Lavender

When I saw Deacon Gray greedily unzipping my husband's pants in the pulpit, I knew he wasn't kneeling before him in prayer. There is one quintessential moment in a woman's life when she realizes she never really wanted the proof that could support her intuition. Except this time, my intuition didn't give me fair warning. The dinner I'd eaten at Tripps suddenly climbed and lingered in my throat. I swallowed hard while the deacon did the same to my husband's growing dick. My husband, Pastor Quincy Wallace. *** Quincy, my "better" half, commanded the attention of the crowd for the majority of his life. He'd certainly caught mine the first time I saw him. I was a sophomore in high school, perusing the football field as most teenaged girls do after they've reached puberty. My deep-set eyes followed the skyscraper making his way around the track. Quincy's legs were pistons pounding the hot asphalt. I wondered what led God to make a seventeen-year-old boy look like a man. Dark as sin. Faint mustache. Determined lips. "Don't even waste your time!" I jumped when I heard Corinne's voice behind me. My best friend since the age of six stood there with a hand on her hip and a crooked smile on her lips. I hoped the way I watched the sweat trickle from his flat top haircut down his forehead to his muscular torso wasn't obvious. "What?"

"What?" she mimicked in a high nasally voice. "Girl, you know who I'm talking about! Quincy Wallace. Star athlete. Straight-A student. And did I forget fine as hell?" I rolled my eyes.

"Okay, so I was checking him out. And? After all those things you just named, what's not to like?" Corinne shook her head sympathetically. She placed an arm around my shoulders and put her lips to my ear as though she was about to share a CIA secret.

"I hear he's not into pussy." I pulled away to look at her.

"Bullshit!"

"It's true! I heard Fruit Rollup sucked his dick. And I'm a cheerleader so you know I hear all the good gossip first."

"And that's exactly what it is, Corinne. Gossip. Don't tell me you believe everything you hear. Furthermore, who the hell is Fruit Rollup?" Corinne cocked her head to the left and looked skyward. "Never mind. You don't know him."

"Besides, who could turn down all this?" I did a little spin as we walked along the fence, an afternoon ritual we shared whenever Corinne finished practice.

"Well, you ain't all that," she joked. "Let me stop, you know you're beautiful. Out of all the girls at this school, I think you have the best chance. After all, he is a deacon's son and that's probably why he's turning down all these fast-ass chicks left and right. He has standards. And you have more to offer than just your looks. Plus you're the new girl." That's why I love Corinne. Not because she strokes my ego, but because she doesn't mind giving props to another black girl when they're due. Even a "high-yellow" one. My parents taught me a long time ago not to rely on my face as soon as I was old enough to realize that everyone thought I was "cute". I followed their cue. I applied myself to my studies and even though I started modeling at the age of nine, I wasn't thinking about investing my money in a Reese's peanut butter cup. I wanted my own beauty salon one day. Maybe my modeling height was what really drew me to Quincy. When you're a girl that's sixteen and stands almost six feet tall, it's hard to find a boyfriend who reaches your chin while you're wearing heels. Or one that doesn't joke about being so short that he stands at pussy level—supposedly, that was the advantage to being vertically challenged. I had never tried to lure a guy with sex, because unlike most of my friends, I was still a virgin. I would run to every base but the last one for fear that I would get pregnant and ruin my dreams. And I made that clear from the beginning with any guy I messed with. But as Quincy rounded the track and headed towards us, I realized for the first time I was willing to make an exception. "Are you going to say something to him, or do I have to embarrass you?" Corinne teased.

"Shutup." The mime-like smile I plastered on my face felt phony and stupid. Quincy didn't seem to notice as he stopped at the fence. He panted harshly before finding his voice.

"Hey."

"Hey," Corinne and I said in unison.

***

Now, I can't remember what happened after that. I just kept hearing what Corinne said when she first saw me watching Quincy Wallace. I hear he's not into pussy. The words were just about as annoying as a scratch on a cd I wanted to hear without all the skipping. But what really made me sick—besides the fact that I could hear another man maintaining a rhythmic slurp on my husband's dick—was that I chose to believe what I wanted to back in high school instead of listening to Corinne's "scratch." Some women would have screamed if they saw what I was looking at. Some would have heaved the vase sitting in front of the stained glass window at the two men—it was within arm's reach. I chose to back quietly out of the church. The way Quincy gripped the deacon's collar. The moaning. The biting of the lip. I couldn't take it. One of my hands leaned heavily against each pew that I passed while the other covered my mouth to barricade the vomit. When I made it to the front door, I bolted down the church steps into the moonlit night with my undigested dinner spraying out around me. I dropped to my knees and placed my hands flat against the asphalt until I was done throwing up. Once I finished, I stood and stumbled towards my 2008 Lexus SC 430. Any other time, I wouldn't have gotten into that psychotically clean convertible smelling the way I did, but I was suddenly oblivious to everything. The only sense that I maintained was my hearing—I wanted to make sure that I wasn't replaying what had hurt my ears a couple of seconds ago. Shuffling feet. Jingling of keys. Smooth ignition of the car. That's all there was. I slammed my foot against the accelerator with my Jimmy Choo and sped out of the parking lot. Wet and sticky fingers gripped the steering wheel and nearly turned manila. As I sped down 264 West, I glanced into my rearview mirror and realized that I had started crying and didn't even know it. I have never looked as horrible as I did in that reflection. I don't know who that woman was. She couldn't be the successful owner of Salon Terai. Or the ex-model with the button nose, puckered lips, and hair as long and black as an unlit and unmarked road. My breasts are full apples that would put any orchard to shame and after I gave birth to Jalen, sure, my hips got a little wider but the men kept looking. Hell, I was only thirty-four. So what had I done to make Quincy want to stray to another man, no less, after sixteen years of marital bliss? We hadn't had sex in two months, but I assumed it was because the church had expanded and the member phone calls grew. My husband was always tired and what kind of wife would I be if I didn't support his calling? I sobbed until my breath caught and the salty snot ran down my lips. I took the Brambleton Avenue exit into Norfolk and headed towards my pre-war home in the historic neighborhood of Ghent. The car swerved about, mimicking my unbalanced emotions. I made a sharp right and gasped when I saw the small car sitting at the sudden red light. The Lexus was moving too fast. I swung the steering wheel to the right but I still gave the small car a light smack with my fender. The car jumped forward, and soon, the driver jumped out. My car came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street, and the first thing I noticed was the angry crease in the forehead of the other driver. He moved towards my door with a calculated pace. "What the hell…" he started. His handsome face seemed to relax as I climbed out of the car to survey the damage. Maybe it was my disheveled appearance that distracted him. I was trembling and I smelled like sewage. Any other time I wouldn't dare put myself in danger in the presence of a stranger, but like I said, I wasn't thinking clearly. I sensed that he had been about to ask me how I couldn't see his car but he changed his mind. Instead, he asked, "Are you alright?"

Tai

She didn't answer me at first. She simply stood there like I was speaking German. I had approached the car with my hand near my hip as any seasoned detective would do. Even though Zoe had her hand in my jeans just a few minutes before, I had noticed the car approaching quickly and erratically in my rearview mirror. Thinking of Zoe, I glanced back towards my 2000 Honda Civic to make sure she was okay. She poked her blonde head out of the passenger window and I saw the fear marinating on her freckled face. I met her three weeks before in a downtown Norfolk bar. It was just supposed to be a piece of drunken ass after one year of working cold cases and taking cold showers. Maybe my colleagues at the police department were right. I wasn't the same after my wife left me and took our daughter. I turned my attention back to this crazy-looking woman standing in front of me. I asked her again. "Are you okay?" Slowly, she nodded her head. Her clothing was soiled, her hair was all over the place, and she had obviously been crying, but there was no mistaking the fact that underneath all that she was very beautiful. "Have you been drinking?"

"No, I just…I'm okay. My husband…." Her voice disappeared. Alright, so she wasn't mute. Or mentally challenged. She didn't smell like alcohol. Just throw up. She had probably had a bad fight with her spouse that night and it was obvious she didn't want to talk about it. I'd been solving crimes long enough to know when somebody had been through some shit. But after all the shit I'd seen, I'd never seen a woman looking quite the way she did.

"Well, it doesn't look like you caused too much damage to my car. And it looks like you didn't cause any damage to yours."

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing and—"

"Look, don't worry about it. Let's just exchange information. We can take care of it tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me, miss, if I wasn't sure, I wouldn't say it. Besides, no matter what you say, you don't look too good." She glanced at her feet. "My car's still driveable."

"Should we call the police?"

"I am the police." I flashed her my badge. The woman raised her bloodshot eyes back up to mine. I managed to crack a small smile. "That doesn't mean I'm going to take extra measures against you…hold on, I'll get my info now." She seemed to calm a little, but something was still bothering her. I went back to my car and scribbled my information on a piece of paper while she did the same. "Is she okay?" Zoe whispered. I gave her a brief nod. After everything was over, I was taking her home. When I returned, the woman stood there with shaky hands and gave me a sticky note with her insurance company information on it plus a business card. Salon Terai, it read. Her name was Lavender Wallace.

"You can reach me on my cell at any time," she said.

"Alright. Like I said, we'll take care of this tomorrow." I decided against asking about her condition one last time.

"Well, if we're done, I'm going to go." She seemed eager to leave and so was I. I hadn't planned to get into a minor accident tonight, but Lavender had brought me back to reality without even knowing it. She had interrupted my hand job and even though most men would have been upset about that plus the dent on the bumper, I had to wonder what I was doing letting Zoe jerk me off at the light. The twenty-one-year-old was way too whiny and needy and I had only worsened that by allowing her to keep my bed warm. Lavender left me standing there not caring whether or not I responded. She jumped into her Lexus and was gone as quickly as she had appeared. Zoe kept twisting around in the passenger seat like an impatient newborn waiting for its mother.

"What was wrong with her?"

"Marital problems. Husband pissed her off."

"Yeah, love will make you do crazy things," she hinted, giving me a sideways glance. I frowned and started the car. What the hell do you know about love? I thought. And she certainly couldn't be referring to me. I'm thirty-nine-years-old and I already have one child to take care of. "I'm hungry. Can we stop and get something to eat, boo?" Enough with the "boo" shit, too. She had called me that so many times over the last week that I thought a goddamned ghost was flying around somewhere. Besides, I knew what she was doing. She knew the sex was the only thing keeping me around. Like most women, she thought if that continued, the relationship part would coincide. What she didn't know was that Mena, my estranged wife, took away my heart—my child. I guess Mena couldn't stand the fact that I constantly cheated on her with my career and she just up and left. She had a right to leave me, but not to take our child. I walked into our split-level home one evening for dinner and she and our ten-year-old daughter, Sabine, were gone. Yes, Mena got full custody, but I was supposed to have visitation rights. Yet Sabine seemed distant on the days she came to see me and it had never been that way before. I could only assume that Mena's distaste for me was rubbing off on our daughter. And it made me angry. I had a number one rule when it came to parenting—a parent did not talk about the other parent in the presence of their child. Seemed to me that Mena and I had very different standards. Ironically, she only pushed me deeper into the arms of my other lover—my work—when I realized I wasn't getting my family back. I had the typical "fuck you" male attitude after being hurt and I threw myself into solving crimes double time. Most were murders. Those were the ones that had always taught me to detach myself personally. To simply look at those men, women, and children as just bodies even when pieces of their heads and brains were scattered all over the place. It was a relationship that taught me not to feel, and I liked it. When it couldn't provide the pussy that every man craves, I'd go to a bar and pick some up. It was never hard. I liked to think the attention women gave me made me a fine ass, six foot two nigga. Cocoa skin so smooth you would never think I worked the streets for a living. Dark brown doe-eyes that made people believe I was soft. A regal nose and lips that could eat pussy for days. Top that off with a runner's body and a long fat dick and I'd say I was a force to be reckoned with. Real women I respected. Hoes were another story. The girls I met were supposed to jump their ass in a taxi and go home when I was done, but I had allowed Zoe to stay because a part of me needed her to need me…. We made a right onto Colley Avenue which started off as a ritzy strip of cafes, offices and a variety of other shops in Ghent. Hell, some of the streets around there are even cobblestoned. White collar hustlers and gays could often be found frequenting the area. Funny that if you kept driving, you could end up in the hood. Two completely different worlds. I pulled up to a Burger King to shut Zoe up and she bit her lip in disappointment. I know she didn't think she was getting steak, I thought. Imagine me and a little white girl sitting together by candlelight at some expensive restaurant. Hell to the no. Then she would really be open and I would have an audience. I suddenly realized I might have one here as we walked across the parking lot with Zoe clinging to my arm. I groaned and almost spun around on one heel when I noticed a familiar face peering at me through his car window. Sergeant Garcia. He couldn't stand my ass and I couldn't stand him either. We had both joined the force about the same time and we had been competing to see who could do the best job ever since. So far, my black ass was winning. He wasn't alone. His teenaged son, Danny, leapt out of the car at the same time as his father. They both wore scowls on their faces. I knew Garcia didn't like me, but he had never been this obvious about it and Danny had never had a problem with me. So why the hell were they both looking at me like that? Danny approached me with lightning speed and I heard Zoe scream as he grabbed me by the collar. "Man what the—" was all I could manage before I felt his knuckles meet my chin. When I regained my composure, the little punk started to charge me again, but this time, I was ready. I waited, picked him up when he made impact, and slammed him into the asphalt. His father, a stout, but strong man, made it over to us by that time and pulled me off of his son. We struggled for a few seconds as his son lay in the parking lot trying to recover from the painful landing. Garcia managed to put himself between me and Danny. I finally began to calm down when I noticed Zoe standing there with a hand over her mouth and realized that I was trying to fight a kid.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?" I yelled at Danny as he stood up.

"Don't you talk to my son like that!" I glared at Garcia.

"Your son just laid his hands on me outta nowhere and he's lucky I didn't whup his ass!"

"Fuck you, asshole." Was this little boy still talking shit? Garcia planted his finger in his son's face like a short spear.

"Shut your damned mouth and get back in the car," Garcia barked. Danny ignored his father and turned his sour face to Zoe's.

"So this is what you been doin' while I've been tryin' to call your ass day and night?" Zoe swallowed and a lump danced in her throat. She kept her eyes on Danny in an effort not to look at me. Her face, which was already pale, became sickeningly ashen. I glanced from one to the other in confusion until it dawned on me that they knew each other. "How" was the question. I was good at asking questions. Garcia took a threatening step towards his son. He lowered his voice to the delicate whisper we used with criminals.

"I said get in the goddamned car." Hesitation. But only for a moment. Fear of his father beat out his youthful pride. He snatched his eyes off of Zoe's and returned to the car, further defeated. Garcia watched his son's long walk and then turned back to me. "You realize that's a minor, Detective Xavier? It is Detective, isn't it?" I disregarded his snide remark.

"I have no choice but to defend myself when a lunatic decides to attack me for no reason." Garcia scoffed and raked his eyes over my frame in disgust.

"I wasn't talking about Danny. I was talking about Zoe." Mortified. Blood tingling and then boiling. A sharper blow than the one Danny had delivered to my chin. Bullshit. I couldn't tell just yet because she still wouldn't look at me. Zoe held herself as I stalked towards her. This time, an accusing stare was my weapon of choice.

"Zoe, what is this man talking about?" Before she could answer, Garcia chimed in again. The guy gave away sarcasm for free.

"You mean to tell me that someone with your keen intellect can't tell that this girl is only seventeen? She also happens to be my son's ex-girlfriend." I was shaking now. Almost like the woman who had hit us earlier. Zoe's bottom lip quivered and when she finally looked at me, the shame in her eyes told it all. I smothered my face in my palm.

"Fuck that! You told me you were twenty-one! What the hell were you doing in the bar that night?" Her tears came easily now.

"My cousin knew the bouncer," she said. "And he let me in."

"I can't fucking believe this shit. What the hell were you thinking? Don't you know I'm a—" I realized that Garcia was my main problem. I couldn't have him spreading the word around. My attention was on him again. As though sensing what I was thinking, he motioned me over.

"So, what are you going to do?"

"Look, Garcia, I know we aren't the best of friends, but I don't want this getting out." He looked over his shoulder to make sure Danny was sitting obediently in the car.

"I'm not going to tell anybody if that's what you're thinking." I almost asked him why. Not surprisingly, the guy was a pretty good mind reader. "If I thought for one minute that you were screwing that girl knowing how old she is, I would have you arrested before you could leave this parking lot. But I know Zoe. And trust me, after all the drama she's caused my son, I'm upset that he even still wants to be with her. I'd advise you to take her home, drop her in front of her house, and forget that you ever knew her name. In the meantime, I'll forget this ever happened." Garcia gave me a gruff nod and returned to his car too quickly for me to thank him. His pride wouldn't allow me to do that.

***

The ride to Zoe's house was a silent one. I had no choice but to listen to her soft whimpers, knowing this would be the last time she would ever see me. Million-dollar homes, sloping green lawns, and proverbial white fences. That is what Zoe was used to. Mysterious strangers with raspy voices that sounded like their throats had been slit. Corpses. Prostitutes with blade-like stilettos. That's what I was used to. She tried to place a hand over mine but I snatched it away as though she had flames coming out of her palm. "Tai, please listen to me."

"Get out of my car."

"Please…."

"Get out, I said!"

"I care about you so—"

"How is that? I could have been arrested! You're seventeen!"

"I'm sorry. I am sooo sorry." I was done. I leaned over, unbuckled her seatbelt and waited. Zoe didn't move. Instead, she rolled up the sleeves on her white cotton t-shirt and held her forearms out towards me. Every time we had had sex, Zoe had insisted that she keep on her top which wasn't an issue. I thought she was just a little self-conscious about her breast size. Now, I could see that she had small scars all over her arms. Next she raised the shirt at her waist and I could see that she had the same small scars all over her torso. "I'm a cutter." Self-injury. I had to get her out of my car. Fast.

"So it gets better…why the hell are you showing me this, Zoe?"

"I haven't cut myself in the last couple of weeks. That's great for me. And it's because you make me happy, Tai."

"You need help."

"I'm getting help. And my shrink hasn't stopped me from cutting. You have."

"Get out." Zoe began sobbing uncontrollably now. When she realized I still wouldn't budge, she slowly opened the car door and stepped out onto the curb. Zoe opened her mouth to say something else, but I sped off.

Jalen

"Fucking asshole!" I walked across my bedroom and turned down the volume of my Kanye West cd. Eyes squinting in confusion. The scream had to have come from outside. Definitely not from my parent's room. My hand was still on the radio's knob when I heard the sobbing. Then the groaning. Then a sound like a whole stack of looseleaf paper being torn in half. "Triflin' piece of shit!" That was undoubtedly my mom's voice. But since when did she start talking like that? I flung the history book I'd been studying across my desk and crept out of the bedroom. I shortened my steps as I drew closer to the end of the hallway and to the origin of all those unusual sounds. My parent's door was opened, but I didn't see my mom. She was in there though and so was a terrible odor. There was a long trail of clothes leading to my dad's walk-in closet. The sobbing, the groaning, the ripping continued. Carefully, I made my way through the colorful mess which I realized was a combination of my father's fine linens. My mom sat indian-style at the very end of it all with her back to me. At least I thought this person was my mother. She brought the butcher knife up and down and up and down as she slashed at my father's dress shirts. Something had gone wrong. And I had to help her with whatever it was. I took a step towards her and gently placed my hand on her shoulder.

"Mom?" I whispered. She spun around and two things hurt me—the pained way that she looked and the knife that sliced into my forearm. I howled and whatever she had been doing before I walked in suddenly came to an end when she saw the blood dropping to the carpet.

"Oh my God! Baby, I didn't mean to do that!" Mom stood and pushed past me. She rushed into the bathroom and I could hear her knocking things over. Even when she returned with a bottle of alcohol and began to swab the shallow cut, I didn't feel the burn as I took in her appearance. She smelled awful. Her clothes were frumpy and filthy. Two thick lines ran down her cheeks from obvious tears that had washed away her makeup.

"Mom, what happened?"

"I'm sorry, baby. Let me finish cleaning this, okay?"

"Mom, why were you cutting up Daddy's clothes? What's wrong with you?" At first, she focused on cleaning the wound but soon realized that I wasn't paying attention to what she was doing. I was more concerned with what she had done. She paused and looked up at me. Her eyes blinked rapidly the way that they do when someone's trying not to cry. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. During that time, I think she tried to determine whether or not she was going to tell me the real reason behind her actions. That was strange, because me and Mom were always honest with each other. Everything came out in a rush of air.

"I think your father's cheating on me." I snatched my arm away and frowned. Of course I didn't hear her correctly. My parents taught me to take school seriously and to live the life of a good Christian. They were very young when they had me—my mom wasn't even out of high school—but they got married as soon as she was old enough. Daddy never abandoned me, his wife, his education, or his faith in God. He grew up to be a powerful man that people loved, respected, and listened to. And I wanted to be just like him. There was no way he was messing with another woman. Mom was losing her mind, and for the first time ever, I was furious with her.

"Why would you say something like that?" She stared back at me with a defiant look on her face and rubbed my arm a little harder. "And what is that smell? Smells like—"

"It's just a feeling I have, okay…why did I say anything?" "So you're cutting up his clothes over a feeling?"

"I really don't want to talk about this with you."

"Don't you think I have a right to know wassup? I come into the bedroom and see you cutting up Daddy's clothes like a psycho! Then you make a stupid accusation—"

"Shutup, Jalen!" Her motherly instincts kept her hands moving and she studied the cut after it was clean and the bleeding stopped. "You won't need stitches."

"I don't care about stitches. I want to know why you think Daddy could do something like that to you and this family?" Mom bit her lip and looked down at her feet. She released a sigh.

"You know what, I shouldn't have said that." She went to the bathroom to get some gauze and tape this time. When she returned, she wrapped my arm and looked at me with some regret. I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew she couldn't possibly believe that Daddy was a cheater.

"What drove you to do all this Mom? You know Daddy would never hurt you like that." She gave me a sad smile.

"You're probably right, baby."

"Of course, I'm right…so what was it?"

"Huh?"

"I asked you what would make you do something like this? This isn't you." Her eyes danced about and she finally picked a wall where she could place them. She took a deep breath. "I went to the church to surprise your father with some dinner and…and I saw him there with someone else." "Well, who was she? And what were they doing?" "A woman was crying….and he was holding her close…it got me sick…now that I think about it, one of the members did just have a death in the family. I…I think it was her." Despite the way she smelled, I put my arms around her in a tight embrace. Being the First Lady of the church and a successful businesswoman couldn't be easy. Since a lot of women had always been infatuated with Daddy and his status, Mom was never into jealousy. It had to be stress. I helped her out at the shop sometimes after school, but I could see now that I would have to put in more work. I didn't want to witness any more of these episodes. Maybe she was having one of those mid-life crises. "Mom, I think you need to be easy for a while. Relax for once. You got yourself too worked up tonight. And, in case you haven't noticed, they don't call you the First Lady for no reason. That means there isn't a second or third." She didn't say anything but held me tighter in appreciation. When she finally let me go, she cupped my face in her hands. "Thanks, Jay." A small smile touched my lips when I realized I'd given her some reassurance and I turned to go. Before I could leave, she caught my good arm. "One more thing…I'm going to clean up in here and go to bed early tonight but…please don't tell your father about this. I just allowed the devil to get to me." I gave her an uncomfortable nod, but I understood. Mom was a woman who had it all together. Sometimes I think she worked to keep up with Daddy. I know I did. "I won't. And I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you. I love you, Mom."

The Magician

I called myself The Magician for two very simple reasons—I never gave away any of my secrets and I made people disappear. My profession started off in a crazy way. I mean, I'm sure people wonder what it takes to be a hitman…or hitwoman in my case. I guess the politically correct term is "contract killer". Although I knew guys who would, I never did children. Yes, I killed women because I am one. It wasn't so difficult because I didn't feel like I overpowered the weaker sex. The first time I ever killed someone, I got away with it. And the whole neighborhood knew. The victim was my stepfather. I never told my mom about the molestations. We had never had much of a relationship from the time I was three—I was the only constant reminder of a husband who had left her. My stepfather said if I ever told anybody, he would tell my mom I had come on to him and she would love me even less. I believed him. I remember the night he crept into my bedroom when I was twelve. He was raping me for the umpteenth time. Too bad he didn't know I was ready for him that time. He had only gotten in about three thrusts before I felt under my pillow for the carving knife. As though I had done it a hundred times before, I released a carnal cry and rammed the knife into the side of his throat. My white nightgown was a bright red by the time the police came to our home. That was the last time I saw my mother. Glaring at me with hatred while I shivered at an officer's side. She thought I had been jealous of my stepfather and refused to listen to my cries despite my broken body. I became the property of the state until the age of eighteen. I never could shake the rapes, so I decided to seek the help of a support group. I met a woman there who was being raped by her own husband, but she was scared to leave him. Her name was Andrea. Andrea was sure that she couldn't attend too many meetings because her husband might get suspicious. In the meantime, she and I formed a very close bond. So close that I told her I wouldn't mind killing her husband for her. For us. I remembered the sweet revenge I felt when I'd killed for the first time. And how much sweeter it felt when I got away with righting a wrong my way. My friend told me that she would pay me one thousand dollars for my good deed if I was serious. Personal feelings weren't the only reasons why I couldn't have been more serious. I was already working two jobs to put myself through pre-med school. In the back of my mind I always felt as though I had to grow up to be somebody to get even with my mother. Andrea and I had planned it perfectly. Her husband worked in some industrial park at an automotive warehouse. His graveyard shift ended at about seven in the morning. It was six in the morning when I arrived. I lay in the cab of his truck in the dead of winter for one hour to make sure everything went as planned. The gun was stolen. I bought it off some kid in the streets months prior to even meeting Andrea. The silencer was homemade. Recently. Just took me a few weeks to master the art of creating it from a pvc pipe. Don't know what made me plan to purchase the gun in the first place—I had never planned to hurt anybody but my stepfather. Yet the weapon was power. And with the anger I carried around for years, the gun dared anyone to try me. Thinking about it now, when I made the illegal purchase, I had already decided that I didn't want to get caught for something I might do again. When Andrea's husband finally did make it to his truck, it was so dark that it took him a while to get his key in the lock. The phlegm wrestled in his chest as he cleared his throat. Different smells crawled all over me now. I ignored them. Heightened senses was all. Lumber. Gasoline. Quick, small breaths coated with Black and Mild smoke. Metal clashing. Still couldn't get the key in. I rose from my hiding place. You're Daddy's special girl, Dulce. He always used to say that to me. Right before showing me how special I really was. You make Daddy feel so good. Sweat bathing me. Musty armpits. Slight alcohol breath mixed with peppermint. Nothing trembled but my heart. I knew what I was doing. Preparing myself to do this. I love you, Dulce. Daddy loves you. Always said that. Right before he was about to climax. The black envelope of dawn was the only thing that kept Andrea's husband from noticing me. Wasn't hard for me to see him, though. It was never too hard if you made a note of the general area in which to expect someone. Totally different when they didn't expect you. I didn't stand completely. I'm five foot four, but still wasn't small enough for me to remain completely hidden on my feet. My knees were a much better option. I shot him a smug smile. Murder. Redemption. It would seem as though I were prepared for both just by looking at my position. Kneeling as if to pray and all the while just wanting this man dead. My ragged wool pea coat did nothing to stop the cold from massaging my bones with her calloused fingers. She was the only reason I shivered, because nothing else was going to stop me from pulling the trigger. But I had to remember the plan. Can't stray from the plan. Straying from the plan is a killer's death sentence. "Get on the ground." I could see the shape of his head shifting into different angles. Like a bird becoming aware of its surroundings.

"Who the hell is that?"

"Never mind that, hijo de puta!" I hissed. He paused. The Spanish had confused him. I believe it scared him too—although he didn't know the language, there was no doubt in my mind that he knew it was threatening. "When someone has a gun, you get on the fucking ground and ask no questions!" He glanced around again. This time he was looking for someone to help. What he didn't know was the information his own wife had given me. He bought the truck a year before with money from their joint account. Of course his arrogance hadn't allowed him to let her know about the purchase. He controlled everything in Andrea's household just like he controlled her body. The hard-earned money she'd saved over the years went down the drain and ended up in her driveway in the form of his brand new 2005 F-150. He bragged to all his friends at work the next day. Even parked his truck at the far end of the parking lot everyday so that no one would dare hit it with a stray car door. No one would dare help him that morning either. I cocked the gun. "Does that sound like I'm going to ask you again?" He shook his head. "Alright, then. You know what to do. And I want you to put your hands on your head while you're doing it. Be very careful, or I'll make this painful." Quivering hands went on top of that enormous head. A man his size could easily overpower Andrea. I wouldn't have minded making him suffer. But she wanted it to be quick, logical, and most of all, neat. His knees hit the ground and he went face down. I smirked, watching him sputter as gravel engulfed his mouth.

"What's this all about? Can you tell me that? Why are you doing this? You want money? My wallet's in my back pocket."

"Fucking, marricon! People like you are all alike!" My Spanish lilt grew stronger. Olive face reddening. The cold breeze had my bronze hair flapping around my face like a door that wouldn't remain shut. "You prey on the weak because you're fucking cowards!"

"What are you talking about?" Can't get to personal. Continue with the plan.

"The wallet in your back pocket? Slowly remove it and toss it about two feet to your left." He followed my instructions. I leapt out of the cab of the truck and landed with the skill of a ballerina. He turned his head to the side as my feet catapulted even more gravel into his face. His entire body shook now, like he was an epileptic who had fallen to the ground. The immense fear I instilled in him excited me. The excitement coursed through my veins like heroin in fact. I knew if I didn't squeeze the trigger I was headed for an overdose. So that's what I did. There was not much to it. No long, drawn-out conversation. No telling him who sent me like they do in the movies. Just blew the back of his head off and watched the bloody spittle flow from his mouth as the sun began to rise. I picked up the wallet, tucked it in my pocket and dashed around the side of the warehouse. I crept along the peeling aluminum wall, going back the same way I had come in through the weeds. The bus stop was still several yards away. I slipped the gun in my coat, a pair of reading glasses over my eyes, and a newspaper from that same coat into my hands. I saw several men, and a few women, milling around on the curb of the boulevard that ran through the industrial park. Eyes drooping with fatigue and arms hanging like noodles. They never gave me more than a sideways glance and an extended yawn. They were too concerned with getting home to their beds, husbands and wives, or a hot meal. And yet Andrea was walking into work. She was greeting her coworkers. She was sitting down at her computer. Maybe she was enjoying a bagel. All while her husband was getting robbed and killed. And now, as the Number Twenty pulled up, I joined the group of mindless zombies. And I enjoyed yesterday's newspaper all the way home. Andrea's husband would make it on the front page the next day. So, I didn't start off being a cold-blooded murderer for no reason. But as the killings continued, I grew numb and decided to make a living at the one thing I had learned to be good at. After a while, it wasn't about vengeance—that would have made me a vigilante. It soon came down to being strictly business. No one expected me to drop out of med school. I was one of the top students. But no doctor in the country made money like I did, though my studies did teach me how to neatly dismember someone. I'll admit, I became addicted to the good life. I'm sure my neighbors wondered what the quiet Dominican girl did next door. I was the poster child for corporate America as I left my oceanfront condo every morning. Shoulder-length hair pulled back into a neat bun. Sleepy eyes awakened with peach-hued makeup and pursed lips enhanced with the same color. Crisp white linen suit. Confident quick steps and no conversation. But I didn't work for white-collar men. Unless they wanted me to take out a rival who could sometimes be their own partner. And when I left my home every morning, I was usually headed to my "office"—it was in an abandoned shack in the rural area of Virginia Beach known as Pungo. Very rarely did I go there unless a client specifically asked for torture. My briefcase held no papers. Only tools and a picture of my target.

Quincy

I did love Lavender. Perhaps not the way I should have, but I loved her. The first time I saw her, I thought that she embodied every bit of her name. Beautiful. Smelled nice. It seemed that every guy in high school took notice, and that was why I followed suit. Though Lavender was the new girl, I found out a lot about her from a fellow track star named Sheila. They shared the same English class and I told Sheila I was interested in Lavender. Sheila seemed surprised—a reaction that temporarily irritated me—but she was a longtime friend and promised to hook me up. "Why now?" she had asked. I laughed. I hoped I sounded more confident and less uncomfortable. "She's not only fine but she's smart…at least from what you say. Editor of her newspaper at her last school and on the Principal's List every time. You know there aren't too many girls here I can bring home to my father." And I wasn't exaggerating. He was the deacon of our church and a very stern man with high expectations. "Quincy, you can run faster." "Quincy, this essay is unacceptable." "Quincy, set a good example for the youth at church." And I didn't disappoint. But to receive his full approval, I chose a career path way before I graduated high school. I knew if I became a messenger of God, I would command my father's full respect. Of course, there was a small matter at hand that would get out of hand if I let it. It could ruin everything. People started to believe I was a fag. I hated to think of myself that way, but the word started to travel under the breaths of some of my classmates. I was careful. So careful for so many years at hiding it. What could have gone wrong? I figured it out when an uneasy Sheila revealed the source of my misfortunes. I had worked on a group history project with a guy named Denard who was openly gay. Everyone called him "Fruit Rollup" and he was proud of it. He was the first person I ever despised in my lifetime. Prancing about with his limp wrists, working that neck of his when he told somebody off. I was furious when our teacher put us in a group together. Everyone else in our group seemed relieved because despite Denard's preferences, he was a certified genius. There was no way we would make a bad grade. Since Denard didn't have a car and lived in my neighborhood, I agreed to pick him up one afternoon so that our group could meet at the library. He appeared at his door shirtless. "Wassup, Quincy. You can come in, I'm almost ready." The first thing I noticed was Denard's chest. He may have been feminine but his body certainly wasn't. He was clearly a person who worked out every day. His pecs and washboard abs proved that. I glanced away and when I looked back at him, he smirked. "Well, don't stand there and let all those damned mosquitoes in my momma's house." Embarrassed, I closed the door behind me. Behind us. Denard bounded up the staircase and after twiddling my thumbs for a few seconds, I followed him. There was no plan of action on my part. And I was nervous about something I didn't even know would happen. When I made it down the hallway to Denard's room, his door was slightly ajar and he was still changing his clothes. My mouth watered, watching the bulge in his underwear jostling about as he pulled up a fresh pair of jeans. I made a slight step forward and Denard noticed it from the corner of his eye. He winked at me with that eye. "You see something you like, Mr. Wallace?" I stood there motionless, trying to wrinkle up my nose or give him some sign of disgust. But I couldn't hide my attraction, and Denard knew it. He allowed his jeans to fall to the floor, and then his boxers. "Cat, or should I say dick, got your tongue?"

"Put your clothes on, Denard." It was mild, low, and unconvincing. He came so close to me that we could've been Siamese twins. "I was just looking for the bathroom."

"I always knew there was something about you Quincy."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"We've been going to school together for years, and you've always been afraid to look at me."

"You think you're so smart don't you? Apparently only in the classroom, because I'm not afraid of anything. And you look like a fool right now. Put your clothes on."

"You're the damned fool if you think you can play me. I know I make you nervous, just like you are right now. And maybe that's because I have something to offer you that none of these bitches can. You just don't want to admit it, and that's what you're afraid of." I decided to take an approach that I normally wouldn't.

"I said put your damned clothes on before I knock your ass out!" Denard's eyes widened in mock surprise.

"I know church boy didn't just come out of his mouth like that?" A faint smile touched his lips. With surprising speed, he groped my crotch and left his hand there. "Just like I thought. Hard as a rock." Denard began to massage me through my khakis and I caught his wrist. "Showed up early today, huh? Do you want to knock my ass out, or get up in it?" My right eye twitched, and I loosened my grip. Denard took that as a cue and closed his bedroom door behind us. I received my first, and best, blowjob that day. And I paid for it later. Sheila told me that Denard had shared our little secret with a few of his girlfriends. It took me a while to convince her that he was lying. He was proud to be the first one to have had Quincy Wallace. And this time, I really was going to hurt him. I had to persuade everyone. Quickly. There was no way I could let my father find out. For a long time everybody, including my father, thought I was just a focused kid and didn't have time for girls. But God forbid everyone think that I could make time for boys. That's where Lavender came in. She was in the limelight, and I had to snatch the opportunity while she was feeling me. If there was anyone who could save my reputation, it was her. An average girl wouldn't do. In the meantime, I caught Denard in the boy's bathroom after school the same day Sheila put me on to his gossip. He grinned at me as he took a piss in front of one of the urinals.

"It was that good that you had to come looking for me after hours?" "Yes," I said, and walked over to him. After he finished, he gave it a shake, but I motioned for him to leave it out. He quickly obeyed and sighed as this time, I did all the groping. Just when Denard threw his head back in satisfaction, I gave his throbbing erection a sudden harsh twist.

"Aaagh!" he cried. I pinned his body against the wall and placed a hand over his mouth while I maintained my grip with the other. Denard's eyes widened in fear and then squinted in pain. I gritted my teeth.

"You want to run around telling lies about people, huh?" A tear ran from the corner of both his eyes. I applied pressure against his head with the hand I had over his mouth. "I asked you a question! Nod your head yes, or shake your head no." Denard slowly shook his head and I could hear his muffled whimpers. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one walked in on us. I turned back to Denard. "That's good. Because you're going to tell everyone what really happened. Everyone you lied to." He looked at me in confusion. "You will tell all your friends that you lied. That you were upset because I turned you down. Understand? I said do you understand?!" He quickly nodded his head and I released him. Denard stared at me like he wanted to spit in my face. But I knew I had shaken him up. I panted heavily. "The next time you run your mouth about me, I'll break it off!" I never had to worry about looking away from Denard again—he didn't give me so much as a peek after that day. The rumors stopped. A couple of weeks later, Lavender and I were official. A bunch of my homeboys who had started to avoid me apologized for believing Denard.

"Especially after you pulled that," they would joke whenever Lavender was around. My father never heard about the sexual encounter with Denard, but he would certainly be angry about the one I planned to have with Lavender. I was nervous about every move I made around her because I always thought I might slip up. So I tried to show her as much affection as possible. And the two virgins ended up dealing with a pregnancy three months into the relationship. I don't think my father forgave me even after Lavender and I were married. At least not until I went to school for theology and started to preach and spread the word. That's when his look of pride returned. And Lavender and I lived happily ever after… At least until I met Deacon Ronald Gray. After he joined my congregation, my sermon wasn't the only thing I began to enjoy doing at church. The man ignited a fire inside of me that I couldn't put out with holy water.  

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