Page 184 of Devil’s Disciples

She obviously knew more about the situation than I did. Curious as to what she knew, I stood and walked to the sink. After rinsing my cup, I poured another cup of coffee.

“Why do you say that?” I asked on the way back to the table.

She gave me a look of confusion.

“Why did you say you’re surprised Cash didn’t kill him?”

“Tito told me what happened. If he’d have said that shit to me, I probably would have killed him.” She glanced toward the bedroom and then looked at me. “Wait a minute. Where’s Dolla Bill?”

“He’s gone. I asked him to leave.” I raised my brows. “What did that guy say? I never heard.”

“Wait. You asked Dolla Bill to leave? When? Why?”

“Last night. After the fight.”

“Because of all the blood?”

“Because I’m tired of the violence. In the month I’ve known him, he’s broken Tito’s jaw, and then he beat that guy last night until his face was distorted. There was blood twenty feet away, on the fence. It wasn’t pretty.”

She shrugged. “He deserved every bit of it.”

“According to who?” I snapped back.

“According to me. And, to Dolla Bill, I guess.”

“Well, I didn’t hear what he said or did, or whatever. I don’t think it matters.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter. Dolla didn’t tell you anything?”

“No, he tried to, but I wouldn’t let him. I just asked him to leave.”

She sprung from her seat. “What? You didn’t…you didn’t ask him to leave, like ‘ask him to leave’, did you? You broke it off? Over what happened?”

“I uhhm.” The reality of it all sank in. I choked on my emotions, and quickly caught myself before I began to cry. “Yes. I broke it…I broke it off.”

“Before you found out what happened?”

“I saw what happened,” I said. “I was there, remember?”

“He called you the ‘N’ word, Kimberly. That’s why Dolla beat him up.”

I was flattered and frustrated at the same time, but I wasn’t relieved. I stood and turned toward the window. “If I beat someone up every time I was called that, there’d be a line of bodies from here to San Clemente. When I was a kid, I was called that every day. When my parents were alive, my black father was a constant reminder to the kids at school that I wasn’t Puerto Rican. I’m glad he stood up for me, but I’m not pleased about how he did it.”

“Are you going to call him?” she asked.

I turned around. “No.”

“What?” She gasped. “Why not?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do this. It’s not worth it. With his temper, one of these days it’s going to be him in that ambulance, and I can’t fathom that.”

She put her hands on her hips and gave me a look. “You can’t imagine losing him?”

“Having him taken from me.”

“But you’re okay with asking him to leave? That’s okay?”

It wasn’t okay. It hurt. My chest was on fire, my legs were shaking, and my mouth was dry. I looked like a raccoon, felt like death, and wondered if I’d ever sleep again without waking up yearning to feel his body next to mine.