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Authors: Victoria Christopher Murray

Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #Romance, #General, #African American, #Christian

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BOOK: The Ex Files
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Chapter Sixteen

A
SIA

Unconsciousness dragged Asia back deep into her past. To the days before Bobby Johnson. To the days before she was Asia.

Circa 1980: A shivering Dana Ingrum rushed into her mother’s home carrying her two-year-old daughter.

“I didn’t know you were coming over,” Hattie Mae said, taking Chiquita from her daughter’s arms.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dana spoke quickly. “I…uh…thought we’d have breakfast with you.”

With thin eyes, Hattie Mae eyed her daughter. “Okay. Let me put this child down and I’ll fix you something.”

“Mama, listen, can you watch Chiquita while you’re fixin’ breakfast? I wanna make a run for some cigarettes.”

Three hours later, when Hattie Mae went to her front door to search the streets for her daughter, she found a tiny tattered suitcase stuffed with clothes. No note, no explanation. But Hattie Mae knew that her often drug-dependent daughter wasn’t coming back. So she stepped up, like so many others in her neighborhood, and welcomed her granddaughter into her Compton home. There wasn’t much else she could do—it wasn’t like Hattie Mae could call Chiquita’s father, since Dana had never been quite sure who that was.

By the time Chiquita was five, she had no memory of her mother—Grandma Mae and Aunt Beverly were the women in her life.

Hattie Mae wasn’t strict, though she set rules to ensure that Chiquita wouldn’t become infected by the same streets that had claimed her mother. So, it was church on Sunday, Bible study on Tuesdays, midweek prayer on Wednesdays, and only gospel music in the house. And in between, Hattie Mae stayed on her knees, praying that she was pouring enough Jesus into the child.

Still, when Chiquita turned sixteen, she hooked up with Jamal, a twenty-one-year-old hustler who’d dropped out of school in the ninth grade, preferring to procure his education from the streets.

Hattie Mae objected to the relationship, but there was little she could do to keep Jamal away. Chiquita maintained a B+ average and still went to church, but all of her other time belonged to Jamal.

By the time Chiquita began her senior year in high school, she was sick of Jamal, although she professed her love for him over and over. She wasn’t ready to give up the benefits of being this drug dealer’s main girl.

Jamal gave her a weekly allowance, hundreds of dollars so she could, as he said, “Always look good for me, shorty.” Chiquita spent hours in shops, getting her hair done, her nails done, her feet done—and hitching rides to the Fox Hills and Del Amo malls to purchase the latest outfits….

In her sleep, Asia’s head whipped from side to side as she tried to awaken, tried to do what she’d done years before and escape. But her past held her hostage. Again, she was dragged back to another time. The buzzer rang loud in her ear, just as it had all those years before….

“That’s halftime,” Lawrence Tanter, the announcer for the LA Lakers, sang into the microphone. “The score is Boston forty-seven and your Los Angeles Lakers fifty-one.”

The crowd roared; Chiquita yawned.

Jamal stood, stretched, said, “Shorty, you wanna hang here or go outside?”

“I’ll wait here.”

He nodded, leaned over, and kissed her full on the lips, letting his tongue linger inside her mouth for long uncomfortable moments. He said, “Don’t go anywhere.” A grin accompanied his words, but it was a command. He expected her to do what he said, whenever he said it.

She kept her smile as he backed up. But once he pimp-dipped from her sight, she wiped away the taste of him with the back of her hand. She knew that kiss was just another way to control her—to let any man in the vicinity know that there would be a price to pay if he even looked at her.

She hated that. She may have been only seventeen, but she was her own woman. Born to be free. Jamal didn’t have enough money to change that.

Chiquita peered across the court to the other side of the Forum and sighed, a moan with longing. It was always that way when she glanced at the Laker wives.

That’s the life
, she thought as she watched the women chat and laugh, and the Forum staff standing ready to do their bidding. Even from across the court their diamonds—showcased on every part of their bodies—glittered.

If I sat over there, the man who got me that ticket could control me in every way
.

Mona, the gigagorgeous Latina wife of Pierre Ross, stood and did a little dance, and the other wives laughed. Chiquita had met Mona and Pierre, one of the star point guards for the Lakers. It was because of Pierre that she and Jamal had tickets. Somehow Jamal and Pierre had hooked up. It seemed an un-likely pairing, but with the way her boyfriend earned his money, it wasn’t hard to figure out their deal.

“Baby, you’re going to love this.” Jamal was back, his eyes beaming with excitement. “Pierre’s boys just gave me this.” He held up a folded invitation. “We’re hanging out at a special party—in honor of the rookies. It’s two weeks from this Saturday.”

This time, when Chiquita smiled at Jamal, it wasn’t fake. A Lakers party—for rookies. She leaned back into her boyfriend’s arms and began to imagine. New meat searching for new meat.

Looked like being Jamal’s girlfriend was going to pay off. This time with him had been decent enough, but it was time to move on….

Asia sat straight up in her bed.

Time to move on
.

Those were the words Bobby had said to her. But moving on from him was not an option. She wasn’t giving up all that she had. She was never going back to Compton—not in this life, not even in her dreams.

Asia glanced at the clock. It was barely two in the morning. But she didn’t close her eyes. This was not the time to sleep. Tonight, all she would do was plan.

Chapter Seventeen

A
SIA

“Asia, how am I supposed to get Bobby’s address?” Noon whined.

Asia paced in her bedroom. “Handle it.”

“This is crazy. I told you, don’t mess with Bobby’s wife.”

Asia’s anger soared—as it did each time Noon uttered that advice. Why was Noon so worried about Bobby’s wife?

“Noon, just get me Bobby’s address. Check Marcus’s Black-Berry or get me his home number and I’ll find the address myself.” Asia could hear Noon inhale, preparing to protest more. But before she could speak, Asia softened her voice. “Noon, if you needed me, I would do this—and a lot more—for you.”

In the silence that followed, Asia had her victory. It didn’t have to be spoken; both knew how much Asia had done for Noon. When Asia hung up, she had no doubt Noon would return with the information.

It was time to begin the next phase. This plan had to be bigger, better, faster than the one she’d had before. Back then, she resorted to the trick that stood the test of time—pregnancy.

It had been a careful plan, the way she slipped a birth control pill into her mouth in front of Bobby every chance she got. And then how she held the pill under her tongue. Once he became used to seeing “the pill,” it hadn’t been difficult to talk him out of his condom.

“Baby, it’s just you and me, right?” she whined. “All I want to do is feel you. I’m on the pill; there’s nothing to worry about.” She’d kissed him and cooed, “I promise, once you feel me, you’ll never go back.”

It had taken one request. And they’d never gone back. Until she got pregnant.

“I cannot believe you did this to me!” he’d ranted when she told him the news.

“Bobby, it’s not my fault. I’m on the pill.”

He’d held his head in his hands. “I should have never been bareback.”

He was distraught. She was disgusted.

What’s the big deal
, she’d wanted to ask.
We’re going to be together anyway
.

“You need to get an abortion,” he demanded, shocking her.

“No!”

“Why not?”

“I…it’s against my beliefs.”

He frowned, then screamed, “What beliefs? You’re not religious. You don’t even go to church.”

“You don’t have to go to church to have a relationship with God.” She’d mimicked the words that her Aunt Beverly had often spoken. “I believe in God and I won’t have an abortion.”

He’d stomped out of the Culver City apartment she shared with Noon. At first, she’d just been mad. Then as days passed without a word from Bobby, anger switched to fear. But seventeen days later, Bobby returned with proof of his love.

It wasn’t the ring that she’d schemed for, but the Wilshire Boulevard condo wasn’t a bad consolation prize.
It’s an investment
, she’d told herself as Bobby dashed through the two-level, three-thousand-square-foot space, showing her every room. She’d shared his enthusiasm and convinced herself,
this is for our future
.

That four-bedroom real estate investment had appreciated, but somehow her value had dropped. It was time to make her stock rise again.

Bed tricks, pregnancy, none of that would suffice. This time, she had to get to the root of this evil.

This time she had to get rid of Bobby’s wife.

Asia was sure of it now; she was going to get her man. Noon had called with not only Bobby’s address but his telephone number and directions to his home.

She slipped into the silk pantsuit she’d chosen the night before and in less than thirty minutes she was dressed to kill. Dressed to meet her man’s wife.

In the elevator, her thoughts turned from the wife to Bobby. She tried not to think about the rage that would erupt once he found out what she’d done. But he’d get over it—just as he had when he found out about their baby.

“I’m doing the right thing,” she said, as she slipped into her car. That mantra accompanied her through the streets of Los Angeles, into the rolling hills of Bel-Air. As she turned onto Salon Drive, she peered at the curb for the house numbers, and realized why this neighborhood housed multimillion-dollar homes. The house numbers were not painted on the street like the rest of the county.

“Thank you, Noon,” she whispered as she glanced at the directions, then slowed in front of the third driveway. She peered through the massive gathering of trees, but she could see nothing through the thick evergreen foliage.

Slowly, she edged onto the driveway and said another “Thank you” that Bobby’s palace was one of the few homes in Bel-Air that wasn’t perched behind a gate.

Still, it took minutes for Asia to steer her car from the city street until she faced the immense brick structure. She parked in front of the six-car garage.

When she stepped from the car, the massive home towered over her, foreboding, almost bowing, offering her a warning. But thoughts of Angel, thoughts of Compton gave her courage.

She centered the four-carat diamond pendant on her neck, and then did the same with the matching diamond that graced her left hand’s ring finger.

She pushed the bell and breathed in calm as chimes rang behind the ten-foot stained-glass door. A whirring sound above made her turn, and she took in the camera twisting high in the corner.

Her hope had been to have surprise on her side. But with the camera, that was gone. Although they’d never met, Asia was sure Bobby’s wife had seen pictures in magazines of her and Bobby cavorting around the city.

She had no doubt the wife would recognize the mistress.

But with the camera, she might be afraid to open the door
.

Almost instantly, Asia heard the click of the lock.

She took a breath.

The door swung open.

She steadied, readied for the confrontation.

A petite Asian woman peered at her over wire-rimmed glasses that were too large for her face.

“May I help you?”

Asia exhaled. Of course, Bobby’s wife wouldn’t answer the door herself. “I’m here to see”—she paused—“Caroline Johnson.” She stepped past the woman before she had an invitation, and it took all that was within her not to gasp. The palatial entryway was almost as large as her living room. Marble pedestals held vases of various sizes, filled with multihued flowers that brought the fragrance of the outdoors inside. But it was the two winding staircases framing the space that made Asia catch her breath.

“Mrs. Fitzgerald-Johnson was not expecting anyone,” the woman said, making Asia face her.

Asia pushed back her shoulders. “Tell Caroline that Asia Ingrum is here. I’m sure she’ll see me.”

The woman motioned for Asia to enter the room to the right and once she was alone, she breathed again. She wandered around the living room, astonished at the pure majesty.

It was clear that this space, painted in a soft golden hue, had been designed for people who were used to elegant living. The furniture was traditional, from the lines of the timeless mahogany-trimmed sofa to the coffee and end tables in the ornate Louis XVI style. There was only one word that came to Asia’s mind—class.

“May I help you?”

Asia swung around; almost lost her balance. Standing under the living room’s archway stood her competition. The magnificence of the home hadn’t made Asia leave, but the woman who was married to the man she wanted almost made her run.

Caroline, dressed in a simple white raw silk sheath that formed to her shapely figure, stood straight, head high. Her hands rested waist high, cupped together. All that was missing was a crown. She stood like a queen.

Caroline’s five-foot-seven frame moved with grace as she glided across the room. Asia braced herself. This was the moment. When the wife would recognize the mistress. And would wither with fear.

But as she came closer, Caroline’s hazel eyes remained clear, friendly. When only inches separated them, her face still carried her smile. She raised her hand.

“I’m Caroline Fitzgerald-Johnson,” she stated with the tiniest Southern drawl. Her voice, cadence, tone reeked of money and good home training.

Asia tried not to frown. She wanted something—a sign of surprise, shock, anything that would let her know that not only did Caroline recognize her, but now she feared the presence of her rival.

But there was nothing.

Asia took Caroline’s hand. She hadn’t recognized the face, but she would know her name. “I’m Asia Ingrum.”

More nothing.

With a smile, Caroline motioned toward the sofa. “Jenny told me you were here, but she didn’t say what this was about.” She sat, crossed her ankles, and rested her hands in her lap.

Asia glanced at the space next to Caroline but stayed standing. There was no need for niceties—she’d come to seek and destroy. “I thought it was time for us to meet.” She paused, her mouth as dry as the Mojave Desert. She inhaled, then exhaled the words, “I know…I know Bobby.”

A small smile. “You know my husband?”

The way she spoke those words made Asia’s heart pound.

Caroline continued, “How do you know my husband?”

Asia was ready for the kill. “Bobby and I…we’ve been seeing each other.”

Caroline sat, unmoved, unaffected. “Really?” she responded, as if someone had just told her it might rain. “Well, I don’t know why this would be news, Ms. Ingrum. My husband is a professional basketball player. He sees a lot of people.”

Could she possibly be this stupid?
“Bobby and I more than see each other. We’ve been involved.”

Still Caroline remained stoic, perched as if she were sitting on a throne. “And by involved, you mean…?”

Asia frowned. She’d seen women like Caroline before, in movies like
The Wedding
and
Eve’s Bayou
. Caroline Fitzgerald-Johnson was probably from one of those black families who’d gained their wealth generations before. But even though she’d grown up far from Compton, it was clear that Caroline’s money couldn’t buy her a clue. She sat, composed, not understanding that her house was about to come tumbling down.

“Caroline,” Asia began.

“Mrs. Fitzgerald-Johnson.”

Asia gazed at the woman through squinted eyes. “Your husband and I are in love.”

A beat…then Asia’s eyes widened as Caroline threw her head back and laughed. And laughed.

It’s not funny
, Asia wanted to stomp and shout. But she said nothing. Just waited.

Bobby’s wife held up her hand. “I was trying…I just wanted to see how far you would go.”

Asia stiffened.

“What would make you think that Bobby loves you, Asia?”

“He does love me,” Asia squeaked. “You don’t know this, but we’ve been together for…”

Caroline held up her hand. “First, get it straight. You and Bobby have not been together. He’s been sleeping with you, laying with you, screwing you…and I can think of a couple of other verbs, but none of them would add up to you and Bobby being together.” Her words slapped Asia, yet Caroline maintained her stance of grace.

Asia wanted to curse out her regal behind. But the shock of Caroline’s words kept her silent.

Caroline stood, moved closer to Asia. “I never thought you would actually come to my home.” Still, her calm remained. “I thought once I moved to Los Angeles, you would slither away as Bobby told you to do.”

Asia’s knees weakened, but she found her strength. “Slither away?” She made her voice strong. “I’m not going anywhere. And this little game you just played shows me that you’re worried. As you should be. Because the man you call your husband has loved me for many years.”

Caroline raised her perfectly arched eyebrows. Her eyes roamed around the living room before she glared at Asia. “Either you’re just young, or you’re just stupid. Coming to a woman’s house. Announcing that you love her husband. But I’ll chalk this up to your ghetto training and give you a free pass”—she paused—“this time.” Rage rose behind her eyes, but still she maintained her decorum.

Asia jutted her chin higher, gave Caroline a wide smile. “You think you know it all? I have proof that Bobby loves me.”

“What? Your daughter?” Caroline chuckled at the shock on Asia’s face. “I know about Angel,” she said. And then her smile was gone. “But even more, I know about you. Don’t think for one minute that I didn’t know about your affair with my husband. And don’t think it went on any longer than I allowed.”

Asia frowned.

Caroline continued, “I’ve known about you from the beginning. And I had no problem—as long as Bobby was discreet.”

“Please,” Asia said. “No sistah wants to share her husband.”

“True,” Caroline nodded. “But you see, when an
educated black woman
”—she paused, letting Asia take notice of her choice of words—“decides to marry a man like Bobby, she understands the compromises. I knew what I was getting into when I walked down that aisle.”

Asia swallowed.

“Now, once I accepted that, you made it easier for me,” Caroline continued. “With you keeping Bobby…company, he never pressured me to move to Los Angeles.” She sat, crossed her ankles, rested her hands in her lap, and returned to her throne. “I never wanted to live in the same city where Bobby played. I didn’t want to be in the position where I’d have to see all those…sistahs throwing themselves at my husband. So, I chose to stay in Dallas where I had my own life.” She paused. “But now that his playing days are over, Bobby and I have agreed that his
playin’
days are over. All the groupies”—she smiled—“all the hos have to go.”

BOOK: The Ex Files
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