“But what about you?” I blurt, before finally peering at him. “You be teasing me about these niggas. Do you think I’m a slut?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I like sluts.”
“Be foreal Shad, damn,” I scold.
He lays back down, eyes never leaving me. “Macy, I mean this as respectfully as possible, I really don’t give a fuck if you’re a slut or not. Yo body count and them niggas who follow you around don’t matter to me at all. You could have been a virgin. You could have been a three-oh-four. As soon as I slid my fingers into yo pussy that first time, it became mine, all that shit was dead in the water to me. I may not have been the first person to experience you, but I’ma be the last, and Ima have just as much fun relearning your body as you’ll have learning mine.
“But to answer your question, nah, you ain’t a slut. You fine as hell, got sex appeal out the ass, and don’t hide it or the fact you like sex, and there’s nothing wrong with that. And at the end ofthe day, you know that shit, just like you know he really just mad he ain’t get to dig you out… his loss, ‘cause that pussy–”
He moves off me before I can hit him upside the head, laughing as he rolls. I feel like this is the first time I’ve heard him laugh, and damn, it almost sounds as good as him singing.
He rearranges us so that he’s holding me again, and turnsDreamgirlson. “Feel better?”
I nod in his arms. “Thank you for listening… I mean it Shaddy. Don’t–”
He squeezes me before cupping my breast. “I got you.”
The resolution in his voice. How he’s surrounding me. How safe I feel. I let him think I believe him. Because I find myself wanting to.
And I think that’s like the third step on my way to my impending doom.
Shad
Youcanfindanythingabout anyone on the internet as a regular peon. So imagine what me, a muthafucka who learned to type before he learned to write, can find out.
When the sweetest girl I know comes to me in tears, talking about a nigga disrespected her, it makes it real hard to keep up the facade of normalcy I show her.
Because my sweet girl doesn't bother anybody. She has a compliment for even the devil, and a smile for the most rotten mothafucka. She’s my own personal sun.
Her and my daughter.
But her and my therapist and everyone else have me under a microscope. Looking for any and all signs that I’m letting my monster run free.
I kept it cool last night, though. I held her, and we watched Dreamgirls–the original and the remake–and let her sleep while I tended to Sadé. I didn’t show any signs of malice. I didn’t zone out. I didn’t even look at my phone while she was awake.
I can’t speak for when she fell asleep.
I can’t confirm nor deny that Sadé was in her harness, sucking on her paci while I found everything I could about that nigga, syncing his accounts to my phone, transferring the deed of his house to one of my aliases, and reading his emails and browsing history.
The shit he looks up to jack off to… even if he didn’t hurt my Ace I’d get her away from him.
She didn’t buy my good boy act this morning when she went for work, but she wasn’t going to stay home. Not when I reminded her they’re having a taco party today.
An hour after everyone else leaves, I pack up Sadé and make my way to the Birch. I ring the special doorbell, and a minute later Ms. Katrina answers with a wry grin on her face. She blows a kiss at Sadé before letting me inside, and I see Reem on the couch with Angel.
Reem looks up and his eyes soften at my baby girl.
“The fuck you doing here?”
“Playdate, nigga. You’re predictable; family time is always Monday mornings before pickup.”
Ms. Katrina lifts Sadé out of her harness and goes to put her in Angel’s playpen. I set Sadé’s bag down on the table and sit.
“What you gotta do that you bringing her here?”
When I shrug, he grins at me. “Aw shit. I told her not to tell yo ass.”
Ms. Katrina sucks her teeth, and when I look at her, she’s tapping her foot.
