not, baby? Get in or get out. I’m trying to help you. Make up your mind. I’ve got to go,” she said, starting her engine.

A voice whispered in my ear, “Don’t do it, Madam.” Sounded like Sunny. Imagine that. Sunny protecting me from heaven and I couldn’t protect her on earth. I shook my head, silenced the voice inside it. How long would I have to wait for another ride if I refused this one? I was tired. I had to get home. “I do need a ride. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars when we get to my house.”

“Then you are heading my way,” she said. Her friendly smile returned.

Against my better judgment, I closed my door.

E
ntering I-75 South, the woman driving the van merged into traffic at fifty miles per hour. Merged over again doing sixty.

Calmly, I said, “We need to go north. You’re driving south.” I glanced at my swollen feet, lifted my pants. My ankles were the size and color of eggplants.

“Some of us do have to work, lovely. I’ve got to make this delivery first. Won’t take but a few minutes. I’m late,” she said, plunging her accelerator to the maximum speed limit, seventy miles an hour, swerving into the fast lane.

I prayed the delivery wasn’t me. Deepening my tone, I said, “You’re heading in the wrong direction. Stop the car and let me out.”

“Geez, you so-called smart women are so stupid. So you thought I was just giving you a free ride? That I’d just pick you up on the side of the road and be your complimentary chauffeur?” she asked, pushing eighty.

Lord, is this some sort of joke? I am not laughing. Is this a test? You cannot be serious. Please don’t tell me I went from being kidnapped to being picked up by a deranged woman.

Bypassing the airport exit, she took the Virginia Avenue ramp and turned left at the light. The city of East Point’s gazebo landmark was to our left. Across the street from the gazebo was a Waffle House. Six blocks down another Waffle House. She pulled into the parking lot of Johnny’s Pizza and Subs, made a U-turn, then said, “You got me all twisted up here. I was headed in the wrong direction.”

“Got that right,” I replied. If my feet, legs, and ass weren’t aching so bad, I would have jump out and walk back to the freeway. This time I’d stop at the northbound entrance. “Fuck it,” I said, tugging on the door handle. I banged the window with my arm.

“Suga’ plum, you gon’ mess around and dislocate your shoulder. I put the safety lock on for your protection. I’ll take it off when we get to where I’m going. Then if you want to get out, you can get out safely.”

Backtracking, we bypassed the gazebo, continued on Virginia Avenue to the opposite side of the freeway. Passed another Waffle House, KFC. She took a left into the cemetery, drove toward the pole that waved an American flag. My mounting frustrations made me want to choke her ass.

She steered off the paved road toward a secluded area. Dirt and rocks crunched under slow-rolling tires. Flowers, vases, and grass were mashed beneath the black rubber treads as she drove on top of graves.

Not many trees around us. That was good. Not many people either. That could be good or bad. People three blocks away placing flowers on graves probably assumed we were doing the same. I had to question why bad things kept happening to me. I saw a housing development in the distance. Again I was too far away for anyone to hear me if I had to call out for help. Not my day. Should’ve prayed in bed instead of getting on my knees. That way Valentino and Benito couldn’t have crept up behind me in my house, tied a bag over my head, bound my wrists and ankles, then stuffed me in the back of their SUV. Amateurs. They’d used Scotch tape, not duct tape. I was out of bondage before they’d stopped the car.

She was an amateur too, but she’d done this shit before.

She was bold. Certifiably insane. Possibly capable of murder. I couldn’t underestimate her next move. She turned off the engine. I was not going to be her victim.

“Now you can make this easy on yourself, darlin’,” she said, unzipping her pants. “I want you to give me some of that good pussy you got right there, then I’ll take you wherever you want to go, sweetheart. Fair exchange is no robbery. I don’t want your money.”

I sat still. Stared at a big dick stacked on top of his balls. This motherfucker got me good. No way in hell did I ever suspect he was impersonating a woman. I was too close to him to shoot the bastard. Needed more space. Needed his van to get back to my house.

He stared back. Reached into his pocket, pulled out a knife, pressed the button. A stainless-steel blade ejected. He twirled the switchblade handle between his fingers with ease. “Don’t wanna mess up that pretty face of yours. You any good at sucking a big dick? With those sexy soft pretty lips, of course you are. Come here, suga’ plum.”

I sat still. Stared at his hair, his lips, his lashes, at
him?
He was absolutely gorgeous, like he was born in the wrong body. I kept my eyes on the chameleon that appeared helpful minutes ago. Should’ve followed my instincts. Had no idea what was in the back of his van. By the time I’d get to either of my guns, he could stab me. He was too close. We were too close.

This time he yelled, “I don’t want to hurt you! You can make this easy. Give me a blow job. Or I can kill you first, then take that sweet pussy from you before your dead body turns cold. Leave you here where you belong.”

My body was already cold, stiff, but far from being dead. Fog crept up the windows, obstructed my view.

“By the time anybody finds your body, I’ll be—”

“Dead,” I said. My eyes fixed on his. I had no idea where Valentino and Benito were, but I’d find them after I dealt with this confused fool, whoever he was. He was wasting my time.

Slap!
His laugh was hearty, like he was a comedian laughing at his own joke as his backhand landed against my cheek. He pressed the knife under my chin. The tip pricked my skin. I felt blood trickle down my neck, which felt weird, like a bug crawling on me. I wanted to knock that motherfucker upside his head with my gun, but he was too close.

Lifting my chin away from the knife, seductively, I paced my words. “You remind me of a love I once knew. Would you like me to suck your dick first, then ride you real good?”

He paused, smiled. His raspy voice was deeper than before. “That’s what I want to hear. I done lucked up and found me a whore. Call me Ken.”

If Ken was schizophrenic, he could snap. Kill me without realizing what he’d done. I licked my lips. Leaned over his lap. “Ken baby,” I whispered like I was back at the brothel talking to one of my johns, “let mama suck your big juicy dick. And you can drop those balls in my mouth too, daddy. You can cum as many times as you’d like.” Leaning toward him, I moaned, deep, long, then exhaled into his mouth.

Ken dropped his knife on the floor between his leg and the door. Both hands on the side of his pants, anxiously Ken wiggled out of his jeans with anticipation, eased his pants and boxers down to his knees. His dick was hard, gigantic like a twelve-inch dildo.

“Oo-wee! I’m ready when you are,” he said, chuckling.

Why was this motherfucker wasting my damn time? How many women had he taken advantage of? In three seconds, I released the child protective lock, put my hand on the passenger latch, opened my door, got out the car, then…
slam!
I closed the door.

Ken scrambled to pull up his boxers and pants.

I had to get to him before he got out of the van. Racing to the driver’s side, I drew my .45. Arms straight. Both hands on my piece. I pointed between his long dark lashes. I had six bullets left. Wouldn’t need but one.

“Bat your eyes, motherfucker, and you’re dead.”

His eyes widened. His head rattled.

“Yeah, you don’t seem so bad right now. Get out the car, motherfucker. Get out!”

Ken held up his pants as he scrambled from the car. “You are a cop. You lied to me. Don’t shoot me. I’m on the list. I’m unarmed,” Ken said, holding up his hands. His pants and boxers fell, stopping at his calves. “I wasn’t going to hurt you. I just wanted to have a little fun. That’s all. I really am pre-op. I’m on the list for a sex change operation.” He looked at his dick and continued, “This old thing here is harmless. I just wanted to give him a farewell blow job.”

“Liar. Shut the fuck up. You are a disgrace to women, men, transsexuals, your mama, everybody. Turn around, bend over, and hold your ankles.”

He didn’t move. Ken stared at me like I’d done to him earlier.

Click!
I eased back the trigger.

Ken jumped backward. “That’s what I get for trying to help you. Bitch, walk home.”

Softly, I said, “Ken, call me a bitch again. I dare you. Let’s see how crazy you really are.” I paused, then said, “I’ma tell you one last time. Turn around, bend over, and hold your ankles.”

Ken’s ass and legs had long deep scratches. His upside down face turned red, and his large dark brown eyes stared up at me. His wig fell on top of a flat tombstone revealing his bald head, now flushed too. His dangling nuts were my target.

“How does it feel, Ken?”

“What are you going to do to me? I told you I’d give you a ride and I will. Forget sucking my dick. How about I just drop you off for free, suga?”

That wasn’t funny but definitely reminded me of something Benito would say. “I asked you a question. How does it feel raping women?” I didn’t care how insane Ken was, what he’d attempted to do to me was inhumane.

Ken’s face turned maroon. “Fish. I hate fish. Women are fishy. I hate women.”

I wondered if Ken had any sex slaves held hostage in his house, his basement, outdoors in a shed. “You hate black women, white women, all women?”

He released his ankles. Raised his back.

“Put your hands back on your fucking ankles,” I shouted, staring at his asshole, “and answer my damn question.”

“All women,” he mumbled.

“Including your mother?”

“Especially my mother.”

“Well, we’ve got something in common, Ken. I hate my mother too. But I don’t go taking out my childhood frustrations on women and men because I don’t like either of my parents.”

That wasn’t completely true. Ken made me think. Was I the culprit or the victim? I had beaten Girl Six because she had a pimple on her ass, killed Reynolds because he’d plotted with Valentino to kill me, and I truly hated my mother because she loved my sister but she never loved me. I didn’t know enough about my father to say I hated him, but I definitely did not like Jean St. Thomas.

“Ken.”

“Please don’t kill me. I swear I won’t eat any more fish.”

“Don’t play crazy with me. How many women have you raped, Ken?”

“Lost count. Eighteen, I think. I’m sick. I need help. Help me. Don’t kill me. Please, don’t kill me. I have a wife and two beautiful children.”

I didn’t doubt him. Some women were so fucking gullible a man could lie and say he was a business owner, he was a former pro-ball player, he’d just lost a lucrative job or contract but was negotiating a better deal, and without conducting a background check or questioning him, women believed men. Some women thought whatever a man had would validate their existence, eventually upgrade their lifestyle. She’d support him until he was able to support her. She’d marry him, then years later she’d realize he was a con artist. Then he’d divorce her and take half of all her possessions, including her heart. That would never happen to me.

“Okay, Ken, I won’t kill you.”

Pow!

Holding his balls, Ken screamed, “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” His dick dangled between his legs as he fell headfirst into a tombstone that read, “I died long before I was buried.”

The bullet lodged into the dirt. I intentionally missed but the blood he’d imagined was spilling from his nuts could scare him to death. “Spineless bastard. So you thought I was just going to give you a free ride. Geez, you men are so stupid,” I told him. “Killing you would give you an easy way out of your sins. I hope you suffer a slow and excruciating painful death. That would serve you right for raping women.”

Ken had chosen his graveyard. I hadn’t. Even if he knew he wasn’t shot, I was sure he’d stay on the ground until well after I was gone.

I shot the license plates from Ken’s van, tossed them on the passenger seat, hopped in. Before closing the door, I got out. Placed my hand on the lever, tugged, opened the back door. Looked inside.

Oh…my…God.