AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chuckling faintly, Jas shook his head, unfazed by my off-color humor. I continued browsing, thoroughly enjoying this trip, chronicling the life of one Jas—last name pending. He was even an adorable toddler in a fresh pair ofAir Jordansneakers, appearing unbalanced while trying to walk along a familiar coffee table.
“Charmagne still has this table!”
Jas nodded. There were images of a young, school-aged Jas with a youthful gleam in his eyes as he did the RUN DMC pose side-by-side with another kid outside his project building…or one of them. Charmagne was present in lots of these pictures, and evident to me was her physical decline. I didn’t know what her decided vice in life had been, but it clearly won a bout with her. Her natural, gorgeous features had faded as Jas grew in size.
I flipped to the high school pictures. There were only two: one with him near a locker and another of him seated at a desk. The next few pictures, Jas hadn’t aged much, but what was different was the absence of the beam in his eyes. No more smiles or loose, silly expressions. The images had turned to ones of cold and empty eyes and pouted lips. Even the ones with him, Man, and Juggy. Where Juggy’s smile shone into the camera, the muscles in Jas’ face were collectively downcast. He didn’t appear sad either. No. Jas was angry.
“Why aren’t you smiling in these?” I didn’t peer up from the book, not wanting to miss a picture, neither did I want to appear critical.
For a beat, he didn’t respond.
“I’m not a smiler.”
“I’ve seen you smile…lots,” I murmured, not quite believing him.
“You’vemademe smile…lots.” Then Jas supplied a tight smile I knew was just to appease me.
If he wasn’t so fucking handsome, I’d be offended by the disingenuous act. That was also confirmation for how much I’d grown attached to this guy. Even when he did arrogant shit, I didn’t get turned off.
I continued to peruse images of Jas well-dressed in designer clothing:Gucci,Fendi,Louis Vuitton,Versace—you name it. His sneakers were always clean and boots appeared fresh out the box. I had no idea of Charmagne’s skill set or formal training, but she didn’t strike me as the type of professional who could afford to drench her teenage son in designer garb from head to toe. Then I remembered Jas telling me about his illegal trade experience.
“Who’s this man?” He looked eerily familiar.
Jas leaned over to see. “Pops.”
My eyes blossomed wide and head reared in shock. “You stole that man’s face!” my tone accusatory. I studied the picture more. “The only thing Charmagne gave was your complexion!” I have no idea why this discovery was so overwhelming for me, but it was. Honestly, the entire viewing of this album blew my mind. “You’re sad.” My gaze lifted to him. “In these three pictures with your father, taken on three different occasions based on your clothes, there’s a sadness in your eyes.”
Jas shrugged with his forehead, pulling in a breath. “Those were never good days for me.”
Understanding the unspoken truths about Jas’ relationship—or lack thereof—with his father, I nodded. I decided to kill that topic, not wanting to sour the moment. Instead, I continued with the journey, almost through with the gigantic, weathered album. Familiar faces appeared in the oncoming pages. Tanya, Chelsea, of course, more of Man and Juggy, Jonathan as a child with his mother, and even a few with Samona. Most pictures were of them in candid juxtaposition. In a couple, the pair was posing. Jas’ long arms curled around her small frame wearing a retro-Guccisweat suit.
This bitch is going to be buried in Gucci…
I was undeniably jealous and didn’t care. Shit. I didn’t even fight the compulsion of molding my hands to demonstrate holding a butcher knife and gestured stabbing the “cutesy couple” pictures of them. When I glanced up at Jas, his eyes were closed and head swaying side to side, eyes perceptively rolling behind closed lids.
“Oh, so you the jealous type, Shi?”
The man was so damn fine sitting a mere foot away, wearing nothing but rippling abs, a chiseled chest, and a damn towel. His smooth brown, tatted skin glistened, nipples dark and erect. I reached over, taking him at the sides of his face and kissed him filthily, mostly with my wild tongue.
When I pulled back, I rolled my eyes petulantly while wiping my mouth. “I’m the Jas type. And don’t you forget it!”
With words unspoken, I went back to the album, now at the end. At two page-flips in, I saw a peculiar frame I’d seen before. Jas, clearly having just graduated from high school, considering his cap and gown, appeared young, but Frankie, the Linda Hunt lookalike, hadn’t changed in features. Back then she was still short, face still wrinkled with a pouty heavy lower lip, and personality-infused glasses. She stood next to Jas, arm wrapped around his waist while clutching a program booklet to her chest. There was an undeniable stamp of pride on her face, the peculiarity both sad and sweet.
“You’ve known her for a while,” I surmised out loud.
“Frankie’s a thoroughbred, Harlem Pride. She was born and raised there, but left for college. According to her, she and her college friends drove down to Atlantic City one weekend to party and she met a guy the first night they got down there. The nigga was so taken by her short stature and Harlem tongue, he tricked her girls out, upgrading them to a penthouse suite. But Frankie, he took home with him. Things were pretty intense for them and he proposed. They got married while she was still in school and Frankie moved in with him in Jersey.”
Jas chuckled, scratching his nose with the nail of his thumb at casual speed. “Frankie’ll hit you with those details first. Then she’d cop to knowing he was the son of one of the reigning mob families down there.”Damn… “Her husband provided muscle for his pops’ organization. He was the hitman. Back then, the Italian mobs were still powerful. So, there was work to put in. And crazy enough, Frankie was with the shits. Ol’ girl still tells stories of his cleverness in hittin’ people, a few of which, she was present for, even at a distance. She let him do his thing while she went to school and finished her degree.”
Then Jas’ eyes trailed out to the water as he rubbed the back of his head. “Little lady graduated from college one day. And her husband rounded up all his friends and some of hers to celebrate at a restaurant. They’re all eating, drinking, and kickin’ it at the table and some kid walks up with the hammer and put two in his head and one in his chest. Ol’ boy fell on Frankie, quickly fading.”
“Oh, my god! That’s so heartbreaking!”
Jas turned back to the photo album. “I think so, too.”
“Did the police find the guy?”
“Dude with the hammer didn’t make it off the block before catching a few. By the next morning, his whole household was dead, bodies charred from a fire. The family didn’t play. And even though her husband’s death was avenged and then some, Frankie couldn’t rebound. She got a degree in business finance and never worked ‘officially’ a day of her life in that profession. His family was generous with Frankie—hella generous. Dude had great investments in the city and real estate projects all throughout the state. The family allowed Frankie to assume all of it—they were devastated, too. Heartbroken, she decided to leave Jersey. Too many memories of him there. She came back to Harlem. Home.”
