Chapter 2 - Jordin
Two- Jordin
It wasn’t until after putting my keys down on the entrance table that the fact there was another car in my driveway, besides my husband’s, at eleven in the morning when he was supposed to be at work, registered to me. He wasn’t supposed to be home and he wasn’t expecting me.
"Oak!" I called his name. When I got no response, I kicked off my shoes, left the foyer, and headed to the living room. It was empty. So was the kitchen. I went back into the living room and froze because why was there a pair of red bottoms sitting at the foot of my stairs? They weren’t my shoes.
My heart started pounding in my chest, a sinking feeling taking over me.
But I had to be tripping for no reason because Oak—my best friend, my confidant, my world—would not fuck another bitch, let alone fuck one in my house.
I made myself give him the benefit of the doubt.
I took a deep breath and headed upstairs, each footstep feeling heavier than the last.
The door to our bedroom was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and my world shattered.
My eyes landed on Oak, lying on his back.
His secretary, a petite blonde with fake nails, a fake tan, and fake tits, was straddling him.
She was putting her back into riding him, hollering like he was the first big dick she ever had.
I don’t know if I made a noise or if he felt me there, but Oak’s eyes opened and widened as he jumped up, knocking her off of him, pulling the sheet around his waist.
The secretary—Jenny or Janet, some name with a J—looked up from the floor, just as shocked to see me. Why, I didn’t understand, because she was in my house fucking my husband.
The room was a mess, clothes strewn everywhere, the smell of sweat and sex hanging heavy in the air. Oak’s shirt was draped over the lamp, her bra was hanging off the chair, and the bed—her panties were on the floor.
I snapped. I swear I lost my mind. “You motherfucker!” My rage was a live entity, and it took control of me.
I didn’t think. I reacted. Oak approached me, palms out, slowly like he was approaching a wild animal.
I felt wild. When he got in reaching distance—whap—my fist connected with his face.
He staggered back, eyes flashed angry, then the guilt took over.
My hand hurt like hell from hitting him, but I wanted to do it again.
“Jordin, please, let me explain!” he begged, but his words were drowned out by the sound of my fists hitting him dead center in his chest. Whap, I hit him in his mouth, and it immediately started leaking blood. Whap, I kicked him in the stomach, my sneaker connecting with a satisfying thud.
Tears were falling down my face, my vision blurry. I felt my heart crack, felt it split right down the middle. The secretary was screaming too loudly to ignore. I heard her start telling someone—probably the 911 operator—to send the police.
I was not built for jail, but I was too far gone to see straight and just walk away before I got in trouble.
I swung at my husband’s head. Oak didn’t defend himself.
He just stood there, taking it all, like he knew he deserved it.
That’s what I had liked about Oak since the beginning—he was rational.
I drew back my fist and punched him in the eye. I knew it had to hurt.
“Jordin, please!” Oak begged, but I didn’t care.
He tried to grab me. I shoved him back, then kicked at his shin as hard as I could.
“Fuck,” he cursed and doubled over. He tried to straighten up, but I came at him again, a wild punch landing on his temple.
He fell against the bed, and for a second, he looked like he might actually collapse, but he didn’t and I wasn’t done. I kicked him again, in the stomach.
“You make me fucking sick,” I yelled. I wanted him to hurt like I was hurting. I raised my fist again, ready to swing. I heard police radios, then an officer grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides. I tried to break free, kicking out blindly, my heel landing somewhere on Oak’s thigh.
It took another officer to help pull me away from Oak. They cuffed me. Oak, still naked, scrambled to put on boxers, his face a mess, blood red and purple.
“I don’t want to press charges,” Oak pleaded with the officers. “This is between us.” He was using his sophisticated white-man-who-sells-insurance voice.
One of the officers shook his head. “We don’t need you to press charges. We caught her in the act of assaulting you.”
Oak was covered in red marks. He wasn’t exactly pale, but his olive complexion was telling on me.
“I said no charges!” Oak roared. He lunged toward the officer who was holding me, but the others were ready. One officer pushed him back. The secretary tried to calm him down, placing a hand on his arm.
“Oak, please, just let them handle this,” she said softly. I watched her try to calm my husband and regretted not whooping her ass too.
He snatched away, his dark brown eyes darker. “Get the fuck off me! This is between me and my wife! You shut your fucking mouth.” He didn’t care that he was almost naked, didn’t care about being arrested. The police officers tightened their grip on me, pulling me toward the door.
Oak tried to grab me while cursing the officers. This was the true Oak. He was brash and loud, a bully. He had actually bullied me all throughout high school, and then told me in college that it was because he liked me. My stupid ass fell for it, and now look what it had gotten me.
“Sir, you need to calm down,” one officer advised when he followed us downstairs still running his mouth, making threats about the officers’ jobs. “We’re taking her in. Do you want to go too?”
He gave up then. “I’m sorry, Jordin,” Oak shouted, trying to push past the secretary who was now crying, pleading with him to stop.
A few neighbors were out. I was so fucking embarrassed. I dropped my head.
“Jordin, please!” Oak yelled as they put me in the back of the squad car. His eyes met mine, and I saw the tears. But I turned away. Fuck his tears.
The ride to the police station was silent.
What had just happened settled in my chest like a stone.
I had fucked up, let my anger get the best of me.
My hands were shaking. At the station, they processed me, taking the money and cellphone from my pocket.
They searched my thick hair locs. Cut the underwire out of my bra.
Face hot, I kept my eyes low, humiliated.
They took my fingerprints and led me to a holding cell. I was lucky to be the only one in it.
Hours passed. I kept debating on who to call.
My momma wouldn’t be any help. She’d moved to Ghana with some young dude she met on Facebook.
All I really had was Oak and clients I wrote songs for.
I was screwed. I didn’t cry though. I couldn’t.
I was numb. I knew I didn’t really have to call anyone.
Oak would come for me. I just had to wait.
Finally, an officer came to get me about five hours after I was arrested. “Your bail’s been posted,” he said, unlocking the cell door.
I processed out, given everything they had taken from me but my dignity.
I walked out to find Oak waiting in the lobby.
I took my time studying him—6'1", with dark eyes, dark hair, and an athletic build.
Handsome in a volatile, dangerous way that always made my heart race. He was in jeans and a polo shirt.
His eyes met mine as I approached him. I walked right past him and out of the door.
“I’ll take you home,” he said when he caught up with me.
I shook my head. “No. Stay away from me, Oak. I mean it. Don’t fucking come near me again.”
“But you need—”
“If you say one more word, I swear I won’t talk to you ever again,” I threatened. He knew I would. He knew my temper. I cut people off for less.
I saw the guilt in his eyes flash to anger for a second. He had the nerve to be mad? For why? I was the one that might end up with a fucking domestic violence case on my record, and he had fucked somebody else. I didn’t.
He ran his hands through his hair and tugged, then growled like a wild animal.
“Fine, I’ll leave you alone for now.”
I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back.
The cool night air hit my face and kept me grounded in reality when I was ready to check the fuck out.
I kept walking until I found a bus stop.
I caught the first bus that came, not caring where it was headed.
I just needed to get away. It was empty, I assumed because it was after seven.
I rested my head against the cool window and forced myself not to think.
I rode until the bus driver said it was the last stop.
I got off and started walking. I kept replaying the story of us in my head.
I had to send for an Uber to take me somewhere to sleep when it started getting too hard to keep my tired eyes open and I got tired of walking.
I had been on the road with Ciarán, writing new songs for him and reworking his old songs.
I was exhausted. I thought I was going to go home and lay up under my husband for a few days.
My ass had been wrong about that. I chuckled to myself, though everything felt grim.
I ended up at my best friend Leyani’s house.
She lived in a high-rise in downtown St. Pete.
But she was working out of town for the next two years, but I knew the codes to her door and system.
I let myself in and collapsed on the couch.
My eyes closed immediately. When I woke up a few hours later, what had happened was waiting for me.
I turned over on my back and stared at the ceiling.
Tears streamed down my face as I curled into a ball, clutching Leyani’s couch blanket tight.
What the fuck was I going to do now that this motherfucker had broken me?