A Deeper Love Inside (48 page)

Oh no! Elisha’s love was highlighting the bitter, tasteless, and poisonous love I got from F A M I L Y. His love was turning Momma the angel back into Momma the crackhead. His love was turning Poppa the king into Poppa the fuckup. His love was turning Winter into the conceited, selfish bitch that never came to get me while she was free and balling, the same big sister who laughed at and never saved Momma. Elisha’s love was turning Lexus and Mercedes into the little rich girls who forgot their roots and lost their feelings for their momma who birthed them. I fucking loved Elisha so much, that I couldn’t love them no more.

I caught a migraine headache, felt temporarily blind, and was weeping all over.

• • •

Plowing into the graveyard, I jammed the brake so suddenly my floating Benz jerked. I took a deep breath in and blew out.

This is the day I bury them all,
I thought to myself.

Finally, looking through my windshield, I saw armed full-geared-up police guards in the firing position. I froze.

“That’s right, fucking kill me! Why not! I’m so sick of being a fugitive.” I wiped away my tears in the mirror and slid on my Chanel sunglasses. When I finally pushed open my door, Busta Rhymes was wilding on the mic the way only he do. My Dolce & Gabbana stilettos were sinking into the moist earth. I grabbed my Birkin bag. “You’re in a movie scene, Porsche, like when you were helping Elisha with his auditions. Except
you’re the star now
. You were betrayed by all of these people. Don’t let them see you hurt. Show them what they love more than they ever loved you, these fashions and styles, these whips, beautiful hips, and this fucking money.”

Standing beside Winter, cause of everybody living she cared the least about me, I didn’t have to say too many lines to her. I delivered each one without a sprinkle of love or affection in it. The same way she would’ve if it was the other way around. Winter was defeated. It was all in her eyes. Poppa was still sweating Winter, as normal. Poppa cried over Momma.

“Too late!” I mumbled to myself. Mercedes and Lexus stayed stuck on Midnight and to themselves. The armed guards crowded their cuffed prisoners, Poppa, and Winter.

As the closed coffin was lowered into the ground I kicked dirt over it with my stilettos. My heart cracked some more. I kicked some more. I was burying Momma and Poppa and Winter, all at the same time.

• • •

They were all gone back to their balls and chains and cells. I sat in the graveyard soil in Momma’s white death dress and cried until my heart could feel free.

Chapter 46

Riding in the backseat of my blacked-out, black Mercedes Benz 600, I was watching Midnight through my rearview mirror. He was chauffeuring me, as he had chauffeured Ricky Santiaga many times in the past. His beautiful black silhouette was all I could see at the moment.

As I was exiting the graveyard gates, he had eased off of the brick pillar and walked calmly in front of my vehicle, sure that I would stop my car before running him down.

He walked to the driver side and opened my door, saying nothing. I tossed my left leg out first, turned my body and stood up. He followed me around to the passenger side backseat, saying nothing. I could feel the heat from his body. He opened the door for me. I entered and sat comfortably. He was, after all, the only man who came for me when I was locked down. He was the man who saved my twins, when I myself failed to save them. Not to forget, that he was the first man to ever rescue me and my sisters after my mother was shot in her face back when I was seven. He had covered up the incident to protect my young heart and ears, telling us only that my momma had an accident and would recover soon. For three or four days, he was our only protection. I remember, remembered, and was remembering.

I was thinking about how to think about him. Is he the hero or the villain? Or is he so clever, seductive, and disarming, that he was both? How did he become the main player? Why did he seem so paid? How come he was the last man standing in what was described as a one hundred-million-dollar empire? Should I allow myself to react naturally to his hypermasculinity as any woman would? Or should I squash that feeling and interact with him as my sister’s stepfather, which strangely, would make him a father figure to me also?

He changed the radio station, which accelerated my feelings. Now Maxwell was singing: The volume was low, which made it sweet and arousing. Suddenly I began thinking about how as I traveled through the United States and toured through Europe, restraining myself was
simple. At home now, the closer I get to Elisha, the more open and sexual my feelings and thoughts become. Private, sensitive, and personal parts of myself that had been paralyzed by grief were awakening.

Now my eyes were back onto my regal driver.

Midnight had to be about twenty-nine years young, not too much over that, if any. Not even double my age, I guessed. Could I seriously shift myself and view him as a father? Maybe I should test him.

As a dancer, I had encountered many men who tried to get at me, despite the difficulty of the task. I had two big bodyguards outside of my dressing room and at all rehearsals and performances. One was a huge Samoan, the other a bonafide well-fed, overgrown black man. I was well hidden and secured, a minor in the “major leagues,” so to speak. I was working in casinos where liquor I wasn’t even old enough to look at was served around the clock. Most importantly, I didn’t want none of those men to be successful in getting at me, not even for only a lustful close-up or stare, an autograph or “accidental” touch, or a private dance or a photograph or even a conversation. I was, and am, a sixteen-year-old virgin who had laid down naked body to body, who had been touched up passionately, caressed, kissed, and even sucked and licked by only one man, Elisha Immanuel, and my heart, mind, and body belonged exclusively to him. I could cum, and many lonely nights I did, just recalling the sensation and feeling and touch of Elisha. I could imagine so deeply it would be as though he was breathing in my ear, tongue swirling in my mouth, fingers pressing on my pleasure button. I could cum simply anticipating the night when he would finally push into me with full hardness and intent and a love that made my nerves tingle and then erupt.

Being that I was sure of my man, and our love, it was nothing but pure sport watching other men go crazy over me. I’d sit at my dressing room vanity table opening up their cards and gifts, looking over their fruit baskets, candies, and bouquets of flowers sent over directly. I’d even receive jewels that I swiftly sent back, including a 10-karat diamond wedding ring from a prince from a country named Qatar, that I never even heard of and doubt existed. Jewels were always intimate to me, only to be accepted from blood or from someone I loved who wanted to become my king.

I had rejected NBA jerseys from off of the backs of NBA play
ers who had a thing for gambling, who happened upon my show. I tossed VIP tickets in the trash from celebrities who wanted to mix it up with me.

I could look at any of these men eye to eye and measure the intensity of their desire without experiencing any feelings of my own. I’d be laughing on the inside, once I knew for sure that they had already been informed, quietly and repeatedly, that I was underage. I knew and I could tell that they didn’t care. There would be this glint in their eye that spoke to me, “C’mon, little girl, how much for me to fuck you one good time?”

Mr. Sharp had prepared me well. “Your beauty is bait. Don’t let ’em touch. As soon as you do, your value decreases immediately.” So I didn’t.

Would Midnight look at me with that glint in his eye? How good is he? Could he see me as his daughter? I wanted to know that for starters, so I could move beyond the whole man-woman thing, to the business at hand.

He looked back, finally. Didn’t move his neck an inch. He was using the rearview mirror I was using to watch him, to watch me. He had an unusual gaze, hard to read. It wasn’t the usual look I got from men who looked into my unusually colored eyes, fell in, and drowned. His eyes returned to the road.

“Where are we going?” I broke the silence between us.

“First stop is to get you into some clothes. You and I have some unfinished situations. Should I buy you something new, or would you like to give me your address?”

I rolled my eyes and turned my head, looking out of my window.

“Buy me something new,” I said. I don’t know why.

Parked on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, he exited the car and locked me inside with the windows slightly dashed. I didn’t resist, just sat calmly thinking. Why did he wait for me at the graveyard? Where did he send the twins and his entourage? Why did he feel the need to drive with me in my car, and alone?

Forty-two minutes later, he opened the opposite back door. He put the purchases, which were hanging on hangers in the hanger cases on the hook and set a shopping bag on the floor.

Parked along a tree-lined sidewalk at Central Park East, Midnight got out saying he’d wait while I got dressed.

“Why not the presidential suite?” I asked him.

“Checked out this morning,” he said.

“How do you know if these clothes will fit me?” I asked.

“They’ll fit. I looked at you first. Everybody can see you,” he said calmly. Behind tinted windows, I pulled off the white minidress and stilettos.

Unzipping the hanger bag, I found a pistachio-colored silk dress by Fendi. It was soft, feminine, and very pretty. Midnight liked women to be feminine and men to be men, I thought to myself. Then I also saw the pants. Checking the labels and tags, I could see the two pieces were not made as a set, although to the artistic eye they could work and blend nicely. It only took me half a second to decide that he wanted me in a dress and pants, covered like the Arabian chicks.

The outfit was high-quality and it worked. The designer pants hugged my hips perfectly. I wondered how could he know? So many clothes don’t give way for the beauty of hips. I wouldn’t say so, but I was impressed, even more so when I opened the Jimmy Choo shoebox.

I knew I looked good, clean, and rich. I also knew that none of this was what mattered most.

“What’s next?” I asked him, my voice calling out to him through his slightly dashed driver-side backseat window.

“Do you have a cell phone?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. He nodded his head to say that I should leave it in the car. I removed my cell phone and also had laid my handbag on the floor hidden beneath the shopping bag. He came around, opened the back door for me and extended his hand to help me out. We walked together beneath the blue sky and afternoon sun against the beauty of Central Park.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing out a bench with his nod.

“Can we walk towards the carousel?” I asked him. He nodded.

“Are you okay?” he asked me, walking.

“I’m good . . . enough,” I said, forcing a smile then dropping my head a bit.

“I regret that it had to be the passing of your mother that finally brought us together,” he said, sounding sincere.

“It was a long journey with Momma and me,” I said. “Nothing was sudden. When I got that call, I felt sorrow, but I wasn’t shocked.” Then silence fell between us, but nature still sang its song.

“I have some questions for you and some information,” he said, facing forward instead of looking into my eyes. “My questions, your answers and the information we share is only for me and you. If you ever repeat it, you’re on your own. I won’t confirm it,” he said.

“Then why are you asking and why are you telling?”

“I’m asking for my own satisfaction. I’m telling, for your satisfaction, safety, and for your freedom,” he said. Then he added, “If you don’t want to answer my questions and you don’t want to know the information, tell me now.” He stopped walking. “I’ll take you back to your car. We’ll go our separate ways and there will be no reason for me to return or to search for you, or to look back any further.” I looked at his handsome profile. Each of his words were spoken with 100 percent certainty. He must feel good about himself. Unlike most of us, he didn’t entertain, or make space for even a speck of self-doubt.

Standing at six-two, I took his words as a threat. He has my twins, so of course me and him needed to stay in touch. I had not “buried” the twins. They never abandoned me. They are innocent in all of this. I knew it would take some time to heal their feelings towards me, their big sister. I wanted to make it happen though, naturally.

“It’s closed,” I said, pointing to the carousel.

A hundred-dollar bill, crisp and clean as though he had made it himself, eased from beneath his gold money clip, exchanged hands, and the carousel began to spin.

“Lift me up, please,” I asked him sweetly. “I’ll feel better if you let me ride. Besides, you paid for it.” I smiled. He placed both hands on my waist and lifted me onto the painted horse, which would normally bore me if Midnight were not the one beside me. He seated me sideways and ladylike. Out of some type of respect, I didn’t throw one leg around the other side of the horse like I would’ve if I were back on the reservation. Midnight leaned against a still horse, facing me, as my horse moved up and down.

“Okay, ask me.” I smiled. “If it’s about me, I’ll tell you honestly. If it’s about anyone else, I won’t.”

“Why have you agreed?” he asked strangely.

“For my own satisfaction, for my safety, and my freedom,” I said, using his words on him. Some carnival music interrupted us. I rode round and round, up then down as he stood, still guarding over me.

“Thank you so much. I feel much calmer. Please help me down,” I said. He did.

Beneath a wide oak whose branches hovered over a small curved bridge that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale, we were paused in heavy conversation. We each held a bottle of water, which he purchased for us.

“This world is confusing, isn’t it?” he said, leaning on the railing thoughtfully.

“Yes.” I definitely agreed.

“And no one is who they say they are, are they?” he asked, but it also sounded like a confession.

“True,” I agreed.