Unconditionally Single (5 page)

Meanwhile…in Los Angeles

M
olestation.

If there were a survivors’ club, thirty-nine million Americans, both men and women, would be members. How did so many individuals get away with sexually abusing children when 95 percent of the incidents were preventable? I knew why, knew all too well how some parents reacted. My mother looked at me but she didn’t see me. She never saw the fear in my eyes whenever he entered my bedroom. I felt so ashamed, I ran away from home when I was sixteen and didn’t return until fifteen years later.

Honey was the one who’d reunited me with my mother. She’d given me a flyer she’d gotten from my mom. On the flyer was a photo of me with MISSING across the top and my name, age at that time, last seen at with the name of my high school, and a contact number to call if anyone had seen me. If Alphonso hadn’t fathered Red Velvet’s son, if Honey hadn’t decided to help Red Velvet find Alphonso, I wouldn’t be sitting in Mother’s living room.

My reunion with my mother was bittersweet. Today I’d returned to my mother’s house, less than an hour later I had to leave. Told my mom I’d visit her after she settled in to the house I’d bought her. The house she was living in, the same house that Alphonso once lived in with her, with us, I wanted to tear it down with my hands. Beat him over the head with each plank.

“Bye, Mom,” I said, kissing her forehead. “I’ve got to go.”

“I know baby. I understand. I love you, Tiffany,” she said, following me with her eyes to the door.

I left my mother sitting in that living room. Got in my car. Not wanting to interrupt my brief overdue heart-to-heart talk with my mother, I’d left my cell phone in my car. Big mistake. Twenty-six missed calls from Honey were registered on my caller ID, one voice mail saying she’d been kidnapped and for me not to call.

Immediately, I was in motion. Drove in the carpool lane, then switched to the emergency lane along the 405. Merging across four lanes, I took the Century Boulevard exit to the Los Angeles International Airport.

Reflecting on my childhood, I cried. “Mama, why? Why didn’t you stop the abuse?” I wanted to question her. I’d get my chance to ask her to her face when I returned to Los Angeles.

Was it my mother’s fault that Alphonso Allen repeatedly molested me? What pleasure had my stepfather derived from making me suck his dick, then taking his dick out of my mouth and painfully forcing his erection into my virgin vagina that was too tight, too small, and too young? Being an undercover cop, I realized that very few molesters reformed, but if my mother had filed charges against him, maybe he wouldn’t have raped Velvet Waters.

I exhaled, parked in a garage at LAX, grabbed my purse, and speed-dialed my former boss in Las Vegas. Marching to ticketing, I stomped toward the lady suited in a white hat, white dress, neutral stockings, and white shoes, holding a bucket soliciting for money. Hoping her cause was dedicated to helping women, I donated five dollars.

Molesters became husbands who harbored their secrets from their wives. Molesters became rapists, sexually abusive boyfriends, or husbands who’d beat their wives into submission, threatening their lives if they called the police. Celebrities were no exception. Not enough of the women who married rapists and molesters confronted their men. It was easier to ignore the abuse. Maybe my mother feared he’d kill us if she reported him.

To suppress my emotions, I married my job. Attached myself to causes that kept my mind occupied. Had to stay busy, keep moving. When I’d heard Honey’s message, I was rejuvenated. I had a new mission.

My ex-boss answered, “Bleu, less than a week into retirement and you’re calling me already?”

I had to have his permission to do this job. I should’ve warned Honey that Valentino’s wife had bailed him out of a Nevada prison. Should’ve warned Honey I’d seen Benito at the Las Vegas airport a few weeks ago, but I hadn’t been concerned about Valentino or Benito.

The day I’d seen Benito, I’d gone to LAS to meet Grant Hill at baggage claim. I’d met Grant for the first time in Las Vegas when I was an out-of-control sixteen-year-old cheerleader. Hadn’t heard from him again until I called Honey and he’d answered her cell phone. I felt my reunion with Grant was meant to be. Desperately I wanted to make that man mine.

“With or without your permission, boss, I’m going on special assignment to Atlanta. I have my badge in my purse.”

Any woman who’d met Grant Hill would feel the same. I lured Grant to my bedroom by dangling information on Honey’s wild and wicked past in front of him. Compromised my womanhood hoping my underutilized good tight pussy and the fact that I’d fucked him first would qualify me as his first lady. I’d sucked peanut butter and jelly off his dick fifteen years before he’d met Honey.

“That’s my badge, Bleu. Not yours.”

“Mine until I give it back to you, boss.”

Grant had rejected my advances emphatically, saying, “I’m in love with Honey.”

He’d pissed me off. Hurt my feelings. Made me angry. With him. With Honey. With myself. Ultimately Grant made me get real; the man wasn’t interested in me. I had to be honest with my desire to have my own man, one who would adore me the way Grant worshipped Honey. Grant restored my confidence that good men were out there somewhere. He awakened me to my new reality: Sapphire Bleu was forever unconditionally single. Next time, I’d let the man pursue me. Prove to me he was the right one for me. Let him fall in love first. Let him propose. My new single attitude was to treat a worthy man like my king by being his queen.

I told myself, “Do not make sexual advances toward Grant. You’re going to Atlanta to help him find Honey.”

“Bleu, once you’ve made up your mind, woman, there’s nothing I can do to change it. We both know that.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “What now, Bleu? One minute you quit, now you want me to expedite special orders for you to go get involved in what? And why in the world Atlanta? Don’t bullshit me, Bleu. Give it to me straight. Is this business or a personal vendetta?”

“A little bit of both, Bossman. Valentino James violated his parole. Left Nevada. He’s in Atlanta, trying to kill someone close to me.”

“What? You stay out of it. I’ll put Hunter on this right away.”

“Oh, hell no. Not Hunter.”

Hunter was tall, bald, and blue black. Whenever that man spoke, he made my pussy quiver. We’d worked on lots of assignments together. Hated fucking my counterparts, but I had to fuck him once. No regrets, he was good, but as fine as Hunter was, he had too much baggage—an estranged wife who made him pay her two thousand dollars a month, two boys ages four and six, and a gambling addiction that altered his personality based on whether he’d won or lost.

Rumor was Hunter was indebted for several million. Went in big on a lead for a boxing match, came out financially bruised, having bet more than he could pay. There were too many issues in his head for me to fuck him again or take him seriously. I could bail him out but he’d gamble again. Or I could assist his debtors with arranging an inside hit if Hunter didn’t pay up soon. If it were just Hunter, I would have done the job myself. But agreeing to kill his wife and kids, I’d refused. Let the mafia hire one of our counterparts to do their dirt.

“Bleu, I’m hearing a lot of money came up missing on this Valentino bust—lots. Let Hunter handle this one. Walk away while you can. Too many dead heroes out there. You’re too close, Bleu. Let it go.”

For the first time boss had let me know he knew what I’d done. What I hoped he didn’t know was I’d kept half and given Honey half. That way if I ever took the fall, I had at least one person with enough money to bail me out.

Women had to stick together. She deserved it. Earned it. Honey and I had a lot in common. I could’ve busted her along with Valentino but I had a soft spot in my heart for madams. Plus, Sunny Day was our mutual friend. My first run-in with Honey was at a Vegas casino bar. That night, I’d insisted Sunny decide if she wanted to work for Honey. Honey showed me the gun in her garter. I showed her the one sandwiched between my triple Ds. Neither of us backed away from Sunny. Sunny decided to go to work that night. Her decision turned fatal. I couldn’t blame Honey. Sometimes a woman had to live or die by her decisions.

I told my boss, “You can send Hunter but Honey is my friend—I have to go. I’ll bring Valentino back to Nevada. Put him away forever. With or with—”

He exhaled, “I know, Bleu, without my permission. You’ve got thirty days, Bleu. Then I want your badge in my hand forever. Find yourself a man to marry and stop sleeping with your job.”

Bossman, as I called him, was my biggest supporter. He believed in me. Gave me the opportunity to prove I could handle sting operations. I’d dress hot and sexy, lure in men, married and single, offering to pay for sex. I’d take them to a hotel room. Until prostitution was legalized, men had to accept that soliciting for sex in the city of Las Vegas was illegal. Once the money was exchanged, my job was done. Hunter took over and the solicitor was on his way to jail. Disguising as a prostitute was fun but killing pimps was awesome. I loved arresting men more than having sex with them.

Bored after one week of not working, I refused to make the mistake of retiring early. “Won’t need but three days to deliver Valentino back, possibly in a body bag. Thanks.” I stepped to the counter. “A one-way ticket on the next flight to Atlanta,” I said, handing the agent my badge and credit card. “Boss?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I’ll take you up on your thirty-day offer. I have some unfinished business in Los Angeles when I’m done in Atlanta.” Boss was not getting my badge in thirty, sixty, or ninety days.

“Bleu?”

“Yes, Bossman.”

His voice was stern. “Cover my ass first, will you?”

I crossed my fingers, then told him, “You got it. I’ll call you when I get to Atlanta.” I’d do my best, but in my line of work there were no guarantees.

I
’d make sure Honey was safe, then return to Los Angeles for the unfinished business of killing Alphonso. Bastard probably thought I’d forgotten about him. All the better for me. I’d blow his brains out when he’d least expect it.

I had an hour to spare before boarding, so I headed to Karl Strauss for an extra spicy Bloody Mary. One seat left at the bar and it was mine. I sat between a man and woman chatting. “Excuse me.” I arched my back, ordered my drink.

The woman gave my breasts a frown, the man smiled. “We were talking,” she hissed, pushing back her stool.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’d better get going. Your flight is leaving shortly.”

“Bitch,” she muttered at me between her teeth, then smiled at him. “Nice meeting you, Santonio.”

Bitch?
A better attitude or a friendly request—“Would you mind exchanging seats?”—would’ve worked. She was no diva and definitely not from LA. LA women had perfected false flattery. Like a scorpion preparing to deliver the sting of death, the more an LA woman despised a person, the friendlier she’d become. Irrespective of intent, image was everything.

Easing my celery stick in and out my mouth, I smiled at him. “Santonio, hi. I’m Sapphire Bleu. And”—I touched his ring—“you are a Mason. Nice. And you have very nice hands.”

He blushed. “Yes, I am. Let me buy your drink.”

The woman next to me bumped my leg, waved at the bartender. “Check.”

I pivoted in her direction while Santonio ordered an Amber Lager, then paid our tab. I placed my badge on the counter and opened my purse for her to see my gun. “Be careful, sweetheart. Real careful. Check your damn attitude. And do
not
touch me again.”

Santonio touched my arm. “Everything okay?”

I picked up my badge, nodded, turned my back to her, faced him. “Where’re you headed?”

“Carolina for business, but I live there too,” he said, and took a big swig of his beer. “Travel a lot for my job.”

Gulping, swallowing, anything except sipping. I did not like men who sipped pussy or alcohol. “North or south?” I asked.

“North, Charlotte to be exact. And you?”

“I’m headed to Atlanta,” I said, looking over my shoulder. The woman stood behind her chair waiting for her tab. The bartender was on the other side of the bar mixing a drink. Some people were constantly ignored because they didn’t respect others.

Santonio handed me his business card: “Santonio Ferrari, Chief of Police.” “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

“She said she’s going to Atlanta, not Charlotte,” the woman commented.

I refused to respond to the nosy bitch suffering from an overdose of rejection.

“Go ahead. Get mad. I don’t care if you are a cop. You can’t arrest me. I haven’t broken any laws. You need to cover your titties up. I’m going to report you.”

What was her problem?
I remained silent.

Santonio said, “I’m talking to a lady, not to you. And she has beautiful…breasts.”

Yes! He said breasts! Santonio might just be my kind of man. “I’d love to join you for dinner,” I said, writing my cell number on a napkin. “I’ll wait for you to call me.”

The woman tossed twenty dollars on the bar and left.

Santonio smiled, shook his head. “I knew there was something I liked about you the moment you sat next to me. Sapphire Bleu, you are one classy woman.”

Back in Atlanta…

A
ll females were confused bitches in heat or heated about some dumb shit.

Shit lingered in a bitch’s subconscious waiting for an innocent or ignorant nigga to show up. Fuck me on the first date. Treat me like a lady. Pay for our meals. I got it, baby. Don’t come over to my house ever again. Here’s a key. I wanna have your baby. I wouldn’t have your child if my life depended on it. I don’t want a relationship. Marry me. Let me suck your dick. Your sorry ass ain’t shit. Get the fuck out! Baby, don’t go.

Pimping was therapeutic. A nigga couldn’t win no fight with a woman.

Women were forensic fucking scientists searching for clues and shit to argue about, roaming though a nigga’s pockets, cell phone, car, wallet, and computer history to make a nigga more miserable than her ass. Very few women were happy with themselves but they wanted men to make them happy.

Why didn’t you take out the trash, send me flowers, call me back, or invite me out? Why did you look at her? Is she prettier? Does she have bigger breasts, a better ass? Do you want her? “No.” Yes you do. “No I don’t.” Go be with her then. “Who are you talking about?” Her!

Women were born fucked up in the head. If they weren’t self-taught how to dog men, they eventually learned from haters. Women turned good men bad, bad men worse. Blame it on PMS: “I’m cramping.” Premenopause: “I forgot.” Menopause: “I’m hot.” Postmenopause: “I’m all dried up.” Always imbalanced and, shit, women were forever straight trippin’.

Red Velvet didn’t know me but the sick trick threatened me not to hurt Lace. Onyx professed she was trying to meet my monetary demand to save Lace’s life. I knew damn well Onyx couldn’t come up with fifty million without Lace’s approval. Bitch was stalling.

I had to keep shit moving. Find Lace. Get paid. Blaze the fuck up outta the ATL. Pause. Backtrack. Retrack. The ATL could do me righteous. Whores, strippers, and freaks were plentiful. I could open a new Immaculate Perception. Do it up Vegas style like my original spot with theme rooms and shit. Fuck. Lace arranged all that shit. Maybe I should apologize, talk her into coming back to work for a nigga. One thing at time. I had to stay focused.

Back to Lace. Her ass was too fucking brilliant to go home after we left her in the parking lot. And I wasn’t crazy enough to show up at her house again. Driving sixty, the light freeway traffic was decent. The hot wind blasted my face, making it hard to breathe. Covering my nose, I inhaled short breaths.

“Valentino James is nobody’s fool, B.”

Tricks told me to meet them at Stilettos, their turf, their time. Did they believe I was that stupid? Lace might show up. They’d probably called Sapphire’s ass. Bitch wasn’t going to arrest me twice. But all that shit had me thinking. If I were missing, who’d search for me? Who’d give a damn?

Benito’s tongue lapped out his mouth. That nigga was breathing with ease.

“Man, I’m taking time to enjoy the view. This ride is better than being at Six Flags over in Georgia. You know what, V?”

“What now, nigga? What? What?” Pointing at the shattered windshield, I yelled at his dumb ass, “This is not an amusement park thrill.”

Shaking his head, he slumped in the passenger seat.

Smack!

I hit his ass on the back of his neck. “You fucked up…again. Now we drivin’ around in a SUV with no fucking windshield. I should slam on my brakes. Send your silly ass straight to the moon.”

“Do I get a spaceship?”

Smack!

Benito massaged the nape of his neck. “I had a plan, V. I almost had her. I could tell by the way she stared at me. She couldn’t shoot me. She loves me. You gotta trust me on this. Lace got away but when my brother calls me back, he’ll lead us straight to her.”

Hurling a fist full of bullets through the missing windshield, I said, “Fuck that nigga Grant. He’s on her team, not ours. We can’t shoot his ass. We have ammunition and no fucking gun. How did you fuck that part up?”

“Past tense. Had ammunition. Had…Wasn’t my fault. The gun was too small for my hands,” he said, spreading his fingers. “Besides, I’ve never killed or shot anyone. I’m not going to jail like you. You already have pimping, pandering, and murder charges, man. You could possibly get…” Nigga counted on his fingers like a kindergartener. “You should’ve kept the gun. Yeah, you so hard. Why didn’t
you
shoot her?”

Nigga had me trippin’ and shit. I wanted him to man the fuck up. Kill Lace’s ass. I couldn’t shoot her. If it weren’t for my money, I’d have no beef at all with Lace. She was cool. The one time that she gave me some of that good pussy, I wanted more. More of her. Knew she wasn’t interested in me. My ego was huge and fragile, hated rejection. I’d rather not pursue a bitch than to have her ass turn me down, especially in public, and definitely not in front of Benito’s ass.

“It’s because you fucked my girl, V. None of us can hurt her. She whipped it on you, on Grant, and on me. Got all of us acting stupid.”

“You ain’t acting, nigga.”

Only punk-ass niggas chased women. Had to give those bitches Lace and Sapphire credit. I was on top of my motherfuckin’ game, earned my first notch to becoming a billionaire, and in one fuckin’ bust my ass was dead broke. Bitches.

Hadn’t realized I’d said, “I can’t stand Lace’s ass. That bitch outsmarted me,” until Benito replied, “Me too.”

“Nigga, that toe-tapping, adding, multiplying, and dividing dog Suze that was on Oprah could outsmart your dumb ass. Nigga, we need another car quick, before we get stopped by the police.”