Real Wifeys: Get Money (23 page)

“Oooh, that’s so good. Yes. Suck it tighter. Oh, yes. That’s a good girl . . . that’s a good girl,” he moaned.

That’s a good girl . . .

And just like that. In an instant. I remembered. I remembered and everything made sense. Horrible. Disgusting. Fucked-up sense. Tears filled my eyes as I was taken back to a different time and a different place, where another man had used me for sex. For power. For perversion . . .

I was just five or six, sitting on the bed in Mr. Alvarez’s extra bedroom in my pajamas. I was over there to spend the night with Sophie, but she was upstairs sleeping. He had come to her room and carried me down the hall to the room Sophie and I played in. He talked softly and brought me a big bowl of ice cream, but I still hated the way he touched my hair, told me I was so pretty, and asked me to keep secrets.

When he whispered softly to me and pulled me onto his lap on the bed, I kicked my foot out at the first feel of his hand on me. It hit the side of the teapot sitting on the small table where we had our pretend parties and knocked it to the floor. It cracked in half.

I jumped off his lap and rushed under the bed to hide because I just knew I was in trouble.

“It’s okay, Harriet. You didn’t mean to break it. Come out from under the bed. You’re such a good girl, I know you didn’t mean it. Not a good girl like you,” he whispered under the bed as he reached for me.

“That’s a good girl. . . .”

One by one, images of that night came flooding back to me from whatever hole in my brain I had locked that bullshit away. But I remembered. I remembered what he did to me that night. That sick son of a bitch took away my innocence that night. He did things to me. And made me do things to him.

No, this shit right here with the dirty cop was not the first time a man made me do things I didn’t want to do. I felt like that scared little girl again.

And I know I was injured. That shit fucked me up because I pushed it so deep away that I forgot it. I didn’t want to remember. My brain protected me from this shit . . . but then it protected that motherfucker too.

I raced from my knees into the tiny bathroom and threw up into the commode. In the vomit I was purging all the years of keeping that secret. Until I couldn’t take anymore.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Detective Dick asked, standing at the door of the bathroom.

I thought of that night as a child and then the nights I suffered as an adult under the fucked-up mind of this dirty cop and I threw up some more. Because I couldn’t take anymore. NO MORE.

“So fucking me makes you want to throw up?” he barked, snatching my hair into his fist and raising my head, forcing me to look up into his face. “I’ll give you a reason to fucking throw up!”

NO MORE.

He dragged me out the bathroom and pushed me rough as hell. I fell onto the middle of the bed. But my emotions flipped like a motherfucker and I didn’t feel shit but anger.

In that moment, the weight of it all was on my shoulders.

Being lied on. Cheated on. Betrayed by my friend. Left with a pedophile by my parents. Molested. Blackmailed by this dirty cop.

I didn’t want to do shit but shake all of it off.

I hopped to my feet as the detective moved to a bag in the corner and pulled out a whip. Humph. Today was Independence Day, motherfucker. Enough was enough of this shit.
All
of this shit.

I picked up my foot and kicked that bastard dead in his ass, pushing him into the sink that was
outside
the damn bathroom. I grabbed my dress, shoes, and keys. I spotted his badge on top of his clothes and I snatched that motherfucker too before I ran out that bitch butt-naked and hopped into my car. I threw the Jag in reverse, almost running over a trick and her john trying to make it to one of the rooms.

“Hey, watch where the fuck you going?” they yelled.

Fuck ’em.

The motel room door opened and he jumped back inside when he spotted the people still bitching at me.

I pressed my foot to the gas and I didn’t stop until I finally got off of Route 22 and made the turn to take me toward Weequahic Park. I pulled over long enough to pull my dress over my head, even as my mind felt like it was completely fucked by everything that happened that night. Everything that surfaced that night.

I knew I was going to jail. I knew it. And that scared the shit out of me. But there was two things I had to do before I got locked up, and it just so happened that I was just two blocks from where it all needed to go the fuck down.

The door opened. He stood there. His face filled with surprise at seeing me. Good.

“How you doing, Mr. Alvarez?” I said, proud of myself for sounding normal. “Sophie isn’t here by any chance, is she?”

“No, no she’s at her own house,” he said, his Spanish accent hardly noticeable.

“You wouldn’t have her number? I really wanted to invite her to a party I’m having,” I lied, trying to fight the images of his hands on my six-year-old body. Nothing womanly at all about me. Nothing to draw the attention of a normal grown-ass man.

Victor Alvarez was a fucking pedophile.

“Sure, sure, come in and let me get it for you,” he said, stepping back to let me in.

I stepped inside and pressed my hands against the gun that I slipped into the pocket of my dress. I made sure that no part of my body touched his as I moved to stand in the middle of the living room. My eyes went to that teapot. It was a reminder that I lost a piece of myself that night. My eyes filled with tears and I clenched my teeth as the memories flooded me again.

“I hope you and Sophie do get back close like you used to,” Mr. Alvarez said, as he picked up a notepad from the table next to his chair.

“I bet you do,” I said sarcastically, tearing my eyes away from that broken teapot.

He looked up at me. “Of course I want that,” he said. “I must have left that notepad in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”

I watched him walk out of the room and then I turned and picked up the cracked teapot.
Does he think of what he did to me whenever he looks at this?
I wondered.

Was it his trophy like those other perverted mofos on
Law & Order: Special Victims Unit
kept?

I gripped that teapot so tight, I thought it might crumble in my hands as I walked into the kitchen. Mr. Alvarez turned from where he was standing by the phone still hanging on the wall like it was the eighties. His eyes dropped down to the teapot in my hand.

What is he thinking about right now?

“I’ll take that, Harriet,” he said, stepping toward me.

“No, no . . . no you won’t, motherfucker,” I said, holding it high above my head before I used all my strength and anger and resentment to throw that bitch at the linoleum covered floor. It shattered.

Mr. Alvarez stared down at the pieces and then looked up at me. “Why did you do that?” he snapped, his accent coming out of him a little bit more as his eyes filled with anger.

Like I gave a fuck.

I laughed and it was filled with my bitterness. “The same reason you shattered a big piece of me . . . because I
wanted
to. You nasty, disgusting pervert. You sick son of a bitch.”

“What are you talking about?” he roared, the veins of his neck bulging.

“Stop playing like your child-molesting ass is stuck on stupid and don’t know what this is about. Stop it!” I pulled the gun from my pocket and aimed it at a spot between his eyes. “I was just a little girl and you had no right to do that shit to me. I should blow your fucking head wide open.”

He held us his large hands, and I could tell he was nervous as hell and wondering just where this night was going for him. “Harriet—”

I looked into his eyes. “Strip,” I ordered. “Like you did that night?
Remember?
”

He opened his mouth and I lowered the gun to his crotch. Never taking his eyes off me, Mr. Alvarez unbuttoned his shirt and unzipped the jeans he wore before he removed everything until he stood naked before me.

I waved the gun at one of the chairs pushed under the kitchen table. “Sit your ass down,” I snapped, blinking away tears as the memories continued flooding back to me. I shook my head like I could free the images. Erase the hurt. The fear. The shame. All the feelings of a six-year-old little girl.

It felt as fresh as if I was still in that vulnerable little body.

As he folded his tall and slender frame in the chair, I seriously fought the urge to just shoot his ass. “Do you remember putting your dick in my mouth?” I asked him, moving across the kitchen to rub the barrel of my gun against his lips as I flipped my hair back out of my face.

“Touching my chest?” I asked, using my free hands to pinch his nipples hard as fuck with a curl of my lip filled with every bit of hate I had for him.

He winced.

“Touching my privates, you sick bitch?” I asked, my voice cracking with the emotions I felt as I reached down and grabbed his limp dick and balls in my hand to snatch, digging my nails into his sack and twisting everything until the skin stretched.

He cried out and sweat popped on his forehead. “You’re wrong,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he fought the pain.

I grabbed his jank again wishing I could pull the motherfucker off and throw it outside for dogs or some shit.

“I didn’t hurt you!” Mr. Alvarez barked, his face angry.

I let his jank go and stepped back from the audacity of this motherfucker. “You didn’t hurt me,” I repeated softly, again and again and again like a chant.

“You never cried,” he said simply.

“You didn’t hurt me,” I kept repeating. In disbelief and shock and pain.

“You’re not remembering it right,” he insisted.

With my gun still leveled at his chest, I used my free hand to turn on the gas stove. The front left burner filled with blue flames.

“I’m sorry that you’re not remembering what we shared,” he said, like he felt sorry for me.

“You didn’t hurt me,” I said again with a little laugh that was bitter as hell as I pulled a knife from the dish rack and placed the blade into the flames.

He continued rambling behind me, but I didn’t give a fuck about what he was saying.

I turned and pressed the hot knife to his face. The smell of burnt skin and flesh filled the air.

He jumped to his feet, hitting a high note and covering his brand with his hand. “You crazy
bitch
!” he roared as the skin from the burn pulled away, exposing his pinkish flesh.

And I smiled, loving his pain and feeling in that moment that maybe I was crazy. Fuck it. “Sit. Down,” I ordered him, stepping up to press the barrel of the gun to his heart.

Something he saw in my face or in my eyes or in the steadiness of my hand around that gun made him ease his ass back down into the chair.

“I didn’t hurt you,” I said simply with a lift of my shoulders. “That didn’t hurt.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Mr. Alvarez asked.

“Nothing that will ever affect you the way you affected me,” I told him, shaking my head as a vision of him violating me in the ultimate way filled me. I hated my tears but I couldn’t deny them. They needed to be released. Right along with the memories of that night, they needed to be free.

I dropped the knife and the tip of the blade accidentally stuck in his thigh. He extended his legs and clenched his teeth.

With a sadistic smile and my eyes filled with many more tears to flow, I balled my free hand into a fist, raised it high and then slammed it down onto the top of the handle, sending the knife deep into his flesh until I felt it hit bone.

“Aaaaarghh!” he cried out, as blood spurted from around the knife.

I didn’t give a fuck if he bled to death. Fuck him. The devil was waiting on his ass
anyway.

“I’m not done with you, Mr. Alvarez, but right now I got another battle to fight,” I told him, my gun pointed on him as I backed out of the kitchen.

He fought to work the knife from his body as he cussed in Spanish.

I didn’t turn around until I reached the front door. I slammed it behind me and took just a moment to try and get my mind settled. What a crazy fucking night.

I heard the sirens before I saw Detective Dick’s unmarked car coming up the street from a few bocks away. I moved to my car and put my gun back in its case in the trunk. I wiped the tears from my eyes before I grabbed his detective’s badge and my pocketbook from the passenger seat and then raced up the steps to my parents’ house. I laid on the bell.

His unmarked car pulled to a stop in the street in front of my parents’ house just as my mother opened the front door.

“What’s going on, Harriet?” she asked, looking past me.

I could see the lights of the siren in her eyes as I pressed my keys and the badge into her hands. “I’m about to be arrested—”

“What?!” she gasped, her face filling with alarm.

I heard his feet pounding on the steps.

“Don’t move, Harriet!” he said from behind me.

“What the fuck is going on?” my mama snapped, the hood coming from deep within her. And in the middle of all the craziness, as my hands were roughly handcuffed behind me, I laughed. A little.

My father’s tall presence filled the doorway. “What’s going on?” he said, stepping past my mother to eye the detective and then to look out at his neighbors standing on their porches or looking out their windows at the commotion.

“Your daughter is being arrested for—”

“Daddy, follow us and make sure he takes me to a police station to be booked,” I said, cutting him off as he turned me and led me down the steps. “I don’t trust him, Daddy. Follow us.”

Detective Dick jerked me by the cuffs. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”