Love Trumps Game

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

Have you ever been in the same room with a monster?

Did you see how he did it? How he used fear as his weapon?

Could you smell, or see, death coming in his eyes?

What Hattie Sims saw when she came out from the bathroom of her home was a tall, muscular man standing in her living room. Her breath caught in her throat. She could have kicked herself for not remembering to lock that metal security door. After all, wasn't that what it was for? To keep devils and monsters out?

“Why are you in my house?”

Topps Jackson was no stranger. Still, she hadn't liked or trusted him from the first time she had laid eyes on him. Something about his eyes; they were dark and threatening. He had nice lips but rarely smiled.

“Chill out, Mama Hattie. I come in peace.” A toothpick was restless between his lips. Sneaky-looking eyes panned around her room as if he were casing the place.

“Your type ain't welcome here.” Hattie refused to let her nervousness show. “And I'm not yo' mama.”

He was dressed entirely in black. Large, muscular arms seemed more like thick, brown tree trunks protruding from the expensive jersey that he wore. “Good thang you not, or you'd be dead by now.”

It was probably ridiculous for her to attempt to manually remove him. She was a petite woman with delicate features. Still,
Hattie straightened her back and stood her ground with the father of her grandchildren. His bodacious visit was what she got for not locking her metal security door; thinking that the delivery boy would be there soon with her grocery order.

“What is it you want? Say what you want and get out. You got no business being here.”

“Now see, that ain't no way to be treating family.” Unfazed by her annoyance, Topps Jackson ambled over to a table and picked up a wood-framed photo of her daughter, Myra. “Pretty,” he said, then grunted. He placed the frame back and ran a finger along the top of the table. “A little dusty in here. You might wanna take care of that when I leave.”

“Look, if you're looking for Neema, she ain't here.”

“Not looking for Neema. Looking for you; the mama that keeps putting nonsense in Neema's head. You know, that shit about taking my kids and moving away.” Topps sniffed, looked around her old, cozy living room. It was clean, but worn-looking. He frowned like it was a shame to have an average existence with no frills.

Hattie couldn't imagine what Neema saw in him. True, he was tall, handsome, cunning and, from what she'd heard, drug-dealing rich. He had materialistic wealth, yet, he represented everything a mother should warn her daughter about.
Stay away from men that degrade women. Men that hurt women. Stay away from men on the opposite side of the law. Stay away.

“Like I said, you have no business being here.”

“I disagree. I feel like this. If my kids spend a lot of time over here, I need to know what's up. How you hanging. You know what I'm saying, don't you?” All six feet of man turned and slowly walked down her hallway, padding along her carpet in his expensive-looking black sneakers. “How many bedrooms you got here, ole lady?”

“You listen here, young man…” Hattie was right behind him, clutching the collar of her floral housedress. “You need to leave.”

“You gotta man up in this mutha?” Topps inquired as he opened doors and surveyed one room after another. “What? No nigger laying that pipe down? That explains a lot.”

“That's not your business,” Hattie snapped.
The nerve of this fool; talking this way to me.

“That's how I feel when you stay all up in my business with Neema. See…” He grunted, looking down at her. “If you had a man tapping that ass, you wouldn't have that problem.”

“Neema's my daughter. I gave birth to her; not you.”

Topps turned to get up in her face. “I don't care if you shot Neema out your wrinkled, gray-covered ass twice. She's my boo-bitch now. Mine; so get over it.”

“I'm calling the police,” she said.

And she would have, but he was blocking the narrow hallway with his bulky frame. She could smell the toothpaste and cologne he'd used earlier; that's how close he stood. The monster grinned; eyes red and nostrils flared. He snatched up her hand like she was some bratty child trying to slip away.

“Ouch, you're hurting me!”

“This the deal here. You need to stop putting crazy ideas in Neema's head. She ain't no child no more. She ain't going no muthafuckin' place. You understand what I'm saying?”

“Let me go!”

His dark-eyed stare was so intense, it could have made a baby cry. Hattie felt like howling herself. The scowl on his face promised worse.

“I'm warning you, ole lady. If I hear my boo-bitch say she wanna take my kids and move away from me one more time, I'll have to come back. We'll be doing some real talking next time. Know what I'm saying, ole lady?”

When she didn't answer, he squeezed her hand harder, causing a hot sting to zip through her hand and up her elbow. The pain nearly brought Hattie to her knees.

“You hear me or not?” he prompted again.

“I…I hear you…” She wanted to scream. Not being able to do anything about his presence grated on her nerves. At five feet three, one hundred and eighty, she was no match.

“That's better,” Topps said, smirking. Hate was in his eyes. He patted the top of her head, much the same he would have a pet dog. “See, mama-bitch. I'm not so bad, am I?” It could have almost been misconstrued as a term of endearment. Clearly, it wasn't. All women were bitches to Topps Jackson. “You alright.” He released her hand.

“I want you out of my house.” Hattie massaged her hand while Topps removed a moist cloth from a packet in his pocket and wiped germs from his hands.

“Not so fast.” Topps made a show of checking out the ceiling, knocking on a couple of walls. “Not a bad house, but if my kids gonna be coming and going up in this muther, you need to be living better. Check this out. If you ever want to sell this dump, I'll give you a hefty price. Enough to get you a new house that smells better.” Frowning, he sniffed a few times. “Smells like loneliness and mothballs in here. What you think?”

Hattie didn't answer.

“Yeah. Just what I thought. You need some time to think that shit over, huh?”

Her front doorbell rang. It had to be the delivery boy with her grocery order.

Topps acted like he owned the place, the way he headed for the metal security door and greeted the delivery boy. “What's up, my man? It's all good. How much I owe you? You can sit those bags down by the door.”

He took a wad of cash from the pocket of his black sweatpants and peeled off two crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Keep the change, bro.”

Once the pimple-faced delivery boy was gone, Topps turned back to Hattie. “One last thing, ole woman. You mention this little visit to Neema and I'll have to come back to see you. Maybe I can stay longer next time. Better yet, I might have to take my frustration out on Neema's sweet little ass for even bringing yo' name up.”

Hattie waited until her security door banged shut, rushed over to it, and locked it. Frowning, she watched the monster walk to his big black vehicle, get in, and drive off.