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  The next morning they ate breakfast like two strangers in a foreign place. The night before never being mentioned between either of them, although the passion marks on Deja’s inner thighs told a different story that she couldn’t get enough of.

  * * *

  Rene’s car began slowing down. She was riding her brake lights. Deja had to let up. Make it not seem so obvious that she was on her tail, but she needed to find Sand. She had to find Sand. And she knew Rene was the only person who could take her there.

  * * *

  Rene walked past Deja so fast that she didn’t even bother looking up to apologize when their shoulders collided. Her worried face was full of questionable sadness that Deja felt somewhat responsible for. She watched Rene jump in her car and speed off. Deja hurried into the barbershop, looking for her friend, Nessa.

  “Nessa, was that—”

  “Sand’s girl? Yep.”

  “What was she doing in here?” Deja tried hard to not seem jealous, but it was written all over her face.

  “What you think she was doing up in here?” Nessa flung her hands on her hips and looked at Deja like she was crazy. “Hell, she wanna know where her girl at. She say she got my card out of some jeans or something. I told her last time I seen Sand was at Sandrene’s, and that the last thing I heard was that she was in jail because she killed somebody.”

  “And what she say?” Deja was more than just curious. She had to know.

  “She said that Sand would never do anything like that,” Nessa said doubtfully. “She thinks Sand being framed by somebody. She didn’t go into too much detail, and I didn’t ask no questions. And believe this,” Nessa said, way too excited, “she had the nerve to start questioning me and shit like I know something. I told her like this. I’m her braider, that’s it. I don’t know nothing, and I ain’t seen nothing. I ain’t tryna be caught up in no conspiracy-type shit. Y’all can keep that drama all to yourselves. I have my own issues.”

  “What?” Deja’s eyebrows folded in as she watched Nessa sweep up her last client’s hair.

  “Girl, you heard me. I got kids. Leave me outta that mess y’all got going on,” Nessa rambled, giving Deja a dismissive wave. “I’m too old to be sitting up in somebody’s courtroom or jail cell. Shit, I ain’t trying to be funny, but I get up in there, and they might try to turn a bitch out. Have me all fucked up and shit, knowing I can never leave my Mandingo-dick nigga alone. He puts it on me too good.”

  “You talkin’ crazy,” Deja laughed. “Ain’t nobody gonna turn you out. And they’d be crazy as hell if they even tried.” She rolled her eyes at the thought.

  “Naw, but I’m serious, though. Sand my girl and all, but if she done killed that girl in them townhomes like rumors have it, hell, ain’t no telling who she coming for next,” Nessa carried on, her face as serious as it could get.

  Deja had heard enough. “Girl, quit with your paranoid butt!”

  “I ain’t paranoid. You said it yourself that the police pulled y’all over and took her down. Now, what would they do that for if they didn’t have proof that she went off and murdered somebody?” Nessa shook her head and resumed her sweeping. “Just talking about it got me spooked. Look, girl, I’m breaking out in a chill.” Nessa showed Deja the tiny bumps rising on her skin.

  “Nessa, please. Sand ain’t kill nobody! I’m sure that it was just a mix-up and will all be handled once it goes to court. If it even goes to court because I can guarantee that it’s one of those mistaken identity cases.”

  “Girl, you just met her. Hell, and you talking like you’ve known her all your life. I’m the one introduced y’all. So unless y’all jumped in a time machine and took a trip back into time, you don’t know shit about her either.” Nessa began waving her finger. “See, I done told you a thousand times that you never know a person when you think you do,” she continued. She was lit like a firecracker ready to blast off. “People do some of the craziest shit. You watch the news. You better get hipped and open your eyes. And what I gotta convince you for? Hell, you know how people can just snap, firsthand,” Nessa said, reminding Deja of the beat downs she used to get from her ex-girlfriend, Toni.

  “Okay, okay, Nes. Jeez. You’ve made your point already. Please spare me the I-told-you-sos and four-hour pep talks.” Deja pulled her hair behind her ears. She knew Nessa would take it there, and suddenly, she was ready to leave without even getting her hair done. Nessa was always bringing up Toni as if Deja needed to be reminded of what almost drove her to suicide. She’d rather not think about Toni’s ass at all. “My God, just bump my hair already,” Deja shot, exasperated. She flopped down in the leather swivel chair.

  Nessa emptied the dustpan into the trash bin underneath her station. She whipped out the cape, swung it over Deja, and snapped the clasps together. “And why haven’t I seen you in the past couple of months? What your ass been up to, heifer?” she asked, switching the subject. She could read Deja’s face as well as feel the steam shooting out of her ears.

  “Keeping busy,” Deja answered dryly.

  “Uh-uh, school out for the holiday break, so come again.” Nessa playfully popped Deja on the shoulder with the tail end of the wide-tooth comb.

  Deja took a deep breath. “I’m running the club.”

  Nessa glided the comb through Deja’s hair, then stopped. “What club?”

  Deja tightened her body. She took a sip of her diet Coke before laying it all on her. “Sandrene’s.”

  Nessa swung the chair around so that Deja could face her. “Say what?”

  Deja didn’t feel like she owed Nessa an explanation, but she gave her one anyway. Twisting her bottle cap back on and sighing deeply, she said, “I’m looking out for Sand’s club until she gets out,” she admitted. “Somebody has to do it. You know she worked too hard to build that club for it to just go down the drain over some—”

  “Stop it right there. I don’t remember how and when that became your problem. Deja, do you know what you’re doing?” Nessa widened her raccoon eyes as she spoke. “You don’t even know what kinda shit that girl involved in and you—”

  Deja interrupted her the same way she had done. “Nessa, I’m a grown-ass woman. I appreciate you looking out for me, but I can handle myself.” Deja was ready to jump out of the chair because she refused to listen to a second more of Nessa’s nonsense.

  “Gurl, sweet Jesus.” Nessa grabbed at her heart.

  “Aghh!” Deja held up her hand with a stop signal gesture, the same way kids did when they played Simon Says. That conversation was over before it could even begin. She didn’t expect Nessa to understand, and she wasn’t asking her to.

  The very next day, Deja woke up to her normal Sunday start. She drove across town to the 24 Hour Fitness she joined years ago in an effort to ditch the stress weight she’d packed on over the years. Pulling into the parking lot, she spotted the car immediately. It was Rene’s car. A silver Chrysler Sebring with chromed wheels. The same car she’d seen her in at the shop. She knew it had to be too good to be true to coincidentally bump into this woman two days in a row. She pulled in right beside it, hoping it would be her lucky day.

  When she entered the gym, there stood Rene with her hair pulled back into a ponytail and feet slapping away at the black conveyor belt. Rene wasn’t as aware of her surroundings as Deja expected her to be because had she been, she would have recognized her from the day before. She stepped on the treadmill next to Rene. She placed the earphones over her ears and began pacing her walk. She listened to over twenty of the songs compiled in her playlist before she was able to finally get a break.

  Rene grabbed the towel hanging over her shoulders and wiped the shirt-drenching sweat from her face and neck. She decreased her speed, bringing her workout to a halt. Deja’s eyes moved with Rene all the way to the service station where she tossed her towel into the basket and headed for the door. Deja followed Rene, unnoticed, all the way to her car. As she pulled out of the parking lot, Deja pulled out right behind her. Every day
from that day on, Deja followed Rene’s faithful workout schedule, believing all along that it was a sign that she and Sand were meant to reunite.

  * * *

  Rene looked in her rearview mirror a second time. She saw the red car when she made the left at the light. It had turned with her. She realized she was being followed. She knew it. Chyna had set her up. She slammed on her brakes as hard as she could, skidding from lane to lane. The car behind her zipped around her to avoid hitting her from behind, doing a full doughnut spin in the middle of the street. She shifted into Reverse, then back into Drive, taking off down a narrow truck- and van-favored residential street. She looked behind her. No car. She kept straight until she ended up back on the main road. She drove at a raging speed in a hurry to get back to Shun’s place. Nearing her destination, she grabbed her prepaid cellular and hurriedly dialed the number Chyna had hand delivered to her months ago while she was recuperating at her best friend’s house. Rene couldn’t punch all the numbers in fast enough. She was ready to give Chyna a piece of her mind. This wasn’t the deal they’d made. She didn’t agree to being followed.

  Chyna’s cell phone rang many times until suddenly, all Rene could hear was someone in the background screaming for dear life. And then she recognized the voice.

  “Chyna, come on. Stop it. That’s enough. Let me pay you off whatever she owe you. Don’t do her like that, man!”

  It was Sand, loud and clear. Rene wasn’t sure how she had gotten them into this predicament, but she was determined to get them out. She hated that she ever had anything to do with her old boss Albery because that’s what she believed this was all about anyway—his debt to Chyna. And if she could help it, she’d make sure that Chyna got every dime she wanted out of his raggedy ass. But in the meantime, all Rene wanted was for Sand to be okay.

  She began screaming into the phone hysterically. “Please, let me talk to her! I’ll help you get your money back,” she wept until the tears falling from her eyes became blinding.

  7

  Her first customer pulled alongside the curb in a silver BMW blaring upbeat reggae music. Illusion stopped walking. She was soaking wet. Her hair and her clothes were sticking to her skin, making her feel icky all over. She gave dude a second look and hoped this was her money trick because she needed to get the hell out of the rain and off the streets. “Whatcha lookin’ for, honey?” she called out to the driver, cautiously walking up to the passenger side of the car.

  The driver lowered his window more so he could read her invisible “pussy for sale” sign. He looked like he had just come from a nightclub judging by the way he was dressed. He wore a black and gold long-sleeved polyester shirt, the first three buttons undone, and a suede hat with black and brown feathers sprouting out of the left side. The gold rope necklace was short enough to be worn as a choker, and not to mention so thin that it played disappearing tricks on her eyes.

  With his hand rested on the steering wheel and his top three buttons undone, it was evident that he wanted Illusion to get a full view of the nappy hairs on his hairy chest as he leaned forward, marveling at her stature. “I’m looking for whatever you offering, pretty lady,” he replied finally, giving second and third notice to Illusion’s backside where a greater portion of her assets sat.

  Illusion picked up on his Nigerian accent. Foreign men turned her on in a weird kind of way, but it was too damn cold for her to just be wasting time on some window-shopper that wanted the goods but couldn’t afford the price tag. She leaned over into his vehicle, cutting straight to the chase. “You the police, motherfucka?” she asked boldly, hoping he wasn’t vice. But she was still in Chyna’s district if he was. All she had to do was breathe Chyna’s name, and that would be her keep-out-of-jail free card.

  “Come on now. You look much smarter than dat,” the trick told her, not realizing his insult.

  His eyes were bloodshot red. Illusion didn’t have to assume anything other than this nigga was high as a kite. The lingering smell of marijuana bum-rushed her nose. Whatever he’d been hitting was so potent that she swore she was making contact. She casually disregarded his last remark. She looked over in the backseat. He was riding alone. She searched for a wedding band. There wasn’t one, unless it was MIA, but since when had that ever been a concern of hers?

  “So what you doing out this time of morning?” Illusion had to feel him out. “You looking for a good time, playboy?” she answered for him, lifting her head up every now and then. She was keeping a watchful eye out for a black Hummer sitting on plus-sized rims. She was paranoid as hell, to say the least, and with her back turned the way that it was, she felt like Chyna could have snuck up on her at any given moment and took her out where she stood, especially after leaving the post. She just knew Fletch was riding up and down the street looking for her ass.

  “What da ya say you get me outta this rain and take me somewhere where we can talk in private?” Illusion suggested, her eyes darting from this fella of interest to the empty passenger seat. She allowed him a full view of her wet, voluptuous breasts that suffocated themselves against the fabric of her dress, causing them to resemble two perfectly round oil stains. Her engorged nipples only taunted her potential customer as all he could imagine was how they looked up close and personal. Her nipples were dark as ripe berries and shaped like mini gumdrops, and they tasted just as sweet.

  “You want to go somewhere private?” he asked, ready to adhere to her last request. “Hop in. I’ll take you there.”

  Illusion smiled. That broke the ice for her. She let herself in. All she wanted was out of the cold and rain, and if she could, make some paper on the side. She didn’t have a dime on her. The only thing that was in her purse besides her roughed up ID was a makeup case, condoms, liquid KY, spearmint chewing gum, and a half pack of cigarettes.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” she said, throwing everything on the table. “You spot me a nice, clean room, and throw me, say, three hundred dollars”—Illusion looked like a financial representative going over the final numbers with her client—“and I’ll be all that you need tonight,” she smiled seductively. The heater was blowing strong. She reached over, turning all the air vents in her direction. “It’s just so cold and,” she let the words hang from her lips, “I’m all wet.”

  The man couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was a fox. “All mines, huh?”

  “All yours, daddy,” she reassured him. Illusion knew she could wing this. She felt extremely confident. This was what she did before she got caught up with Chyna. She called all the shots, set her own prices, and kept 100 percent of the profit. She didn’t need somebody else auctioning off her pussy.

  “Sounds like a sweet deal to me,” her date said without having to reconsider an offer so grand. “Me likes the show already.” His English was fairly good, but his accent weighed heavy on every word. He stole one last look at her and couldn’t wait to get her to that “private place” she spoke about. “You going to let me babysit you all night, huh? I think that might mean trouble for you, little girl,” he warned, shaking his head and grinning at the idea of sexual punishment.

  Illusion nodded while driving her tongue across both her lips. “Did I mention, I love pain?”

  He bounced his head when he asked, “What hotel?” He was tired of talking. He’d let the anaconda he was packing speak for itself.

  “Anywhere but Zaza.” Illusion quickly strapped herself in, leaned back, and anticipated the events to come.

  “By the way, what’s your name, beautiful?”

  Illusion was taken aback. She had never heard a man call her beautiful before. She was used to all the other labels they gave her, like Sexy, Badd-Bitch, Top-Ho, Silver Dolla, and the list just went on. Not one made her feel as special as, “Beautiful.”

  “It’s Illusion,” she told him, admiring his sincerity but thriving off the fact that she’d stumbled upon a square.

  “El-u-john?” he pronounced, stretching his neck out like a rooster as he sounded out every sylla
ble in her name.

  She nodded. “Um-hmm.” Oh, was she gonna have fun with this one.

  “That’s a pretty name for a pretty girl,” he smiled again, his lips distending past his jawline.

  When he volunteered his grill, Illusion wanted to scream. His gap was so wide she could have parallel parked a semitruck between it. “And what’s your name?” she asked, almost afraid he’d flash that signature smile of his again, but she was determined to butter him up and stake out his value before the night was up.

  “Muhedio,” he smiled broadly from ear to ear. Either he loved saying his own name or Illusion had him so far gone that all he could do was smile and be happy.

  Illusion returned a weak smile. “Can I call you Mu for short?” she asked.

  “Sure. I don’t see why not.” Muhedio’s head was in the clouds.

  Illusion raised her dress a little, exposing two naked thighs. “Mu, have you ever seen a woman as fine as me?”

  His wide red eyes grew even wider. “No. Never,” he cheesed.

  “So have you ever,” she spoke slowly, “paid for pussy cat?” She slid her index finger in her mouth and around her tongue. Then she swung her right leg over the dashboard and let her thighs part ways.

  Muhedio appeared to be in shock as he watched Illusion reveal her crotchless G-string. Beads of sweat invaded his forehead at the sight of her Brazilian waxed snatch. He’d give anything just to kiss it.

  Illusion amped up her game. “Ever pay for a good fuck, Mu?”

  His answer was shaky. “Nnnnooo,” he swallowed hard, licking the ash from his naturally two-toned lips.

  “Do you want to know why men pay for my pussy, Mu?” she asked him.

  Muhedio nodded his head more than once, trying to drive in between the white broken lines ahead of him while being distracted by Illusion’s pussy lips that hung off his passenger seat. She was disrupting the small amount of concentration he had left.