Chapter 4
Amir
Three weeks later
“Alhamdulillah.”
I sat on the side of my bed.
I didn’t sleep good at all, tossing and turning throughout the night. It didn’t help that I didn’t have my bed to myself. I thought the company of a woman would help me sleep better, but to be honest, she just got in the way.
I stepped one foot on the side of the bed and stood up, stretching with a silent yawn that felt like it released all the tension in my bones for the moment. Once I took one step forward on the cold wood on my floors, Delilah’s head lifted from her pillow.
“Why are you getting out of bed this early, Amir?”
I turned over my shoulder.
“Because I have shit to do today.”
“Shit like what?”
“A meeting.”
She sat up, holding the sheet against her chest. Delilah’s Hijab was folded up neatly on the dresser, and I enjoyed looking at her without it.
For the longest time, she didn’t take it off around me.
She often tried to hold back on letting me see her in that way because we weren’t married, and she knew I wasn’t trying to get married either.
It was always crazy as hell to me that she would be butt ass naked in my bed getting fucked, but I couldn’t see her hair.
When it would slip off when I was deep in her shit, she would hurry and put it back on, making sure it was pitch-black dark in the room just in case it came off, so I still couldn’t see.
After a while, I guess her needs completely overrode her beliefs, and she started taking it off on the nights she stayed at my place.
She then encouraged me to pull her hair while I was fuckin her.
The once good girl had turned into a freak slowly, and that was all thanks to me.
I met Delilah back in high school, when she wanted to be invisible, yet I still saw her.
My brothers, Abraham and Salah, were always chasing the girls they felt would give them sex easily, whereas I was a virgin, so I was looking for a connection more than pussy.
That’s why I approached her one day in the hallway.
I remember her locker was jammed, and I knew the trick to get it opened because mine would often jam too.
I remember she was too shy to even look up into my face, and I lifted her chin to make her look at me once her locker was opened.
“Thanks, Amir.” She knew my name, and that shit caught me off guard. I was the quiet Quatar; everyone knew Salah and Abraham, but I was always known as their brother, never by Amir, so that meant something to me.
After that day, Delilah and I started eating lunch together and eventually became acquainted with each other more outside of school.
That was until her father found out who my father was and made her cut me off.
We didn’t reconnect until she came to the Eid al-Fitr festival marking the end of Ramadan about four years ago.
When she tapped me on my shoulder, dressed in a hijab and gown, I was still attracted to her beautiful ass.
She had the kind of face that didn’t need hair or a body to complement it.
Her eyes, lips, and almond complexion held weight on its own.
I was smitten with her yet again, just like that wet behind the ears boy in high school.
Delilah got up from my bed, and the first thing she did was wrap her long, black, silky hair in her Hijab.
“Does this business you have to take care of happen to be a meeting with a therapist? Did you finally take my advice and sign up to see one?”
I walked into my restroom, running the water instead of answering her.
“Did you hear my question, Amir?”
“Dee, I told you I’m not talking to a therapist about shit. I ask for guidance from Allah. No man can give me that.”
“I believe in the power and comfort of Allah, too, Amir, but I still think talking to someone can help you, too, hence my profession. It hasn't been much time since your brother’s and father were murdered, and I know that is taking a toll on you. You didn’t sleep last night at all.
I can tell that your body just can’t seem to rest.”
“I rested fine.”
“As fine as a homeless man under the Manhattan Bridge. I’m telling you that lack of sleep is why you are so cranky these days. I notice your mood swings even through text messages. You are on and off like a flame, Amir.”
“Delilah, just let that shit go. I’m not talking to a therapist. I handle shit with Allah and how I see fit, and there is nothing you or anyone else can say to convince me otherwise.”
I grabbed my toothbrush from the counter, started my morning routine, and Delilah joined me.
Once we were both done at the sink, we went into the closet in my restroom, and I grabbed a fit to put on today while she took clothes out of the bag that she’d brought to my house late last night and let herself in with the keys I gave her.
I only trusted her with access to my apartment.
No other woman would have that same access to my safe spot.
“So, what time do you think your business will end? I have one client this morning, and then I have a 2-hour downtime period before my next one. Maybe you and I can go enjoy lunch during that time if you are on that side of town.”
“I’m not sure what time I’ll be done. I can let you know, though.
I should be on that side of town around that time, and I know I'll be hungry.” I replied, stepping into my pants.
Once I turned to grab my glasses from a nearby case, Delilah came behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist. She reached her hand up to my head and stroked my hair with her long, natural nails.
My usual style was stitch braids that I get done at this shop in the Bronx filled with Latinas who know how to handle fine hair like mine.
Right now, I was, however, letting it breathe.
I thought it would help me sleep better, but that shit didn’t work.
“Amir, I just want to say I know you feel like this mask and armor you have up has to stay on forever, but I’m here to help you take it off layer by layer. I love you, and I know you may feel like Allah slighted you with everything in life up to now.”
She turned my body around.
“But trust me, it is only up from here as long as you remember your worth. You are a king, Amir. The last Quatar man standing for a reason. And Allah didn’t completely slight you.
He gave you something a lot of men could only hope for.
Confidence, resilience, a handsome face, and something that I will never ever get over. ”
She smirked, placing one hand on my cheek, kissing me, before rubbing her hand down to my dick.
Delilah was into her faith, but she was just as into how I made her feel.
The contradictions she didn’t like to address out loud, but I know she felt that shit every time she left here, slutted out by the man that she hadn’t married.
We finished getting dressed, and then I left and got into my car.
Today I decided to ride in my old school, and once I cranked it up, the engine roared so loud, I’m sure it woke up everyone on the block.
I only drove my 1972 Mustang when I wasn’t handling street business.
This car was way too loud and way too distinct to pull any hits in and get away.
Any time I’m on one of those missions, I usually hot-wire a car and steal it, or ride one of the bikes Crew has in a hidden warehouse in the Bronx.
I drove from my spot to Harlem to the office of Lane Bishelli, the family lawyer handling my father's estate. There had been a long legal battle about his funds because of the way he was murdered, and the investigation into his death. Given Mecca's wealth, the state was reluctant to release his funds because the case was unsolved at the time. I wasn’t fighting for anything because I wanted the case unsolved forever, and fighting for money could’ve opened up a can of worms I wasn’t ready for.
So, since the murder, I was letting my lawyer do what he had to do with no opinion from me, neither here nor there.
Now, Amelia, my stepmother, was more worried about the funds than I was.
She was running around town claiming houses and property that I didn’t care about.
I can tell her entire life was in shambles since Mecca and her sons were killed.
I, however, lived life more peacefully and meaningfully after them niggas demise.
The only shit that bothered me now was my own demons, which were the ones I created myself.
I parked my car on the curb a few yards down from Bishelli’s office doors and stepped out of the car, checking to my left and my right first. Moving around New York never felt too safe because there was always someone out there who wanted wealth and didn't want to work for it.
When my father and brothers first died, I told myself I would get away from here to save myself, but then I thought about how there are niggas in every city that will come after me for what I have.
So I figured, why not stay home, be close to my grandmother in her final days, and the few people I did fuck with in the city.
When I walked through the front door, there was wailing so loud in the hallway that I felt like I was at my father’s funeral all over again. I knew Amelia’s cry because I’d heard it so loudly over the phone when she called me about the massacre.
“He’s dead, they are all dead.” I remember she yelled in my ear, as I laid on my back unmoved by her tears.