Fornication Volume One (Honey Dip) Read online

  “All of our money is gone. Gone!” Denise wanted to scream, she wanted to fight, she wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear. She blinked the tears from her eyes and stared at that house.

  Pull it together, Denise, she thought as she gripped the steering wheel. She took a shuddering breath and sat back in her seat. Pull it together and keep it together. She looked at the clock on the car radio and back at the house that Roger just went into. Every minute that passed with him inside felt like a thousand hours gone by. Images of Roger and that slut in the pink fluff floated through her mind and she gripped the steering wheel so hard that the palms of her hands started to chafe and burn.

  “Are you okay, young lady?”

  “Jesus,” Denise screamed. She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the old woman’s voice. She wiped her eyes and forced a smile. “I’m sorry, ma’am, you scared me.” She looked around the car for a napkin to blow her nose with but couldn’t find anything.

  “Here you go.” The old woman extended a paper towel through the passenger side window. “I went in the house and grabbed a few sheets out of the kitchen when I saw you crying like that. My name is Mattie. Is there anything I can help you with? Are you hurt in anyway? Do you need me to call somebody for you?”

  Denise wiped her face and blew her nose on the paper towel. The smile she gave Ms. Mattie was genuine this time. “No, I’m okay, there’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Ms. Mattie gave her a matter of fact look that cut straight through the bullshit. “Now there may not be anything physically wrong with you, but I know pain when I see it and, sweetheart, you is hurt.”

  Denise nodded her head and turned her attention to back to the house that her husband disappeared into. “You’re right, I am hurting.” She clutched at her chest. “In here.” The tears came again slowly and she did not try to wipe them away.

  Ms. Mattie followed Denise’s gaze down to Portia’s house and spit on the pavement. “Oh, I see,” she said, throwing her hands up on her hips and shaking her head. “Is that your man that just walked into that whorehouse?”

  Denise shook her head yes.

  “A damn sin and a shame, oh my goodness, that just burns me up. I seen that car here many times, too. Are you married?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Denise said.

  “Got kids?”

  “We have three kids and a damn dog.”

  “Oh, that just makes me sick.” Ms. Mattie leaned in the car window. “What did you do, follow him here?”

  Denise nodded.

  “Well, sweetheart, I tell you this much, you ain’t the first wife that follow her man down here and you definitely won’t be the last. There is a gang of Godless whores in that house, and they could care less about a man being married, engaged, or hooked up. All they care about is if his money spends. All I know is that I ain’t gonna cook fo’ a nigga, clean fo’ a nigga, let him screw me in every available hole, and then watch him spend his paycheck over at Portia’s with some glorified hooker.” Ms. Mattie threw her hands back on her hips. “Nigga catch a stray bullet first, and I mean that.”

  Those words echoed in Denise’ head. She watched as Roger came out of that house with a different girl. This one looked older. She was brown skinned and curvy, more like Roger’s type, Denise thought. White-hot rage bloomed in her heart and washed over her entire body as she watched Roger kiss her passionately and walk her to the truck that she had cosigned for. She waited a full minute after they pulled off to follow suit. She didn’t hear Ms. Mattie tell her bye or wish her luck. She couldn’t hear anything outside of her own heartbeat.

  Chapter Eight

  Portia walked up the steps leading to Babygirl’s and Mookie’s bedrooms on the third floor. Babygirl’s door was open and, as usual, it looked like a pink typhoon had hit the place. I’ll never understand that girl’s obsession with Pepto-Bismol colored shit, she thought, closing the door as she walked past.

  Mookie lay across her bed, dressed in ripped up jeans and t-shirt. Her hair was up in a bun making her look a lot younger than a twenty-five-year-old. She was flipping through a magazine and listening to music. “Oh, shit,” she said, sitting up when she spotted Portia. “What the fuck did I do?”

  Portia cocked an eyebrow.

  “Come on,” Mookie said, “you know you only come up here when you’re pissed.”

  Portia walked over to the recliner in the corner of Mookie’s room. She pushed the clothes onto the floor and took a seat. She nodded her head. “That’s true, but I’m not pissed this time. Well, not yet.” She sat back and crossed her legs. “What are you using besides weed?”

  Mookie’s eyes popped out of her face as she cut the music off. “Wait a--”

  Portia cut her off. “Remember, I’m not pissed yet, but I can go from zero to pissed quicker than you can say the lie you are about to tell me.”

  Mookie put her head down. “I do a few lines every now and again.”

  “You do a few lines of what?”

  Mookie got up off the bed and walked over to the window. “Coke, I do a couple of lines of coke every now and again.”

  Portia messaged her temples. “Explain every now and again.”

  “You know, at parties and stuff.” She played with the fringes of the window shades. “What else did April tell you? Is that what the fuck we’re doing now? We’re spying on each other like little fucking kids?”

  Portia frowned and watched Mookie as she began to pace back and forth across the floor. “First you try to lie, and now you’re being defensive. April didn’t tell me a damn thing,” Portia said quietly. “I saw powder on your nose a couple of times, which tells me that you’re into the nose candy pretty hard. You freebasing yet?”

  “I’m not a fucking crackhead!” Mookie dropped the shade and folded her arms under her chest.

  Portia took her .22 out of her thigh holster. “Who the fuck are you hollering at?”

  Mookie backed up against the window. “I didn’t mean to holler, yo...”

  Portia raised her gun and Mookie clamped her mouth shut. “That’s better,” Portia said, waving her over to the bed with the gun. “Now, here’s what it is: I debated when I was going to have this conversation with you. I’m already going through enough shit between Honey and Babygirl.” She sat back in the seat but didn’t put her gun away. “I figured you’re a big girl and can handle yourself, but no, that would be way too easy. You had to go start acting like an addict, all erratic and shit, changing your program up and lying to me in my face.”

  Mookie opened her mouth to defend herself, but Portia pointed the gun at her and cocked it. “Did I say it was time for you to speak?”

  Mookie shook her head no and Portia lowered the gun. “I didn’t think so. I came up here hoping we could have a calm discussion. I’d hoped that I was wrong about you, that you weren’t completely strung the fuck out, but I think I can see traces of shit in your nostrils right now. I’m going to put my gun away because the more I talk the madder I get, and the madder I get the more I want to pop you in the knee.” She slid the gun back into the holster and crossed her legs. “Do you want to go to rehab?”

  “I don’t need to go to rehab, Portia. Are you serious?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m serious as a fucking heart attack. I don’t have the time, patience or inclination, to clean up another fucking junkie.”

  Mookie wiped her nose. “I am not a junkie.”

  Portia just cocked her eyebrow again.

  “Oh my God, I am not a junkie. I just do a couple of lines at a party. I use that shit socially.”

  “Were you having a party in your room this morning?”

  “No,” Mookie sighed. “I had a little left over so I did it.”

  Portia cut her off again. “Here’s how it’s going to be: I’m going to leave the rehab offer on the table in case you wake the fuck up and realize you have a fucking problem. I went out last night and had a nice conversation with a few dealers--local and not so local. I told them to call
me if you came through to cop. They can sell to you, because business is business after all. I just asked them to let me know if they do. I need to know where my rent money is going.”

  Mookie looked horrified. “What if I have to cop for a date?”

  “You better have someone else do it. You better make sure that someone else doesn’t tell me, because if I find out,” Portia stood up and walked over to Mookie. She cupped her chin and tilted her head back so that Mookie could see the fury in Portia’s eyes. “If I find out you bought anything outside of a bag of weed and a pack of cigarettes, you’ll pray to Jesus and all his disciples that the only thing I do is shoot you.” Portia dropped her chin and left her on the bed crying.

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  Denise watched as Roger ushered his ho in and out of stores she only dreamed of shopping in. Her pain came in shattering waves of disbelief and utter betrayal. The tears were gone, she couldn’t cry anymore. Her eyes were bloodshot, puffy and swollen. Her soul felt empty, as if it had deflated with every tear that coursed down her cheeks.

  Denise kept her distance from the happy couple. Her senses, however, must have developed superhuman focus because she could see every detail of the two, every touch, every embrace. Her mind played wicked tricks on her, for it seemed she could hear their conversation. She imagined Roger telling that whore all kinds of trifling things that made her smile and giggle. Denise knew that she should leave them alone, go pick up her kids from daycare, go home and start dinner, but she couldn’t do it. Watching them was like watching a mystery unfold and she couldn’t leave until she had discovered every detail.

  They left the mall and went to eat at a diner on Roosevelt. She followed them, watched them park the truck, kiss passionately and go inside arm in arm. She began to rock back and forth, first gently and then violently. She beat the console until the top cracked and her hand began to bleed. The smell of blood filled the car.

  “Okay,” she mumbled. “You love her? You fucking love her?” she screamed. She turned the car on and pulled out of the parking lot so fast that the wheels screeched. “You fucking love her, then you can have her.” Denise raced down the boulevard. She wasn’t thinking, just driving on autopilot. She arrived at their house in ten minutes, leaving the car running in the driveway as she ran up the steps to their front door. She fumbled with the keys, leaving bloody stains on the white door, but she couldn’t feel anything but heartbreak. She raced up the steps to the master bedroom. She stood there a few seconds, staring at the bed she shared with Roger. Her eyes dropped to the wedding picture on the nightstand. She picked it up and hurled it against the wall, walked to the closet and got the shoebox off the shelf that held Roger’s gun. Her fingers shook as she loaded the bullets. Sticking the gun in her pocket, she raced back down the stairs and out the front door. Denise got back to the diner just in time to see Roger and his ho pulling out of the parking lot. Reducing her speed, she followed them, mumbling incoherently and clutching the gun.

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  Mookie dressed slowly. She was so tired that putting on her pantyhose and heels seemed like a monumental task. She sat at the vanity and brushed her hair down from its bun. She’d left it in for three days to give her hair a natural soft curl. Her bob cut framed her face perfectly when she styled it right.

  She applied a light coat of foundation to cover the small acne break out on her cheeks. She wasn’t as pretty as Portia and Babygirl, nor did she have April’s or Honey-Dip’s curves. Mookie was average, brown skin, slim build, nothing to write home about until she took off her clothes and got into bed.

  She’d learned how to make her pussy suck a dick like a vacuum cleaner, a skill that was worth a lot of money to a lot of dudes.

  I do more than pull my weight, she thought. I don’t even know what she’s bitching about, for real. She applied mascara and a little lip gloss. I can’t believe Portia thinks I’m an addict, she thought for the hundredth time. All I need is a little pick me up, a little boost to keep me going, that’s all. I like to have a good time. She grabbed the blunt out of the ashtray and lit it. “Portia acts like I’m a back-alley hype. That’s so fucked up.” She laughed and walked down stairs. The house was empty, which suited Mookie just fine. She didn’t feel like putting up with anyone’s shit. The only person she could tolerate at all was Peanut and he’d been gone since the morning.

  She locked the door and walked down the street. Maybe I could cop me something from them boys in South Philly, she thought, and then dismissed that thought out of hand. She really had no idea how many people Portia knew or how far her reach extended. As soon as someone thought that they had Portia figured out they learned real quick that they had less than half a fucking clue. What’s a girl to do when she can’t get a decent fix from anybody because anybody could be Portia’s friend? Well, if the friends are off limits, then the enemies are fair game.

  Mookie got on the 48 heading downtown. She hated busses, but what the fuck was she going to do? Walking wasn’t an option, and she’d burned the bridges that led to her regulars’ cars. She’d normally sit at the back, but it was full of niggas and she didn’t need any headaches. She chose side row seats in the front, which was a mistake as well because the bus driver nearly crashed twice looking at her legs instead of the road.

  “You single?” he asked at a red light.

  “Always,” Mookie responded.

  “Can I get your number?”

  Mookie laughed. “Baby, you couldn’t afford it.”

  Two young girls started laughing and the bus driver’s hands tightened on the wheel.

  Oh boy, Mookie thought watching his knuckles lighten up from the death grip. She reached up and pulled the call bell to signal her stop. She walked to the front door and gripped the rail.

  “I should have known you were a ho,” he said quietly.

  “Mookie laughed. “Yup, you should have. Not only am I a ho, big boy, but I can make your yearly salary in week.”

  “Is that so?” He pulled over at the bus stop. “Tell me why you’re riding the bus if you’re so paid.”

  Mookie winked at the bus driver before exiting. “For shits and giggles, of course.” She walked up the street to the bank. She wasn't supposed to have a bank account. Portia said prostitutes and paper trails don't mix. Mookie shook her head. Portia has rules for days, she thought, but you are never supposed to let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, and that's why she opened an account as soon as she made her first stack.

  Mookie withdrew the last $800 she had. “I can't wait until we have this party,” she mumbled. “My finances are looking horrible and I need a new sugar daddy to make my pockets right.” She spun around in the bank thinking of who she could cop from that wouldn’t go back and blab to Portia. She knew of three of Portia’s enemies, but only one who sold ’cain.

  She walked over to the customer service desk. “May I please use your phone?” She smiled at the Asian woman in the baggy gray suit who sat behind the help desk. It took a little doing, but she finally found somebody with the phone numbers she needed. The Asian lady shot her a dirty look after the third call, but Mookie ignored her.

  Taking a deep breath, she made a phone call that crossed a line she could never cross back over.

  She caught a cab to 69th Street and boarded the R5 to Coatesville. Going to see Bunky was a dangerous move. Walking to the back of the train, she tucked herself into the seat closest to the window, crossed her legs, and folded her arms under her breasts to stop her hands from shaking. She looked through the glass as fear made her heart pump double duty in her chest. Well, maybe this isn’t the best idea in the world, she thought, but I deserve a chance to get a little pick me up without getting shot or getting my ass kicked.

  She closed her eyes. I’m sure Bunky knows it was Portia that set him and Rodney up, she thought, but I wonder if he’s mad at all the girls of Fornication. She took deep breaths to calm herself.

&
nbsp; It didn’t work. Mookie broke out in a cold sweat. She sat up and looked around like she would find a way off the train.

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  Peanut waited patiently in his car. "There's the mama bear," he said as he watched George’s wife leave for work. "And there's the baby bear,” he said as Honey's daughter left for school. He waited five minutes before walking up to George's door. "And now we wait for papa bear." He didn't have to wait long. George opened the door almost immediately after his wife and kid left. The smile he was wearing dropped off of his face as soon as he saw Peanut.

  "You going somewhere, nigga?" he asked, pushing his way into the house.

  George threw his keys on the floor and started to charge at him, but stopped short when Peanut pulled out his Glock. The look of utter terror on his face was priceless.

  "Yes, you like that? It was a Christmas gift from your baby mama."

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm the man who’s going to hurt you today."

  George swallowed hard. "What is this all about?"

  "Oh, I see you have amnesia." Peanut walked up to him, cocked the gun, and put it against his forehand. "A friend of mine came over to see you yesterday. Now, I don't know what you said to her and I don't know what you did to her. All I know is that you hurt her, and that was a mistake. A very big, very bad, very stupid mistake, and I'm here to make you bleed."

  George opened his mouth to say something, but Peanut put a finger up to his lips.

  "Shh, it's not time for you to explain yet." He struck George across the temple with the hilt of the gun.

  George fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes, and Peanut dragged him into the kitchen. He picked him up and sat him in a chair, pulled duct tape out of his back pocket and wrapped George up like a present. Peanut took a bowl from out the cabinet and filled it with water. He doused George and then took a seat across from him.