Bad as in Good (33 page)

“We fucked like twice, Simoné.”

Simoné huffed. “If you say so, Riq. You deserve everything I'm putting you through.”

I was done listening to her play the victim. I may have succumbed to temptation a few nights while living with Simoné. After passing out from a round of shots of Patrón, Simoné was all too ready to meet me on the couch and take advantage of my weak state. I enjoyed it while it happened, but come morning, she would use it against me. Nevertheless, I was done. I dropped my shoulders and tugged the skin between my fingers. “I did some research, Simoné.”

“And? You're still not takin' my son.”

“I know that our situation is partly my fault. I should've tried harder to divorce you, but I dunno, Simoné. What I do know is that I can't let you keep fucking my life up anymore. Simoné, we are done. We are never getting back together. I will never love you. I never loved you when we actually were together. I'm tired of this shit, Simoné. I'm tired of you. I'm tired of not seeing my son.” I exhaled. “Since you won't get an annulment, I will move forward with this divorce and keep my son in the process. I've already started contacting lawyers.”

“What the fuck does that mean, Riq? You think I can't fight you on this?”

I took a deep breath and pushed the divorce papers closer to her. “That means that I'm ending this. You don't have the right to keep me in this bullshit because you can't let go. I want things to be easy. I don't wanna go through all this bullshit, especially when we got Amari to deal wit'. We can either do this like two adults or I can make shit real difficult for you.”

She dropped her hands and breathed. She spread her lips and whistled through her mouth as she stared at the papers. She picked
them up and leafed through them. Not understanding what to say, she threw the papers back down and put her hands back on her hips. “Whatchu tryna say, Riq?”

“I tol' you, Simoné. I'm done. I'm tired of going through this. I tried to be there for my son, and you put me through hell doing it. And now, you wanna move my son away from me 'cause you can't move on. I'm done wit' it.”

“I put
you
through hell?”

“Simoné, you cheated on me! Do you remember that I caught you fuckin' another nigga in my damn shower? And then you tricked me into marrying you. Why the fuck would I wanna be married to you?”

“Riq…”

“Nah…” I stood up and picked the papers back up. “We goin' get this divorce, After that, I'm coming for my son.”

She snatched the papers from my hands and threw them to the floor. She kept her eyes on me intently as if she already decided where she was goin' to bury my body. Then she laughed. She looked down at the scattered papers and cackled as she walked toward my front door. “Fuck you, Riq. You're not takin' my son.”

After gathering the papers from the floor, I held her arm and yanked her back. An inch away from her face, I said, “You think everything's a fuckin' game.” She snatched her arm away and folded her arms over her chest. “You ain't got no job, no place to stay. You ain't got shit. You think I won't be able to take my son from you?”

“I
know
you won't.”

I was the one laughing now. I looked her up and down and chuckled. When I first met Simoné, her take-no-shit attitude turned me on. At that moment, I found it amusing. She didn't
realize when it was time to throw in the towel. I was serious about my son, an' Simoné was soon about to find out how much. “And what makes you so damn sure?”

Her face was expressionless. Although her nostrils were slightly flared, I couldn't accurately predict what she was about to say next. She didn't move. She stared right through me as she spoke the next six words low and slow. “ 'Cause he ain't
yo'
damn son.”

It was as if she knocked the wind out of me. I stumbled backward. Her words packed the punch of a heavyweight champion. My ribs caved in after she knocked me out. I stared at her, searching for a tell, a smirk or a wink. Something that implied the joke. It wasn't a funny joke, but I'd take it. Her face was straight. She stared me down and silently delighted in my reaction. I wanted to punch her back and hit her wit' the same blow she'd hit me wit'. “What?”

“You heard what the fuck I said.” She turned around and tried to walk out my door. I squeezed her forearm and pulled her back. She hadn't gained enough footing, and she had to grab my kitchen counter to keep from falling backward. I didn't care if she fell. I wanted answers, and I wasn't goin' let her walk out this time. She plucked her hand away from my clutch and sneered. “What the fuck is wrong wit' you? Don't put yo' damn hands on me!”

“What the fuck are you talkin' 'bout, Simoné? Whatchu mean, he ain't my son?”

“I mean what the fuck I said! He's not yours. He never was.”

“Then what did you show me? What was the paternity test you showed me, Simoné? I was there when they took my DNA and tested you again. What the fuck was all that?”

“Bullshit! I faked it! You think I don't have friends in useful places? I could've had those results say our son was the president's baby. Why the fuck would I want to have a baby by a nigga wit' no fuckin'
job, a lazy eye, and still lives wit' his mama? I called in a big favor to hook you, Riq.” She took a deep breath. Her eyes welled with tears, but she wiped her face and shook her head. “I wanted you back.”

“Simoné, are you still playin' fuckin' games?”

“Do I look like I'm playin'? Take a paternity test yo' damn self if you don't believe me. Amari's not yours, Riq. He may look like you, but trust me, he's Jamar's. Sorry.”

“Sorry?”
Did women really think that
sorry
was the cure? Women would put a knife in a man's back, turn around, and say
sorry
when blood stained his shirt.
What the fuck does
sorry
do for me in this moment?
Right then, I wanted to crack her skull against my hardwood floor, not a fuckin' sorry. “Simoné…you ain't fo' real…” I pictured Amari's face. I pictured the face of the fuckin' nigga she had in my shower. Amari had his ears and the same smug expression about his face.

“I gotta go.” Simoné walked to my front door without a look back. I wanted to stop her, but if I'd moved, I wouldn't have been able to account for my hands. I closed my fists and breathed steadily. I couldn't look at her. I heard her footsteps disappear out into the hallway as the door shut behind her. I didn't move. I stood there as images of my son's face flashed through my mind. I dissected his face, his eyes, his nose, and his lips. When I used to look at him, I saw me. After hearing that, I saw a stranger. Ten minutes ago, I had a son. In that moment, I had nothing but pain and blind fury.

•  •  •

Damien stood in the middle of my condo eyeing the damage. He eyed the fifteen holes in my wall. Fifteen fist-wide holes that went as deep as my elbow. He watched his step as he walked over
the shattered glass strewn all over my floor. Broken dishes and cups lay dead on my floor as scattered bits scratched my hardwood. Damien kept his hands in his pockets, strolling around my apartment in silent awe. I sat on my couch staring at the wall. My knuckles covered in dried blood and drywall. Dried sweat rested on my forehead, neck, and back. When he walked in, I had no words for him. I simply sat down and stared at the wall—breathing.

Simoné called. She called thirty-seven times. She blew me up with voicemails and sending text messages. I didn't react to the first ten calls. After a drink of water, she called again. I threw my water glass against the wall, then another glass, then some plates—I did that through twelve more calls. Tired of being a bitch and throwing plates, I saw Simoné's face in my walls. I punched her for each call. Then, Damien stopped by. I turned my phone off and gave my walls a rest.

“Um…is there something I need to know?”

I never knew silence made a sound. In my silence, I heard Simoné's voice constantly reminding me of the paternity of my son. I needed to drive her voice out of my head. I took a deep, much-needed breath and said, “Simoné.”

Damien walked toward me. He stood in the way of my view of the wall and stared down at me. “What did she do now?”

“I tol' her I was comin' for my son.” I had to remind myself to breathe to keep from getting angrier. I got lightheaded as I attempted to let the rage simmer. “She tol' me that Lil' Man ain't mine.”

Damien dropped his jaw and stepped back like I hit him in the face. “Stop lying.”

I stared at my feet and pressed my fists together. “Does my condo look like I'm lying?”

He chuckled nervously. His laugh was weak and shaky as he rubbed his chin and cataloged the damage. “That's fucked up.”

“No, what's fucked up is that I had a bitch claimin' my last name, puttin' me through bullshit, and then lying about a son who ain't mine.” I laughed. It was the first laugh I'd had since Simoné walked out my place. There wasn't anything funny, but I had to release an emotion other than anger.

“Shit, man. Whatchu goin' do?”

“I don't know, man. The only reason why my place is so fucked up is 'cause it ain't in me to knock out a female. I want to, though. I gotta stay here until it's safe for Simoné.”

“I was 'bout to say we need to go out to the club.”

I shook my head. “Nah, man. I can't risk it. If I get drunk enough, I'ma somehow make it to Simoné's mama house. She ain't goin' make it out alive.”

Damien nodded. He understood my frustration. Damien had two kids that he knew were his. I had a son who didn't belong to me. Instantly, fury overtook me. The anger had resurfaced, and I stood back up and headed for the front door. The wall between my entryway and my kitchen had two holes in it. I clenched my fists and then punched in a third hole. The first few holes punched back. That time, my fist went through easily. That felt good. Damien stood up and walked up behind me. “Aye man, you tryna get the cops called?”

I exhaled. I wasn't breathing. I stood there staring at my three holes and holding my breath. When he spoke, I shook my head and turned my doorknob. “I'ma have to hit you up later. I can't even think straight, man.”

Damien sympathized, and nodded in agreement. When I opened the door, we were both surprised to see Erin. She stood there with her hand up and ready to knock. Damien looked at me and back at her. I could sense he was undressing her out of the yellow sundress she wore. He licked his lips as he eyed her pedicured toes in
beach slides and smiled when he noticed her hair pulled up into a loose bun. She stared back at him as she waited for someone to say something. When neither of us spoke, she caught a glimpse of my apartment and turned her eyes toward me. I stood there in a ripped undershirt and dirty sweatpants. With her uneasy smile, her dimples stared back at us, wanting answers. She spread her lips and looked back into my place. “Is this a bad time?”

Damien offered Erin his hand. “I was about to leave.”

Erin grabbed his hand and shook it as Damien slapped my shoulder and walked out. He left us there to sort through my mess.

With Damien out of sight, Erin focused her attention on me. “I can leave.”

I held her hand and pulled her inside. Without locking it, I closed the door behind us, let her hand go and walked back to the couch to stare at the wall. Erin did the same thing as Damien. She stood in the middle of my condo and tried to make sense out of the destruction. I let her take it all in before we exchanged pleasantries.

“What happened here?” She stepped over the broken glass and stood in front of me instead of standin' on the other side of the coffee table like Damien. Her body was in between my legs as she watched me sit and breathe. I didn't say anything. With her body close to me, a body that was warm and trustworthy, I glanced up at her and smiled. The smile was real. She was beautiful from every angle. She was nothing like the women I met in my past; she was simply beautiful. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her close. With my head resting on her stomach, I listened to her stomach gurgle. I rubbed my hands back and forth as I soothed her back and massaged her booty. She was softer than cotton. I held her closely and listened to her heart beat through her stomach. She stood there, not moving initially, and placed her hands on my shoulders and squeezed back. “Riq…”

“Don't call me that.” I inhaled and exhaled. Holding her close to me, I said, “I like when you call me
Tariq
. You're the only one that calls me that. Keep callin' me that.”

“Tariq, can you tell me what's going on? What did I walk into?”

I didn't want to discuss my pain. I wanted to hold her close and delight in the fact that she felt warm and soft. I stood up and looked down into her eyes. I loosened the band that tied up her bun and watched her hair fall on her shoulders. When she stared back up at me, I pulled her even closer. I wanted our bodies to touch as I grabbed the back of her head and pressed my lips against hers. I wasn't gentle. After what I'd experienced, there was nothing gentle left inside me. I shoved my tongue in her mouth and covered her lips with mine. I wrung her ass in my palms as she held on to the back of my neck. Then, I held on to her thighs and lifted her up to my waist. She draped her legs around me as we kissed, and I slid my hands up her dress. With her pussy up against my chest, I could feel her fluids beggin' to leak from her panties.

I dropped her on my couch and snatched off her panties. I slid up her dress and pulled down my sweatpants and boxers—no time for foreplay. I spread her legs and pushed myself inside. With her legs still draped around me, she pulled me in deeper as she scratched my back and arched hers. I needed her. I needed her moisture to saturate my dick and make me feel like I was swimming inside her. I felt her come and I ignored it. I couldn't stop even when her body shook uncontrollably. She gritted her teeth as her eyes watered. Our lips met again as our eyes locked. I needed her to look at me with truthful eyes as our tongues played with each other. I stroked her pussy while I played the gimme-gimme inside her. She couldn't stop until I released. I needed to feel myself explode inside her.