Later that night, I crawled into that tub and soaked myself in water so hot I should have got first-degree burns. G had brutalized me in the past, but never had he showed me out in public, and I realized that if G could let another man, even his son, see my naked ass in his presence, then his feelings for me had taken a serious turn. There was no telling what he had planned for me next, but between Jimmy working the cut room and selling drugs, and me sexing Gino on the regular, either I was gonna take G out, or he was definitely gonna kill me.
I was so scared of my thoughts that I wanted to put my head under the soapy bathwater and just stay like that forever. As bad as G had hurt me, he was my comfort zone and he took care of me and Jimmy. I’d never been on my own before, and I was scared of us ending up on the streets.
A few minutes later I heard G on the phone. He was going back and forth about times and connecting flights, so I knew he talking to someone at the airline.
I grabbed a washcloth and acted like I was soaping myself when he bammed on the door and stuck his head inside. “Get the fuck out, Juicy,” he told me. “So I can wash my dick. We leaving here tonight at nine, so pack your shit and get ready to roll.”
Our vacation was over.
The trip home from Hawaii took much longer than the one going there had taken. G wouldn’t even look at me, let alone speak to me, and Gino got so mad when he saw the bruises on my face and the marks my panties had made around my neck, I thought he was gonna mess around and get us found out.
“Naw, Juicy,” he said when G was at the counter settling our hotel bill. It was all I could do not to throw myself all over him, to hold his hands and press myself into his strong chest, but I knew better. “That punk motherfucker did my mother the same way.”
“Sshhhh.” I put my finger to my lip, knowing G was probably listening with one ear. “I’m all right,” I whispered, hoping to calm his ass down even though he could see the welts on my face, arms, and legs, and my back felt like a horse had stomped me.
I could see the rage in Gino’s eyes, and for the first time I felt bad about stepping between a father and his son. Yeah, G wasn’t shit when it came to handling his business with a woman, but that didn’t mean I had the right to bring drama between him and his son.
We were quiet all the way to the airport. G had called for a limo to pick us up at the hotel and we rode in that shit like we were going to a funeral. I tried not to look at Gino too often because every time I did, it looked like he was grilling G. He had already got funky and called himself messing with G’s head when he climbed in the back of the whip.
“Damn, Juicy,” he said, shaking his head. “Look like you fell off that table last night. If I didn’t know no better I’d say those were fist prints on your face, but wouldn’t no real man beat his woman like that, so it musta been that table that got a hold of you.” Then he turned and stared at G, who stared right the fuck back at him.
It didn’t matter how comfortable the seats were on the plane. I was so sore it was torture to stay on my ass in one spot all that time. Every few hours I had to get up and stretch my body, then walk to the rear bathroom and back before I could sit back down. I managed to hide my face with a pair of shades and a Donna Karan cap pulled down low over my forehead, but it still felt like everyone could see my red and purple welts and I thought they all knew that my ass had gotten kicked.
I was happy as hell when we landed in New York. City air had never smelled so good, but since I was still at the top of G’s shit list, I could barely enjoy it. Pacho picked us up at the airport and I was disappointed to see that Jimmy wasn’t with him.
“Where’s my brother?” I asked him as he loaded our bags into the ride.
“At work,” G answered for him, and the way he said it shut me right the hell up.
But shut up didn’t mean backed up. Back at the apartment, G told me to unpack his stuff while him and Gino made a run down to the Spot. Gino gave me a look on his way out the door, but I didn’t even acknowledge it. G could beat my ass all day long, if he wanted to. I was still gonna find a way to get Jimmy out of that damn Spot, and even though she wasn’t supposed to talk to me no more, I knew just the person who could help me.
Chapter Eighteen
As soon as G and Gino were gone I jumped in the shower, then got dressed real quick and caught the first train heading to Harlem. I stood outside looking up at Dicey’s window and getting a crook in my neck for ten long minutes, but my girl didn’t answer the bell and she didn’t look out the nosey Susan either. Aggravated, I slammed my hand against the whole panel of bells, and finally somebody buzzed me in. I didn’t even bother to hold my breath going up those pissy stairs. I hit them by threes and was on the second floor before my feet had touched the floor good.
The television was turned up loud and Dicey’s door was sitting open, and for some reason something gripped me.
“Hey,” I hollered toward the doorway, trying to sound cheery even though my mouth was dry. “Damn, Dice. You must think you down South or somewhere, chilling up in here with your door wide open.”
She was sitting in her leopard-skin chair, and from where I was standing I could see both the TV and the back of her head. One of her hands was dangling over the armrest of the chair but she didn’t even turn around to see who I was.
“Dicey,” I said, walking into the apartment. I saw a pack of strawberry Twizzlers sitting on an end table and slid two out the pack. “Don’t you know how to close your door? This is Harlem, baby! Your ass laying up here sleeping while niggers downstairs scheming on moving all your shit out on a U-Haul.”
I was sticking the Twizzlers in my mouth when I smelled it. Blood. It had been a long time, but some things you just never forget.
“Dicey?”
I peered around that big old chair and my stomach lurched like a roller coaster. I dropped down to my knees and stuck my fist into my mouth to keep from screaming, biting down hard on my knuckles as the tears rushed from my eyes.
Blood was everywhere. Dripping from her mouth, covering her shirt, soaking into the carpet on the floor. “Dicey!” I whispered, terror damn near paralyzing me as I stretched my hands out toward her. All of a sudden I was right back in that pissy bed with cold air blowing through the room and the smell of gunpowder and shit choking me. No, not Dicey.
I wanted to shake her, to call 911, to grab something and press it up to her neck and mouth to stop the bleeding, but a part of me also noted the glazed look in her eyes, the bruises all over her yellow face, and the way her left hand was clutched stiff and bloody against her chest.
“Oh my God,” I moaned, hugging her limp body. I pulled her toward me, pressing her face into my stomach, crying and holding her cold stiff hand as I rocked her back and forth. I didn’t give a damn about the blood that was soaking into my clothes, I just wanted my girlfriend back.
WHY? WHY? WHY? I cried. Dicey didn’t have no enemies! Everybody loved her! She was cool with everybody and their grandmomma! My mind just couldn’t comprehend it. The house didn’t look robbed, and I just couldn’t seen anybody having this much beef with Dicey.
All I could do was stand there crying and holding her and rocking her back and forth, and it took me a minute to realize that Dicey was clutching something in her hand. Something soft, and somehow still warm. I uncurled her fingers and stared, my eyes bugging almost out of my head when I realized just what it was she was holding.
It was her tongue.