As she’s passed down to her daughter, Samantha has caramel skin. Only while Rayna’s skin glows in its radiance, Samantha’s is dim, likely due to her chronic addiction. She’s an inch or two shorter than her daughter, and although her hair doesn’t reach the length of Rayna’s before she cut it, I can tell by the roots that Samantha has the same texture and ability to grow it in the mass and volume that Rayna does. Her shoulders aren’t as poised and don’t hold the air of femininity that Rayna’s does. In fact, Samantha holds no feminine grace at all, similar to Yazmine. It’s as if at some point during their days in the wilderness, they ceded refinement for survival; Yazmine from her years in prison and Samantha, from her forfeiture to heroine.
In our private conversations over the past few weeks, Rayna and I concluded that both Samantha and Yazmine are just a fraction of the women—the beings—they were when we were children. The most obvious indicators being in their postures and poor dialect. We both agreed to being aware of their broken argot. It was a sad fact, but common when you assent to the dark world. The streets. I know this.
“Azmir, you can’t give something that you don’t have,” Samantha mutters, calling me back to her presence before me. I wrinkle my eyebrows.
She shakily wets her lips to try again. “I watched her the few times we been together since I been here. She got a lot of layers around her. She protected. Guarded.”
Now Samantha’s speaking terms and facts that I do recognize about Rayna. Things that are to my detriment.
“Rayna lost a lot when she was so young. Stuff ‘dat you don’t get from nobody but ya’ momma and daddy. We took ‘dat from her, being selfish and weak. Call it unconditional love. ‘Dat child missed out on so much when we took it back. She was almost still a baby. She still messed up in here…” Samantha points to her head. “…and in here.” She then pats her chest; I’m sure, referencing her heart. “When you don’t know unconditional love, you can’t receive no love from nobody. I seen it before in my programs. Heard counselors talk about it. Never thought it applied to me.” Samantha’s eyes squint in pain. “Never thought it would apply to my kids. Make sense now, ya’ know?”
I swallow hard before giving an emphatic nod. Slowly, I’m understanding Samantha’s argument. Her plea.
“Sometimes people look past it…sometimes people run away at the sight of love.” She knows? I wonder if she’s aware of Rayna’s infamous response to my fuck ups. She squeezes her eyes shut, seemingly painfully and whispers, “I don’t know what her thing is, but I know she got one. And you…” She places her hand on my upper arm affectionately. “…you gotta understand she can’t give what she don’t have…she don’t know.”
We lock eyes in rapid transmittal of something I cannot explain. Something that happens when two desperate people with similar motives make a connection. When they silently decide on the same agenda. Samantha wants a piece of Rayna’s heart, too. A piece that she forfeited years ago. A place that I want to be a part of like the need of my next heartbeat.
Rayna opening the powder room door breaks our exchange. Samantha clears her throat as she removes her hand. But before Rayna’s within earshot she whispers, “Be patient. Don’t give up on her.”
Rayna hesitantly approaches us, not understanding our convening. Quite honestly, until a few seconds ago, neither did I. But I do now. I’ve also grown more tenacious.
“Let’s go, Brimm,” I murmur.
She supplies her mother a diffident smile as she passes her to get to me. I hold out her blazer to assist with putting it on, only to have Rayna take it from my grasp and bundle it in her chest, not breaking her stride to the door. I don’t know what that means, but I offer Samantha a cool nod before turning on my heels to join Rayna’s treads. Samantha returns a tight smile while her eyes face the floor and then closes the door behind me.
Several steps behind Rayna, I click the key fob to unlock the door so when she arrives at the truck she doesn’t have to wait for me if she chooses not to. She chooses not to. Before I can grab my seatbelt, once I’m inside the truck, Rayna leaps in my lap and closes in on my face. Her lips move with wild abandon. She’s swift as her hands rove over my head and neck. Her hips rock in my lap as her ragged breath hits my face. She sucks on my tongue, not sparing a moment to breathe. Her tugs at my neck and shoulder are boorish and her kiss is so savage that her teeth hits mine in a cling. I can taste the desperation on her tongue. And can feel the slough of despondence in the tremble of her thighs that are clinging to my waist.
“C’mon,” she rags out without a breath to spare, her voice husky. I’ve never seen her like this. She reaches for the buckle of my belt, I know to unleash me. And as ready as I am for her—because no matter the circumstance, my body always responds to Brimm—I cannot do it.
“No,” I grunt as I pull from her mouth, trying to fight for lucidness while my girl gyrates like a motor on my cock, * humming in a way that I intuitively know how to respond to. How to tame. “No…” I attempt again.