Chapter 6 – Keyshawn
Chapter Six
Keyshawn
I did it. I left his house, got what I needed and… I’m free. I survived the night and now I have all the cash I need to get the fuck out of this empty wasteland of a state.
My ass aches the entire drive, but I don’t care. I take more Tylenol than prescribed, stop as frequently as I dare and spend money like it’s going out of style. I’ll save the rest of the cash once I get an apartment, but for now, I am rewarding myself for surviving a crazy white man’s sex dungeon. I entirely forget about the pregnancy risk as my drive to escape pushes me to just… go. The caffeine I consumed is far more than my body is used to and I’m not really thinking straight about anything except the highway.
I might have pushed myself too far this time. No matter how much of that Kiwi Watermelon flavored shit I put back, I flash back to that crazy man’s sex dungeon with vivid visualizations. I can’t get rid of the phantom scent of leather or the allspice scent coming off the velvet. The memories are burned into my brain, which I don’t want at all .
Energy drinks and desire to leave the desolate ass Midwest get me all the way to Chicago. Yes, it’s still technically the Midwest, but it is nothing like Oklahoma. Trust me. The city is exactly as I remember it as a kid. We lived in Kenwood at my aunt’s house before my dad did something to piss her off and we were out on our asses. My childhood was filled with extremes and to me, the Midwest has always been the worst end of those extremes. Extreme poverty. Extreme racism.
I dreamt of coming back here. Nostalgia isn’t enough to find me a good place to sleep, so I find the first McDonald’s I can once I get into the city limits and use my phone to book a Marriott hotel for one night. That extra $1,700 from the bonus Rage gave me is plenty for me to pay for that too. I feel giddy. Whoever said money doesn’t solve all your problems has never known the thrill of a big win.
I forget all about my bruised up backside until I get checked into the hotel, lock most of my possessions in the trunk and take my overnight bag upstairs. I will never go back to America’s frothy butthole ever again. Sorry, Oklahoma, but do better.
When I strip my outside clothes off to get into the fancy ass hotel shower – although I would have found a glass of clean water fancy at this level of grime – I catch a glimpse of my ass in the mirror and noticing the dark purple bruises reminds me of everything. The strong, visual flashback makes me insanely dizzy. I feel like I’m being hysterical, except there’s no one to get attention from. This response is very real.
I can smell Rage’s cologne. Feel the heat of his palm against my ass. I still ache between my legs from the sheer girth of his dick. I can’t taste him anymore, but with the strength of my flashback, it’s almost like his dick is forcing its way into my mouth again. I can’t breathe for a few seconds until my brain jerks back into action and a huge breath of air causes the flashback to fade into the background.
I gasp for air and make eye contact with myself in the mirror as if to prove to myself that I’m really here – safe in this hotel room and very far away from the man who brutalized my ass with a wooden paddle and then…
Heat rushes to my cheeks as I feel an embarrassing gush between my legs following the painful memory. I don’t know what this man did to me, but I understand why the other women never went back. I can bear the pain. I can’t handle the rest of it. The confusion.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: I want you again.
No. I don’t have to ask any questions to know it’s him.
Unknown Number: Turn your location on.
What the fuck? Oske is the only person who has my phone number and she’s more loyal to herself than those white boys, despite what they think. Her people have pretty good reasons not to trust them, so I stay out of it. The entire time I’ve known her, she has never been dishonest. Manipulative? A little. But never dishonest. She promised me she would keep my secret.
Unknown Number: Location on. Now. I can see your read receipts .
I quickly shut the chat. My phone buzzes again. Notifications pop up on my home screen and I stare at them with confusion and more importantly – terror. Do I really believe this man could hurt me?
Unknown Number: I can find you without it, but this will be much easier if you turn it on.
Unknown Number: Don’t provoke me.
Unknown Number: I enjoyed fucking your mouth.
Unknown Number: Location on. Now.
Keyshawn: I thought this was a one time thing.
Unknown Number: So did I.
Unknown Number: Location on.
Keyshawn: I can’t.
Unknown Number: I will keep you tied up for the number of days it takes me to find you. Be careful.
I block his number. Texting him back at all proves I’m out of my fucking mind. Why did I text the man who beat my ass like that? My hands are shaking when I set my phone down and I have to calm down for a minute before I can laugh at myself for the overreaction. Girl, what is he going to do, jump through the phone? I can’t stop my heart from racing .
I can’t stop images from my night with him from flashing into my head. I want to bury every part of it, but I just can’t. If I don’t pass out now, I will later when I think of him again. I barely slept and I don’t want to sleep. I never had an experience like that in my life.
The sex part was crazy. I knew what to expect with that.
It’s what happened after that I can’t get out of my head. The way he held me and carried me to his fancy ass bathroom. He was quiet. Wordlessly, he set me on the cool tiles. It hurt to put pressure on my ass, but the cooling sensation against my butt and pussy was… oddly soothing. He knew what he was doing.
He filled the bath up with a gentle soap and then he carried me in. I tried to hide my pain from him, but the soap stung my bruises too much for me to hide it. I watched him turn red beneath the warm bathroom lights and he gently washed me clean.
“I clearly hurt you,” he says. “I know my desires are sick.”
I couldn’t believe that I came. This man spanked me and barely fucked me, but I came. I didn’t want to tell him that at the time, but I can acknowledge the truth in private. Which is exactly why I have to block him. I came on his dick. I let him wash me, and braid my hair, and then he held me against his chest in bed for exactly thirty minutes before we finished our transaction .
He was hard the entire time and I sensed that he was holding back from his true desires – that he wanted me again.
I don’t need to be replying to his text messages. I need to block his number. A man like that will move on to a new game soon. It’s just a sex fantasy that he wants to reenact with any warm body. I can’t let it get in my head. I can’t convince myself to unblock him and call that number.
That would be crazy. Getting him out of my head works for about an hour. I need to call a professional about this. It’s the first person I promised myself I would call if I ever got the fuck out of Oklahoma. I haven’t heard from her in years. I don’t blame her for wanting nothing to do with my dad… but I wish she kept in touch with me more.
My cousin grew up in the lap of luxury. She was everything I wanted to be when I grew up – tall, dark-skinned, absolutely beautiful enough to be cast in a BET movie or something. I was never anything special – and my family was a damn mess. I can’t let pride get the better of me now. I just landed in Chicago and I need a job. Who else am I going to call on but family?
It feels like it takes Amanda an hour to answer. It can’t be more than a few rings. I have to suppress my hurt feelings when she clearly doesn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” she says, sounding impatient. “Listen, if you’re the Hinge guy, you can keep the thong. I’m not going back to a house where a pet lizard shits in the bed.”
Okay. I’ll have to ask her about that later. I interrupt before she says anything else.
“It’s Keyshawn. Not the Hinge guy.” In case she forgot me completely. “Keyshawn Yancey.”
“OH MY GOD. You’re alive?!”
“...Yes.”
“I swear, Uncle Deveron is a lying ass snake. ”
My father? Yes.
“What did he do?”
“He got money from me and my parents to buy you a coffin for your funeral.”
“I’m not dead.”
“Girl, I know!” she says. “Don’t you know how to make a Facebook post?”
What would I be reporting on Facebook? My shitty life? My shitty job? I deleted that stuff at some point in high school. I never liked or won any popularity contests and that’s all social media seemed like to me. But I’m alive, and Amanda seems happy to hear from me.
“I’m in Chicago.”
“Shit!” she says. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Um, no. I was in a bad situation for a while, but I came into some money and finally had enough to just… leave Oklahoma.”
“Thank God. Wait. Were you gambling?”
My heart pounds. I don’t have my father’s vices and I hate that she could think of me as somehow having that particular blend of selfishness and recklessness Deveron Yancey has.
“No,” I respond, although as my heart races with guilt for being the cousin from the wrong side of the tracks, I have to face the dark truth about what I did. It was gambling. It doesn’t matter if I want to admit it or not. I have some dark thread running through me too and I don’t want my cousin to know about it.
“Thank God,” she says. “No offense. Keyshawn… I left Chicago last month to open up a private practice with my homegirl in Boston.”
My ears start to ring. She’s not in Chicago. Amanda always wanted to be a therapist. She was a few years older than me, so I know she was right on track to follow through with that. Boston, though? That’s so far away. In fact, I don’t really know where Boston is and I don’t want to find out.
I really don’t have a family anywhere. I wasn’t born into a family and the nostalgic memories from my past were just that – memories. Those people didn’t hold onto me the way that I held onto them. I dreamed about Chicago, but I didn’t dream about finding it empty.
“What about Aunt Farah and Uncle Malcolm?” I ask desperately as my head swims. I never intended to impose on them, but my aunt, uncle and cousin have money and connections. I just wanted a job working at a front desk or something.
Amanda sounds apologetic. From her sigh, I know it’s bad news. “They moved to Florida last year due to concerns about your father. I assume you don’t talk to him.”
“I don’t.”
My chest shudders. I have no one. I’m out in the middle of Chicago with no one and a crazy man texted my phone threatening to come get me.
“Good. I’m proud of you. Shit… Keyshawn, do you have any money?” Amanda asks. My cheeks are hot with shame. I would never ask that side of the family for money. Not after growing up feeling so much shame for the way my father abused his sister’s trust and practically drained her bank account while she was trying to help him get back on his feet.
“Yes. I have… a few thousand dollars.”
“Good,” she says. “That’s good.”
The beat of silence makes me feel like shit. Like I didn’t think this through, which obviously I didn’t. I saw an opportunity and I took it. But I don’t want to be down for long.
“I need help getting a job. I think. Like at a front desk or something.”
“It’s too bad you’re not in Boston,” she says. “Because we could use a front desk person. I’m gonna be working with some crazy clients.”
Crazy like Rage? The thought pops into my head and I push it back down. I can’t stop myself from reacting that way as badly as I want to. He got into my head with that paddle. With the pain. With the way he held me afterwards and treated me like I was special.
I can’t let the fact that he found my phone number and texted me allow me to forget that what happened to me was absolutely not normal. Something a therapist might be able to help me with. Not like I need Amanda all up in my business.
“It sounds interesting,” I mutter. “Do you ever deal with people who have dark urges?”
“Like what type?”
“Never mind. Dumb question.”
“No, not a dumb question. I’m a therapist. I love psychology.”
“I just saw a documentary on the plane ride over here,” I say, lying through my teeth but coming across as oddly believable. “It made me want to ask some questions, that’s all.”
“What was it about?”
“It’s kind of weird…”
“Keyshawn. I’m a therapist. And your cousin. And honestly, we haven’t been in touch, so let’s talk.”
She uses that magic therapist voice on me that makes me want to open up. I can only open up to her part way. I have to disguise my intent to go through with asking the question.
“It was about men who get off on hurting women.”
“Like BDSM?” Amanda asks bluntly. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I don’t want to answer the question except for the fact that my stupid ass brought it up. Blame the pain searing across my ass cheeks. It’s a permanent reminder of what happened to me in Rage’s playroom .
“I guess.”
“Oh that is some seriously messed up shit.”
I feel exposed. I have to remind myself that she can’t see me nervously biting on my nails through the phone. I want to tell my cousin the truth, but what will she make of the truth? That I’m crazy? Completely screwed up?