Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [40]
The bitch actually seemed genuine when she said that. “Well, Malcolm’s going to have to kill me because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna touch your ass.”
“Donald, do you actually think I’m looking forward to having sex with you? I’d rather swallow a bucket of raw fish gills. Believe me, I’ll have to be under the influence, of something, when we do it.”
“Don’t worry about that, Lauren. We’re not going to be doing anything; except I’m going to keep fucking whomever I want while you’re eating Annette’s pussy. That’s all we’re gonna be doing. Get that through your cobwebbed head.”
The alcohol in my head made me step on the gas much harder than needed. The tires screeched as I took the corners.
“Donald, why don’t you get it through your head? You’ve been bought. My father owns every piece of you. He has your balls in a vise grip and, when he squeezes it, he determines how high you jump. Do you honestly think he’s going to take no for an answer? My mother wants a granddaughter and she’s going to get a granddaughter. I don’t like it, but I’ve accepted it. Don’t act like you’re fighting for some kind of rights; you have none. So, take whatever drug you have to and let’s make this child.”
Every pole that I passed looked like a good way to end it; both of us wrapped around a fucking pole in Brooklyn. Alcohol would’ve been the main culprit. The only thing stopping me from doing that was Emerald. I lived for him. In thirteen days, I’d prance up to Malcolm and tell him to go fuck himself. Money bought power and only power would set me free.
“You think I’m your father’s puppet? My grandmother always told me that every dog has his day and even the biggest dog would one day go down with a whimper. I’m going to repeat myself one last time. I’m not having another child with a lesbian bitch. I don’t care if your father’s God, it’s not happening.”
I pulled the car up into the driveway. The lights in the master bedroom immediately came on.
“Well, I tried to make it easy on you,” Lauren said, getting out of the car. “But your dumb, motherfucking ass won’t listen. I’m not going to let our son see you all fucked up, so we’ll be traveling soon.”
“You’re not taking my son any fucking where!” I shouted. “Now go upstairs and let she-man beat the shit out of you.”
For a minute, Lauren looked like she wanted to cry as she turned and walked slowly into the house. She realized that I was right. Annette always started an argument with her whenever we went to a function. An argument that usually ended with Lauren getting her ass whipped.
Emerald was fast asleep and I wasn’t in the mood to listen to two bitches that night. I put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. I maneuvered through my phone book for Brenda’s number and dialed.
“Hello, Brenda,” I said as I turned onto the main road.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“One-thirty.”
I pictured Brenda wiping her eyes and sitting up on the bed. “What do you want?”
“It’s one-thirty,” I repeated.
“You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” She paused. Then she spoke her address slowly and repeated it. “Call me when you’re outside the building. I’m going to come down. We can go by the South Street Seaport.”
There was a rustling noise in the background as I imagined her getting ready.
I had no desire to drive all night. “But it’s closed.”
“Exactly,” she said; a mischievous edge in her voice.
“I’m not going to have a child with you,” I said, losing my reality for a minute.
“What?!” Brenda exclaimed.
“Nothing. I’ll be there in forty.” I pressed the end button. I needed rest, but first I wanted pussy.
I called Brenda from outside the apartment and waited for her to come down. I was the focus of the doorman’s attention as I stood leaning against the Mercedes Benz S500. If I had been a betting man, I’d have predicted that he would’ve called the police when I pulled up at that time of the morning if I had come there in anything less than a Benz.
Brenda sashayed out of the apartment lobby dressed in a short denim