Insatiable Page 3

  “That’s bullshit,” Gran grumbled. “Do you wear men’s underwear, Terelle?”

  “No, but…”

  “But, nothing. Where’s her husband? Where’s her children? Where’s her damn boyfriend? She ain’t got none of that because she’s too busy bumpin’ coochies with other women.”

  Aunt Bennie’s wounded expression tugged at Terelle’s heart. “Gran! Don’t be saying that nasty stuff around Keeta.”

  “Don’t think I’m forgetting about you, neither. You’s a damn fool. Why you allowin’ that boy to take advantage of you like that? Keeta’s my only hope of something decent coming out of this family. But with the daddy she got…I doubt if that’s possible.”

  “Stop talking about Marquise, right in front of Keeta. That ain’t right, Gran.”

  “Sooner or later Keeta’s gonna learn the truth—might as well be sooner. And Terelle, you should be ’shamed of yourself for stickin’ by a man who done got your mother all messed up on drugs.”

  “Marquise…” Terelle struggled to get the words out. “He didn’t do that to my mother. Me and Marquise were kids when my mother started messin’ with that stuff.” She looked at Aunt Bennie for confirmation, but her aunt, still nursing the injuries sustained from Gran’s attack, gazed at Terelle with unfocused eyes.

  “Yeah, and when he grew up, he made sure your mother stayed on that junk, now didn’t he?”

  Her grandmother was working her nerves. Terelle became silent as she prepared Markeeta’s plate. She knew that if she didn’t keep her mouth shut, her grandmother’s temper was liable to rise up and whirl around the kitchen like a hurricane. The dinner had turned into a disaster. If she was lucky, Gran would gobble down her food, try to belch, complain of heartburn and insist upon leaving immediately.

  It was partly true—she had invited them over because she didn’t want to miss Marquise’s call; she also wanted to show off her new apartment. But, it didn’t matter. Gran hadn’t said one word of praise. Her comments about the apartment were all negative. Her ornery grandmother loved making everybody miserable. She’d been mean as a snake for as long as Terelle could remember.

  She picked at her food, her mind replaying what Gran had said about her being a fool and she was getting more pissed by the minute. Gran had her nerve—raising her own two children in a speakeasy. Terelle’s mother had told her that she’d learned how to pour the right brand of liquor based on the color of the bottle before she could read. And pouring from the wrong bottle meant an encounter with Gran’s wrath. Gran had one hellish temper. Terelle’s mother and Aunt Bennie still bore the scars of that temper. Beatings with razor straps, ironing cords, broom handles—whatever Gran could get her hands on. Terelle figured if Aunt Bennie was actually a lesbian, then it was probably due to her being molested by one of Gran’s drunken customers. But that was kept quiet because the man was supposed to be somebody important—somebody politically connected. Her mother’s drug addiction and poor parenting skills could probably be blamed on Gran, too. Gran was no model parent—that was for sure.

  It had taken Marquise a long time to grow up and face his responsibilities but now that he was ready, she was going to do everything in her power to help pull him along. She didn’t mind working a little overtime to pay for the calls. That was a small thing. She worked for her money and didn’t ask anybody for anything. Marquise was her future, and if holding her man up until he could do better classified her as a fool, then she was glad to be one.

  Chapter Six

  “This is Kai Montgomery. Has Dr. Harding returned from vacation?” Kai asked, confident that her professional tone would persuade the receptionist at Dr. Harding’s posh Bala Cynwyd office to impart the information.

  “Yes, Ms. Montgomery, he’s back. But he won’t be in the office until late this afternoon. He’s at the nursing home this morning. Would you care to leave a message?”

  “No thanks. I’ll call him there.” Kai hung up. Bewildered, she wound a lock of hair around her finger. The bastard was right here in the facility and hadn’t bothered to call her. She angrily punched the numbers to his pager and after inputting her extension, slammed the phone into its cradle.

  The wait was excruciating. Patting her foot impatiently, and twirling her hair until it became tangled around her finger, Kai grimaced when she began to feel a dull throbbing in her left temple, the prelude to an oncoming migraine.

  Eight minutes later the phone rang; Kai yanked the receiver from the cradle on the first ring.

  “I can’t believe…”

  “Miss Montgomery?” The voice did not belong to Kenneth. Kai regularly received calls from relatives of nursing home residents on her caseload and, unfortunately for her, the call was from a client’s family member.

  “Yes, this is Kai Montgomery. How can I help you?” She didn’t try to disguise her annoyance.

  “This is Emma…uh, Emma Randolph. Irving Randolph’s wife…,” the woman stammered.

  “Yes, what can I do for you, Mrs. Randolph?”

  “Well, you see, I have the receipt here for some socks I bought my husband. I bought—let me see now…Yeah, I bought twelve pairs of those heavy thermal socks. And they wasn’t cheap. I got the receipt right here. Socks don’t cost what they used to. Was a time when…”

  Kai’s long sigh of exasperation caused the woman to pause.

  “Now I was there last night—and when I visit Irving I always check his closet and drawers to make sure all his things…”

  “How many pairs of socks are missing, Mrs. Randolph?”

  “Well…all of them. He ain’t got none of them new socks. The onliest ones left in his drawer is…”

  Onliest! Kai sucked her teeth and groaned, certain she had now heard it all.

  “Bring in the receipt and you’ll be reimbursed.”

  “I can get all my money back?”

  “Yes.” Kai hissed.

  “Okay, I’m gonna take your word. ’Cause the last time I…”

  “Mrs. Randolph, I have another call,” she said, wishing she did. Where the hell was Kenneth?

  “When should I bring it in? Will you be in your office tomorrow mornin’? See, I ain’t got nobody to bring me there today…”

  “Take the receipt to the Finance Department on the first floor. Listen, I have to go.” Kai slammed down the phone.

  Swiveling in her chair and twirling her hair mercilessly, Kai pondered making a trip to the second-floor office of Dr. Harding, but decided against it. That would be a wasted trip. Kenneth was rarely in his office. More than likely he was making rounds, which included bullshitting with the nurses and the unit clerks. A mental picture of tall, blond, solidly built Kenneth working his charm shot across Kai’s mind and through her heart. Wasn’t it bad enough that he had snuck off on a vacation with his wife; why did he have to disrespect her even more by not answering her page? Maybe she should call the receptionist and have her overhead page the good doctor. No! The hell with paging!

  Awash in rage, Kai stood. She’d comb the facility floor by floor until she found the smiling pompous bastard! And if he didn’t stop whatever he was doing the moment he spotted her, God help him because she would not be held accountable for the violence and mayhem that would ensue.

  Distracted by the delicious reverie of doing bodily harm to Dr. Kenneth Harding, Kai was startled by the muted sound of her cell phone. The phone was in her purse, which was locked in the bottom desk drawer. Kai scrambled for her office keys. Why the hell is he calling on my cell phone? She’d put her office extension on his pager. Always cautious, always careful to cover his tracks—or so he thought—because he fucked up royally when he left his lab coat and stethoscope unattended while he slept at her apartment.

  The phone had stopped ringing by the time Kai had unlocked the drawer and retrieved it from her purse. Oh, how I despise him! She gazed at the phone, waiting for the word message to pop up. When it did, she quickly punched the numbers to hear what Kenneth had to say.

  “Hell
o, Kai. Look, I’m here at the nursing home, but I’ve been pretty busy all morning. I’ll be leaving shortly—uh, I have a lunch engagement. A business lunch. But, I’ll call you tonight. You have a pleasant and productive day.”

  The call ended and a computerized voice asked Kai if she wished to save or delete the message. Angrily, she pressed the button that would erase Kenneth’s smug indifference. She rooted through some files, and pulled out the manila envelope that contained the photo of her wearing Kenneth’s lab coat. She took a moment to examine the image gazing back at her and smiled approvingly at her handiwork. She grabbed her purse and her new lavender suede coat and bolted from the office.

  Moving swiftly, Kai didn’t so much as glance or utter a greeting to her coworkers or the elderly nursing home residents who cluttered the corridor. She impatiently navigated around an old man who ambled along with the assistance of a rolling walker. Passing him, she picked up speed, but began muttering curse words when she had to slow down to squeeze between an abandoned laundry cart and a white-haired woman who self-propelled her wheelchair at an agonizingly slow pace.

  “Social worker, social worker,” the woman called in a raspy voice. “Can I make a phone call? I have to call my mother.”

  Kai did not slow her stride or look back. She completely ignored the eighty-five-year-old woman who had long-and short-term memory problems. The woman’s mother was long dead and Kai had no time for validation therapy or reality orientation; she had pressing business to attend to.

  Her path finally clear, Kai hurried toward the double set of elevators. Mindful that germs were everywhere and on everything inside the nursing home, she carefully covered her hands with lavender leather gloves before pressing the arrow pointing down. The scowl that distorted her facial features gradually changed into an expression of amusement. Gloved fingers gaily tapped the manila envelope that was tucked under her arm, and she wondered if driving to the FedEx office at Eighth and Spring Garden during her lunch break was productive enough for Dr. Harding. She’d pay anything to witness the expression of the good doctor’s wife when she received the package.

  Yes, the thought of Mrs. Harding unveiling the damning photograph was providing Kai with an exceptionally pleasant and productive day!

  Chapter Seven

  The height of fashion, Saleema stepped inside Terelle’s Kingsessing Avenue apartment draped from head to toe in leather and fur: fox head wrap; cream-colored leather coat with a big fox collar; chocolate leather pants with an outside slit that was trimmed in a light-colored fur; and two-toned chocolate and cream leather ankle boots. “Ta-da,” she sang, announcing her entrance with outstretched arms before striking a dramatic pose. She and Terelle burst into laughter. Both could recall the days when Saleema’s wardrobe was selected from huge plastic bags donated by the neighborhood Baptist church. Saleema had come a long way.

  “Where’s Keeta?”

  “Sleep, thank God. And please don’t wake her up.”

  “Girl, you gonna scream when you see all the phat shit I bought Keeta for Christmas. And I ain’t wrapping none of it, ’cause I want all her gear spread out and displayed under the tree. I went to the toddler department in Strawbridge’s and went buck wild. My girl is gonna be rockin’ designer everything: shoes, undershirts, dresses, coats, jackets, jeans, hoodies—everything. And I found her the cutest little Timberlands at Footlocker in the Gallery. I ain’t finished yet. I’m gonna put Keeta’s cute little butt in some Baby Phat jeans. Couldn’t find none in her size in Philly, but somebody told me I could find them in New York.” Saleema gazed at Terelle thoughtfully. “I ain’t even got started on her toys yet; I’ll probably get her toys in New York, too.”

  “Keeta don’t need nothin’ else, Saleema,” Terelle said in weak protest.

  “Hmph. My godbaby ain’t gonna be looking like no ragamuffin. She gonna stay fly just like me.”

  “I gotta give you your props; you really look good, Saleema. Where you on your way to? You gotta be on your way to someplace fly like P. Diddy’s club in New York—you look too good to be hanging in Philly.” Terelle paused to touch the butter-soft leather coat. “Where’d you get your coat?”

  “Saks,” Saleema said proudly. “You know I live in that store. All the money I spend up in there, they need to give a sistah some stock.”

  “What size is it? A three?” Terelle frowned.

  “Naw, I’m in a size five now. Good living—eating good, girl.”

  “I get mad just thinking about all those fly clothes you don’t even wear. So just keep on eating, girl,” Terelle said playfully. “Come on up to my size so I can rock some of your gear.”

  “Hell no, I ain’t putting on another pound. Bad for business. You better come on down to my size.”

  “Chile, Marquise would flip if I lost weight. He loves seeing my hips filling out a size ten.”

  Saleema’s eyes became slits. “Marquise ain’t got room to be flippin’ about nothin’—not with all the debt he got you in. Thank God Keeta got me for a godmother. If I didn’t come through, her little butt would be wearing clothes from Wal-Mart—her feet would be all squeezed up in some Payless shoes.”

  “Don’t go there, Saleema. And I’m not in debt.”

  “Hmph. No? Then you livin’ above your means paying the phone company damn near a dub a day just to talk to a nigga. And now that you ain’t got no nighttime babysitter, I know you can’t work no more overtime. So, how you still payin’ for his calls? I sure hope you don’t let that nigga get your phone cut off.”

  “Saleema!” Terelle said sharply. “His name is Marquise—not That Nigga! My mother, my grandmother, all of my so-called friends…everybody thinks it’s their right to make me feel bad about my relationship with Marquise. But you’re supposed to be my girl—ever since the first grade. If anybody understands me and knows how I feel, it’s supposed to be you.”

  “You’re right,” Saleema said, looking contrite. Her smile appeared pained. “My bad. I just get so mad when I think about all that nigga—I mean, Marquise done put you through. I just don’t wanna see you get hurt no more.”

  “I got this, Saleema. I know what I’m doing. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  Saleema nodded in agreement, but her sorrowful eyes contradicted the movement of her head. “I gotta go,” she said as she checked her Fendi link watch. “And…to answer your question, I’m meeting one of my regulars in a half-hour. Remember Dave, the white trick from Swarthmore? We met at Pandora’s Box—now I see him on the outside.”

  “The one who bought you the platinum necklace?”

  “No, that’s Ralph. I don’t fuck with him like that no more. He got too possessive.”

  “Girl, be careful. You know I worry about you hanging around with all those freakish white men you meet at work. If you have to do that kind of work, why don’t you just see them at Pandora’s? At least it’s safe there.”

  “Safe!” Saleema snorted. “The manager got popped a couple years ago by two knuckleheads and you think Pandora’s Box is safe?”

  “You know what I mean. Didn’t the owner beef up security after that?”

  “Yeah, right. That bitch put in a Brinks alarm system to protect her money. But we ain’t no safer than we was before.”

  “So why do you work somewhere that’s so dangerous?”

  “The world is dangerous. I take my chances. Shit, I could get robbed steppin’ outta my truck coming here to see you. The way niggas be foaming at the mouth…checkin’ out Jezzy…it’s a wonder ain’t nobody tried to jack me for my ride.”

  Jezzy was the nickname Saleema had given her white Ford Expedition. The vanity plate read: JEZEBEL.

  “Look, Pandora’s be keepin’ my pockets full, but I ain’t always in the mood to be breakin’ that bitch off. I’m not tryin’ to give the owner half my dough every time I get a session. Gabrielle already got a Rolls-Royce and a mansion. I’m still tryin’ to get mine, ya dig?”

  “No. I worry about you, Saleema. Another
thing, why are all your customers white? They the ones who be doin’ all that weird shit. Don’t you date any of the black men that come through?”

  “Hmph! Niggas be gettin’ into some wild shit, too. What about them two snipers down South. Uh-huh! Anyway, brothas ain’t feelin’ me. They don’t want my black ass. All they wanna do is git wit them high-yella bitches; I’m too dark and too thin for niggas so I stick with the muthafuckers who appreciate this chocolate candy bar.” Saleema swiveled and smoothed her hands from her fur hat down to her leather pants. “The white man loves to pay my rent and the note on my truck. And I loves to let ’em.”

  “Just be careful, okay?”

  “I’m straight. Let some nut even think about comin’ at me all crazy…I’d whoop so much ass, that muthafucker would be beggin’ for mercy. But, then again, knowin’ how twisted them tricks can be, he might enjoy the ass whoopin’ I put on ’em, and then I’d have to charge him extra,” Saleema said, shoulders shaking with laughter.

  “All right, Saleema. I know you think you all gangsta, but how your little ass gonna stop a man from hurting you?”

  Saleema winked. “I never leave home without my piece. No baby, my piece goes wherever I go. I ain’t playing with these dumb ass niggas or crackas. Let somebody try to come at me or try to jack my ride and I’m gonna blast that pussy without even blinkin’.”

  “Whatchu sayin’? You gotta gun?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Saleema unzipped her Fendi bag and revealed a small silver gun.

  “Damn, it’s kinda cute—pretty,” Terelle admitted in awe. “Never thought I’d see a pretty gun.”

  Saleema extended the hand holding the gun. “Wanna hold it?” she asked devilishly.

  Terelle backed up. “Hell no, you know I don’t mess with guns. Too scared.”

  Saleema shook her head in pity. “You’d get over that fear right quick if your life or Keeta’s life was at stake.”

  “I won’t have to protect us; that’s Marquise’s job,” Terelle said with pride. “When Marquise gets home, I’m just gonna sit back and let him handle things.”