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“Did I say something about my girl?” Poboy snarled.
“N-no…”
“Then shut the fuck up and come back with my steak. HOT!”
He’d shouted so loud the Pitbulls outside started howling, so he shouted some more.
In the next room, Angel Clarke was sleeping like the dead. When Poboy hung up he walked over to the room and stood in the door, watching her. He made her sleep naked. It was a rule. She was a light sleeper so he didn’t walk into the room. He watched her beautiful brown skin, her legs curled up towards her chest. Her pussy was glistening. His dick rocked up. He gripped it hard, grunted, and went to take care of himself before he did something he’d later regret.
Angel stoodat five foot two inches tall. She was curved like a Venus statue and pretty as they came. Her hair was thick because she had always worn it natural, in big-ass nerdy braids. By the time she’d grown, though, she could pinch one end of them nerdy braids and stretch it all the way down her back. She had a round moon-shaped face and Chinese eyes, which came from her daddy. She’d never met him— Mama said he was in prison. Who really knew?
Angel grew up in Saturn Heights. Her mother lived off food stamps and what she could get from the long line of boyfriends who cycled in and out the house. She hated Angel’s guts, and the feeling was mutual. Angel stayed away from home most days, and because school was hell she spent a lot of time skipping it to chill by the Amafeo library. The librarian there was a nice lady— she never asked no questions.
Saturn Heights bordered on a nice-ish neighborhood, and by way of a shortcut Angel could walk about an hour there and spend the whole day among the books. She liked the art books. Anatomy, landscapes, surrealism, everything. You name it, Angel studied it. Sometimes she spent hours copying drawings one at a time on some library printer paper that the nice librarian lady gave her. By the time Angel was twenty-two she could draw just about anything with a pencil or pen.
These days, that was how she spent most of her time. When Poboy took off hustling, Angel brought out her sketchpad and sat there for hours in a world of her own. It was her escape. She didn’t have to work a job or nothing. It was easy to keep Poboy’s house clean, since he was such a neat freak he rarely fucked it up. She could have dinner ready by four o’ clock, which was when he came home from his business. Most of the day she had jack shit to do, so she just drew or sometimes painted, using a makeup brush and stale coffee. She asked Poboy for paints one time, but he forgot. She didn’t ask again. Asking Poboy for favors came with a price.
Life had its ups and downs for Angel. Mostly downs. But she tried to find a bright side in everything— it wasn’t in her nature to stay sad.
Saturn Heights is hell.
The Heights of Hell.
Every day she prayed for a way to escape this hood. But circumstances lay against her. She even began to accept her fate. She wished she wasn’t in this situation, but she had to admit it could be worse. Poboy didn’t want to fuck on her-- yet. She didn’t know why, but shit, it made everything else bearable, didn’t it? She didn’t have to bang or run drugs, she didn’t have to work the strip. Because Poboy protected her from getting violated, she didn’t have any babies yet. And maybe it was crazy, but she didn’t want any babies. Not yet. Bringing a child into this dysfunctional environment was the last thing she would ever do on purpose.
In her dreams she wanted to be married before she made any babies. Married, and far the fuck away from Saturn Heights. But that was never gonna happen— life wasn’t a fairytale. Who was she gonna marry, Poboy? She’d rather cartwheel into the freeway.
About a week before Angel’s life turned upside down, a typical summer day passed in Los Angeles. Hot, dusty, hazy. Poboy was out. The gardener was cutting the hedge. Snip-snip-snip. Every few minutes Angel looked up and met his eyes through the window. He was very good looking, short but extremely sexy. He looked around her age. Maybe…no, she wasn’t stupid— if she so much as said ‘boo’ to him, Poboy would hear about it and take it out on her ass.
With a sigh she pulled out her sketchpad— Poboy allowed her to have it, to draw his pitbulls— and started a new drawing on a blank piece of paper.
Wish I could go to real art school. Meet somebody. Get out of here.
Lately she’d been thinking about sex. So the drawing was a little different from her usual. Angel was still a virgin. The most Poboy had ever done was tongue-fuck her…back when he was playing nice, when she first came to live in his house.
Saturn Heights was no place for romance. You’d have better luck in hell.
Anyway, there she was. Drawing in her sketchpad that typical L.A day. Hot. Dusty. Quiet. Every once in a while she heard sirens, or Hector’s Ice Cream truck, or Poboy’s pitbulls howling in their kennels. Poor babies. Oprah was on TV with a “relationship specialist” talking about marriage.
“The black woman expects too much from her man,” the specialist was saying. She was a lightskinned woman with locs piled on top of her head. She wore one of them tribal sack-dresses and wooden African bracelets. Her voice was loud and strong. “Ladies, you will never get a man if you keep your standards in the sky. You got to come down to earth with that. You hear me?”
The audience cheered and clapped.
“Now more than ever, the black woman is educated. But the black man wants a partner, not a slave driver! Not a professor! You hear me?”
More cheers.
“Ask your man what HE wants! Treat him like a MAN! Ask him about his day. Ask him what YOU can do for HIM! You hear me?”
The next channel was a dirty-ass movie. Angel let it play as she drew. Slowly the fantasy in her head took shape on the page. She squirmed in the chair, crossed her legs. Angel drew a man fucking a woman from the back, shoving her down into the bed. His muscles stood out the way Poboy’s never would. The girl was crying out as he fucked her deep and slow…
Angel let the pencil fall before the drawing was complete. She passed a shaking hand over her mouth.
She shut the sketchbook and eyed the clock. Time to cook Poboy’s dinner.
“Angel!”Poboy’s angry roar woke her up immediately. Angel scrambled off his bed. Naked. She always had to sleep naked– that was his rule.
“What time is it?” she gasped. She saw the clock on the marble dresser and moaned. “Aw, Poboy, I’m sorry-- ”
