Sexual Healing (35 page)

Thirty-Eight

H
air matted. Face crusty. Everything in her body ached. Burned. She was raw and empty and broken-hearted.

And she hated
him
for making her feel this pain.
This
was what she'd spent her entire life avoiding. And now she was hurting . . . because of
him
. How dare he come into her life and disrupt her entire existence with gunshots and bloodshed?

Goddamn him!

And he
still
hadn't come to her, hadn't tried to beat down her door . . . nothing! Maybe he hadn't cared after all. Maybe all she'd ever been to him was a good piece of ass, another wet hole to dump himself in.

Served her right for all the years of whoring with married men.

This was her payback for all the hearts she'd broken over the years—unintentionally or not.

All they were ever supposed to be was a fuck-n-go. Nothing more.

She blamed Ashley for this shit. Had it not been for that bitch Peaches taking ill, Ashley would have had her ass in Philly that day instead of sitting around at some stinking-ass vet with a sick dog.

“Fuck you, Ashley!” Arabia snapped out loud. “The minute I'm out of this funk, pack your shit! You're gone, bitch!”

She let out a loud groan.

Who was she fooling? She'd never fire Ashley. If it weren't for her keeping things running smoothly, her advertising firm would
probably be going under right now. No, Ashley and her team of execs were holding it down while she . . . while she recovered from her terrible . . .
accident
.

Yes, that was what she'd told them. That she'd been in an accident. That she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That, that . . . three gunmen tried to carjack her at a red light. Then when she'd sped off, they started shooting at her. And she was too shaken up to return to the office. That was her lie for the first two weeks.

Now this week, she'd been stricken with the flu. Yes, that's right. She had the flu in the middle of June. The lie had rolled off her tongue before she even had a chance to realize it. So she'd run with it.

Truth was, she was
sick
.

Sick of still missing him.

Sick of still wanting him.

Sick of still aching for him.

Sick of breathing him in her dreams.

Sick.

Sick.

Sick.

And being sick with the flu paled in comparison to what she was feeling this very moment.

Lovesick.

She couldn't shake this burning hell she was now in.

She couldn't shake
him
.

She couldn't even say his name. It seared the back of her throat like acid.

She was such a pathetic bitch.

Over
him
.

A man!

This didn't happen to her. But it had. And now . . .

She swallowed back another sob.

Then closed her eyes and breathed in deeply until it burned her lungs. Her funk overpowered the smell of
him
still on her skin. But, no matter how bad she smelled, he was still here, lingering, hovering, in the air around her.

She exhaled.

She reached over from the bed, where she'd been lying for the last four days, and grabbed another Philly cheesesteak from off the plate on her nightstand. Cheesesteak deliveries were the only time she opened her door. She'd stay hidden behind the door and crack it open so her doorman could stick her sandwiches in. She'd snatch them from his hand, then hand him his tip, before slamming the door in his face.

She bit into her sandwich, and cheese and ketchup oozed out and dripped down her chin.

Using the back of her hand to swipe away the gooey cheese and ketchup mixture, she started crying again. She'd taken to eating the messy sandwich loaded with onions, because her life had become such a smelly mess, like this stupid-ass cheesesteak.

She hadn't bathed. Hadn't shaved. Hadn't brushed or scrubbed. Or bothered to change her panties.

Her life stunk. And so did she.

She just lay in bed and watched reruns of
Being Mary Jane
. What a sad bitch!

God, she hated Mary Jane. She was a weak bitch.

And she hated herself. Because so was she.

She choked back a sob, and reached for the remote to her stereo, turning on her CD player again. Jennifer Hudson's “Giving Myself” started playing—again. Arabia sat up in bed and rocked and cried and hummed along to the song. And then she looked up and called out to God.

“God, why'd you do me like this?” she cried out. “Why are you
torturing me? Have I not been obedient?” She shook her head. “Okay, scratch that. Maybe I haven't been. But damn it, I've been loving and kind, haven't I?” She shook her head again. “Okay, okay. Maybe I haven't been that, either. But do you think . . . do you really think I deserve
this?
If this is my punishment for sleeping with married men, I swear to you, Lord, if you find it in your heart to forgive me, I'll never sleep with another married man. I swear. Cross my broken heart and hope to . . . well, I don't hope to die. But this pain is killing me.”

Body and soul, she'd given herself to
him
.

Unexpectedly, she'd handed herself over to
him
.

And now she was left with nothing. Not him. Not her heart. Not her dignity.

Nothing.

She'd lost everything she was to
him
.

Some reformed thug who'd almost gotten her killed.

Her life flashing before her eyes, she reached for the box of tissue on the other side of her bed, and blew her nose.

And when she had enough of Beyoncé singing her version about how she'd rather go blind than to see her man walk away, Arabia was curled up in a ball bawling her eyes out.

Her cell buzzed.

She refused to look over at it. Refused to lift it up from the nightstand, where it laid face-down, to see who it was this time, calling her. So she took another bite of her sandwich, and savagely chewed, her stomach bubbling as she swallowed.

She had gas. Bad.

But she suffered through it, chomping away at her sandwich as a reminder that he'd introduced this sandwich to her, and this was her consequence for opening herself to him. A knotted stomach filled with gas.

She was dying inside. All she needed was a coffin and a gravesite. And she'd be ground ready.

Her cell buzzed again.

Then her landline.

Then her doorbell.

Then came the banging. Loud. Obnoxious banging.

And then—oh God, no . . . there were
voices
.

The blood in her face drained.

Not one, not two, but three very loud voices.

“Open up, Arabia! We know you're in there!” That was her sister Tamara.

Then Alexis: “If you don't come open this door, I'll call the police to have it knocked open! Try me!”

More banging.

“God, please don't tell me she's in there dead over some man,” she heard Tamara say. More banging. “Open up this goddamn door, Arabia!”

Then came Maya's voice: “Arabia, open up, girl. Please. We're worried about you.”

Arabia groaned. Then glanced around her room in horror. She couldn't let them see
her.
Not like
this
.

Then came the pounding again. “You have ten seconds to open this damn door, Arabia. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

Arabia threw off the covers, knocking over her sandwich, stepping over dirty dishes and old sandwich wrappers.

“Seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . .”

She raced to the door. “All right, all right . . . I'm coming. Damn!”

She held her hand up to her face and blew out a breath. She made a face, her lips twisting. Her breath was wretched.

“Three . . . two . . . one . . .”

Arabia slid back her locks, then slowly opened the door.

“God, you're so ugly right now,” Tamara hissed, pushing past her. “You're so fucking selfish, Arabia.”

One by one, they barged in, jostling Arabia out the way.

“And you smell,” Alexis chimed in, pinching her nose together.

“Yes,” Tamara added, “your ass stinks. What the hell? Why are you moping around here letting your cat-juice marinate in your drawers? I smelled you all the way out in the hall.”

“Will you bitches shut up,” Maya snapped. “Can't you see our baby sis is hurting?” Maya pulled Arabia into her arms and hugged her tightly. Arabia couldn't hold back the tears. She sobbed on Maya's shoulder. She needed her sisters more than she realized.

She'd thought she could get through this alone. But she couldn't.

And that knowing tore her up even more.

Maya coughed, then gagged. “Okay, okay. Girl, I love you,” she said, prying herself out of Arabia's hold, “but you smell like sewer water. No offense, but I'm choking here.”

Tamara rolled her eyes. “I told you this bitch stinks.”

Arabia nearly bared her teeth. “I don't need your insults right now, Tamara. If you don't like the smell, then leave.”

Tamara fixed her with a hard stare. “Bitch, I'm not going any-damn-where until
after
our intervention. Now go wash your ass, so we can nurse your grieving ass back to health.”

Alexis and Maya took one look at Arabia and their hearts ached for her. The love bug had finally bitten their baby sister and it had torn her ass up real good.

“Yes, go clean yourself up,” Alexis said, almost pleadingly.

“Please and thank you,” Maya added.

Arabia sucked her teeth. “All right. Y'all sit,” she said, relieved that her bedroom was the only place that looked as if it'd been turned into a war zone.

The three sisters eyed Arabia as she walked off.

Tamara scowled. “If I ever see the bastard who did this to her, I'm going to claw his damn face.”

“Girl,” Alexis said, “his dick must have been dipped in gold for him to turn Arabia's ass inside out like this.”

Arabia cringed. “I don't need you bitches talking shit about me behind my back,” she yelled over her shoulder. “I need your support. Not a bunch of ridicule.”

“Girl, bye,” Tamara said dismissively. “You're getting both—our support
and
ridicule. So, go. Wash. That. Ass. We'll be right here
still
talking about you when you get back.”

Arabia shook her head. God, she loved her sisters. She truly did.

• • •

“Much better,” Maya approved when Arabia finally emerged from her room forty minutes later, wearing a pair of pink lounge pants and matching top. Her still-damp hair was in a French twist. And she'd managed to slip on a pair of diamond-hoop earrings, a little bling to brighten her otherwise bleak existence. She felt somewhat better. Not as tense. It was amazing what a little—okay,
a lot
—of soap and hot water could do. The shower was nice. She even gave herself a facial. But she still needed a good soaking.

Maya handed her a mug of white tea. Then ushered her into the kitchen where Alexis and Tamara were, sitting at the breakfast bar.

“Okay,” Tamara said as she stood and opened her arms. “Now you get a hug.”

Arabia rolled her eyes, setting her mug on the counter for a sisterly hug. “Whatever,” she said, stepping into her embrace. Moments later, Arabia stepped back and was then hugged by Alexis.

“We love you, girl,” she whispered into Arabia's ear.

“I know,” Arabia said.

“Awww,” Maya teased. “Sister moments. So sweet.”

“Okay, okay,” Tamara snapped. “Enough of the Oprah moment shit. Tell us what in the hell happened. And don't you dare leave anything out. And I do mean
nothing
.”

And so she did. Told them everything—well, except the part about fucking
him
on the dance floor. They needn't know
that.

When she was done reliving every terrifying detail, it felt like a ton of weights lifted off her. She still felt empty, but she felt much lighter—if that made any sense.

“OhmyfuckingGod!”
Tamara shrieked. “I can't believe this shit. You need Jesus, girl.”

Arabia loved her sisters dearly, but the way Alexis and Tamara were scowling one minute, blinking their eyes the next minute, then muttering curses the next after that, she regretted confiding in them the humiliating truth of the events leading up to her breakup with Cruze. Her short-lived love affair.

She wished at this very moment that it was only Maya here with her.

“What an asshole,” Alexis hissed. “Street thug trash! That bastard, Cruze, or whoever he is didn't deserve you.”

Arabia cringed. Maybe it was true. But it wasn't what she wanted to hear. She felt like she was being sliced open, and slowly bleeding out.

“Exactly,” Tamara said fervently.

“He isn't
trash
, Alexis,” Arabia defended. “He showed me a side of him that I don't think he showed anyone else.” He was beautifully flawed, and had been perfect enough for her. That's all that mattered to
her
.

“Yeah, that he's murderous,” Tamara snapped. “That's the side he showed you.”

Arabia sighed, then surprised herself when she said, “He was only trying to protect me. They started shooting at us, first.”

Tamara gritted her teeth. “And he conveniently happened to have a gun tucked under the seat of your car, huh? Arabia, will you wake up! Listen to yourself.”

“And it's a good thing he did,” Arabia muttered. “Otherwise—”

“Oh, this has to be some new Stockholm syndrome shit I'm hearing,” Alexis pushed out, “because this bitch is still in shock.”

“I'm
not
in shock. I'm hurting, Alexis. You weren't the one there. He wouldn't have had to start shooting them if . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. They'd never understand. And she didn't expect them to. She choked back a sob. He had no business putting her life in danger, but she wasn't about to give her sisters the satisfaction of hearing her say it.