11. LaMia Sellers #2
Getting into my car, I broke down. Crazy as it sounded, Rakim ruined my life by protecting me.
PRESENT DAY . . .
When I heard the front door, I left my son AJ’s bedroom where he was playing, to meet who I knew was Ayan coming up the stairs. I’d just put Ayanna down to sleep for the night, and she’d given me hell all day, so I was thankful.
Ayan saw me as he reached the top of the stairs, but he didn’t say anything; he just continued toward the bedroom, so I followed him.
“Where have you been, Yan? I haven’t seen you in three whole days,” I said, wanting to yell at him but knowing it wouldn’t be good for my health.
“Don’t worry about where the fuck I been!” he roared, shocking me since I was speaking to him calmly.
“You can’t just leave for days and not tell me anything.” I sniffled, unsure of why I was already crying.
“Why I can’t?” He sized me up with a look of disgust as he pulled shit out to wear, and I remembered he had an event tonight that he and I were supposed to attend. Thank God I was usually on automatic and had already booked the babysitter as soon as he told me about the event.
“Because we’re in a relationship and have children together.” I walked up behind him and hesitantly touched his back.
Sometimes Ayan could be calmed down with a simple touch or me alluding to offering sex, but other times he would be too angry to care about being intimate with me.
“Fuck off me.” He moved from my hand and yanked off his T-shirt. “And bitch, how dare you run to that nigga trying to get some fucking help?” He sneered.
“I didn’t, I swear—” My words were cut off when he backhanded me, making me fall onto the bed.
As he charged my way, I attempted to collect myself and move, but he’d dazed me a bit with that slap, so naturally, he was quicker than me. Pinning me to the bed with one hand, he sent the other into my stomach, making me fold up and whimper.
“You fucked him, didn’t you!” He hollered in my face, and I could smell the alcohol he’d been consuming possibly by the boatload. “You be thinking ’bout that nigga while I’m inside you?” Ayan interrogated, erratic.
“No.” I cried, shaking my head. “I didn’t . . . I haven’t. Baby, I swear,” I pleaded, scared to death of the evil way Ayan was glaring down into my face. His eyes almost looked as if they bore no soul. “I love you.”
“You don’t fucking love me.” His mouth balled up while his eyes widened, bearing a demented nature to them. “You love that nigga and been fucking him this whole time, ain’t you? How dare you try to get saved by another nigga and him of all people!” He let my hands go and slapped the shit out of me.
“I didn’t!” I screamed. “I haven’t be-been with anybody else since we got together,” I lied, though it didn’t feel like one since the small slip with Rakim a couple weeks post prison release didn’t even count to me. We barely had sex, and I hadn’t touched anyone else since.
And thankfully, Ayan’s sex game had improved greatly making it easier not to crave his twin in the bedroom.
“Them probably not even my fucking kids!” Ayan barked, cocking his fist back.
I braced myself for impact until I heard “Daddy” from Ayan Jr., unknowingly saving his mother’s life.
Ayan froze, chest heaving as he glowered down at me, seemingly contemplating on if he should hit me or not. Finally, he dropped his fist and relaxed his shoulders before turning to face our son.
I sat up but then turned my face away from AJ so he wouldn’t see what damage had been possibly done to it at the hands of his father.
The last thing I wanted was for AJ to see this and repeat the cycle. Ayan had witnessed Nate beat their mother to a pulp, and now he was doing the same. I would die if AJ turned out to be anything like his father.
“What’s up, lil man?” Ayan questioned, forcing a smile onto his handsome but deranged face, still panting.
As he squatted down to talk to his son, who then led him by his finger to his own bedroom, I fell back onto the bed and wailed.
I hated my life and regretted leaving Rakim for his brother every single day.
At the time, I was younger and had a somewhat foolish way of thinking.
My mother had always taught me to go for the man who had the means and to never fall for a nigga who got it any other way than legally.
So when Rakim lost it all and was forced to serve time behind bars, I started to spiral.
At first, the love I felt for him was so strong that I was willing to stick it out for the three plus years.
But after a year of phone calls, a few letters, and occasional video calls, I realized I couldn’t do it.
Sure, Rakim hadn’t slipped up on taking care of me, but it wasn’t the same.
I’d become accustomed to having a man that was well known, and now, Rakim was infamous which was something totally different. I couldn’t deal.
His second year in prison, I started to kick it with Ayan. He’d had a fight coming up and invited me under the guise of making me feel included despite Rakim being away.
I could lie and say it was innocent, but I could tell from Ayan’s tone and choice of words that he was only extending the invitation because he was interested in me.
From the night of that fight, we began hanging out, and it was mainly platonic; I swear.
Ayan would take me to dinner, the movies, a few shopping sprees and more, so naturally, I began to fall for him.
Rakim couldn’t compete from behind bars. Yeah, calls, letters, flowers, and nice things sent via his younger brothers were cool, but it wasn’t on the level of the very much free Ayan.
Being held after a nice talk would always trump ending a nice talk by your lonesome. So for the time, I enjoyed both men. I accepted every call, letter and gift from Rakim, including him paying all my bills, and then got all the same shit from his brother without having to give it up to either man.
Then, Ayan and I kissed one night, and after that, he began to pressure me to choose.
Every day he’d damn near come with a laundry list of reasons as to why I should choose him over Rakim, and I couldn’t lie; he had some good points.
The main one being that once released, Rakim wouldn’t have shit but the money he’d saved from his dead boxing career.
Ayan was fine, up-and-coming, had continuous money, and no record.
A lot of the shit Ayan told me, in hindsight, was wrong.
One thing he had right, though, was how Rakim would have to figure shit out financially since he couldn’t live off his savings forever.
And sure enough, when I got wind that Rakim had started selling drugs, I knew—or thought—I’d made the right choice.
You couldn’t pay me to build a life with a drug dealer.
When I initially met Rakim, he was into that lifestyle but promised me he wouldn’t return and instead focused on boxing. That was a lie, clearly.
“Where is AJ?” I asked Ayan when he returned to the room.
“Playing a game with a snack,” he replied dryly, expression laced with fury still. It amazed me how he could flip a switch for the kids but then carry such venom in his eyes for me only seconds after engaging with them.
The first year or so with Ayan was perfect.
He was sweet, caring, and spoiled me. He was everything he promised me he would be, and because Rakim was often obscure, I guess focusing on staying free and hustling, I didn’t have to see him.
Over time, I began feeling good with the decision I’d made to leave him for Ayan.
Year two, I made the mistake of telling Ayan I recognized a move he did in the ring from seeing Rakim do it, and he slapped me across the face.
I was so shocked and hurt that I didn’t react.
Shortly after, though, he apologized to me, explaining that I was wrong for comparing him to my ex, and in a sense, he was right.
I shouldn’t have said that. He’d promised it wouldn’t happen again, but of course, it did.
After I denied him sex four weeks after having our daughter Ayanna, he beat my ass and had been consistent with it since then.
I assumed the frequency was because of how much he was going through in his career.
At that time, sports announcers and interviewers had consistently brought Rakim up in the comments they made or questions they asked, and I watched how much it tortured him behind the scenes.
Once, a commentator stated that Ayan would never reach the potential of his father nor his brother, and he ransacked our hotel because of it.
As I sat there, watching him send a chair through the TV, I recalled the time his younger brother Zaire pulled me to the side at one of Ayan’s practices, warning me that Ayan had an unhealthy obsession with competing with Rakim and to be careful.
Zaire had explained that I needed to be sure Ayan was simply trying to be brotherly and not take me away from Rakim as some sort of ‘a-ha’ moment.
At this time, Ayan and I were parading our relationship as friendly and platonic, so I stupidly laughed it off, unwilling to reveal that what I felt for Ayan and vice versa was far from brotherly or sisterly.
Zaire had been right, however.
And as Ayan got better and the comparison comments lessened, the hits still came, so there was no excuse I could come up with for staying other than I loved him and had two kids with him, so I needed this to work.
But there wasn’t a day I hadn’t wished that Rakim had just gotten into the car with me and left that night, instead of forcing me to leave him for his twin.
“Huh?” I snapped from my thoughts to look over at Ayan standing at the mouth of the bathroom, scowling at me.
“I said I’m getting a fucking DNA test on AJ and Ayanna.”
Rising to my feet, I asked, “For what? It is a waste of time and money, baby. They are yours. I swear I have not fucked your brother. He saw me with a bruise and decided to approach you himself.”