Chapter eight
CAPTURED
SABAN ~ THREE MONTHS LATER ~ DAKAR, SENEGAL
“Ihave a beautiful grilled fish.” Looking skeptically at the catch, Amadou’s holding high in my shop. A definite violation if I were in the states but I don’t allow myself to think about my past. It will never be safe for me to go stateside again.
Pushing that stray thought aside, I focus on the wiry young man standing proudly in front of me, holding up his catch in swim shorts, with a chafe-resistant surfing shirt tied around his waist, and sandals.
I’ve gotten pretty good at bartering over the few months since settling in the seaside town of Dakar.
I’ve learned to drive the hardest of bargains for my tattoos.
While still allowing potential customers to think they are getting a deal.
I don’t need his fish, but I have to say his fresh catch is far superior to what I can find in the market.
Not that it’s not good — only Amadou’s brings his as soon as it’s caught right after he grills it himself.
Nothing tastes better. He’s spoiled me from having it any other way.
“I’m telling you right now that’s not going to cover the rest of the tattoo.”
“I’ll bring you part of my catch for the next month,” he smiles, beautiful bright teeth gleaming, knowing he’s got me.
He’s one of the most prolific fishermen in this area. I have to say it’s a good bet, and I don’t have to worry about having a fresh catch during that time.
“If I get to eat it before I start, it’s a deal.” Slapping my hand into his when he nods, I smile, eyeing the steam wafting from the foil-covered food.
Turning, I ready my tools to prepare to finish the tattoo of a shark Amadou claims he fought off last year.
After hearing many tales of survival from the guys who think Americans will believe any tall tale of the bush or sea, I have to say Amadou’s may be true.
I’ve seen the markings the beast left when I did his tattoo.
“Want to go out when you finish?” It’s early afternoon.
This piece is going to take me a couple of hours, if not longer.
Knowing that, I’m going to be tired — not exhausted.
Just thinking of having to go up to my loft above the shop to face the rest of the night alone sends dread roiling through my mind.
Taking the fresh veggies out of the small fridge where I keep them.
I throw together a little salad. Handing over the fish, he watches intently as I make a plate for us both.
He didn’t have to ask. I know he came straight from work after giving his dad most of the catch for the afternoon rush of patrons for their family’s fish stand.
“Yeah, you think Bennie got that?” Taking the plate, he shoots you already know the answer to that look.
“Yeah, but you need to pay with cash only. He’s telling everyone you’re going to be his woman.” Amadou scoffs through mouthfuls of food, his dislike of the other man palpable.
“Listen, I’ve known men way worse than him, but—” Raising my hand before he jumps all over me. “I’ll be careful.” Knowing he’ll probably change his mind if I say the wrong thing.
I’m not an addict, but I need Bennie’s special brand of hashish. It’s magical. The only thing that allows me to sleep like I’m dead. No nightmares. I take it only to sleep. Making sure I don’t seek the euphoric bliss at any other time.
I’m aware of how vulnerable I am as a woman alone in a town where I have no kin or friends.
People here are hardworking and genuinely good, just like Shelby-Love.
It doesn’t mean there isn’t a dangerous element, but still compared to el Diablo and one in particular, they are amateurs.
That doesn’t mean they are capable of the same evil, but on a smaller scale.
I see the girls that flock around Bennie. Looking at the swat but charismatic businessman, you can only assume it’s because he’s the biggest fish in this tiny part of the bustling port city.
“I’ve escaped worse.” I say to Amadou, shrugging a little.
Nodding, he doesn’t press me. Never has. Allowing my story to be my own. knowing he’ll be ready when I want to share it. I was lucky when I stumbled upon his dad’s fish kiosk one day in the market.
“Alright, let’s get started.” Taking the plates, I wash them, stacking them neatly.
This shop was originally a cafe. Let’s just say the conversion to a full tattoo shop has not occurred.
Oz funneled enough money into my accounts to enable to do a full renovation if I wished, yet I keep holding back on kick-starting my life knowing I’m still being hunted like prey by a ruthless viper.
I know he put up decoys all over the continent to lead Angel and Snake astray if we ever needed to use our contingency plans when we left his compound.
I guess we got too comfortable thinking they would lose interest in trying to find us, being so busy with their smuggling and trafficking.
On any other night, we would have eased out of the compound with no problem.
Easy’s baby deciding to come then threw a huge hiccup in our best-laid plans of escape.
He’s coming, he’s coming, he’s coming. The litany chases me constantly.
I’ve woken some nights despite the hashish feeling like he’s here watching me.
I get up going through my safety checklist. Making sure my go bag is where I left it.
I’ve even gotten on my knees to check under my bed to make sure he’s not hiding under there, but that’s not his style.
No, Snake is the type of man who will stride into my shop and drag me by a fistful of my locs out of here, welcoming anyone to try to stop him.
Forcing those menacing thoughts out of my mind, I clean the station.
I need only one since I work solo in this shop.
It’s the one expense I risked putting into the shop.
I want my clients to know I’m a legitimate and licensed tattoo artist. Another thing Oz set up for me.
Despite his rather scary exterior, Ozymandias Love proved to be a solid supporter of his cousins and their friends.
“I know what m’fuckers like me are capable of, lil’ bit. Don’t look back.” He admonished me when he sat me down to plan what moves I needed to make when Easy and I left his stronghold.
Thinking of Easy smashes into my heart like a blast from a cannon. Taking a deep breath, I finish cleaning the area and then wipe it down with a clean cloth even though I haven’t had a client besides Amadou today. It’s only Wednesday. Most people come on the weekends.
I don’t even allow myself to think of what she must be enduring after she made me keep the promise I made to take the journal she made for her baby and leave if Angel ever showed up to take them away.
Face heating. I don’t even know if she’s alive.
I’m pretty sure he allowed her to live long enough to deliver the baby whose name I don’t even know.
“He’ll always be Judah to me,” she confessed to me one night.
Until that point, she wouldn’t even say what the gender was. I think she feared to hope.
No matter what, I can’t erase the anguish on her face from the pain of birth and the fear of Angel kicking that door open in minutes. It haunts me nightly.
As I slipped out the back, I heard them accessing the hallway. I didn’t look back, clutching the journal to my chest until I put it in the pack I’d hidden a mile away. Oz showed us the escape route when we got there, and we both would’ve made it out had Easy not been in labor.
Survivor’s remorse eats at me daily. You had no choice.
I keep telling myself, but in the dark of night, that shit means nothing.
My friend’s fate hangs over me every day.
I don’t even know if Oz is still alive. Everything has gone dark.
My former life is completely closed to me. I’m cut off from all I knew.
“’That’s the way it needs to be,” Oz told us when he laid out the plan for our survival.
I never thought it would be this hard. I should be used to it, but last time I had Snake. Now I have no one.
Pulling myself out of the miry clay of my morose thoughts, I look over to Amadou. “Ready?”
“Yeah, you okay? You’re starting to get that look you get sometimes.
” He trails off, seeing how my expression goes stony.
We don’t talk about those times. They don’t happen often.
Luckily, putting the place to rights and converting it from a failed cafe to a tattoo shop keeps me far too busy to think about my friend’s fate or what mine could potentially be.
Now that things are settled, dark moments creep up on me, but they don’t stop me from doing what I have to do, like making this badass shark tattoo.
“I’m good, I promise.” Patting the bench is enough to have him to saunter over.
Lying on his uninjured side, he reveals the outline I started last week.
“It’s healed beautifully.” I tell him, looking at my work.
Inspecting the art’s detail, I note the little areas that can use more filling in. “How do you like it?”
“I love it.” Beaming, he looks over his shoulder at me.
“Five hundred worth?” Turning, I ready the tattoo machine, and select the desired colors. Using more than one machine at a time allows me to finish my work and keep things cleaner. Doing it this way limits cross-contamination.
“I’ll let you know when you’re done.” He quips, taking his phone out to read the latest SA Cosby book, King of Ashes.
We are both fans now. He keeps asking me what I was reading on my tablet when he brought shellfish one day, jokingly asking if it was a romance, and I was proud to inform him that though I loved the genre, I’m not limited to it.
Romance is an escape from the harsh reality I’m living — fantasy, science fiction and thrillers fall close behind; not to mention the incredible fanfiction I find.
“Is it good?” I don’t even try to hide my envy. I haven’t had a chance to start the book yet.