All Hail the Queen (6 page)

Grinding her teeth, Naeema locked eyes with him again. Their faces were just inches apart. “Let me out,” she said, her teeth clenched.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“None of your fucking business . . . that's what,” she said. “Nothing about me is your business.”

“How many times have I heard that?” he asked, his voice mocking.

“Let's fix it where you don't have to hear that or anything else I have to say ever again, Tank,” she snapped. “Go file the papers and be on your way.”

They hadn't spoken in weeks and their most recent attempt to reunite had ended in a fiery argument over . . . over . . .

She couldn't even remember. The thing was a disagreement over something as dumb as the time a TV show came on and could quickly escalate to them bringing up old arguments and old hurts. Molehill to mountain. They argued just as hard as they loved and that seesaw of making up and breaking up continued.

It had to stop.

“You aight?” he asked, his voice deep and strong.

“I'm straight,” she said, her voice cool. “Just as straight as I've been since the last time I spoke to you.”

His body stiffened. “You told me to stay the hell out of your life and that's what I did,” he reminded her.

She thought he would never let her down. He would always come when he was called—whether by her or the nosy old man who lived in her basement. Until last night.

“Fuck you,” Naeema said, reaching a fist to her mouth to pull the end of the ties of the boxing glove with her teeth.

He grabbed her hand and began to undo the ties for her.

Naeema snatched her hand away and hit him soundly in the arm. “I don't need you for nothing,” she snapped.

Tank's eyes got bright with his anger. “Man, fuck you, Naeema,” he said.

Her eyes flared and she hit him again. And again. And again.

Releasing a breath filled with all his aggravation, Tank grabbed her wrists in each of his hands and pushed them behind her back. “Stop,” he said, his voice low.

She hated the tightness in her throat and the tears filling her eyes. She bit her bottom lip and fought against him.

“
Stop
, Na,” he said.

She looked up to lock eyes with him. “You didn't even show up last night after the robbery,” she said softly, her voice filled with disappointment and hurt.

Love could strengthen or weaken you and in that moment Naeema felt defenseless.

“When do you not show up for me?” she accused.

Tank looked incredulous. “When I get tired of you telling me you don't need me, Naeema,” he admitted.

She looked away from him. The truth was hard to face. She clung to her independence like a motherfucker, but she knew he was there as her safety net. There were times during one of their long separations that she knew he was seeing another woman but she would hop on the phone and call him from that woman's bed if there was something she needed—be it as simple as changing a fucking lightbulb to fucking her. But she always made it clear she didn't need him.

“We got back together and you wouldn't even move back home or let me move in with you,” he said. “Hell, you barely wanted me to spend the night.”

Oh yeah. That's what that last argument was about.
Naeema closed her eyes and her lashes lightly brushed the tops of her cheeks.

“I had one of the fellas patrol the neighborhood and
I called Sarge every hour to check on you,” he said. “Today I went over while you was at work and got some fingerprints.”

Naeema dropped her head against his sweat-soaked shirt. Tank.
Her
Tank. He was
that
dude. “I hated knowing somebody was in my house and mixing all through my shit,” she admitted. “I barely slept all night and when I did I had crazy-ass dreams.”

He released her arms.

“And every time I woke up I would hug the pillows and sit and wish you were there,” she admitted, as he removed the gloves from her hands. “I was so pissed and so fucking hurt you didn't come to me. My whole day has been fucked.”

“And that's why you beat that girl's ass like that,” he asked with a half-smile.

“Mostly.”

“Good thing I came by to drop off my ad looking for a new guard for my team,” Tank said. “I trained you too good.”

Naeema nodded solemnly as she looked at him. Her breath came in these little-ass gasps that mirrored the steady, fast pace of her heart. Quick and shallow. “Tank.”

His eyes dropped down to take in her partly open lips before shifting to take in the heat of her eyes. “No,” he said, lifting his hands to her shoulders to gently push her back a bit from him.

“Tank,” she said again, licking her lips and tasting the salty sweat on her skin as she reached out and grabbed the damp front of his T-shirt in her fist. She laughed as the back of his sneakers hit the door as he tried to retreat from her. She had him between a soft and a hard place.

With a flirty look at him she turned and pressed her ass back against him before bending over to grab her ankles as she grinded against him as the steam continued to press against their bodies. Naeema felt her nature rising. It had been so long since she had some. Even the feel of the sweat dripping down the valleys of her body was turning her on. Her nipples were hard. Her clit was aching. Her pussy was wet.

Tank had no choice but to prepare to be sexed.

She turned and got on her knees. His hard dick was pressed against his shorts and eye level with her.

“I'm seeing someone, Na.”

“So,” she said, reaching under the hem of his shorts to stroke the smooth skin of his hard dick.

Tank had one of those big, pretty dicks. Evenly proportioned. One smooth color. Perfect shiny tip. Thick. Long. Even his balls hung just right.

He caught her hands in his just as she was about to free his dick from his shorts and stroke that pretty motherfucker with her tongue. “She's out in the truck,” he added quickly.

Naeema froze.

Say what now?

Naeema stood up. “Wow. Curved by my own husband,” she said.

Tank reached for her.

She sidestepped his touch. “Can I go enjoy my workout now?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Na.”

“Please. Ain't this shit embarrassing enough for me?” she snapped.

Tank dropped his head and sidestepped to avail her of opening the door to the steam room to exit.

Naeema walked quickly down the hall toward the two main rings. “Sorry,” she shouted to Ashley, who was on the treadmill, as she sprinted past and headed straight out the door.

With one look back over her shoulder to see Tank coming down the long hall, Naeema upped her speed to a full run to reach his blacked-out Mercedes Sprinter van. She opened the door and hopped up into the driver's seat just as she saw Tank reach the door of the gym.
Fuck youuuu
.

Naeema allowed herself just a moment to let it marinate that the woman sitting in the passenger seat was a white woman.
Really, Tank?

“Who are you? Is this a carjacking?” the pretty blonde asked.

Naeema locked the doors and reversed out of the parking spot before accelerating forward down the wide alley. She barely checked traffic before she made a right to enter the flow of it.

“Excuse me?” the woman said with attitude reaching over to tap Naeema's arm with a long nail painted bubble-gum pink.

Naeema gave her a sidelong glance that was thorough enough for the woman to quickly remove her finger. “Look here, Barbie.”

“My name's not—”

“I'm Tank's wife, Naeema, and that fact makes this van just as much mine as it is his—”

“His wife,” she exclaimed.

“That's right. I don't really care who you are or what you are or what you want to be. I only have one question for you. Where do you want me to drop you off: at home, the nearest bus stop, or a cabstand because your time chillaxing with
my
husband ceases today. Clear?”

She nodded and bit the tip of her nail. “Uhm, cabstand please.”

“Smart girl,” Naeema said, before steering the luxury passenger van toward Newark Penn Station.

4

B
ah-dup
.

Naeema activated the alarm on Tank's Sprinter, which she parked in her driveway. She felt anxious at the stunt she pulled. She was curious as fuck what his reaction would be. She knew he was probably blowing her cell phone up but it, along with her keys and street clothes, were still in her locker.
Fuck it.

She wasn't worried about him being stranded. He would just call one of his workers or use friends to bring him one of several vehicles he owned. Or his own key to the bike she left behind—the bike he purchased for her for one of their anniversaries. She knew he would not leave the bike at the gym. Nor would he dare mess with calling the police and she was sure he chilled once he spoke to Blondie to make sure she was alive and well.

“BeckySusanMeghan is lucky she got a ride and not an ass whipping,” she muttered as she jogged up the stairs.

The loud blare of someone laying on their car horn caused her to stop and look over her shoulder. A white Cadillac did a slow roll up the street as its driver, a light-skinned dude with cornrows, leaned out the window showing off a mouthful of gold grills.

Naeema glanced down at the sports bra and leggings
that served no real purpose in covering her. She met his leer and he finally faced forward with a shake of his head meant to compliment her and then accelerated forward. She wasn't embarrassed by her body or the attention. She was well aware she had the kind of body selfies and bathroom pics on Instagram were made for. First J-Lo and then Beyoncé made fat asses popular for mainstream America but brothas, Latinos, and country white boys
been
down.

She shifted her eyes over to the apartment building where Mya lived. Both the porch and the window were empty. Last night, in between dodging a hundred and one questions from the nosy teen, Naeema had quizzed her to push forward memories of the burglar. She had felt relief and guilt after finally urging her back across the street to her own place. The relief? Mya talked too damn much and asked way too many questions. The guilt? She wasn't blind to the sadness the girl carried. It was there in her eyes, in the way she carried herself, and in the way she so instantly clung to Naeema.

In her life she knew that kind of sadness her damn self all too well.

With one last look she turned her head and continued up the stairs. She opened the metal mailbox attached to the brick wall and removed her mail.

“Shit,” Naeema swore as she reached for the doorknob. Her keys and her cell phone were back at the gym.

So busy trying to fuck Tank that I fucked myself.

She hit her knuckles against the door.

Knock-knock.

She shook her head, knowing it was a complete waste of time. Sarge would never hear her down in the basement
and the doorbell was just one of a gazillion things on her list to have repaired.

Shit.

Naeema rattled the keys in her hand as she jogged back down the stairs with her mind set on knocking on the back door until Jesus carried her home or Sarge was able to hear her over his loud television playing in the basement. She was halfway down the stairs when she turned the keys over in her hand and looked at them.

How could I forget?

She smiled as she recalled a clear memory of her pushing the silver key across the kitchen table with the pointed tip of her acrylic nail to Tank sitting next to her as they ate breakfast before heading out to work. He had eyed her in surprise before nodding and then leaning over to press a kiss to the back of her neck. Her invite. His acceptance. Their compromise to his request for them to live together again.

The concession didn't last very long.

But there, nestled between the keys to his Harley Davidson and the Sprinter were three house keys. She turned and headed back up the steps to the front door, trying first one key and then another.

Click.

The relief felt good as she turned the knob and lifted the door before pushing it open with a nudge from her bare shoulder. Going from the outdoors inside offered her body no relief. Even the house seemed to sweat, letting off the smell of old wood. The heat pressed back against her body as she walked through it to turn on the portable air-conditioning unit. The battle between a lower light bill and coming home to a cool house was nonstop.

She flipped through the stack of envelopes as she stayed posted up in front of the AC. “The fuck?” she said, holding up a bright red envelope addressed to Ezra Manigault.

She had no idea who or what Ezra was.

Setting what looked to be an envelope containing a card onto the mantelpiece, Naeema continued shuffling through the bills and mailers as she crossed the scuffed, faded hardwood floor to the kitchen. Pushing the door opened she sat the stack on the counter along with Tank's keys. The door leading down into the basement was slightly ajar. “Sarge,” she called out, washing her hands at the sink before she opened the fridge.