Retribution (23 page)

I grit my teeth.
That bitch!
“Yes, it's true, Nana. I fired her.” She wants to know why. I tell her that I'd rather not talk about it; that it's between her and me.

“Well, I pray the two of you work it out. All you have is each other.” I roll my eyes in my head.
Psst. Please. After what I've just heard, I'm over that bitch!
“You know I raised you and Felecia better than to turn on each other. The two of you have always been like sisters.”

“Well, that's changed Nana. Felecia and I stopped being like
sisters
the day she stopped being loyal. Did she tell you that?”

“No, she didn't. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that
you
do right by her. You know better, Pasha. Felecia has always been a troubled girl. And she's always needed a little extra care. You know she had it hard not knowing her father and then her mother—God rest her soul—being strung out on that stuff. I'm telling you the devil stays busy.”

Yeah, Nana. The devil was busy sucking Jasper's dick behind my fucking back!

“It's not right what you doing to that poor child, Pasha. You know she's never been too right in the head after all the things she seen her mother do growing up.”

“Ohmygod, Nana!”
I shriek in disbelief. All my life Nana has taken up for Felecia's miserable-ass and has made excuses for her. There's always been some kind of justification or rationalization for that bitch! She's sad. She's misunderstood. She just needs to be loved. She needs more attention. Mmmph. Blah, blah, blah…

And what the fuck about me?

“Are you serious right now? Felecia's a grown-as”—I catch myself before I finish the rest—“woman. She's not some little girl who doesn't know what she says or does. I know she had it hard. I had it hard, too, Nana.”

“Your mother wasn't a drug addict, Pasha. And you had your father in your life. Felecia didn't.”

I frown. “Nana, please. You don't think I had it hard having a mother who wanted to be the next kingpin's trophy instead of a mother to me. Or a father who'd rather sling dope and rob people on the streets instead of raising his daughter. Okay, so he bought me nice things and made sure I had whatever I wanted and needed. Still,
he
wasn't raising me.
You
were. They left me, Nana. I was abandoned, too. But you don't see me making excuses for what I do as an adult. Nana, Felecia's choices have nothing to do with what she's been through as a child. And if they do, shame on her. Because at the end of the day, she is still responsible for what she says and does as I am. And like it or not, she
will
be held accountable; period.”

“Is this how I raised you, Pasha? To be spiteful and talk fresh to me? Is this what being high-and-mighty, living out there in that mansion, has done to you? Have you turn your back on your family and disrespect
me?
I put a roof over your head and fed and clothed you and made sure you had braces to fix them raggedy teeth so you could have that beautiful smile and
this
is how you speak to me.
My
God is a mighty good God and He leads me in a path of righteousness so
before
I let the devil take my tongue, I'm going to lift you up in prayer. I know the God I serve is a merciful God. And the devil is a hot
dang
lie. Oooh, I'm hotter than grits with you right now, Pasha. You got me cussing.”

I'm going to stomp Felecia's ass!

“Nana, I'm sorry if I spoke to you disrespectfully. You know I love you and would never intentionally be disrespectful to you, or get you to
cussing.”
I shake my head. If I weren't so pissed right now, I'd actually be laughing at Nana for thinking saying
dang
is
cussing.
“Nana, I'm just sick of Felecia always playing the victim. She created this mess between us. And quite frankly she's going to need a whole lot more than prayer to get out of it.”

“Mmmph. You almost made me take it to you, Pasha. I thank God
every day
for keeping me anchored in His word. I almost went back to my old heathen ways on you, baby. Don't speak to me in that fashion again, Pasha. I
know
I raised you better than that.”

In an instant, I feel like a child again being scolded. “Yes, Nana, you did. And I apologize. I love you.”

“Mmmph. Sister Peterson is outside blowing the horn for me. I love you, too. And remember to always keep God first. He's the
only
one who can't help see you through it.”

We talk a few more seconds, then end the call. I set my cell on my desk.
I can't believe that fucking bitch Felecia! Anytime shit goes wrong in her life, that bitch is always the victim. She can't ever take responsibility for her shit.

I take a few deep breaths to steady my nerves, picking up my cell and scrolling through my call log. I force myself to keep the edge out of my voice when she answers.
Reel this bitch in!

“Hello?”

“Felecia? Hey. It's me. Pasha. It's time we clear the air.”

“Yes it is,” she says, letting out a loud sigh. “I'm glad you're finally ready to talk so I can explain my side to you and we can put this crazy mess behind us.”

I bite down on my lip. Keep from calling her every
bitch
in the
book. “Don't get excited. I'm still not fucking with you. But, if nothing else, I don't want to spend my life harboring grudges, especially toward you.”

Yeah, right!

“Me either, Pasha. I know I might have done and said a few things I—”

I cut her ass off. “Look, I didn't call to get into all that. If we're going to talk, we need to do it face to face.”

“I agree. When would you like to meet? Today?” I tell her ass no. Tell her I'll meet her Sunday night. Nine
P.M.

Here at the salon.

Just her and me.

Alone.

I disconnect on her ass, then hop up from my desk and race into the bathroom, tossing my guts up into the sink. I start dry-heaving.
Fucking dirty, backstabbing bitch!

In the still of the night clarity comes. And revelations become reality…

One, one-thousand…two, one-thousand…three, one-thousand… four, one-thousand…

Counting in my head is how I can guesstimate how long it takes for Calm One to come back. It takes almost ten minutes before the door opens and he comes down carrying a bag of things. He drops the bag to the ground, then squats down in front of me so that he's at eye level with me. He narrows his eyes. I've seen those eyes somewhere. I blink, take in their intensity. Where do I know this nigga from?

“I'm gonna untie ya feet, first. Then ya hands. If you try any dumb shit, the goons are gonna be down here to handle you, if I don't empty this lead in you, first. You understand?”

I nod. But I am also smart enough to know that right now, killing me is far from the plan. Maiming me, perhaps, but definitely not putting me in a body bag. My only saving grace is that whomever is behind this, wants me alive.

“Aiight, cool.” He pulls out a knife and slices through the tape around my ankles. I stretch and open my legs out. He walks in back of me, releasing my hands. I wince when I attempt to move my arms. They ache from being behind my back for so long. I can't believe I have been sitting in a puddle of my own piss. I feel sick to my stomach. A ton of questions are running through my head. I think if I can keep him talking that
somehow I'll be able to pick up on his voice and figure out who he is. My gut tells me these niggas are all familiar with me in some kind of way. He tells me to hold my hands out in front of me. I do. Then he snatches my freedom away by placing a set of handcuffs on me.

He tells me to stand up. But my legs are too wobbly to hold my own weight. I stumble. He grabs me and walks me toward the bathroom. There's a small sink, toilet and glass-encased shower stall. He tells me to take off my clothes. I stare at him.

“Yo, take them shits off. What, you think I haven't seen a buncha ass and titties before?”

“That's not it,” I say, lifting my arms, showing him the obvious. “I'm cuffed so taking my shirt and bra off will pose a problem.”

He shakes his head. “Yeah, you got a point.” He walks over, pulling out his knife. It's a dagger of sorts. He slides the handle of it between his lips, using his mouth to hold it while he unbuttons my jeans. He smells me—pissy, and shitty, but he doesn't flinch. He pulls my pants down over my hips, then my soiled panties. I am so relieved to have them shitty drawers off that I don't give any thought to the fact that this nigga is undressing me. He takes my soiled garments and puts them in a garbage bag. Then he removes the blade from his mouth. “Stand still,” he says as he slices through my four hundred-dollar designer blouse. He cuts my bra straps, then slices through the front of it. My titties sway freely. And he locks his eyes on them. Subconsciously, he licks his lips.

I am standing in front of him naked, wearing only a pair of handcuffs around my wrists. I glance over at the toilet. Tell him I need to use it. He stands there, waiting.

“Well,” I say, hoping he'd get the hint and step out.

“Well, what?” he asks. “If you need to use the toilet, then do it.” Noticing he doesn't intend on giving me any privacy, I squat over the bowl and take a piss. I reach for the toilet paper and attempt to wipe my
privates. The idea of wiping my pussy from the back to the front makes me sick. So I pat dry my box, instead. He tells me to turn on the shower, then walks over and hands me a washcloth and bar of Dial soap. I look at him.

“How do you expect me to wash myself clean with my hands cuffed?”

“Either I wash you, or you figure out how to wash ya'self. Those are you only two options,” he tells me, leaning up against the door. He can't seem to keep his eyes from roaming my body. When the shower starts to steam, I pull open the glass door, then step in. The hot water feels good against my body. He watches me struggle to wash between my legs. He walks over, opens the shower door, and tells me to hold out my arms. I do. He unlocks one cuff, releasing my hands.

“Thank you,” I say, quickly turning back to face the water. I can feel him soaking in my nakedness. I lean my head back, close my eyes and let the steamy stream of water beat against my neck and chest. I lather up and scrub and scrub and scrub until my skin feels raw and the hot water burns. I am grateful he allows me all the time I need.

When I am finished, he hands me a towel. I dry off, wrap it around my body, then step out. He keeps his eyes on me, handing me a bottle of Tease scented body lotion by Victoria's Secret. When he hands me a Victoria's Secret white, lacy cut-out halter teddy, I frown. “Why are you giving me this to put on?” I ask.

“Yo, ma,” he says, sighing. “You either put the shit on, or go naked; your choice.”

I drop my towel and shimmy my way into it. I'm surprised it's a perfect fit. The nigga is having a hard time keeping his eyes off my curves. Despite my baby bump, my body can still stop traffic. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to hurry up,” he huffs, tearing his eyes away from my titties.

“How would you feel if someone had your sister or niece or daughter
tied up somewhere and she was being sexually assaulted? Would you want someone to have enough heart to let her go?”

He turns his head for a moment, then brings his attention back to me. “Hold out your hand.” I do. And he re-cuffs it. “Come on.” He leads me out of the bathroom, then walks me over to the other side of the basement. There's a small room with a black leather sofa bed and small flat-screen TV. There's a set of sheets and a blanket sitting on a chair. “Make ya bed,” he tells me. “If you wanna get outta here, tomorrow's gonna be ya big day to shine. You perform well, you get ya wish.”

“And if I don't?”

“Then you stay until you get it right.”

“And what is it ya'll gonna have me do?”

He laughs. “Don't play stupid, ma. Do what you do best—suck dick. What else?”

I am too fucking exhausted to respond. I take the sheets and make up the sofa, then lie on it, pulling the blanket up over me. As bad as I want to stay awake, as scared as I am that someone might try to rape me while I'm sleeping, I am having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I lift my head and see the same nigga sitting in a chair blocking the door. He must sense my worry.

“It's all good, ma. No one's gonna fuck wit' you tonight. Get ya rest, baby. You're gonna need it.”

• • •

My eyes pop open as pieces of my dream that awoke me start to surface. The tattoo! Why hadn't I remembered it before now?

The sleek panther tatted on Calm One's shoulder!

Where have I seen that tattoo? I know I've seen it before. But where? I won't be able to rest until I find out who you are, Calm One.

It's almost midnight. My heart is pounding in my chest. I am
coated in a film of sweat. I think I hear something. A noise. Even though I have a security system—with infrared cameras, motion detectors, window sensors, and vault doors that look like regular doors that prevent anyone from kicking in my doors—being in this big-ass house alone has my nerves on edge.

I feel for the Baretta I sleep with under my pillow and grab it, then sit up, placing my feet on the floor, then turning on the light on the nightstand. I grip the gun and sit quietly, listening, waiting. For what, I have no idea.