When Somebody Loves You Back. Mary B. Morrison

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СКАЧАТЬ as he pleaded, “Baby, please.”

      “Uh-uh. No, you won’t cum without me. Don’t walk away, baby. I can see he wants me. Don’t you?” Fancy pleaded, following Darius into the bedroom.

      If she only knew he needed her more than he wanted her. “Not tonight. I’ve got a headache. In fact, get me some aspirin.” Could headache medicine cure a dick-ache? Probably not but it couldn’t hurt.

      Entering the bedroom behind Darius, Fancy stopped in the doorway and pointed.

      Ignoring Fancy, Darius entered the bathroom, pissed, scrubbed his hands clean, then retrieved the red and white bottle from the medicine cabinet. Antiinflammatory. Exactly what he needed.

      Following him, Fancy stood in the bathroom doorway and asked, “Darius, why is your bed messed up?”

      “I guess the maids didn’t come.”

      Aligning the arrow on the top with the notch on the bottom, Darius shook two tablets into his palm, filled a mouthwash cup with faucet water, and swallowed the pills. Raising his hand, he slammed the medicine bottle on the counter and yelled, “Damn! Get off my ass! Fuck!” Before Fancy spoke another word, Darius brushed past her and said, “I love you,” then stomped his way to the garage, got in his platinum Bentley, turned on his headlights, and backed his car into the driveway.

      Reentering the garage, Darius hissed, “Ashlee, I know you’re here somewhere. Where are you? Ashlee!” Tiptoeing to the wall, Darius retrieved a flashlight from the middle shelf. The bright light beamed in every corner. “I swear when I find you, you’ll be sorry.”

      Settling into his car, Darius drove off, searching his neighborhood for Ashlee. Approaching a black SUV, license number HH2, Darius slowed down, lowered his window, peeping at the foggy passenger-side window. Raising his window, he mumbled, “This is ridiculous. She ain’t worth my trouble.”

      Driving downhill thinking of women, where in the hell was Ciara’s scheming ass? Asking him to help raise her son after his paternity test came back negative. Aimlessly cruising for an hour, Darius prayed that Ladycat was peacefully sleeping, because he had unfinished business that would preoccupy his time all night and well into the morning.

      En route to his destination, he felt salty water clinging to his eyelids. Blinking repeatedly, Darius was tired of crying, but the tears overruled, siding with his depression. His deceased grandpa Robert’s voice echoed in his mind, “Crying is for girls and sissies.” Darius should’ve been celebrating his dreams come true of finally going pro, getting married, and being an expectant father, but the women in his life wreaked havoc. Worrying about Ashlee, Fancy, Ciara, his mother, their issues always superseded his problems. Why, deep inside his heart, did he care about each of them?

      Darius refused to cry over some bullshit that wasn’t his fault. Easier to discount his mother’s lie as bullshit than to try to understand why, of all the women in his life, she’d lied. The more he prayed seeking the truth, the more he hated—not his mother—himself, because of what she’d done. Could a woman make a man hate himself? His mother was easier to forgive than the lie, but the pain she’d caused was impossible to forget. Because of her, his life was filled with endless disappointments and an underlying disregard for all women.

      Was Darius one of the men whose actions toward women differed from his affection? He said he loved women but had a hard time showing them. Obviously he loved sex. But maybe sex was all he loved about women. Outside of being a sperm receptacle, being fruitful and multiplying, cleaning house, raising kids, women had no other purpose. Females were cute to look at too. Some of them.

      None of his women could comprehend him. Perhaps because he didn’t understand himself. Contradiction upon contradiction. Darius wanted to shed his tears on Fancy’s shoulders. Instead he’d chosen a woman who’d best know his pain. A woman who wouldn’t judge him.

      Pow! Pow!

      “What the hell?”

      From seventy to zero, Darius’s heart punched his chest from the inside out. Fighting with his steering wheel, Darius could hardly breathe. Spinning like a donut, Darius’s car whirled in a circular cloud of smoke.

      Honk! Honk!

      Were the people around him so ingrained with their destiny they couldn’t see he was dying? Speeding cars dodged his Bentley. Bright white lights blinded him. “Ma Dear?” he whispered. Soon his luck would end. Two bullets fired. Two shots sliced his head. His heart. Blood dripped from his subconscious as Darius navigated his way to the slow lane, then exited the freeway. His body slumped over the steering wheel. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. He couldn’t exhale.

      A man couldn’t take another man’s life and go free. The day Darius pulled the trigger, killing Fancy’s father, haunted him every day. How could he and Fancy pretend or ignore that Darius had single-handedly executed a death sentence? Unwanted mission accomplished. If Darius hadn’t shot Thaddeus, Thaddeus would’ve raped, then killed Fancy. Darius cried long and hard, begging, “Lord, please forgive me. When I try to do right, I do wrong. But I want to do what’s right. Help me please.”

      A caring angel wing rested on his shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. You did what most people do, you did what you thought was right. But I want you to know. God is a forgiving God.”

      Darius knew it was Ma Dear’s spirit speaking to him before the bright light shrunk into a dot, then vanished. He exhaled, thankful he could see a glimmer of hope. Ma Dear was the only woman who’d never given up on him. He feared that somehow he’d failed his grandmother. Darius’s mind had made his third deepest fear—abandonment—resurface. He didn’t want to be lonely, or go to hell, or end up in purgatory for straddling a fence of women. One day Darius would give his life to God. Hopefully, before his last breath. Murder wasn’t worth battling alone. Darius had visited Fancy’s therapist once. At first he believed that therapy was for crazy people, but Mandy actually helped him. When Mandy’s office opened, he’d call for another appointment. Like with his first visit, Darius wouldn’t tell Fancy. Especially since Mandy refused to see Fancy after Fancy called her a bitch.

      Drying his eyes, he glanced in his rearview mirror. Large brown eyes, a do-rag, and a pale face reflected back.

      Ashlee whispered, “Hello, Darius.”

      “What the fuck!”

      CHAPTER 6

      Darius

      Ashlee’s, hopefully temporary, insanity was exactly the kind of underhanded immature feline foolishness that made Darius distrust women. Ashlee sat in the backseat of his car like he was her damn chauffer. Legs crossed. Head cocked to the side. Arms overlapped damn near under her neck. Darius cruised to the next public place and parked in the most visible space he could find, a hotel parking lot in Beverly Hills.

      Turning to face Ashlee, he asked, “What the fuck are you doing? First you’re trespassing in my house, now you’re hiding in my car.”

      “Our house. Our car, Darius.” Ashlee stared through him.

      Banging his fist on the headrest, summoning her attention, Darius yelled, “It’s not our house! It’s my damn house!” then gestured toward Ashlee, asking, “And what the hell are you doing with my clothes on?”

      “Our clothes,” Ashlee calmly replied.

      “Your ass is crazy. СКАЧАТЬ