“I don’t mind. I like your house. Really.” Her hand reaches out to touch my arm, reassuring me that her words are true. It wasn’t that she was cleaning my house, it was that she was cleaning a mess that wasn’t hers. “Will you give me a tour?” Her sweet question is accompanied by her sweet smile that is irresistible to me.
I agree to the tour, then grab my bag from the couch, pulling my eyes away from her spellbinding smile, and throw some jeans on. I avoid looking at her bare legs and where my shirt stops on her thighs. If I looked, my semihard cock wouldn’t be semihard for long.
I look around the old house that is only about a thousand square feet. There isn’t much to show. You can see the kitchen, dining room, and living room from anywhere you stand. The hallway leads to the bathroom and two bedrooms. It was simple. But it’s the story she wants.
I debate about how much I actually want her to know for about two seconds before I decide that nothing I say would bother Saylor or make her think less of me. I just didn’t want her pity. If she started getting teary eyed or any of that shit, I would just shut up.
“I don’t remember much about my life before I moved here. I remember being on the road a lot and staying with people I didn’t know. I’m not sure who took care of me before I was capable of taking care of myself, but someone must have because I’m here.” Black never told me about my mother. He never spoke of my father much either unless it was derogatory. I often wondered who fed me when I cried and changed me when I shit, but I didn’t know and never would, so it was a waste of time thinking about it. But I still did.
“I was seven years old when a man, who I was told was my father, dropped me off here. My grandfather didn’t want me anymore than my ol’ man did, but he didn’t have a choice. I guess he could have dropped me off somewhere too, but he didn’t. I reckon that’s why I put up with his shit for so long. He must have cared about me to keep me around.”
Thoughts of a life without Black were just as unpleasant as the memories of life with him. “Even though my life here was shit, it was life, and that was better than the alternative. Or so I thought.” I tense at my words, wishing I had kept them to myself. I look at Saylor, searching her eyes for the pity I hope is there so I can shut up, but her eyes are void of emotion, and her kind smile urges me to continue. Well, fuck.
I grab a cigarette and have half of it smoked before I continue. “I never had a chance to be a kid. My grandfather, Black, had me doing club shit before I was old enough to know what I was doing. When I finally figured it out, I was so good at it that I didn’t want to stop. It helped me keep my mind occupied, out of Black’s way and in his good graces.”
“What did you have to do?” I shouldn’t tell her. But I do.
“When a shipment of drugs came, I prepared it for individual distribution.” I stare at the Formica dining table and matching chair where I spent endless hours cutting, weighing, and bagging cocaine.
Mindlessly, my hand went to my ear, rubbing the permanent grooves caused from the mask I wore for so long. Sometimes days at a time. “I handled the money, making sure Black got a bigger cut, and figuring out a way to hide it. That’s how I got so good with numbers.”
“Fifty-fifty is a deal made between fools. Sixty-forty is a silent deal for the man who no longer wants to be a fool.”
“By the time I was twelve, I knew as much about the business as Black. At fourteen I was dealing. And at sixteen I had more respect than any man around these parts. Other than Black.”
I look at Saylor’s face. It’s impassive. I wonder what she is thinking, but I don’t ask. I light another smoke, letting my eyes land on everything and letting everything trigger a memory.
Kitchen floor: where I witnessed Black murder a man by strangulation. Refrigerator: the first time Black hit me. Couch: the orgy Black had with two women and three brothers. Living room window: the hours I spent looking out of it, waiting for Black to return. Front door: the hours I spent listening for it to open, waiting for Black to leave. The hallway: the last time Black hit me and the first time I hit him.
I swallow hard, remembering that feeling of power I got when I realized I finally had control of my own life. I want to relive it like I have done many times, but I want to tell it more.