Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Outside, Rashad rushed to his car, a string of curse words leading the charge even as he worked to calm down.
He jumped inside, fired it up and sped off without waiting for the car to warm up.
His fingers coiled into fists. He wanted to punch something.
Somebody. In prison, what that person said on the phone could get you hurt.
Rashad wasn’t one to start a fight, but he was known for finishing them.
With freedom stripped away and basic human rights taken, a man’s respect was all he had left.
At first Rashad had physically fought for what wasn’t given when verbally demanded.
Later, he earned it one plate at a time.
Rashad’s trauma and stress had begun with the murder of his father.
One of his coping mechanisms was turning off his emotions.
Shutting down. That’s what he did now. Eased his foot off the gas and concentrated on his breathing, allowing his natural heart rate to return.
Stopped at a red light, he turned off the overheard conversation.
Ignored the now familiar pain of betrayal from yet another woman he’d trusted.
These moves to self-protect came naturally.
Later, Rashad would learn that they were textbook for those who’d experienced emotionally or physically traumatic experiences. They all lived with a type of PTSD.
It was his PO Nichole who shared with him what she’d learned while taking a few psych classes at UCLA.
That children who grew up in violent or abusive situations or experienced them developed skills to shield their minds from the weight of whatever tragedy had happened.
To block out egregious memories. Compartmentalize pain.
Those in war zones, for instance—Syria, or Iraq, or Palestine, or the Congo, or disenfranchised neighborhoods in Chicago, or Philadelphia, or Memphis, or Compton.
All involved suffered a form of what many soldiers in combat experienced, an illness more often than not left untreated, unrecognized, unacknowledged, undiagnosed.
Suddenly out of work and already out of options, Rashad drove home and parked with a mind on nothing and everything at once.
The empty space next to Side Chic’k. His friends back home.
His ex, Brigit, the other betrayer. His mom in Oakland with Zara and her steady, stable job as a nurse.
Anna and Charles. Three years in purgatory, suspended animation of the mind, body, and soul.
He tapped the phone flashlight and pulled out his notebook.
His pencil struck a beat on the steering wheel, foot keeping time like a drum. No words came.
He walked into the basement that was his home.
The dark was comforting, familiar. He lit a candle, his only light source, and pulled out his well-worn rhyme book.
But still, the lyric bucket was empty. Pride, ego, and trustworthiness weren’t the only aspects that had taken a mental beating.
His creativity had also been traumatized.
Hours later, still restless and unable to sleep, Rashad reached for his phone and went online.
The apology Jamilah shouted at his back as he walked out the door had pulled the scab off a heart wound he thought had healed.
Created a tension that screamed for release.
His right hand didn’t offer the kind that he needed.
Dating sites that offered casual meetups could do the trick.
This work thing with Jamilah had been tenuous at best, but something that could have helped him get where he wanted to go.
Now getting his own was of utmost priority.
He’d do what he had to do until that happened, maybe even work at the competition down the street.
But getting his own setup was now priority number one.
Rashad clicked on a dating app and began scrolling through pic after pretty pic.
Whoever he chose wouldn’t be disappointed.
He knew he was a good lover. More than one woman had begged him to keep playing long after the song ended or had tracked him down for an encore.
When he’d finally found the woman who felt like the right soprano to his bass, he got locked up and endured the dissonant chord of betrayal when she left him for a good friend.
One of the best things about relocating to Kansas City was the distance it created between not only that sad situation but also him and the females who still wanted to play in his band.
Ten minutes later, he’d found a Band-Aid for his pain and anger. He fired up the car once again and drove toward the distraction.
The next morning, Rashad stood in a hotel bathroom.
He toweled off from a hurriedly taken shower while dispassionately eyeing the bad BBL walking by in slow motion.
The move to get his attention, get his soldier up again, wasn’t working.
The woman he’d swiped right to hook up with last night was pretty enough, blond hair from a bottle and lips that benefited from injections.
Rashad wasn’t judging, but when it came to asses he preferred those made by God, like Jamilah’s—damn, why did I think of her? —to those from Brazil.
Jamilah. What a letdown. He should have known better than to believe her words about being happy to work with him while doling out second chances.
At the least, she was a user, and at most, a woman insecure enough to be easily persuaded.
Looking out for herself, what she could get, with no thought of a man’s feelings, or that a thug like him, as the voice on Jamilah’s phone had called him, might even possess a working, beating heart.
He didn’t have time for either.
Time to get out of the temporary pleasure portal and back into the real world. He crossed the room, slid into his jeans, pulled on the wrinkled T-shirt by the bed and stuffed his boxers into his pocket.
The woman pulled on the black mini she’d arrived in and stepped into heels that were more appropriate under last night’s moon than the midday sunshine. She slinked over to him. “Rashad,” she purred, “you’re in a much bigger hurry this morning than you were last night.”
“Um, yeah, baby,” he replied, using the catchall term that came in handy when forgetting someone’s name. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Work, huh? You’re a chef, right?”
“I’m a lot of things,” Rashad said, quickly deflecting the question and the cause for why he’d gone online in the first place. “Right now, I’m going to make like Casper and become a ghost.”
A quick kiss and a wink softened the verbal blow. He laced up his sneakers and, after declining a sexcapade replay later tonight, prepared to beat a hasty exit. He walked to the door.
“Rashad!”
He paused, hand on the knob. “Yeah?”
His distraction sidled up beside him. “I need to ask a favor. I’m in a situation and could use a little help.”
“What kind of help?”
“A little financial assistance.”
Rashad had never paid to play, but he knew what it was like to need money.
“How much?”
“Like…five hundred, maybe?”
Rashad laughed. This was starting to feel less like a real problem and more like a game being played.
“Last night was good, baby, but not that good.”
“Well, how much can you give me?” she pouted.
“Are you a ho or something?”
She reached up to slap him. He caught her wrist.
“How dare you!”
“It was a fair question,” he said, gently yet firmly bringing her arm back down to her side. “Women who ask for money in exchange for sex are usually defined by that label.”
“I’m not a prostitute. I just need some money.”
“I’m sorry,” Rashad answered, as he opened the door. “But I can’t help you.”
Rashad left regretting he’d swiped right last night.
A man had needs. Rashad’s sex drive was high.
But that wasn’t what made him bed a stranger.
That culprit was Jamilah and the conversation he’d overheard.
Not that he’d admit that fact, even to himself.
He’d had a lifetime perfecting the art of hiding his emotions behind a scarred, iron-clad heart and a closed, don’t-give-a-damn look.
So what if she and whoever she was talking to had judged him? What else was new?
In the wee hours of the morning, after continuously replaying what happened the night before in his head, Rashad had vowed one thing.
He was done allowing other people to define who he was.
He had skills and confidence and was looking for a job when he got the one at Side Chic’k.
No matter what, Rashad knew he’d be all right.
As long as he believed in himself, realizing dreams was just a matter of time.
Rashad wasn’t ready for a free afternoon. Not wanting to be alone with his thoughts or go home and stew at Anna’s, he called Leon.
“Hey, man. What game are you playing?”
“Who says I’m playing anything?”
Rashad laughed. “The sound you just muted.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“No.”
“No? What, did your shift get shifted already?” Leon laughed at his own play on words.
“You could say that.” Rashad paused for effect, turning on the freeway that would take him across town to where Blair and Leon lived. “I quit.”
“You what?”
“You heard me. I’m done there. Side Chic’k is now Side Shit to me. I don’t work there no more.”
On the other side of the call, silence.
“Leon? You there?”
Leon cleared his throat. “Quit playing.”
“I’m serious, man. Real talk.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way to your house,” Rashad replied, exiting the freeway.
“Cool. Come on through.”