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I watched his dead body drop to the floor. Then I pulled my blade out of his chest and cleaned his blood off of it. I got the fuck outta there with the weed and my money, and was happy than a mutha fucka that we were alone.
Next time, I wasn’t that lucky. Six months later, I was at a party and there were plenty of witnesses. I was there with my woman, and we got into it over her sweatin’ this other bitch while I’m sittin’ right there wit’ her. That shit was just fuckin’ disrespectful.
"What is you doin’?" I asked her.
"What?"
"You must see somethin’ you want," I said, and got in her face.
"She is kinda cute," this bitch had the fuckin’ nerve to tell me. Okay, the bitch was fine as hell, but that ain’t the point.
"You want that bitch, gon’ be wit’ her then." I was so fuckin’ mad I slapped the shit outta her.
Only problem was, my woman was also this dude’s woman, so when I slapped her, he wanna do something about it.
His punk-ass come runnin’ over there. "What the fuck is wrong wit’ you, Qianna?"
"Mind your fuckin’ business. This between me and her," I said, and stood up. I don’t back down for no fuckin’ body. So when that nigga got in my face, I stepped right to his chest. "You need to back the fuck up."
Well, you know how shit can go. He was pushin’ me. I pushed him. When the nigga fucked around and slapped me, I took out my blade and swung it at him, but I missed. He rushed at me and my blade ended up in his gut. I was on the bus back to New York that next morning.
* * *
Chapter Six
Devin
It was Monday morning, and I was back at my desk. I worked as a tax attorney at the law firm of Weiss, Cabot & Davenport. The first day back from vacation was always the hardest, so I spent most of the morning moving the papers on my desk from side to side to give the appearance of work. My body was there, but in general, my mind was in Puerto Rico, totally focused on Avonte.
Now it was back to work.
The pile of mail seemed mountainous. "I’ll deal with that later." I decided to check my voice mail. Before I left, I’d recorded a new message advising callers that I would be out of the office for the next three days, directing them to call Sandra Marshall. They didn’t seem to care. There were forty-two new messages. The result was the same when I turned on my computer and logged into e-mail, and found ninety-four unread messages. I took a deep breath and spent the next three hours reading and answering e-mail, listening to voice mails and returning calls.
So far, the only thing I had going for me was that the morning meeting had been rescheduled until one o’clock. Every now and then, I would glance at Avonte’s number. I picked up the phone and was about to dial her number when Sandra Marshall, my assistant, knocked on the door.
She and I worked well together. She was my right hand. Sandra moved to New York with her husband Ike, from San Antonio. She spoke with the most adorable southern accent, and had an almost childlike innocence about her. But Sandra was passionate when it came to things she believed in, and Chinese food. She was a pretty woman in a very natural kind of way. Her hair was shoulder length, parted down the middle. She dressed stylish, but not flashy; pants and a blouse every day. She was proud of the fact that the last time she wore a dress was six years ago. That was the day she interviewed for the job. The only makeup she wore was lipstick. "You busy?" she asked as she walked in and sat down.
"Trying my best not to be," I said.
"Hard to get back in it, ain’t it? How was the vacation?"
" Sandra, let me tell you. We had a ball. The first couple of days, you know, we played the tourist role—went on all the tours. Did some shopping," I lied. "Yes, I brought you something. But I left it home."
"What’d you get me?" Sandra asked excitedly.
"I got you a bottle of Bacardi Rum and a Bacardi shirt. I’ll try to remember it tomorrow."
"See that you do. So what else did you do?"
"Spent a lot of time at the beach."
"I can tell. You look darker. Ike and I went there for our honeymoon. I had a good time, but Ike hated it."
"Really? Why?"
"You’ll have to ask him."
"I’ll do that, if I ever get to meet him." We’d made plans to get together on several occasions, but something would always come up, or one couple or the other wouldn’t be able to make it. We almost met at the company picnic last year, but we kept missing each other. "I’m starting to think he’s a figment of your imagination. And that picture on your desk came with the frame."
