Loving Her In The Shadow- Sovereignty Page 13

  She hesitated for a moment before opting to sink in behind me. She wrapped her legs around my waist as my back leaned into her breasts. This felt all too natural like we’d done this countless times before. Her fingertips grazed my body, feeling on the scars she’d kissed the other night.

  “Can I ask you something?” Her lips grazed the helix of my ear.

  “Anything.”

  “Where are all these scars from?”

  I wanted to answer the question carefully, but the truth came out instead. “Some are from my father. Others are from fights I’ve had over the years. They are all very old.”

  I could feel her heart against my shoulder beat faster and harder. “Why would your father harm your body in this way?”

  I could hear the hurt in her voice. It was like all the bones in my chest twisted. There was something about her and hurt in the same sentence that was starting to fuck with me. I couldn’t fight the past. I couldn’t undo my scars. Yet, I hated that my marred skin brought discomfort to her. I wanted to get up and cover my body so she’d return back to normal, but her legs wrapped around my waist kept me glued to her.

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t know how a father could harm his child.” Her fingers ran along the scar on my chest. “Like you said, our scars have stories.”

  I tried to relax, but I was still on edge. “What’s the story behind the scar on your stomach?”

  She stopped stroking my skin and became stiff. To my surprise, instead of avoiding the question, she said, “I was pregnant two years ago. I was two weeks shy of nine months—almost at the finish line. My husband and I had gotten into a bad argument because I caught him cheating on me with a woman he worked with. We were going back and forth and hadn’t noticed he’d driven through a red light. A car slammed into my passenger side. Our car flipped over. I was rushed to the hospital. Doctors worked on me for hours trying to stop the internal bleeding. Ultimately, it came down to my daughter or me. My husband chose me.”

  I raised her hand to my lips and kissed her. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I survived the worst part of it. Although, some days, I have my moment.” She began caressing my scars again. “What about you? Tell me a story about one of your scars.”

  Which one should I tell? Each scar told a story that was better left in my memory. Still, I found myself opening a private door just for her to access me. So which story will I tell?

  I told her the story about my first scar.

  “Before we moved to Palermo, I used to think my father was the greatest man on earth. But, when we moved to Palermo, he became a different person. Six months after we moved to Palermo, my father began...” I paused, trying to find the right words without letting her know I was being groomed to be a soldier for La Cosa Nostra. “He wanted to make sure that I was tough. He wanted to make sure that I could take care of my family if anything happened to him. He’d pull me out of bed every morning at three. He’d spend the next few hours before school drilling principles into my head. And, if I yawned, he’d drive his fist into my stomach. When I got used to him punching me, he got creative. He gave me this scar.” I dragged her hand down to the cigarette burn on my chest. “This is my oldest scar.”

  “Did your mother know?”

  “I convinced myself that she didn’t. If she did, we never spoke about it.”

  After months of our early morning training and my mother noticing the purplish-blue circles under my eyes, she brought me to the best doctor in Palermo. I was diagnosed with insomnia. God bless my poor mother, she tried just about every Sicilian trick in the book. From herbal teas to decorating my room with cornettos, horns shaped liked chili peppers. She was convinced someone casted a maloik on me in hopes of bringing great misfortune. As Sicilians, it was much easier to blame an evil eye outside of the house than the evil living under the same roof.

  It wasn’t until my first kill that I started to sleep again without nightmares keeping me from having a full night’s worth of sleep. It felt more like a trade off or a sacrifice—one life in exchange of a night’s worth of sleep. And it had been that way for a long time before I finally understood how to compartmentalize sleep, business, and the killings. But now, the nightmares were back. It started again after Vincenzo’s funeral. I was lucky to nod off here and there, but the peace I once had was gone.

  “Is that what your nightmare was about?”

  “No.” I was happy that she didn’t pry.

  Silence fell upon us as I lay in her arms. I don’t know when I fell asleep, but when she woke me up, it was after midnight. The water was borderline cold, and our skin had shriveled up. I was surprised I’d had slept through without a nightmare.

  After drying ourselves, we crawled our naked bodies into my bed. This time, I pulled her body into mine, wrapping her in a cocoon. I buried my nose deep into her hair, inhaling an unusual smell that danced around in my nose.

  With traces of freshly cracked coconut and a natural smell that was customized by her, I practically drowned my insides with her scent.

  “By the way…”

  Yeah?” I questioned as I continued inhaling.

  She yawned softly and pressed her body closer into me. “Sleeping Beauty wasn’t my favorite princess.”

  I smiled into the layers of hair. “One day, I’ll get it right.”

  Reign

  One day, he got it right.

  After sending three more princess stories, Nicolai finally sent a Little Golden Book version of Aladdin to my job. Like all the previous books, he wrote a note and tucked it inside the book. I pulled the note out and read it.

  Call me if I’m right. Text me if I’m wrong.

  I grabbed my cell phone from off my desk and leaned back in my tufted leather chair. I scrolled down to his contact and hit the phone icon. He answered on the third ring.

  “I would’ve never thought Jasmine was your favorite princess.” His smooth, sensual voice sent chills down my spine.

  I melted into my chair and unbuttoned the top of my blouse. “She was the only princess who was as close to representing a black girl than any of the other princesses. At least, that’s how my mind had processed it when I was little girl.”

  “I’d like to hear more about that tonight after the show.”

  “The show?”

  “Yeah. I want to try something I’ve never done before.”

  My eyebrows dipped into a questionable frown. “Which is?”

  “Go to a Broadway show.”

  My face relaxed. “You’ve never been to a Broadway show?”

  “Nah.”

  “Wow, I love Broadway shows. Musicals in general.”

  “Yeah, well, I never thought about going ‘til now.”

  “I’m excited! I haven’t been to a play in nearly two years. The last one I saw was Motown. What show are we catching?”

  “Aladdin.”

  “You’re lying!” I jumped up from my chair.

  “I will never lie to you.”

  The seriousness in his tone could not be missed. I sensed that there was more to his comment that went beyond the Broadway show.

  “That play is always sold out.”

  “I got us tickets,” he said nonchalantly.

  “What time do you need me to be ready?”

  “The car will pick us up around 7:30.”

  “I’m leaving now,” I said as I locked my computer and gathered my bag. By the time I ended our call, I was already in my car with my seatbelt on.

  I tossed my cell phone in the cup holder and tapped on the dashboard screen to start my playlist. As I shifted the gear in reverse, my afrobeat playlist blared through my speakers. I made a few stops before I went back to Nicolai’s place. I picked out two potential outfits that would go with my gray snakeskin high heeled boots I’d picked up.

  I glanced at my cell phone to see the time. It was a quarter after three, which meant I was doing great on time. I unlocked my phone and scrolled down to Nicolai’s number.

&n
bsp; “Hey, I’m downstairs,” I said when he answered on the second ring.

  “Okay cool, just go right up. The password is 0808. I’ll be home in an hour or so.”

  I stopped walking. “I could always go back to my place and you can call me when you’re back at your place.”

  “Or you can go up and get ready.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not here.”

  There was a long pause before he said, “I’ll see you at the house. I gotta go.”

  I stared at the entrance of the Skyview Towers. Although I’d spent nights at his place, I never stayed here by myself for longer than an hour. Why the hell was I looking so deep into it?

  After silencing all of the questions that flooded my mind, I entered the Skyview Towers. I walked past the front desk attendants and headed to the private elevator bank. Shit, I needed a fob key to access the private elevator that went up to his penthouse suite.

  I walked back to the front desk attendant.

  “Good afternoon, how may I help you?” A young woman greeted me when I approached.

  I didn’t think about how weird the few words would sound until I said them. “My name is Reign Johnson. I’m a guest of Nicolai’s. He lives in the penthouse suite. He told me that I could go straight up but I don’t have access to the elevators.”

  “Hi, Ms. Johnson, we were informed by Mr. Balducci to give you this.” She slid the elevator key across the podium. “Do you know how to use it?”

  “Yeah,” I said, snatching the key card from the podium. “Thank you.”

  I walked back to the private elevator bank, swiped the card against the wall, and rode the elevator up to the penthouse suite. I typed the passcode into the keypad and entered the suite. A pathway of rose petals trailed down the hallway. I followed the trail, which led to the master bathroom. I dropped the bags on his bedroom floor and entered the bathroom where Nicolai greeted me with nothing but his beautiful naked body standing by the tub filled with bubbles. He held onto a single rose.

  “All of this for me?”

  “Just wanted to celebrate you.”

  I was overwhelmed with emotions as I walked toward him. No one, not even Keith, had ever done something like this for me. I was never the romantic type, but this right here, I could get used to.

  “You’ve been working so—”

  I sealed his words with a kiss. It was a different kiss, one fueled by passion and every emotion I couldn’t put into words. It was a kiss that could be felt in my toes.

  When I pulled back and opened my eyes, his were still closed. His dick was fully erect. It was crazy how much my mouth watered whenever I saw his long, thick veiny length. When his eyes slowly peeled open, I saw that he was just as affected as I was. Waves of emotions moved around his blues.

  His eyes left mine, sweeping down my face only to stop at my parted lips. I remained still, unable to move not even as he lowered his face. It wasn’t until his lips pressed against mine that I was finally able to move, but not away. I closed my eyes, breathing heavily through my nose. He deepened the kiss, drowning me. I lifted my hand, strumming fingers through his hair while his fingers danced around my throat. He ended the kiss with a soft peck, caressing my cheek as he pulled away from me.

  “You’re gonna make it hard to walk away when the time comes.”

  “You ever thought that maybe I don’t want you to walk away?” he asked as he lifted my shirt over my head.

  I didn’t respond. Several different answers hung at the tip of my tongue, but the one in my heart refused to come out. So, I clamped my mouth shut and continued to allow him to peel off my clothes. He led me to the tub and helped me into the hot water.

  “Are you coming in?” I asked when he walked away.

  He looked over his shoulder. “Nah. I want to bathe you.”

  My mouth went dry as I watched him return to the tub with a washcloth in his hand. He kneeled at the tub and dumped the washcloth into the soapy water.

  As he raised the lathered washcloth to my body, he asked, “Tell me some more about why princess Jasmine is your favorite.”

  A smile crept over my lips at my earliest memory. “Before black girls finally got a princess who represented them, Jasmine had been the closest princess we’d ever get to represent the brown and black minorities. And even back than she didn’t truly represent me, but I latched on to her. I don’t know which was worst back then—the fact that there was a lack of representation or how we normalized inequity.”

  His eyes bored into mines with open curiosity. “Why do you think that?”

  “There are many reasons why black children are taught history in a way that reinforces this hierarchy in which white people are at the top and black people are beneath them. And seeing only positive representation of white people is all part of systematic oppression and racism. Think about it. When I was in grade school, I learned that monarchies were in Europe. I learned dynasties were in Asia. But that was about it. I didn’t know that countries in Africa had monarchies. I didn’t know that some of us were descendants of ancient African royal families. We were taught to feel inferior, to avoid making ourselves stand out as an anomaly so that everyone else could feel safe around us. Meanwhile, we felt unsafe.”

  “Do I make you feel unsafe as a white man?”

  I looked up at him. “I’ve never felt as safe with a man other than my father until you came into my life.”

  “Do I make you feel inferior?”

  “No. You make me feel wanted, desired, valued, beautiful.”

  “Because you are all those things. Any man could see that. And there’s not a man in this world who would not want to have all of you. I know I do.”

  I was at a loss for words. His words were speaking to my soul, lifting the heavy weight of my marriage off my shoulders. I could fall in love with this man and shit, it terrified me.

  “Keep telling me about how you viewed the world through your eyes.”

  I smiled and picked up where I left off. “I remember wanting to conform to the standard of beauty. The European standard. In the story of Snow White, the most beautiful, the fairest of them all, had skin as white as snow. It was brainwashing, pretty much like how history books in primary school purposely left out African and black history. Instead, they were selective in what history to teach us. They’d teach us history that was palatable and nonviolent. If I’d had to learn about my history in school, I wouldn’t have known about the many great black inventors in America who invented things that we still use today. I wouldn’t have known about the black economy and how it was systematically eradicated at the turn of desegregation. I wouldn’t have known how beautiful yet political my black skin was. Or how it had been used to weaponize me throughout my entire life.”

  “What do you mean when you say weaponize?”

  “I’m a dark-skinned woman living in a world socially constructed by all of the isms—racism, classism, featurism, colorism, hair texturism. Depending on which side of the poll you rank, you could either have a harder life or easier life. Dark skin, in its historical sense, was viewed as negative, dirty, and violent. Anything closer to white held value, prestige, and softness. I inherited my father’s complexion and features while my sisters inherited my mother’s Creole features. In a lot of ways, I believe my father chose my mother because of how she looked. How his children might have looked. Of course, he never admitted that. But I always suspected. In a lot of ways, I guess that was why I was intentional on being with dark-skinned men only. Though I was taught to appreciate my blackness, I was taught to have disdain for my darkness. Extended family from my mother’s side would always talk about how I inherited everything from my father. So I had to be the best, to divert attention from my dark skin and more African features.”

  “You mentioned featurism, colorism, and texturism. What are those?”

  “Featurism is your phenotype. I have black features that speak of African ancestry. My lips are full. My gums are marble. I have a wild mane with a mixture of
curls, waves, and coils. My hair texture would be considered bad hair back in the day. Of course, these days, the natural hair movement has helped many of us fall in love with our natural hair. Colorism is discrimination, most often within our own race, that is based on skin color stratification. The lighter you are, the more privilege and access you may have. This is not to say that light-skinned people don’t have their share of struggle. Hell, some light-skinned men are de-masculinized by some darker skinned men. Some dark-skinned men feminize light-skinned men’s complexion.” I stopped talking when I noticed how his gaze bore into mine. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “There’s so much about the world that I don’t know. Everything in me wants to protect you, but it’s hard to protect skin-deep problems. These systematic problems that affect you as a black woman have also contributed to the greatness that is you.”

  Once again, I was speechless. Instead of trying to bring the conversation back to comfortable ground, I decided to lean back into the tub and be pampered. I could certainly get used to this.

  After bathing my body, Nicolai carried me to the bed. He was still rock hard and I could tell his patience was being tested.

  “Are you going to make wait all night to have you?” I asked.

  “If I take you right now, there’s a good chance we won’t make it to the play.”

  I rested my upper body on my elbows. “Just give me little bit of dick. A quickie.”

  “We don’t have time.” He crossed the room, perhaps trying to create as much distance between us.

  I spread my thighs open so he’d see just how wet I was for him. “Come, baby. Come take care of this.”

  Restraints be damned, the man was on his knees between my thighs. I knew his breaking point. I parted my thighs further, showing more of my blooming flower.

  He lowered his head to my pussy, his lips a kiss away. “When I look at you, I see the earth. So much harm and chaos has been brought upon the earth and yet, it remains the most vital thing we need in order to sustain life. The earth is beautiful and strong. When I see you, I see earth. Your skin is the soil, your eyes are the sky, your mouth is the wind, your breasts and ass are the valleys and mountains, your fingers and toes are the weather, and this,” he said referring to my pussy. “This is water.”