Blind Spot, page 10
“The real you?”
“The real me, Cherry. Get some rest; we’ll talk soon. Goodnight,” he said and ended the call before he made a fool of himself and said anything more.
The woman wreaked havoc on his calm demeanor. Each time he looked at Cherry or heard her voice, his instinct to mate for procreation kicked in. The last time she was in his bed, it was three days before he let her up for air. He ordered food and water, then spent hours exploring every divot, opening, and nerve ending on her body. To this day, he knew where to start and how to end his exploration of all of Cherry’s pits.
“Good grief, man, go to bed,” he cautioned himself and turned out the lights.
Chapter 11- Tom Thumb
Naomi didn’t like the dance class. She didn’t like people staring at her, and she most definitely didn’t like how the other mommies were looking at her daddy. She clung to his leg, concerned and a bit fearful.
“Daddy, what is this?”
“It is a dance school so you can take classes,” he said, standing at the counter.
“I have a school. I have to go to school at the night time too?”
“This, my beautiful Bunny, is a special class, only for an hour, to teach you fancy dance moves. Do you want to try it?”
“No, I want to go home.”
“Will you at least try it for me?”
“No, I want to go home.”
The dance instructor, a thin woman with the body of a ballerina, came from behind the counter. She clapped her hand three times and all the minuscule, little people in tights and leotards took to the dance floor. Music began to play as she counted. The kids, awkward and learning, went to the first position, then a moderately deep plié, moving to third position.
Slow looked down at Naomi, who was frowning.
“I don’t want to do that. They look like they have to poop and tryna hold it in!”
He burst into laughter at her perception of the ballet moves, and just quickly as the dancers had begun, it was over. At the six o’clock hour, a new set of kids took to the floor and a different kind of music started, making Naomi’s eyes light up. The next set of kids was dressed like the street urchins from the Wiz. Hip-hop music started with a different instructor as the children bounced about as they had recently received a fresh injection of sugar coated in red dye number seven.
“I am Alain. This is my studio,” the ballet-bodied dance instructor said, looking at Slow, waiting for him to state why he chose her studio to bring his daughter. “You are interested in the modern classes for your daughter? How did you hear about us?”
“My sister Rebekah told me about your studio,” Slow explained. “She owns the Upper Cut three doors down.”
“Ah yes, I know her. Ms. Neary,” Alain replied. “We have a recital coming next week, and I think we can have your daughter ready to participate if you and her mother can work with her on the routine.”
He frowned at the woman. “A recital next week? Today is the first day of class. How do you expect her to be ready in a week?”
“Mr. Neary,” she said, looking him squarely in the eyes, “they are four and five years old. No one is expecting Swan Lake. Half of them will get on stage and stare at the audience. Maybe one or two will actually dance. The entire exercise is to teach self-confidence.”
“A week is not a lot of time,” Slow said, watching the kids. To his surprise, Naomi was no longer holding on to his leg but had moved to stand in front of him to watch the dancers. “Bunny, would you like to get out there and try?”
“No, but can I watch?”
He looked at Alain, who handed him a clipboard, a pen, and a place to take a seat in the parent section. Naomi tagged along behind him as he took a seat in the front row and filled out the enrollment forms. Three women, all in the back rows in the Mommy section, suddenly stood, moving closer to him. He heard the shuffle of the chairs and could smell the shift in the energy of the air. Slow didn’t look back or react instead focusing his efforts on the paper.
The music blared as small feet in rubber-bottomed shoes made contact with the wooden surface. The instructor danced her way over, pointing at Naomi to come to join them on the floor. She shook her head no with her lips turned up. The hip-hop teacher tapped Slow on the knee, making him look up, and inviting him to join her and the children on the dance floor.
He pointed to himself, shocked that she would have the nerve to request he get up, get on the floor, and make a fool of himself for the sake of his child. Reluctantly, he got to his feet. Slow, still dressed in the jacket and tie from work, loosened the neck harness. He removed the jacket, draping it over the back seat. Looking back at Naomi, he extended his hand for her to come onto the floor as well.
“We’re going to take it from the top,” the hip-hopper explained. “We’re doing an eight-count, with you counting with me on each step we make and take. Ready? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and eight. Again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and eight. Great. Again.”
The instructor did the same steps four times, stopped the music, and got in front of the class. Naomi, standing by her father, ready for when the music started again, took her position. The music kicked on, and the instructor called the cadence, “Five, six, five, six, seven, eight!”
Doing the same moves she taught them using the eight counts, they moved as a group, going over the steps four times like she had taught them five minutes prior. To his surprise, the instructor yelled out, “Freestyle!”
All the kids began to dance. Naomi looked around to see what was happening. The kids, doing current dance moves, made her giggle. Slow pulled out his best whip, followed by a NayNay, while he swayed to the music. He lowered his body to the floor, flapping his knees open and closed to the beat as his neck moved from side to side. His daughter giggled at his antics, correcting his moves to show her father how the moves should be done.
Five minutes later, Slow was back in the parent’s section, and Naomi was on the floor with the children learning choreography.
“You’re so good with her,” a young mother said.
“You’ve got some nice moves too, very smooth,” another added.
“I don’t see no ring on your finger,” the third woman, who also moved closer to him, contributed to the conversation.
He responded by rising and walking to the counter to turn in the paperwork and stand next to the ballerina lady who owned the place.
“They were trying very hard, I see,” Alain said to him.
“Yeah, I’m here for my daughter,” he confessed. “I have no interest in any of that.”
“A man who exudes as much sexual prowess as you must be accustomed to such attention,” she said, this time the Slavic accent coming through.
“You only become accustomed to what you accept,” he replied, keeping his eye on Naomi. He’d moved his position at the desk to see the front and side doors as well as the dance floor where she practiced.
“Does this mean you don’t accept being a very virulent, sexy man?”
“I accept it just fine; I see no need to welcome unwanted attention which serves no purpose. I am not driven by my ego,” he answered, more honestly than he expected. “My sister thought this was a good place for Naomi to dance since she obviously loves dancing, so we are here.”
“Ah, I shall pry no more,” Alain said.
“Thank you. As important as it is for Naomi to feel comfortable here, I would also like to feel the same,” he said, thinking of a few emails he needed to answer.
“Certainly,” Alain answered, going to the office and rolling forward a small desk used for sign-ins along with an extra chair. “You may sit and work here when you bring her to class. The recital is next Saturday here at 4:00 pm.”
“Is there a fee for the recital and costume costs?”
“Yes, one hundred should cover it, and Naomi will be a clam,” she said cutting her eye at him. “Honestly, we could really use a Sebastian. Would you be willing...”
“Hell, no,” he said, laughing loudly, drawing everyone’s attention, including Naomi’s.
“Mr. Neary, we could really use a father in the role to show the men in the audience how it’s done,” Alain said, cutting her eye at him.
“Thanks, but no,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to handle a few matters while she practices.”
He took the seat, lowered his head, and set to work. A half-hour later, his daughter sat in the back seat, chattering away about tights, leo-pards, and dance shoes. She didn’t know what a clam was, but she planned to be the best one ever, and with that, he was pleased. At least for a short period of time, and then the call came in from his mother after they reached home.
“Michael,” she began the conversation, and he could almost envision her lips pursed tightly together as she spoke. “I’m waiting.”
“I know, Ma, but it’s complicated,” he said to her. “I don’t want you falling in love and her mother rips out both of our hearts.”
“Let me deal with that and bring my grandchild to me so I can meet her,” she commanded.
“Can I get through this week from hell first? I also have to get a leotard, tights, which I absolutely hate trying to get put on a squirmy 4-year-old, and dance shoes,” he said. “My calm, orderly life is in chaos, I am two steps from a mental breakdown, I have suddenly turned into this DILF, and it is annoying. Mom, I just danced in public to get my daughter on the dance floor. I’m feeling stressed.”
Ruth Naomi Neary held the phone and listened. Finally, when her only son hit a pause, she asked, “What’s a DILF?”
“Don’t look that word up, Ma,” he said softly. “Saturday. We will be by Saturday.”
“Okay, I can’t wait to meet her,” Ruth answered, “Your father said she is named after me. Did you do that, or was it something done by her mother?”
“Her mother.”
“May I ask or would I be prying?” Ruth asked.
“You can ask; don’t mean I’m going to tell,” he spoke softly, chuckling.
“No worries, I will ask her myself when I get the chance. Love you, mean it,” she cooed, making kissing noises.
“Muah, love you too and back at you,” he said, ending the call and turning to see Naomi staring at him with loads of questions on her face. “It was my Mommy. She is anxious to meet you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, she has always wanted an adorable granddaughter to hug, spoil, and buy baby dolls for, so it is your lucky time,” he said, giving her a smile.
“What do I call your Mommy?”
“She is your grandmother, so you can call her Grandma, I guess,” he said, imagining his mother melting into a pile of goo when Naomi said the word.
Her little face was contorted. “Is she going to want to kiss me too? I don’t know how I feel about the kissing stuff.”
“She will want to kiss you, and it will be okay,” he said. “I heard, and I can tell you this from firsthand knowledge, that grandma kisses are the best.”
Naomi’s face indicated she didn’t believe a word he was saying. To drive his point home, he wanted to give the half-pint version of himself something to look forward to on the visit. He looked forward to his mother’s homemade cookies and pies each Sunday he came for a visit.
“Really, Grandma hugs and kisses are the best things ever,” he said, emphasizing the next part, “and you know what else? My Mommy makes the world’s best peanut butter cookies. They have the bits of peanuts in them like eating a peanut butter sandwich with the crunchy peanut butter.”
“I love peanut butter,” she told him, climbing onto his lap for evening snuggles, cuddles, and her bedtime story.
“Peanut butter is one of my favorites too,” he said, placing a comforting arm around her back.
He lifted the book of fairy tales, opening the book to the next story of Tom Thumb. Naomi was asleep before he got to the middle of the story, but he read it anyway. A gentle kiss was placed on the top of her head when he was done, he carried her to the bed, tucking her in, nice and tight.
“I love you, Bunny,” he said to the small form.
She didn’t need to say it back. He was good. He was content, and more than anything, he was ready to prepare for the arrival of the rest of his family. For now, the panic had eased away, but he felt something bad coming. The contentment never lasted.
It never lasted.
MICHIGAN, 2:00 AM
He wasn’t content with the setup. He didn’t appreciate what Shenita had done to deny him the wedding night he envisioned, pleasuring her toned, tight body. She needed to be punished and he looked forward to doing so.
In the middle of the night, when few people were around, he made his way to the all-night corner market, picking up milk, eggs, and bread, along with other staples. Tonight, the energy in the store felt different. He found a corner and waited, watching, worrying.
A couple.
No.
Not a couple, but they were together.
They were asking questions.
Questions about a man...a photo. A photo of whom? Him?
How did they get a photo of him?
The clerk was talking too much.
The clerk knew too much.
The clerk was an immediate threat to his way of life.
The clerk told the couple, “Oh yeah, he comes in twice a week. I was expecting him tonight. He gets eggs, milk bread, some lady products for monthly cycles, and stuff. I don’t know his name or where he lives. He always pays in cash.”
Mustang asked, “Do you have a make and model of what he drives?”
“Black SUV, dark windows, late model,” the clerk said. “Michigan plates, but he doesn’t wear glasses, or at least the ones he wears aren’t for his vision. That photo looks like a disguise or something.”
“Or something,” Mustang added, stopping and checking the mirrors in the store. Movement in the back near the freezers caught his eye, but whoever was there got gone fast. It put him on edge.
Cherry felt it as well. “I didn’t see him, but I smelled him. Some kind of burning wood, burning smoke, maybe burning trash?”
They turned back to the clerk, who said, “Thesslewait, or Thesslewhite, is the name of the house where he stayed...I think.”
A thud hit the side of the glass, followed by a spray of red, and pieces of grey against the wall behind the register. The clerk, still in mid-sentence, blinked several times, not understanding that a hole had been placed in his head. Chips of grey matter adorned the wall as the man dropped to the floor.
Cherry and Mustang hit the floor as well, scrambling, fearing more bullets. Hearing none, Mustang pulled out his phone and dialed 9-1-1. The clerk was dead and nothing could be done to help him.
Cherry was now scared for Shenita. When he returned to his hole and hiding place, he would either move the women or leave no trace of them. Her worst fear was that he could cut his losses and leave unmoving women to rot until the smell of the bodies drew concern, that is if anyone lived nearby.
The man was panicked because they were close and on his trail. She would find her cousin. She would find all the women and bring them home and The Collector would die. After that, she would put a bullet in The Collector’s head to repay the favor for what he’d done to the store clerk.
HE WAS UPSET. NOT JUST angry but visibly upset. Shenita could hear it as he shuffled back and forth down the hall between the rooms. She hadn’t been tied up or shackled again since the food had messed up her stomach and mobility was required to get back and forth to the toilet.
“Bitch!” he screamed, standing in front of her bedroom door. “I know they are looking for you. Who is he? Is he your lover? He’s a sleek-looking, muscular son of a fucker. I bet you like getting all sweaty while you fuck that horse of a man.”
“Let me go and you can keep what you have here. I will tell them nothing,” she said softly. “If you keep me, they are going to keep coming. You will not get a moment of peace. I won’t tell him you touched me.”
“Or I could kill you and dump your body in the lake and let you float down the river,” The Collector boasted.
“Then they will work twice as hard to find you and make you pay. It’s easier to let me go,” Shenita suggested. “He will not stop until you’re no longer breathing. Cut your losses. Let me go. Keep living your life.”
Shenita had no idea who the man was to whom The Collector referred. Her cousin Cherry worked in a dark world with dark people who did dark jobs for others with black souls. One of those dark people must be with her.
The Collector leaned against the door jamb. His words were soft, like a lover’s caress. “My Chocolate Queen, if I let you go, who’s going to love you like me? What man will take his time to make sure each time we make love, I take care of you? I’m your man. Let me love and take care of you. All I ask in return is on your night, you use that magnificent body to give me back what I’m giving to you. Cook me a meal, be happy to see me, and greet your man with appreciation. Can you do that, my Queen?”
“I can’t,” she confessed. “He is coming for me because he loves me. I am his and he does not like to share.”
“Then I shall kill him, and that shall be the end of it,” The Collector said. “You and I can be forever.”
Shenita knew instability when she heard it. Her words need to be carefully chosen. The timbre of her voice needed to be softer.
“They are going to be jealous,” she said to him.
“Who?”
“China, Italy, Irish,” she whispered. “I have no right to come through the door and upend their happy home. I can leave. Give me a pair of shoes and open the door. I’ll find my way and remember the moment we shared. You can keep what you’ve built with them. They love you. He will never allow me to love you back.”
“FUCK!” The Collector screamed. “I have so many toys and instruments of love I wanted to introduce to you to, My Queen. Not yet. I’m not willing to let go of you yet. Give me a moment to think about this. Breakfast. I’ll have an answer at breakfast.”
