Whos Loving You (16 page)

We heard screams a block away. Desperately trying to see out of the back windshield, Ronnie kept asking, “What is that?” None of us answered.

Somebody was either going to the hospital or the cemetery. Hopefully, the police would respond to my 217 call, assault with the intent to murder.

W
hat the fuck? Had Grant come all the way to my house to protect his Honey? “You don’t know me,” I said. “I’m just doing my job. And Honey isn’t the only one who’s had it hard. I’ve been through a lot, too.”

“Really?” Grant said like he didn’t believe me.

I’d prove it to him and make him love me more than her.

“When I was sixteen, my stepfather gained my trust by showing interest in my cheerleading competitions and my academic achievements, which made my mother extremely proud. Perhaps it was my full splits or my high kicks or my voluptuous tits or my ability to do multiple flips without using my hands that excited him below his waist. When I was fourteen, he started touching me in places that made me feel weird, but at the same time, it felt kinda good. My breasts tingled. My pussy twitched with excitement. When I was fifteen, he began fondling me, probing a little deeper into my vagina, and pressing against my hymen, and when I turned sixteen, he stole my innocence and began fucking me more than he fucked my mom.”

Grant sat there, staring at me.

Uh-huh. Told him so. I knew he was feeling sorry for me now, so I kept talking. “Desperately, I wanted to tell my mother the truth, but I wasn’t sure whom she loved more. Him? Or me? Plus, I felt guilty for having allowed him to do all the things he’d done before he started raping me. Plus, my mother was so in love with Alphonso, she couldn’t look into my dilated pupils and see the iris of my pain, and she was struggling, like me, to stay out of his way when he was angry, which progressively became all the time. I never could figure out what or who had made him so angry, seemingly for no reason. Maybe he resented all females because of something unforgivable a woman from his past had done to him.”

Grant interrupted. “Tiffany, I’m really—”

Oh, you’re going to listen to me.
I didn’t give a fuck what he was getting ready to say. I was talking, and it was rude of him to try and change the subject. I bet he didn’t interrupt his little Honey.

I continued. “Whatever happened to him, it wasn’t my fault or my mom’s. I didn’t bother telling my mother about the sexual abuse, and I didn’t know how to make him stop, but I knew there had to be a better place somewhere out here for me. The day I ran away, I caught the bus to Wilshire Boulevard; walked into an expensive hotel’s restroom; changed into a short, sexy dress and high heels; put on tons of blue eye shadow and red lipstick; then sat high upon a stool at the bar during happy hour.”

“Aaahhh,” Grant yawned, covering his mouth.

He had one more time to interrupt me, and he was going to regret it. “Frowning, the bartender asked, ‘Can I see your ID?’ just as I opened my mouth to order an Amaretto and pineapple.”

Grant cracked a smile, nodding. “I remember that drink. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, raising his brows. He looked at me this time, giving me his undivided attention.

“Embarrassed, I chuckled, then lied. ‘I lost my driver’s license. But I really am eighteen,’ I said. The bartender didn’t believe me. ‘Well, your license wouldn’t do you any good at any bar anywhere. You have to be twenty-one, and you can’t sit here,’ he said. ‘Make it easy on yourself, young lady. Leave. And if you are as smart as you are beautiful, you’d go home. Dressed provocative like that, you’re headed for nothing but trouble.’ Damn, What was I thinking that day?”

“I have no idea,” Grant commented. His eyes were halfway closed.

“I’m almost done,” I said, continuing. “As much I’d talked to my girlfriends about not being able to wait until we turned eighteen to be legal and twenty-one to drink legally, I knew that shit. I couldn’t call my best friend to tell her I’d run away, because she would’ve told her mother, and her mother would’ve told my mother. I’ve been gone fourteen years. Did my parents have hope that one day they’d see me again, or did they think I was dead? After that bartender kicked me out, I picked up my bag, left the hotel, and headed to Sunset Boulevard. I figured I’d have a better chance there of meeting a nicer bartender who’d believe I was twenty-one, and I prayed I’d meet a rich, handsome man who’d invite me to his house.

“I was somewhat experienced. I’d learned how to give pretty good blow jobs to my mother’s husband, and I’d tested my skills on a few of the high school boys from D.C. who were staying in the same hotel as my cheerleading team while we were in Vegas. That summer we won the cheerleading competition. I guess I was proving I was more experienced than the other girls on my squad. I sucked eight dicks on that trip, including yours. Each of those boys lied to me. All except one. You.”

Grant was silent.

“Grant, are you listening to me? This is the part about you,” I said, shoving his forehead up from the table.

“Huh? What? Yeah, sure, I heard you,” he said, nodding.

“You were tall and handsome. Sometimes I’d fall asleep pretending you were my boyfriend. I never forgot the look in your eyes after you came in my mouth. A teardrop fell. Not because you felt good. You honestly apologized. ‘Tiffany, I’m so sorry. You’re so beautiful,’ you said. ‘And obviously you’re popular. Save yourself for a guy that cares about you. All guys aren’t dogs. Please forgive me.’ While I was still on my knees, you kissed my forehead, then walked away. I remember that day like it was yesterday.

“The saying ‘Be careful what you ask for’ quickly became my harsh reality after this charming man by the name of Pretty Ricky approached me on Sunset and offered to take me on a trip to Las Vegas. Unfortunately, I was still in search of a place to call home, a boyfriend to claim as my own, and someone to love, so I went with him, thinking if I was lucky, maybe I’d see you again.”

Grant’s shoulders and head slumped. His eyes were closed. He was probably one of those people who could listen in his sleep.

“I was so damn naïve, but I grew up fast when Pretty Ricky drugged me and beat my ass on the regular, and he actually enjoyed that shit. If I didn’t suck enough dicks or fuck enough tricks or steal expensive jewelry or things of value to increase his bottom line, bam, right in my face. Pretty Ricky didn’t give a fuck about me. To my pimp, I was a means for him to maintain his big house, his fancy cars, his designer clothes, etc. In exchange for what? Nothing. I had to give him all of my money.

“A busted lip or a bruised hip didn’t warrant a trip to the hospital. A cotton ball drenched with witch hazel and held against the purple swelling, followed by make-up, and I was back on the stroll to get his money, and if I showed up without it, bam, another ass whipping was guaranteed. The best thing for me was I never got arrested.

“When a john stabbed me in my side, then pushed me out of his car, my pimp left me for dead. Standing over me, staring down at me, Pretty Ricky uttered his last words to me. ‘Tiffany, you’re one dumb bitch. No, you’re the dumbest bitch. You’re not worth beating. I hope you die.’ He reached toward me, and when I held out my hand to him, he snatched the two hundred dollars I had in my bra. Then he walked away as though he’d never known me, as though I hadn’t made hundreds of thousands of dollars for him by fucking filthy, doggish men for an entire year.

“After being released from the hospital, I hitched a ride with a stranger I’d later discover was a youth counselor. The elderly lady drove me from Vegas to the small town of Henderson and dropped me off at a nice home. She said, ‘Go inside, my child. You’ll be safe here.’ I was fortunate enough to get taken in by a family that owned a restaurant. They helped enroll me in adult night school, let me live with them until I graduated from the University of Neveda, Las Vegas, and employed me part time as a waitress during the evenings and weekends. There were nice people in the world, but I couldn’t say they loved me. I think, like you, Grant, they felt sorry for me.

“Determined to survive, I started by keeping my legs shut. I saved every dime, including my tips, until I had my college degree and enough money to move out. Returning to Vegas, I applied for every available undercover cop position until I was hired. I insisted on working the Strip. Most johns coming to Vegas to get laid thought getting their dicks sucked was part of the perks. I showed them how wrong they were. I enjoyed being part of the sting operation that arrested their dumb asses and listening to them plead for me not to take them in while they quietly offered me bribes. Right when they were on the verge of pulling their dicks out of their pants, I’d flash my badge and say, ‘You’re under arrest for the solicitation of sex.’ ‘They’d all say, ‘I thought this was legal in Vegas.’ Tightening the handcuffs to cut off their circulation, I’d reply, ‘You’re dead wrong.’ I wish I could’ve castrated them all.

“Sitting at my dining table one night, sipping on diet cola, I decided I was going to shoot every pimp. Execution style. Until I killed every pimp alive or died trying. I scribbled names on a napkin. Alphonso Allen was on my hit list, right before that sorry-ass pimp I’d worked for. I was saving Pretty Ricky for last. Valentino James was a different kind of pimp. If he hadn’t killed Sunny Day, he wouldn’t be on my list at all. The year before she was killed, Sunny had become my only friend. I didn’t approve of her working for Valentino and Lace, but I couldn’t force her to quit, so I stayed close enough to watch over her. Never in my lifetime did I think Valentino would rape then shoot any of his escorts in the head, especially a nice girl like Sunny.

“Stealing one hundred million dollars from Valentino would’ve been sufficient, but I won’t be done with him until I shoot him in the head in broad daylight and watch him take his last breath. How quickly society forgets the women and children, like Sherrice Iverson, a seven-year-old, who are raped and then killed by men like Jeremy Strohmeyer. Does the Bible not dictate an eye for an eye? Iverson is dead, and Strohmeyer escaped death row by pleading guilty and received four consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole,
life
being the operative word. Strohmeyer, soon to be thirty years old, is alive. He probably thought that because he had Leslie Abramson, the lawyer who also represented the Menendez brothers, he’d get off by claiming he was high on alcohol and drugs and didn’t remember committing any crime.

“Generously, I gave Lace half of Valentino’s stash but quickly changed my mind. She doesn’t deserve half until I am convinced she is on my team. Since I’m killing pimps, eventually, my counterparts will catch up with me, and I need an ally with enough money to bail me out. That’s why I need Honey.”

As I relived my past with Grant, he pushed his half-empty plate aside. “Wheeewww!” Grant exhaled so loud, I stared at him.

What was his problem? “You okay? I didn’t mean to spoil your appetite, but having someone to listen so attentively to my problems for once without changing the subject has moved me to tears.” Sniffling, I wiped my nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break down like this. I’m really a strong person.”

Holding me in his arms, Grant said, “Yes…indeed. Yes, indeed. And you are special. You are a true survivor.”

Gazing up at him, I asked, “So how well do you know Honey?”

With firm conviction, Grant said, “It’s simple. I’m in love with her, and I want to marry her.”

Not at all what I wanted to hear. Easing out of his arms, I went to the cabinet and removed dessert. I sat the jar of peanut butter in front of him, alongside the strawberry preserves.

Shaking his head, Grant reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of small packets. “Just in case, I brought my own. But this time I’m gonna make a sammich.”

He liked me. He wanted me.

I unbuttoned Grant’s shirt, and I swear, I’d never seen a chest so defined. I was tempted to rub my hands all over him, until he removed his pants and I saw his perfectly muscular ass. His dick hung with thickness over his large nuts. Ooh-wee! My pussy pulsated with joy.

I guessed he was lying about marrying Honey, but I wasn’t about to bring her ass up again.

We went into the bathroom. Handing him a set of towels, I removed my clothes. I saw his eyebrows rise with approval as he closed the shower door. I stepped into the tub and sat facing him. He lathered his body. I bet those were the happiest suds sliding over his nipples, down his navel, and between his thighs. Grant faced me, lathered his face. Then he leaned his head under the flowing water. Aw, damn. I started cuming as I watched the water glide over his forehead, his eyes, his nose, in and then out of his mouth, over his succulent lips.

Grant stepped out of the shower. I got out of the tub and began drying his body with my tongue, licking the wetness from his dick and his balls.

“Tiffany, we really shouldn’t do this. I really am in love with Honey.”

“And I’m horny as fuck, and, yes, you are either going to fuck me or I’m going to rape you. The choice is yours.”

Ignoring Grant’s weak protest, I straddled him, rotated my pussy, then eased his dick inside of me. That shit felt incredible. I didn’t need him to move, but I was delighted when he did.

Grant’s strong hands gripped my ass tight. He started slamming me down on his dick. “Get up,” he said.

“What?” Was he serious? I was on the verge of cumming all over his dick.

“Get up,” he repeated.

This time I got up.

“Come here,” he demanded. “Bring that pussy over here.”

Grant barely finished the sentence before I made it to the foot of the bed.

“Wrap your arms around the post, and spread your legs,” he ordered. “I’m about to get deep in this pussy.”

Aw, shit. I felt every inch of Grant’s dick sliding inside of me. My body trembled with orgasmic pleasure. His arm embraced my waist, and he dug deeper inside of me. It had been a long time since I’d let a man penetrate me. The pain reminded me. The pleasure reminded me, too.

“Grant, don’t ever stop loving me,” I moaned.

“I don’t love you, Tiffany. I’m fucking you. There’s a difference,” he said. His sweat rolled down my spine and between the crack of my ass.

He was right. But sooner than he could imagine, I’d be right.