Burning Desire Page 6

  DANTÉ

  The drinks had clearly taken effect as Stacy got to dancing with her new group of friends, but also with me. I wasn’t dancing, just standing there near the railing, sort of holding down our staked claim for when the show began. However, Stacy didn’t mind winding her body in front of me, grinding her ass up against my groin, and provoking all types of attention with her sexual overtones. There came a point when one of the women in the group nearby approached Stacy and asked that she not dance that way because (I overheard) our or ga ni za tion is a respectable one and yada, yada, yada.

  Knowing what I know about New York and the crowd we were blending with, I might’ve intervened and said something harsh like, Mind your business, you prude. But Stacy immediately agreed and didn’t have a problem with the request. And we w ere left to wait for the miniconcert to begin. In the meantime, I was piecing this new piece into the Stacy puzzle: yes, she’s aggressive, she’s a go-getter, a vixen, and (maybe) she has some sort of sleep disorder. But to that I could also add exhibitionist!

  DONNELL WAS okay. But Keyshia Cole had the crowd in stitches when she sang, and man did she sang.

  Ohhh Looooove! Never knew what I was missin’

  I fouw-ouw-ouwed, I found you!

  Admittedly, up until that moment, I had not paid attention to Keyshia’s song, mainly because they played it to death on the radio all damn day long; and I’m always suspicious of songs that get that extra radio play, all day long, when there are so many good songs out there to be enjoyed. But that’s my personal issue. The reality now is that I’m a die-hard Keyshia Cole fan, and most anything she sings I want to get my ears on!

  IN THE truck on our way back to Park Chester, Stacy got more vocal than I’d seen her. And I couldn’t help knowing the Rémy Red had a lot to do with it.

  “That was sooooooooo hot! Danté, you gotta, gotta, gotta let me know when there’s another party like that. Oh my GOD! I actually met a real live actor!”

  I was about to tell Stacy, I get invites to that stuff all the time. But it didn’t make sense to me to open up that can of worms, especially knowing how busy my days are, and how few our exclusive nights are. I’d be cutting into my own social life. And yet, even without my response, Stacy rambled on and on about the party, the girls there, her sexy dance, and how she was gonna get the new Keyshia Cole CD for me. I could hear (and smell) the Rémy in her voice because this (so far as I’d learned) was not the Stacy I knew. Loud. Slurred speech. Redundant like a scratched record.

  For real, my head was starting to pound from all the loud music, and I wanted to say, Would you shut the fuck up?

  And, like a cue card was shown to her, Stacy snuggled closer to me in the truck with her Rémy-rich breath.

  “Baby, please can we go to another party like that? I just loved that party. Please.”

  Now, Stacy was annoying me. I turned up the radio some as we cruised up Broadway, and I tried to let her high die off with time. It seemed to work because (at least in my mind) her loud overtures turned to mumbles. And soon I was ignoring her altogether.

  “Well, if you won’t take me to a party then I’ma just hafta start a party of my own,” said Stacy.

  I don’t know if the two drinks I had were fueling my annoyance, and I don’t know where it came from or why I had this sudden outburst, but out of nowhere I said, “Yeah, go ahead and suck it so you can shut the fuck up.”

  Stacy didn’t even address my harsh tongue. She just pulled out my limp dick and began her steady routine of convincing. Thing is, I really wasn’t in the mood. I became half stiff, and in no shape to be her willing participant. Somewhere near Seventy-fifth Street, just twenty minutes into our drive up Broadway, Stacy came up for air from the weak-ass, unsatisfying head, and she got loud: “You don’t really love me! If you did, you would give me what I want! You don’t know what it’s like!”

  “What? What’re you talkin’ about? I don’t know what what’s like?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like to lose your life and your home and your family!” Stacy said that so she could be heard over the music on Power 105, and she emphasized the life, home, and family with fists pounding on my dashboard.

  To say the least, I was stuck on stupid. How we got from a conversation about partying to this, I’ll never know. What I did know is that this was obviously a different woman than the one I thought I knew; different from the one I was making love to and a world away from the woman who I was ready to sign my life away to— at least that might’ve been the case in my mind, I guess. So, needless to say, my brain put the brakes on all those ideas.

  AT THE red light I turned down Lil Wayne’s groggy, whining voice and said to myself, Wo w. And wow again. I was in a trance. It was just like my Pop always said, only it was playing itself in real time, in living color, right before my very eyes: if it don’t come out in the wash, it’ll come out in the rinse.

  I was dumbfounded by the sudden explosion from Stacy. And before I had a chance to digest even that, she was sobbing in helpless, pain-felt wails, choking on her words, and struggling for air. Is this the woman I’m falling madly in love with? Is this the woman who I bought flowers for yesterday and proclaimed her as the woman of my dreams? The same woman who sleeps in my bed, who I trust with—

  My thoughts rambled, causing my head to pound some more; the banging headache that had started ten minutes earlier was growing stronger. But there was obviously compassion needed here. Her cry for help and the tears that streamed down her face seemed very real. This young woman needed my help and I just couldn’t say no. I couldn’t turn my back on her.

  I pulled over to the nearest parking space. Instinct told me that I was facing Columbus Avenue, on Seventy-eighth Street. Her sobbing slowed, but the impact of it all still had me confused. I could’ve been in Texas somewhere and it wouldn’t have mattered, because Stacy was on this next chapter of blowing my mind and challenging me to a bout with delirium.

  “You wanna talk about it?” I asked calmly. But nothing was calm about my heartbeat and the curiosity that was swelling in my head. Her words were still fresh in my mind, as though someone branded them on my brain with a red-hot branding iron meant for a steer. You don’t know what it’s like to lose your life and your home and your family!

  Again, me with the silent wow.

  “No. I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said. And that just left me stumped. We sat there in the car with the radio off, the silent chill of the AC keeping us comfortable from the terrible heat outdoors. Meanwhile, as the temperature outdoors was near ninety, I guessed that the mental heat inside Stacy had to be overwhelmingly hotter. She had apparently been through some real tragedy that was lingering on her mind all this time; even while our relationship seemed to be normal (relatively), Stacy’s mind was certainly not in order. I found myself rewinding the incidents: the rainy night when we first hooked up outside the bowling alley. The sudden outburst in the bedroom. And now this. But apparently the most unpredictable was yet to come.

  “They shot him,” Stacy sighed. And I watched her, stunned, as the tears began streaming, this time without the sobbing. “They shot him while I was right there in the car. And that changed my whole life.” I was the one to shut up now, as Stacy’s voice trembled. The fear that embraced her words was very real and there was no point in interfering while she was on a roll. And every word was taking her story, her past, and perhaps her future to another level.

  “I ran for my life. They shot at me and I thought I was dead. But I kept running. I kept running. Then I fell into a ditch. And I could hear them still running. They were shouting and looking for me. I was quiet.” Stacy continued her story in short spurts with her voice dropping to a whisper. At this point, I’m thinking, What the fuck, Stacy. Why you whispering? Nobody’s after you now! But she was so into her story, and her stuttering was causing my own heart to beat, and a series of chills ran through my body as I listened. I began to feed into her fear and anxiety. At the same time, the
anticipation around us was thick. On one hand, I couldn’t wait to learn what happened next, while on the other, she couldn’t wait to express herself. And sure enough, as soon as I thought about it, everything began to spill out— her story and the food and drink for the evening.

  “Oh shit,” I blurted. “Open the door— the door!” Thank God Stacy was alert enough to open the door and she poked her head out just in time to let the vomit spew out and onto the street. I handed her a bottle of water from the stash I always keep on the backseat, so that was convenient, regardless of how warm the water was. I encouraged her to take some in and spit. She did. And now, more than ever, I felt ashamed for the previous half hour, the way I had talked to her, treated her, and the lack of caring I’d exhibited. I could only avoid eye contact to keep her from seeing my pitiful expression. Nevertheless, Stacy apparently wanted to get her story out.

  “I WAS left out there in the woods, near the expressway, and I had to hitchhike home with just my torn blouse, and my leg and hip was hurtin’ real bad. But I’m not really c a r i n’ about t hat ‘cau se I wa s just g lad to be a live, you k now? And as soon as I got home the po lice came and picked me up, like I’m the one who shot Darrell.”

  I was left to fill in the blanks here, guessing that “him” referred to a past boyfriend. And “they” were obviously upset enough to shoot her ex-boyfriend? But was the “they” she spoke of referring to the police? She continued and I kept my yap shut, trying to pull the pieces together.

  “They had me in the police station for like twenty hours or something. Wouldn’t even give me a ride home. Plus, my purse was lost somewhere back where they shot Darrell, so I had no money.…”

  Okay. So Darrell must be her ex.

  “But I swear I never said a word to the police ‘bout the shooter, or nobody. I ain’t no snitch!”

  Alrighty then, I told myself in response to her convictions. Wondering what that had to do with the picture. And then, even that question was answered.

  “So why the hell his people gotta come after me? I mean, I ain’t do nothin’ but love that man. I gave him the best of me. And, I mean, I can understand he dead and all, but dag, cain’t they go after the real shootahs?” Stacy’s slang was slipping here and there, and it reminded me of when we first met in the elevator. I’m from down south— just outside of downtown ‘Lanta. But I’m stayin’ up here with Auntie for a while.

  And so much had transpired since then: how she grew on me, how we shared the most intimate moments of my life, exploring areas, positions, and other things that I’d rather not think about, especially now. And we came this far to finally land where? Here? Someone who shot her boyfriend in ’Lanta? I felt like I’d been bamboozled; introduced to this woman’s representative who initially put on a good show and introduced me to something so incredible. But now that I suddenly found out so much more, I felt as if I had reached square one. I had overlooked all the red flags and warnings just because (on the surface) this woman seemed so amazing. And now I’d come to find that there was so much more pain to bare. And then I realized I spoke to soon. She was still spitting up the story.…

  “But, his sisters ‘n’ them came to my house with weapons. I knowed they had weapons ‘cuz you don’t just roll up on somebody’s house like that, ‘cuz they might have a gun layin’ somewhere. So I went out. I mean, ain’t nobody gonna threaten me and my children—”

  And there it was: the next level of the hot ghetto mess, southern-style. Stacy had a life somewhere in Georgia with a boyfriend, kids— Oh my God, I thought. And I was coin-cidentally trying to swallow how deep this all had gotten. Meanwhile she’s droppin’ all these revelations on me and I’m thinking how I’d become so comfortable with Stacy that I had stopped using a rubber when we fucked. Damn. I had surrendered that safety meas ure after considering how close we’d become and how into her I was— as if I wanted to prove my commitment to her, or something. But now, as it turned out, there was nothing comfortable about us at all. We were a lie? No. Maybe she was a lie, because (for the most part) I kept it real. Expressed my true feelings. I thought about how we’d met and how quickly we’d lain together. I thought about her spontaneity, never questioning how a girl so young could know so much and know how to make a man feel so damn good. Thing is, I never questioned it because I was always in the heat of the moment. I wasn’t thinking about possible diseases because the image Stacy projected was so picture-perfect. Her look, the way she kept herself; from her toes to the hair on her head seemed to be in perfect order. Her body was bangin’, and her face was so beautifully sculpted. And here I was, on my daily grind, minding my own business, and she just walks into my life, into my house, and into the kitchen, where she had full access to the cookie jar, and my cookies.

  Jesus. And I gave her that real dick, too. Not some one-night-stand dick.

  I remembered how I’d surrendered to this woman and held nothing back. I remembered how perfect we had fit, me inside her, her in my embrace. Even when she cried on those occasions during sex, it encouraged the determination in me to be thorough and memorable and intense. And now that I knew better, I wondered just how thorough I was to not check this woman’s background. How intense could I be to let her in my house without securing my valuables. And how ultimately memorable was it of me to be so fucking blind! Was it really that Mrs. Singletary was over-protective of her niece, trying to protect her virginity? Or was it more the truth that her aunt was hiding her and protecting her from certain attack?

  And I could not help but remember when I served her breakfast in bed, and that moment when she put on the whole Sweet Polly Purebread act—can a lil’ ol’ girl like me offer you an apology? You just came and scooped lil’ ol’ me up off the big bad streets of Haah-lem, and I’m ever so grateful.… So, you mind, Mista Garrett, if I just show you how grateful I am?

  But, now that the pieces of Stacy’s puzzle were coming together, I felt like I was the one who was scooped up. And that I was the sweet one, and just like she mentioned: a sucka. Thought I found me a jar of candy, and come to find out that it might all be poisoned except for the ones at the top.

  I felt I needed to say something at this point, to interrupt her flow, because she was encouraging me to jump out of my own car and to make a run for it.

  CONTINUING WITH her drama, Stacy rattled off the details.

  “So I come out to the porch and Darrell’s sisters and I are talkin, ‘cuz they wanna know if I set him up. I’m like, no, I loved Darrell, and I know deep down they knew it. But them heffas was lookin’ for a scapegoat ‘cuz, one, they ain’t got no idea who done it, and two, I ain’t no snitch. Then the short one starts talkin’ shit, like she was gonna beat my ass even if I didn’t set they brotha up. And she already got a beer in her hand and she throws that shit at me. Her big sista like three hundred pounds or somethin’, so she’s holdin’ shorty back. At the same time, I already got my razor ready, so whateva. And then I blacked out.”

  The curiosity showed on my face, and Stacy went on explaining.

  “One’a they brothas was behind me and I didn’t know. The doctors said I got hit with somethin’ hard. See?”

  Wow. And there’s that next level. Stacy dipped her head and parted the top of her hair to show me a three-inch scar. The hair had grown back where the scar was, but I could sure see that there w ere once stitches.

  “The doctors said I came this close to dyin’. And I prayed to God that my neighbors came by to check on my kids, ‘cuz—” At some point during this rapid-fire explanation, Stacy’s tears had dried up, and that empowered me some. I wasn’t feeling as sorry as I had. But when she got to the part about the neighbors and her kids, Stacy’s tears streamed again. And through her hoarse cry she proclaimed, “Danté, I love them children with all my heart. I swear on a stack’a Bibles I’d do anything for my children. Anything!” She reached out and put her arms around me and I accepted.

  “It’s gonna be alright, baby. Calm down. It’s gonna be fine,” I said, unsur
e how deep in trouble she was or what the solutions might be. I just knew that holding her and supporting her at this moment was important for her sanity and well-being. Still, hugging her felt a whole lot different than it had hours earlier, for sure.

  “I swear on a stack’a Bibles, Danté.” Stacy’s cries were muffled against my chest and her tears soaked into my shirt.

  “Where did all this take place, Stacy?”

  “Down in ’Lanta. And after I came out the hospital I heard the city come and got my children. And plus, I couldn’t make no money on account’a my injuries, so I was losin’ my house. I had like forty thousand in equity that I built up over two years. But they don’t care. Them banks will put you out quick down there if you’re even thirty days late.…”

  Damn. I thought about all the stories up in the Bronx, all the tenant issues and the whole mess with evictions and marshals and landlord blues. I knew of at least one tenant, some lady who I’ll never forget, played the system lovely and managed to live rentfree for a year. I know all about it since I was the one called in to do the cleanup after they finally threw her ass out. It was nice pay for me since I had to do everything from trash removal to removing the nicotine from the walls and a whole bunch of other stuff she neglected, almost ruining the residence. But such was the life in Park Chester: you had your good ones and your bad ones. I just know if I ever own property, I’ll be looking hard and thinking twice before renting to anyone.

  “… And while they doin’ the foreclosure, I’m steady fightin’ the city, try’na get my children back. Plus, them bitches still try’na bring drama, sendin’ messages around town how they lookin’ for me, and how if they find me they gonna body me. And then”— Stacy’s tears stopped again, hitting me with the realization that there was some kind of off/on switch in her brain—”to add to that, I got a message that them dudes that actually shot Darrell was lookin’ for me. So I was just the most wanted bitch in ‘Lanta, knowwhatI’msayin? But the courts and the social workers and them finally agreed to let my children go if I had somebody to help. So that’s where they at now: with my momma. She got a nice house up in Lawrenceville. They would never think to look there. Too far up north, away from the ‘hood.”