Sexual Healing (4 page)

With each stroke, Masked Man relished in the magnificence of her cunt, its depths, its wetness, its silky walls; she was a good, freaky piece of ass, and he wanted to fuck her again.

“This . . . pussy . . .
unh
 . . . so fucking
hot
,”
he muttered, teeth clenched.

Deeper, deeper.

Faster, harder.

His vision blurred. He could feel his release low in his balls, roiling through his belly, coiling through his body and then exploding from his cock, loud and hard. He began coming in endless streams, the semen flooding his condom. He closed his eyes and leaned over her, his heated body heaving. He thrust and grunted one last time as her walls clutched around him again, over and over and over.

She closed her eyes, pussy churning, hot need still clawing at her.

And came.

Four

C
ruze couldn't get used to waking up in the morning to the sound of birds singing. Back in Brooklyn, his alarm clock had been the wail of fire trucks and police sirens, the rumble of trash trucks and city buses, and loud, indistinct voices.

And now . . .

He was surrounded by tranquility and deafening silence. But it had been what he thought he needed—at first. Trying to stay off the grid, Cruze had bought a sprawling home in the suburbs of Philadelphia. The gated mansion was surrounded by a vast wooded area. He had sought privacy, but the endless peace and solitude had turned out to be too much of a good thing.

Many a night, after being jarred awake by the rustling sound of someone skulking around on his property, he'd grabbed his piece from the nightstand. Believing his enemies had finally located him, Cruze would rush down the stairs, gun in hand, prepared to blow a muthafucka's brains out.

Pulling back the drapes and squinting into the darkness, he sometimes found it comical that his “enemy” was nothing other than a deer munching on foliage or a family of raccoons scampering around the grounds of his palatial estate. Other times, when his sense of humor had abandoned him, he felt like shooting the shit out of the pesky creatures for fucking with his mindset.

It was the peacefulness of his location that had become bother
some and fueled his desire to buy a condo in downtown Philadelphia where he could fall asleep to the soundtrack of bustling activity and wake up to the ruckus of delivery vans, horn-honking taxis, screeching tires, and other familiar noises. The mansion, he decided, was too big for one person, and he now only spent time in that lavish environment when he wanted to remind himself how far a young cat from the streets had come.

• • •

Two maintenance workers from the Huntingdon Young People's Enrichment Center (HYPE) came out to Cruze's SUV with dollies and began unloading the trunk that was crammed with boxes of items that he was donating to the center.

HYPE was the vision of former NBA player, Bret Hollis, who used to play for the New York Nets. Through an online article, Cruze learned that Bret had been using his own capital to run the state-of-the-arts center that opened in North Philadelphia in 2012 with the goal of providing a safe haven for inner-city children. But after four years, money was running low, and Hollis was actively seeking outside funding. Looking for a way to give back, Cruze had hopped on the opportunity to do something good. Initially, he'd donated seven thousand dollars, and wanted to do even more, but couldn't risk drawing attention to himself by making huge donations. However, for the past few months, he had been doing whatever he could to help out and in the process had struck up a friendship with Bret Hollis.

After the trunk was cleared, Cruze strode into the building and passed a room where a group of teenage girls wearing leotards and Kente cloth headbands were dancing African-style to the beat of conga drums.

He hoped he didn't seem like a pervert by standing there and
gawking at the dancers through the large window, but they were killing it, and Cruze was mesmerized. The rhythmical foot stomps, clapping, drumming, and shouting were all part of the powerful dance that felt like an unstoppable force was vibrating the floor beneath his feet.

When one of the girls caught his attention by winking and then plumping her lips together in a pouty kiss, he instantly backed away. Unwilling to participate in any inappropriate interactions with teenage jailbait, he quickly moved along.

He strolled to the gymnasium where the youth basketball team that consisted of seven- and eight-year-old boys was hard at practice. Cruze couldn't hold back a smile as he watched the little guys play. His mind wandered to a time when he used to shoot basketball from morning until night at a broken-glass-littered court where the hoop was nothing more than a rusted metal rim. He had dreamed of being another Bret Hollis or Marquan Naylor, but those dreams ended after he'd earned his first few stacks slinging drugs.

Shaking the memory, Cruze returned his attention to the practice area and couldn't take his eyes off a youngster named Barack, who consistently shot three-pointers. Neither Barack nor his teammates were aware that when they graced the court at their upcoming game on Friday, they'd all be rocking new uniforms with personalized jerseys, and also new pairs of Nikes—courtesy of Cruze.

He watched the boys for a while and then made his way along the corridor and quietly observed a group of kids who were in a classroom setting, diligently studying. Every child was using an iPad that Cruze had donated. It felt damn good to give back to the community, and he wanted to do even more to help steer the kids in the right direction. Hopefully, none of them would end up trying to commit a robbery using a metal pipe as a weapon like the punk whose kneecaps he'd shattered the other night. If his
money could keep these young innocents away from the lure of the streets, then it was money well spent.

As Cruze turned away from the study center, he saw Bret Hollis approaching. Bret had been one of his basketball idols while growing up, and he still hadn't gotten used to the fact that they were kicking it now like equals.

“Hey, man,” Bret said, giving Cruze dap. “The kids love those tablets so much, my staff has to search their backpacks every day to make sure they don't sneak them out of here.”

“Why can't they take them home?” Cruze inquired. In addition to schoolwork, he had assumed the children would also be able to use the tablets for fun activities.

“You know how it goes, man. If an iPad leaves here, it won't come back. Big bro' will take over ownership and use it to watch porn. Big sis will snatch it up for her social media activities, and thieving Uncle Teddy will slip it out the crib and sell it for fifty bucks.”

“Yeah, you're right,” Cruze acknowledged. “By the way, I was checking out the youth basketball team, and they're good. That lil' dude Barack can handle a basketball—he has mad skills.”

“Oh, yeah, Barack's the commander-in-chief,” Bret said with laughter, and then his expression turned serious. “Barack won't be with us after Friday. Poor kid's mom has been sick. She's doing better now, but during her illness, she lost her job and now they're getting evicted. I believe they're moving in with her sister, or some family member who lives way out in East Jabip, somewhere.”

“That's rough. Wherever they go, I hope the lil' dude finds an outlet for his talent like he has here,” Cruze commented, though he doubted if Barack would find another opportunity to get the kind of support system that was provided at HYPE.

He checked his watch. “Yo, I gotta run. I only dropped by to deliver the uniforms and sneakers.” Cruze wasn't actually in a rush,
but he didn't want to overstay his welcome or act too Joe-familiar with Bret.

“I can't thank you enough for the contributions you've made,” Bret said. “As you know, your donations are tax-deductible. Make sure you stop by the business office and pick up the tax forms on your way out.”

Cruze nodded. “Will do.”

Bret placed his hand on the door to the study center, and then turned and faced Cruze. “By the way, my wife and I are hosting a fund-raising dinner at the Ritz-Carlton Saturday night at seven. We'd love for you to attend as our guest.”

Cruze smiled, feeling honored by the invitation. “Say no more. I'm there. Do I buy my ticket online or can I get it from your secretary?”

“You don't need a ticket; you're our guest.”

“That's cool. Thanks. I'll see you there.”'

Bret went inside the study center to greet the kids and speak with the afterschool coordinator, and Cruze went on his way, breezing past the business office without stopping to pick up tax forms. Hiding behind several dummy companies, Cruze had cleaned up most of his dirty money since moving to Philadelphia. After years of slinging dope in the black community, he didn't feel the government owed him any tax breaks for giving back to the people who had been most harmed by the drug epidemic.

The door to the gymnasium burst open and Cruze had to jump out of the way as the throng of energetic boys stampeded out into the corridor. Their coach trailed behind them, yelling for them to quiet down.

On his way to the parking lot, Cruze sauntered toward the exit sign, but the bouncing sound of a lone basketball drew his attention. He backtracked, peeked through the circular glass pane on the door
of the gym, and was surprised to see that Barack had remained behind and was still practicing. Still perfecting his shot.

That used to be me. A ball under my arm, arriving at the raggedy neighborhood court at six in the morning.

Though dressed for the occasion, Cruze hadn't planned on getting sweaty in his Alexander McQueen sweats, and he definitely hadn't intended on getting any kind of marks on his fresh pair of white and metallic gold, limited-edition Air Jordan 10 OVOs. But unable to resist showing the young homie what was what on the basketball court, he stepped inside the gym for a little one-on-one.

“Aw, you think you're nice, young buck, but I'ma show you something,” Cruise threatened, wearing a deadly expression as he ran to the hoop and blocked Barack's shot.

“Oh, it's like that, old head!” Barack yelled as he enthusiastically chased the ball. “You got the height, but I got the speed and the moves, man!”

Cruze towered over the boy, guarding him, but Barack didn't seem worried. Dribbling behind his back and between his legs, he showed off his flashy moves.

“I'm watching you, little guy. I got you, I got you,” Cruze cried out, quickly growing breathless as he played defensive, running and repeatedly reaching for the ball. Barack faked him out with a sudden spin move, and maneuvered his way behind the three-point line. Before Cruze could get to him, Barack had elevated in the air, shot the ball, and scored!

“Yo, I had you. I don't know how you got away from me, lil' man.”

Barack laughed. “'Cause you slow, man. You can't rock with me. I'm on some next level ish,” Barack bragged with a huge grin plastered on his face. Cruze couldn't get over the self-confidence and maturity of the trash-talking basketball prodigy. Those attributes would take him far if he didn't get tripped up by the risk factors associated with life in the 'hood.

Suddenly, the door pushed open, and a woman who looked to be in her early thirties entered the gym. She was rail-thin, wearing a turban, and clutching a thigh-length sweater around her frail body. With the same nutmeg-brown complexion as Barack and the exact mouth and nose, Cruze figured she had to be his mother.

“All your teammates left fifteen minutes ago. I'm standing outside waiting for you, while you're still in here playing ball. Boy, do you realize you made us miss the bus?”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Sorry don't cut it. Now, we have to wait forty-five minutes for the next one.” With a weak smile, she shook her head as she glanced at Cruze.

“How you doing, ma'am? It's not your son's fault. I held him up and I apologize.”

“Do you work here?” she asked.

“No, I'm a friend of Mr. Hollis's. My name is Cruze Fontaine.” Cruze extended his hand.

“Nice meeting you, Cruze. I'm Barack's mom, Roxanne Cannon,” she said, giving him a quick handshake. Turning away from Cruze and focusing on her son, who was still dribbling and shooting, she said, “Put that ball down, Barack, and go change into your street clothes. And hurry up! Since we have to sit around and wait for the next bus, I want you to go over to the study center and start your homework after you get dressed.”

Bret had said that Barack's mom was doing better, but she looked sickly to Cruze. And with that turban on her head, she had the look of a chemotherapy patient. Maybe she was recovering, but the poor woman looked like she should be resting in bed instead of traveling on buses to pick up her kid from basketball practice.

“Uh, listen. I'm on my way out and I could give you and your son a ride,” Cruze offered, feeling somewhat responsible for her missing the bus.

Roxanne raised a brow suspiciously as she eyed him. She shook her head. “No, thanks. We'll be all right.”

“But I feel bad, and like I said, it's my fault.” Cruze held up his hands. “Yo, I'm not a serial killer if that's what you're thinking. Mr. Hollis can vouch for me.”

“I've seen you around here talking with Mr. Hollis . . . and you probably are a nice guy, but I try not to impose on people.”

“It's not an imposition.”

Cruze and Roxanne sat down on two folding chairs while Barack went to the locker room to change his clothes.

“Your son is very talented,” Cruze said as Roxanne shifted in her seat and crossed her legs. “Making it into the NBA is never guaranteed, but his talent could get him a full ride to college if he sticks to it.”

Roxanne bit her lip, a look of despair brimming in her eyes. “That's the thing. We're losing our place and have to move. I doubt if there're any youth organizations in the town we're moving to.”

Cruze studied her for a moment as he carefully chose his words. “Do you want to move?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, but I don't have a choice. I only have ten days before I get evicted.”

Recalling how frequently he and his mom used to move around, Cruze regarded her thoughtfully, and then asked, “How much do you owe? I know it's not my business, but your son kind of reminds me of myself when I was his age. I wish I'd had a place like this to hone my skills. Maybe my life would have gone in a different direction.”

Roxanne looked Cruze over, taking in his expensive-looking watch and leisure wear. “Looks like you made out all right to me.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess. But I know all about hardship. My mom was a single parent, who had to struggle to keep us afloat. I
wish someone would have helped us out during some of the bad times.” Cruze looked off in thought, recalling his tough childhood. “I realize I'm basically a stranger, but I want to help, if you'd let me. I promise you, no-strings attached. You won't owe me anything other than a yes.”