Smoke and Mirrors (57 page)

However, the almost nine months in that prison changed him. He’d survived the jungle, came out of there with his pride intact, but it left a burn upon his soul. Every day, he’d faced temptations to aid in one’s comfort and survival. The pressure became so great sometimes, especially with doubt looming over his head regarding his access to freedom—a way out. Drugs ran through the prison like a bout of diarrhea from the lower gut after a cup of spoiled cottage cheese. You could get any damn thing you wanted, as long as you had a little money or something worth having to trade. A time or two he’d considered it, simply to make the damn pain go away. He had dough hidden here and there, and other guys sniffed him out, suspicious of that fact. It was understood that a pimp like him wouldn’t shit his earnings down the toilet with reckless spending and no thought to the future. No, he’d saved for a rainy day. He’d squirreled that shit away, just like many of the black guys said ‘white folk’ do. Not a lot, but it was something, enough for him and Paris to have a decent go at it until they got on their feet.

And that was the other thing. He’d worried about her a hell of a lot while he sat behind those bars, trapped. What if someone thought she had his money and tried to hurt her? A second coming of Royal reincarnated? What the fuck could he do to protect her behind bars? What if Carla hadn’t gotten her fill, and came back with another scheme to get more people wrapped up in a ring of revenge-tainted terror? What if Felicia flipped the fuck out, got back on that shit and decided Paris needed to pay for some perceived disrespect? He knew Felicia better than the whore who knew her damn self. She was loyal all right, but she also was known to fuck someone up in a nanosecond if her temper got revved. Her nickname wasn’t ‘Ferocious’ for no damn reason… He let go of that notion after Paris let him know that they’d had a nice lunch, and the woman had cried up a storm within a storm once she received her grandmother’s necklace back…

That made him feel good, made him proud. He only wanted the best for her. Right before he’d met Paris, he had to admit something to himself. It hurt him that he didn’t love Felicia at any point in time, and that was something she’d never know… She could never understand the why or how, he barely did himself. No one could replace Paris. She was his beginning, the first beat of his heart and the middle, where the story can change lanes in a blink. She was his conclusion, the ending to a long dream that left him feeling soft and loved as she enveloped him in her delicate arms.

A lot of things changed, and many things stayed the same. He glanced back up at the ceiling and thought about how fly it would be if it were painted like the open outdoors, chock full of blueness and fluffy white clouds. He could escape each and every time he went to sleep, and he could pretend he’d just landed and returned home for the evening. His daydreams piled on top of more daydreams, until he built a staircase of them, moving and shifting like puzzle pieces. It felt good to slip away like this; he hadn’t done it in so long. He could feel the peace returning, one tiny shred at a time, building his esteem, his confidence. He had a strong support system from a woman who never turned her back on him, would let him lean on her, and she on him. But he had a bit of complex. He didn’t want the shit to be equal. He surmised that was one of the things that had made him so successful in the pimp game. Smoke wanted to the run the whole damn show, be the man of the house, not just in name. He wanted to earn that shit, for her to look at him with respect, admiration, and know she was safe and taken care of. Paris deserved to be a first lady, to have the opportunity to run her damn shop like the maestro that she was. He wanted her to put her name across it, her foot in it, and her fist in the face of anyone and anything that dared to try and stop her.

But he needed that fist to be soft when it landed against his hard body, and he needed her to smell like life, look like love, taste like lust, sound like soul, and feel like sex. And that’s what he had. He’d do anything necessary and then some to ensure it stayed that way, that she looked up to him, respected him, believed in him. She had to know he’d never let her fend for herself, that she wouldn’t suffer for another day, that she could depend on him to be there and make the bad shit good and the good shit better. Paris had never had a hero. It was time; it was long overdue. Standing, he walked to her vanity mirror and took a good, hard look at himself. He never wanted to study his physique at the prison; he detested looking at himself while in there, growing more and more animalistic as the days passed. But now that he was free and his heart was emancipated, too, he wanted to take inventory.

He hunkered down, leaning forward, and checked out the scene.

Yeah, I have lost weight…

He ran his hand against the side of his angular face, noting his cheekbones looked more prominent, either due to the weight loss or the smattering of Native American blood in him that his father claimed to have… Either way, he was certain the ten pounds he’d lost, once regained, would take care of it right away.

He stood erect, turning from side to side. His six-pack kept top notch status, though the lack of sunlight made him paler, and his naturally slightly tanned skin was struggling to keep the bit of melanin that it had.

This is not a good look, man…got to get back to my outdoor activities. Gotta hit the gym and go running in the mornings. Most importantly, gotta get a job, contribute. I have a lot to take care of…and I’ll do it. I will definitely put in the time. I’ve never been afraid of hard work…you get nothing in this world without effort.

“What are you doing out of bed?” She smiled as she bumped the door the rest of the way open with her hip, and brought in beverages and two plates of food on a silver tray.

“Just looking at myself is all.”

Setting the tray in the middle of the bed, she gracefully climbed under the sheets. He followed suit, licking his lips, rubbing his hands together, and almost lost it when he took in the delicious sight.

“Looks great, baby!” He reached for one of the plates, made himself comfortable on the bed and grabbed a forkful of yellow rice.

“I hope you like it.”

“I bet I will…” He winked at her and popped the fork in his mouth. “Damn, this is some good
shit
!” he mumbled, his mouth full.

“You’re just sayin’ that because your last meal was tasteless, state provided and dry,” she teased.

“No, I’m serious, baby. Now I could get used to this.” He crossed his ankles, wiggled his toes as he happily chomped.

“Don’t. I did this because you needed it, not because it’s my calling.” She laughed.

“Awwww! Come on, baby!” He chewed noisily then swallowed. “You said you bought groceries! What do I have to do to get you to cook for me more then?” He helped himself to another dollop before setting his sights on a baked piece of tilapia with his name all over it.

“Hmmmm,” she smirked deviously. “I’ll have to think about that.” She took a sip of iced tea, chasing it with a forkful of string beans. He drew closer to her, nibbled her ear a bit, making her squirm. She giggled like a little kid, slid against him just so, and it didn’t take long before his dick let him know it was once again ready for battle.

Wait a minute, man. Let’s eat first, give her a chance to breathe before jumping back on her…

“Here, let me turn on some T.V.” She reached for the remote and channel surfed, then handed it over. “You should be able to find something.” Then, she went back to her plate. He took the remote and landed on a live comedy show. Setting it down between them, he spent the next hour looking at the woman slowly eat her food, and laugh her sexy ass off. This was their new life—what life was all about. Laughing through the rough pain, crying with joy from the breaks one caught, and embracing the moment, trying to dissect the lesson within. If one looked for clues, teachings and patterns, one could possibly assume a higher power in fact
did
exist.

He began to take issue with his own beliefs over the past few weeks. In Paris’ letters, she’d always say she was praying all the time, praying to God that he was released, praying that things would be okay. He never paid it much attention until he began to see that maybe someone up there
really
was listening to her. They were lucky to even be alive, let alone be together, a couple in love. He always thought it was silly how people believed in God, as if someone out there really gave a damn about them, but…stranger things than the concept of a higher power had already occurred.

For he had grown up a poor, Midwestern boy of divorced parents that barely knew or understood one another. One was sick in the head, the other fled. He’d jumped from one frying pan into the other, and neither knew that they were popping with 700-degree grease, burning him up from the inside out. He’d gone from shunning intimacy, to swimming knee deep in it, screwing professional escorts from the age of sixteen and beyond. He entered in the lion’s den, fallen in the dragon’s mouth, slid under the tiger’s paw and got in the bear’s way. And yet…he survived to tell the story. He was
alive
.

Did he do it on his own? He doubted it. His mother’s fancy ‘one-size-fits-all’ religion proved a haven for hypocrites, and she was the damn ring leader, but maybe faith
was
the key, and not all the other dogma that rode close to it, trying to be a part of the celebrity status of its mere simplicity. Had someone had faith enough to trust their gut and call him while he sliced a razor blade across his wrist? If it weren’t for that call, he’d have been dead a long time ago. How could he forget?

The woman of his dreams showed up at a pivotal moment, when he was open and ready to receive her. At no other time after Cheryl, had he contemplated pursuing a woman for more than turning her out, having sex with her, or both.

Could something
bigger
and
better
be working in his favor? Night after night, he would watch this woman he’d give his life for bow her head over her food and ask God to bless it, just as she did moments ago. She believed in God, despite the fucked up childhood she’d been dealt. Paris believed in God, despite having to sell her own ass out of fear, and intimidation. The woman he worshipped believed wholeheartedly in God, despite being beaten, raped, abused, neglected, and abandoned and the final straw, seeing her man murder another in her damn front yard. She kept that faith after being forced to spend up a bulk of their money on legal counsel and then to wait for him, not knowing if that wait would take a few months, or the length of a life sentence! She was devoted to the notion of faith, of believing in the unseen, in what she felt deeply within. Smoke shook the thoughts out of his head, but placed a bookmark there, determined to revisit this God business in the near future.

He devoured his plate in no time flat, and focused on the woman’s profile. Her exhaustion was more than apparent, but she kept chugging along, being his cheerleader, holding down the fort and keeping the torch blazing. . .

“If you ever get the idea that you can walk away from me, and I’d be cool with that and let you go, you’ve got another think coming,” he mumbled, taking a leisurely sip of his iced tea. He set the glass back on the nightstand.

She craned her neck in his direction. “Well, that came out of the blue,” she smirked. “Feeling possessive, are we?” she said with a raised eyebrow as she popped another forkful of fish inside.

“No, just letting you know the deal. No need for me to keep it a secret. Now, goodnight, baby.” He yawned. “In a few hours, I’ll be making love to you again, so try to rest up because I’m focused on an all-nighter.”

He placed his empty plate on the nightstand and pulled the sheets up over him after lying on his side. The sandman knocked on his eyelids, determined to pull them shut like window blinds. His muscles relaxed, and the clean sheets embraced his tired body. He pressed his head into the feather down pillow, and the damn thing smelled like spring… It didn’t take long for him to fall under the spell of a beautiful dream, in which he was flying high…

He looked dapper, handsome and huge, a proud smile on his face. He glanced to his side and noticed his co-pilot. She was more beautiful than the heavens she so richly believed in… Then he noticed their destination.

How magnificent and befitting…a trip to Paris.

“Good evening, passengers. This is your captain speaking. First, I’d like to welcome everyone on Delta Flight 75A. We are currently cruising at an altitude of 32,000 feet, at airspeed of 400 miles per hour. The time is 9:31 p.m. The weather looks good and with the tailwind on our side we are expecting to land in Paris approximately seven minutes ahead of schedule. The weather in Paris is clear with a slight breeze, with a high of 64 degrees at this current time. If the weather cooperates we should get a great view of the city as we descend. The cabin crew will be coming around in about ten minutes’ time to offer you a light snack and beverage. I’ll communicate with you again before we reach our destination. Until then, sit back, relax and enjoy the rest of the flight…”

*