I looked at Benito. “First off, none of the money is yours,” I said. “Second, you’re fucking crazy if you think you’re going to make me a conspirator to murder and money laundering, and third, take this five hundred dollars, get the hell out of my office, and don’t ever come near me or my parents again.”
Benito stood there dazed and confused, like he didn’t know if he wanted to beat my ass or cry. But I could tell he was happy as hell to have a few dollars.
I went on. “Invest it wisely. I thought my father was overreacting, but he’s right. You’re endangering all of our lives. What if this pimp Valentino James has a hit out on your dumb ass, thinking you set him up and stole his money? You ever contemplate that? I’m going to ask you politely one more time. Leave.”
Benito pleaded with me, gesturing with his hands. “Valentino is my boy. He wouldn’t do that to me. But look, you have to help me. We’re blood, and I don’t have anywhere else to go. Five hundred dollars won’t last long in D.C. You want me to sleep under the freeway again with those homeless people?”
“Here. Take this card. Maybe this woman can help you,” I said, giving the number for the lady I’d met at Starbucks. My blood pressure must’ve shot up fifty degrees as I yelled, “We’re not blood! Get the fuck out!” This time I snatched opened the door and waited for this ignoramus to leave.
“Aw’ight. That’s cool. But you’d better pray Lace doesn’t have my money, or she’s one dead bitch,” Benito said, walking out.
I yelled, “You’re so stupid, you’d probably shoot yourself, and you don’t have any money, you dumb ass!” Then I slammed the door. “The nerve of him.”
Sitting in my chair, I exhaled heavily and stared at the amazingly beautiful woman in the picture. I wondered who in the world she was. Loose curls framed her flawless face and dazzling smile, but there was no sparkle under her long eyelashes, although I could picture how Honey’s eyes did light up for me whenever we were together.
I had to find out for myself who she really was. But I wasn’t going to ask her over the phone. I had to look deep into those captivating green eyes. After questioning Honey, I was taking a trip to Las Vegas to find that police officer, Sapphire Bleu. Surely, she knew everything about Honey, Benito, and Valentino. Picking up my cell, I began dialing Honey’s number, then hung up. I blocked my number, then redialed hers.
“Mr. Hill, Mr. Williams is here,” Beverly said on my landline at the same time Honey answered, “What’s sweeter than honey and more valuable than money?”
Damn. Her voice was soft and so succulent, I could taste her pussy on the tip of my tongue. My dick got so hard, it throbbed against my zipper.
“Mr. Hill?” Beverly chimed in my right ear.
“Hello,” Honey spoke in my left ear.
Intentionally, I said, “Beverly, send Mr. Williams in.”
Honey said, “Grant?”
I whispered, “You are. I’ll call you back.” Then I ended our call.
CHAPTER 11
Honey
I’d brought my girls from Las Vegas to Atlanta, and it was my responsibility to make sure no man ever exploited or violated them again. Thus far, it’d only been a few weeks, but they were becoming bored being at home most of the day. I was, too. And a few of them had added on a few pounds. I was not going to have a house filled with overweight, unhealthy women. They’d already eaten breakfast, but come lunchtime, I was ordering Subway sandwiches. I was the only one with transportation, and Onyx was the only one allowed to drive my car. Maybe I should hire a personal trainer to work them out in the morning and an intake specialist to train them on how to properly document cases in the afternoon. Then they could practice interviewing one another in the evenings.
Sitting downstairs, in the family room, which I’d converted into my home office, I turned on my laptop. I positioned my hand above the keyboard, daze at the peach trees in the backyard. What would I say to the women who walked through the doors of Sweeter Than Honey? What were my beliefs?
Just as I began typing, the phone interrupted my thoughts. Checking the caller ID, I saw it was a 404 area code, but I didn’t recognize the number. Was it Grant? Oh, my, God. I should be pissed at him. But I wasn’t. My heart started racing. I took a deep breath, exhaled, then answered. “What’s sweeter than honey and more valuable than money?” I was hoping to hear the same response he’d whispered in my ear earlier.
“My daughter,” a woman replied.
Frowning, I replied, “Of course, she is. Is she in trouble?”
“How much?” the woman asked flatly.
My eyebrows stretched toward my forehead as I shifted my thoughts to business. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t have a lot of money. How much will you charge me to find her son’s father?” The woman began crying. “It’s not fair that she has to work a second job at a strip club to take care of her son. We’ve got to find him, and you’ve got to help us.”
Wasn’t this why I had decided to start my business? But I had never envisioned tracking down deadbeat dads. “What’s your daughter’s name, and what club does she work at?”
“I named her Velvet Waters. Her stripper name is Red Velvet. She works at Stilettos. Her son’s name is Ronnie Allen. His no-good daddy’s name is Alphonso Allen. Oh, and Alphonso is a married man. We live in Atlanta, but my baby, Velvet, met him almost six years ago in Los Angeles, when she was auditioning for a movie. How much?”
I had no idea how much to charge this woman. “Pro bono,” I said. “E-mail me right away with the details. Include your contact information, and we’ll handle the rest. Have a sweet day.”
Wow, my first case, I thought. I had to make a good impression. Actually, I was rather excited about finding this Alphonso guy and hearing what his excuse was for not taking care of his son. And if his wife didn’t know about Ronnie, she was about to find out.
I believed women deserved to have their fathers and the other men in their lives lift them to the highest heights, not deny, degrade, or disrespect them. What happened to the women who were repeatedly stampeded for years, were fucked for free, with nothing invested in them, and then were dragged through the venomous quicksand of deception? If they survived before turning stone-cold, were they living or simply sustaining themselves on an invisible respirator, or had they become mush, like those rotten peaches soaking up the soil in my backyard?
They say tears cleanse the soul, giving clarity to new beginnings. Suddenly, raindrops the size of silver dollars pounded against my patio window. Yesterday the weatherman had predicted clear skies for today. Grant had promised he’d never leave me. I rolled my computer chair to the window, then watched the wet circles until they either disappeared or were replaced by new raindrops, kind of the way I’d seen men treating women. Beyond the patio, a barrier of Georgia peach trees secluded me from my neighbors.
Oh, I didn’t need to go out in the rain to witness what was on those trees, just like I didn’t need to travel the world to know millions of women were suffering in silence from neglect, abuse, rape, post-partum depression, and the blues. Not the kind of blues that Barbara Morrison imparted in her lyrics to “You Don’t Know What Love Is.”
Women were suffering from the kind of blues that made the marrow in their bones shrivel; the kind of blues that twisted already-driven stakes deeper into their broken hearts; the kind of blues that scarred from the inside out, aging them seemingly overnight; shoeless blues that left footprints