Authors: Alexa Blair
Chapter 11
The work week went smoothly. Every day Mitch was there for lunch. It was slow enough Monday through Wednesday that I could sit with him. Friday morning, just after Regina left for school, there was a knock at the door.
I had forgotten about the 7 ounces I was supposed to sell. This would be the money pick up. Even with all my tips from Mitch and the rest of my customers I didn’t quite have it. I had paid a few bills.
I stayed quiet. After a few minutes, the messenger left.
I was careful heading to work and decided to pull out my husband’s old pistol. I didn’t always carry it, but when there was a lot of crime in the news or if I was selling and carrying quantity it made me feel safer. After that knock, this felt like a day I might need it.
Nothing happened on the walk to work, but it still settled my nerves knowing I had it. I would try to earn enough tips to get as close as I could to the money I was short to pay Armand for the week.
A good plan, but I didn’t get the chance. Just before I expected Mitchell for lunch, Armand came in the restaurant. I asked another server to cover for me while I spoke to him out back.
“Something happen this morning?” he asked.
“I haven’t sold as much this week. I figured I could make the difference I needed in tips today and send it with the second messenger tonight,” I said
“D’vinity, we had an arrangement,” he said, shaking his head.
“I know, I’ve just been busy this week,” I said.
“But not busy making sales,” Armand said, stepping closer.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I told you I could cover large amounts for you, but I’m thinking now we might be able to make an arrangement,” he said.
As he reached for me, Mitchell appeared from behind, reaching for him. He spun him around so they were facing each other. Before Armand could make a fist or speak, Mitch decked him. Armand was immediately down for the count.
“What do you owe this man?” he asked.
“About—” I started.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said.
He opened his wallet and threw the small stack of hundreds in it at Armand, who was now holding his bloodied nose.
“I don’t know you, but you are out of D’vinity’s life,” Mitch said.
“Says who?” asked Armand.
“Says her man, me,” Mitch replied without flinching.
Armand shook his head and waved us off.
I took Mitch’s hand and led him to the kitchen to get a towel with ice for his hand.
“I’m sorry. A few times when money has been tight I have sold weed for him to get by. I recently started trying to move large quantity because I thought I could make money faster so Regina and I could move,” I explained.
I think Mrs. Franklin would have something to say about you two leaving,” he teased.
I looked at his knuckles.
“No bruises, but a little swelling,” I said.
“I would have something to say about you two leaving as well,” he added, holding my face, so I had to look at him.
“Would you, now?” I asked.
“Yes, I’d have something to say about anything that makes it so I can’t get to know you both better,” he said.
As he leaned in to kiss me, I suddenly remembered where we were. I looked around and half the staff was watching us.
“Come on, I’ll tell you about the specials for today and we can decide what movie to go see Sunday.”
THE END
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Chapter 1
He was a suit and I was, well, I was a hood rat trying to leave street life behind. I never felt like I belonged there.
That was three years ago.
In truth, I was an artist he met one day and he was a rich guy who liked some street art I was doing on the side of a building that he was purchasing. He took me to a gallery showing on our first date. Now, my work was in shows regularly.
Tonight, we were at a gallery showing that I had a several pieces in. My night. Yet, once again, it was all about Christopher. Instead of feeling like a proud artist showcasing her work, I felt like his arm candy, there to impress the upper crust. I was his bridge to the common man and his tale off rescuing a damsel from the harsh reality of the common hood.
The guest list for the evening had a few art investors and museum contributors, but mainly it consisted of a bunch of hoity-toity people he worked with and political types. I enjoyed mingling and discussing my work, but I was a bit tired of the people who only saw me as Christopher’s girlfriend or thought this was merely an event I had accompanied him to.
Tonight was supposed to be mine.
“Yes, we expect the next quarter to be as profitable as the last few. The market is certainly expanding, but we have stayed ahead of every trend and curve,” Christopher was telling an attending congressman.
“Christopher’s investments tend to prosper,” I said supportively.
“His investment in a starving artists certainly has,” said one of his female office underlings.
“What can I say? He knows how to recognize a diamond in the rough as well as when a lump of coal simply would not be able to handle the pressure,” I replied.
I won that small battle, but I just wanted another glass of wine and for the night to be over. With Christopher at my side I shouldn’t have to defend myself. After three years, I should not still be enduring snide comments from women with unrequited affections.
A waiter with fresh drinks made his way through the gallery and I excused myself from Chris’s side to follow.
I snagged a glass of champagne and strategically placed myself where I could have full view of the event and guests. I smiled a little as one or two people stopped to admire my works in the show. The curator came to speak with me briefly about one or two pieces that had been purchased.
My night improved somewhat at that news, only to be dashed again. Christopher was laughing and speaking flirtatiously with the same employee who had attempted to belittle me moments before. I returned to his side, ready to lose it if necessary.
It wasn’t.
“There’s the most beautiful woman in the room,” he said, kissing me squarely on the lips.
The woman excused herself; Christopher didn’t even notice.
“I’m ready to leave. How about you?” he asked.
“Yes, the night ended for me as quickly as it began,” I said.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing, let’s go,” I replied.
He sucked his teeth and took his hands from my waist and put them in his pockets.
“I guess we are on the way to a bad night? You can’t ever just let me have a good day,” he said, starting to walk away.
“Well, you know, this was my night, and you made it all about you,” I replied.
“You always say that. I’m so selfish,” he said, making his way through the crowd.
I gave a small glance and smile to the people nearest us who had been disrupted. Then I made way to follow him. The night had gone from bad to worse so suddenly.
Chapter 2
“You never actually try to think about my problems, your problems, or our problems. You just throw your money at all of it. In fact, you think your problems and our problems are just my problems,” I yelled.
“Well, most of the time I don’t know there is a problem until you say there is one. One minute we are fine. The next, you are crying or yelling,” Christopher yelled back.
“Because you are unobservant. You never really pay attention. Your life is easy and always has been. You don’t know what it’s like to have to work for something!”
We had been up and down in our argument for nearly an hour. So far, the only progress we had made was to progressively get louder and meaner. When I made that last accusation, Christopher stopped and looked me in the eye for the first time since our back and forth began.
“I sure work to keep you,” he said flatly.
“No, you don’t. You buy me gifts and take me places. You don’t listen when I talk, though. You buy me things to help me get interested in what you like. You take me places that you like and to do what you are interested in. We spend time with your friends and your family,” I said, feeling as if I was about to cry. “You flirt, make my events into business opportunities, and don’t even seem to like me anymore unless we are out. Then it feels all for show.”
“Our arguments always come back to this. You think I am so horrible. I never do right by you. I’m spoiled, privileged, and selfish. All I think about is work and impressing people. I don’t have to impress people; people have to impress me. And maybe I think
you
only think about
yourself
. Maybe I think you are needy and clingy,” he said, getting closer to me. “And you can spend time with whoever you want. You wanted to leave where you grew up. I didn’t tell you to leave behind the people. Also, if I flirt it’s not to have something come of it. It’s schmoozing at best and preheating the oven until I am with you at worst. I have never acted on any of it, and I never would.”
I couldn’t help myself. My mind couldn’t decide whether to be angry or hurt. I sat at the bottom of his stairs and cried. I sobbed quietly to myself and shook for a moment.
He was pacing, clenching his fists. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to punch a wall.
“Are you crying?” Christopher asked. “Alicia?”
I didn’t say anything. I rubbed my face on my arm and just stared blank-faced at the door. He stepped toward me and kneeled.
“You are crying. Baby, look,” he said, reaching toward me.
I pulled back. He looked angry for a moment, then reality settled on him. I had pulled away from his touch. He sat back and looked hurt, defeated even.
“You do have one thing right. Our fights always come down to the same handful of issues. We really do think poorly of each other when it gets rough,” I said. “I may even be insecure, but I feel there is good reason. Everywhere we go there are women throwing themselves at you, and you don’t exactly turn them away firmly.”
A small tear escaped again. I flicked it away and continued thinking out loud.
“We fight, we call each other selfish and say the other never sees our side. We each say the other likes to play victim or that we didn’t do anything wrong. If we really cared, we would try to see each other’s side once in a while,” I said. “Now is where one of us usually talks about leaving and being done with all of this. When we make up, in my head I always know it is just calm until the next storm.”
He took my hand now, and I let him.
“Well, we do. We make up and things improve. Don’t you think we have improved?” he asked. “We still fight about the same things, sure, but the fights don’t last as long. I’m committed to you and any playboy appearance is just an appearance. I need to seem like a hot commodity in all ways. I am the heart of my business and brand.”
“No,” I said simply. “The fights are shorter, but they are louder, more intense, meaner, and have these horrible periods of silence after. I’m starting to think the mistake is all the times we didn’t let go sooner. Then you could really focus on yourself, business, and brand.”
He looked like he was about to get fired up again.
“Do you love me?” Christopher asked, now standing.
“Yeah, but I just really don’t think that is enough anymore. We have been together for three years now. I can honestly say that I enjoyed the idea that a black girl from the wrong side of the tracks could fall in love with a rich guy and they could love each other for who they were, but that just isn’t reality. That’s books and movies. Reality is we can fall in love, but we can’t make this work. We are too different, and we hold everything about how the world has shaped us against each other,” I said.
I stood as well. We passed a long moment looking at each other.
“I’m tired of all this. Being together is exhausting and not making either of us happy anymore,” I said as I climbed the stairs.
He lingered at the foot of the stairs long enough for me to make it to the bedroom.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, coming into the room we had shared and closing the door behind him.
“It means we are from two different worlds. I love you and this has been interesting and fun, but also painful and lacking progress. I’m done,” I said.
I placed a suitcase on the bed and started grabbing things that were mine to fill it.
“Done?” he said.
I couldn’t tell now if he was hurt or angry.
He went on. “No, this is just a fight. Couples fight; we fight. We fight, and we make up. You just said you love me. I love you and that matters more than anything we can ever fight about.” He began taking things from my hand and tossing the suitcase I had grabbed across the room.
“No, what matters is a willingness to make things work,” I said. “I don’t think I have that anymore.”
“Do you want to be with me?” he asked, taking my hand again so I had to face him.
“Yes, but—” I said.
He cut me off with a kiss.
“I want to be with you. We fight, but things always work themselves out. I don’t care if we spend every day fighting. As long as we choose to go to bed together and wake up together, there is no fight that can tear us apart,” he said.
Before I could argue, he took me in his arms and kissed me. This time his kiss was more deep and passionate, pouring every bit of feeling he had into me. My body seemed to naturally respond in kind. As we kissed, I pushed him back, but he held tightly. We ended up against the wall, where we seemed to melt into each other.
We slid down the wall wrapped in one another. We didn’t even take time to undress. I found the button and zipper to his slacks and he flopped out hard and ready. He shifted my underwear over and placed himself inside me.
There was no time for romance at this moment. We both just needed to feel each other. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay or go, but I was sure I wanted to feel better. His touch made me feel better. I don’t know if I would call it “sex,” or even “making love.”
It was making up.
He sat against the wall with me straddling him. One of his arms was wrapped around me, cupping my butt, and the other hand was at the back of my head keeping my lips pressed to his. His tongue searched my mouth as if it were looking for some truth that had not been said. His dick pressed into me with each push as if offering assurance of his own feelings. His hands griped tighter, as if he couldn’t pull me close enough to him.
We moaned and our tongues and teeth lapped and clanked. He tilted forward, rolling me onto my back on the floor.
“My hair is going to get tangled,” I said.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, stifling my protest with his lips.
He was on top of me now, still drilling every bit of him into every bit of me. He ripped his shirt open, sending buttons flying, then pressed his body back down on to mine. I placed my feet on the ground to better raise my hips to him.
“Alicia, I love you. Stay with me,” he said into my neck, not missing a stroke.
We both pressed ourselves together harder, deeper, and more rhythmically. The whole time, my eyes were closed or I looked away.
I don’t know if he realized. His eyes were closed too.