17. Rakim #3
She licked my shaft once I pulled out, making me smirk. Tugging her head back by her hair, I kissed her sensually, making her nudge me back a little bit.
“My pussy is numb, nigga.” She scoffed as I laughed.
“You not ready for round two?” I queried playfully as I carefully stepped off the bed above the pool before scooping her up.
“No, and you knew what you were doing. That’s not fair.” She hugged my neck, smiling lazily.
Whenever I made her cum constantly, and back to back, she resembled a drunken or tipsy muthafucka.
“I thought it felt good.” I placed her on the toilet once I lifted the top so she could relieve herself.
“It does, but I don’t like tapping out that quickly, especially since you like to talk so much shit.”
“My bad, baby. I just couldn’t believe you was cumming so much and so quickly,” I lied, knowing damn well I wasn’t surprised or shocked in the least bit.
Like I said, I knew her body well.
“I can’t stand you.” She rose gingerly and reached for some tissue as the big ass Jacuzzi tub filled up.
“For real?” I half smiled.
“No. I’m in love with you, but I don’t have to like you.” She tied her hair up, ass naked and making my dick perk up slightly.
I smiled at her comment before going to help her into the bath. This muthafucka was big, so I had no excuse not to join her, which had her ass giddy.
After soaking for a bit and listening to her tell me that she was drawing some phone case designs again—some shit that made me happy as fuck—she felt like she could stand, so we climbed out and got into the shower to actually clean off.
Spent by this time, we fell asleep almost as soon as our heads hit the fucking pillows.
Hours later . . .
Commotion and arguing greeted the Godfrey boys at the door, immediately alarming them as they recognized what was happening. It was a rarity for their father to be in the home and not be upset, bickering, hitting, or all of the above with or on their mother and sometimes them too.
Nate Godfrey was one of the most well-known heavyweight boxers, and coming in at six feet, eight inches, three hundred plus pounds, he was the biggest too. Still, that didn’t stop him from using his fists on his 130-pound wife and even smaller children.
“Nate!” their mother, Helen, screeched just before grunting and clearly slamming into the hard wooden dresser in the master bedroom.
“He slapped her,” eight-year-old Josias commented, eyes wide as saucers as he fought to keep on steady legs.
Often, when their father got angry with their mother, he beat everyone in the house, and Josias wanted no parts.
He, like his brothers, hated when Nate came home.
Though he lived with his family, it wasn’t abnormal for the Godfrey patriarch to spend weeks, and sometimes a month, holed up with one of his mistresses and sometimes leaving his wife to do her best to feed their four kids.
It was not unusual for said mistress to call the house or pop up, disgruntled and feeling spurned now that their father had returned to his family.
During those times he was absent, Helen would have to take up temporary jobs to put food on the table, and once Nate returned home, she would be forced to quit. Having stable, consistent employment was disallowed.
“Zaire, hurry up and go shower,” Rakim said, seeing the wet spot start to bleed across his baby brother’s jeans, as he pissed on himself in fear. “Go.” Rakim shoved him lightly in the direction of the bathroom, and Zaire snapped out of his terror-filled paralysis to do as he was told.
Though only eleven years old, Rakim often guided his brothers and did his best to protect them. If their father saw Zaire had wet himself again, he’d beat him unconscious—he’d done it before.
“No. Just act like you don’t hear it,” Ayan said, grabbing Rakim’s bicep when he noticed his twin starting toward the back of the home to intervene.
“I can’t.” Rakim shook his head, slipping from his brother’s grasp and starting down the hall.
“Rah . . .” Josias started to call for his brother but knew it would be ineffective to do so. Rakim, now that he was in middle school, could seemingly never let their parents fight it out anymore.
Ayan and Josias were frozen, not sure if they should retire to their bedrooms to avoid their father’s wrath or stay in the living room in hopes that Nate wouldn’t completely obliterate Rakim if he had an audience.
Sweating profusely already, Rakim neared his parents’ bedroom, shutting his eyes as he listened to his mother’s wails and his father’s heavy fists pound on her. Gripping the doorknob with a dampened hand, he twisted it to enter.
“That’s enough.” His small voice blended into the commotion, but somehow, both Nate and Helen heard it.
“No.” Helen shook her head, face bloodied and mingling with her tears. “No, baby,” she spoke softly, wanting her baby boy to leave the room.
“Who the fuck you talking to?” Nate stalked toward Rakim who naturally jolted but gathered himself quickly and got back in place. “Oh, you think you a man?” Nate laughed derisively, then wasted no time decking his son in the face, sending him into the wall.
“No!” Helen hopped to her feet, the strength of a mother entering her otherwise weak body as she rushed toward Nate. “Argh!” She grunted when he backhanded her seamlessly, sending her onto the bed with a dizzying headache.
Nate felt a weak punch to his stomach, and upon realizing it was Rakim, he became infuriated despite how little effect the pitiful punch had on him. It was the gall Rakim possessed, staring up at his father with a busted nose and balled fists.
Enraged at the disrespect, Nate tore into his son as if he were one of his opponents in the ring.
And the more Rakim’s little fists swung in effort to fight back, the harder his father, who was thrice his size, went.
Nate saw red, punching on the young boy until he no longer fought back and lay on the carpeted floor, limp.
“Disrespectful muthafucka!” Nate roared, snatching Rakim’s pendulous body and dragging it along the floor as he yanked the bedroom door fully open and stomped down the hall.
Ayan and Josias jumped from the couch and darted down the opposite hall toward their bedrooms, their father’s thunderous voice aborting their plans to stick around for their brother in the living room.
The boys’ hearts beat out of their small chests as they both fought to hold onto their bowels and bladder, knowing that would only result in punishment.
Back in the living room, Nate opened the small storage closet of the stairs that led to the attic and tossed his unconscious son inside, bolting it closed.
By now, everyone—including Helen—knew not to open that door no matter how much Rakim cried and begged once he came to.
He wouldn’t be freed from the tiny closet until Nate allowed it, and sometimes that took a few days, while other times, a whole week.
Hours later, Rakim awoke in the dark, his entire body sore.
But once he realized he wasn’t in bed or in the open space but instead locked away, he began to scream, causing his brothers to put pillows over their heads to temporarily escape the agony they experienced hearing the torture of their brother.
Helen, in her bedroom, sobbed into her pillow while Nate sat in the living room, content.
I gasped as I shot up in the bed, Daylin sitting upright almost as quickly.
“Baby, you okay?” She rubbed my back, and when I didn’t answer, only now recognizing my surroundings and that I wasn’t in the hell I lived through twenty-two years ago, did I nod unconvincingly. “Did you have a nightmare?” She moved some so that she was in front of me instead of beside me.
“Uh, yeah.” I tossed my legs off the side of the bed, gripping the edges of the mattress.
Though I was cognizant of my surroundings, I couldn’t deny that I was still a bit petrified.
I couldn’t go right back to sleep, despite how tired a nigga was, because I wasn’t ready to be plunged back into that fucking nightmare, the factual nightmare.
I wasn’t even sure if you could call it that since that shit actually happened, and I was just reliving it.
“About what?” Daylin came around to sit in my lap, and the shit was comforting, feeling her warm, scented body so close to me.
I thought of making some shit up but decided against it. Daylin was the only woman truly privy to what happened to me as a kid, and I’d divulged that shit when she was more of a stranger than she was now.
“My father.” I ran a hand down my face, feeling like a bitch. “Shit that happened to me when I was a kid. I usually always have a nightmare or recalling, whatever the fuck you wanna call it, at least once a week.”
“We sleep together all the time, and I never heard it.” She looked off momentarily, seemingly chiding herself.
“They stopped when we got together for a little while, but for some reason, they’ve resumed.” I expelled a breath. “Fuck.”
“How long has this been the case, Rakim?”
“Shit, how old am I?” I chuckled it off though there was no real mirth laced in my tone. Daylin didn’t mirror my gesture, keeping a stale expression.
“Have you ever talked to anyone? You or Josias or even Ayan?” Her brows furrowed.
“No, and I don’t plan to, Baby.” I looked out through the doors leading to the vast balcony. The scenery was calming. “Talking to somebody about this shit ain’t gon’ help. Killing that nigga would,” I admitted.
Only reason I hadn’t murdered my pops was because I felt like God would truly never forgive me.
All the other murders I’d committed were people I barely knew and ones who I had no doubt deserved it.
And while Nate deserved death, too, I didn’t know how I would fare after murdering my own father.
And he wasn’t just my father to take out. I had to consider my brothers.