Chapter 11 The Bullet and the Darkness #2
“Wait. Dude, I will seriously go home and you’ll never hear from me again,” I said. “Don’t say that just because you’re mad. You’ve been together way too long to let me come between you.” I was fine moving on—and seeing Jess hurt made me hurt too.
“We’ve been done for a long time, Jess. You know that,” he said. He opened up my door and pulled me out, shutting the door behind me.
“Go home, Jess.”
I was beyond perplexed, and I didn’t feel good about it. It had been me and her against him five minutes ago. What about—
He walked me up to his house, pressed me against the wall, and started having his way with me. I gave in to it. Never mind. I’ll ask questions later.
* * *
DO YOU THINK KARMA WAS going to let me have a loving, happy, healthy relationship with this man? Always remember, you lose them how you get them, sugar.
Mark was jealous and possessive as hell, and he wanted me around him all the time. That meant my seventeen-year-old ass was stuck in this house of loud Italian big-time drug dealers.
Chronic and guns were Mark and his brothers’ game. If you needed a pound of weed, they were your guys. They acted like the mafiosos they’d seen on TV, pretending they ran Las Vegas like the Godfather.
We all lived together in a rambling house, where the voice volume level was always at 10.
I got close to the mom and sister, but it didn’t take long to see why Mark was the way he was with women.
His mother enabled the fuck out of his impulses, and she was always in our relationship and seemed kind of obsessed with her son, like cut the damn umbilical cord, woman.
Her obsession seemed limited to Mark; she always said it was because he had almost died during childbirth.
But as the years went by, it seemed like a weird excuse for her to just paper over all the shitty things he did.
Trying to keep up with our mob-family image, I cooked, cleaned, fucked him when he wanted—and worked nights at a restaurant on the Strip across from a massive club called Utopia.
He would come by or call to check in on me all the time.
He hated when men would leave me big tips or their phone numbers on receipts.
He didn’t like that I was around men in general.
As if my long hours and graveyard shift weren’t enough—I had to deal with him tracking my moves.
He decided he wanted me to be a “square girlfriend” who worked an office job. So I quit.
I was so submissive then—it was survival—and so I was obliged to make my man happy.
I interviewed for a nine-to-five, regular-ass job at a pest control company.
I showed up in a cute white T-shirt and blue jean overalls.
Who shows up to an interview in overalls?
But the owner, Karl, hired my eighteen-year-old ass on the fucking spot.
And to this day, he will tell you the overalls are what got me hired.
I loved Karl. He was a family man, businessman, and sweet spirit. We developed a friendship—at work and outside of work. I had no idea back then what was right or wrong. I just knew he was my buddy. How could I predict he’d end up becoming my first sugar daddy?
Back then, I had no idea what a sugar daddy was—and we definitely didn’t use that term to describe our relationship.
But Karl would overhear Mark and me arguing and see me struggling to find some independence.
He bought me my first car and my first cell phone.
He helped me with my first apartment. He gave me a salary big enough to support myself and save up a little too.
He watched me grow up, and he provided for me.
He’s still a friend, and I’ll always have a soft spot for him.
He was my first taste of having a sugar daddy—even if I didn’t have the sexual part down back then. But I sure as hell liked the feeling of a man like that spending money on me.
I guess you could say he created a monster.
* * *
WE HAD HELLA GUNS IN the house at Mark’s—assault rifles, semiautomatics, and guns I’ve never even heard of. Under beds, in closets, in attics—name it. They bred German Shepherds, and Mark had his beloved all-white man’s best friend. She never left his side. I had Dana Dane, named after the rims.
Mark and I lived in a guesthouse in the backyard, and we could see the front yard from our window. I woke up around five in the morning one day because our dogs were barking like crazy outside. Mark was at the window, squinting out into the dawn. The sun was barely peeking through the night sky.
“Something’s not right,” he said.
The next thing we knew, cops were running through the yard in gas masks and shields.
“Freeze!” the cops yelled, loud enough that we could hear them out back.
Lights came on in the house, and we saw cops laying everybody down.
I barely had time to be petrified before a few stormed out to the guesthouse, took us outside, and sat us down on the porch with our hands behind our backs while they searched the property.
All around us were police in SWAT vests pointing guns at our faces, yelling at us to keep our hands behind us.
When you’re raised in the streets, you’re taught not to like cops, and every second of this situation confirmed it.
When people tear your house apart—throwing and tossing everything you own—it feels fucking awful.
After what seemed like hours, the cops arrested Mark’s youngest brother, and eventually let us go back inside.
The house was torn the fuck up, and the family went into overdrive looking for a lawyer, calling other family members, and making a plan to get his brother back home. In a crisis, they banded together, but the bond would be short-lived. They’d be back at each other’s throats in no time.
* * *
MARK WAS IN A CAR club, and on Saturday nights, you could see beautiful lowriders cruising the streets, and empty grocery-store parking lots turn into what we lovingly would call “a hop.” You’d bring your car—which you spent tens of thousands of dollars on—to hit hydraulics and try to hop other cars’ heights.
It was good ol’ fashioned fun, and it gave all the boys something constructive to do with their d-boy money and time.
One night, we went out to a rival car club’s party at the Q Club. We were out in the parking lot at the end of the night, when—
Pop pop pop pop.
Mark grabbed me and threw me behind a car’s massive tire.
“Get down and stay down,” he yelled, putting his body over mine. He hung on to me tight as bullets flew past us. They were getting closer until whoooosh. A bullet whizzed right past my fucking ear. I froze like a deer in headlights.
“What was that?” I yelled.
“A bullet,” Mark said, squeezing me tighter. “Get down lower.”
If I’d moved half an inch, I would have taken it to the side of the head. See what I mean? God’s always had a hand on me.
I don’t know what started it all, but Mark and his brothers were always talking shit to someone or starting shit. All I know is once the bullets stopped, we got the fuck out of there.
* * *
THE FIGHTING WAS GETTING OUT of control. Sometimes I’d leave, but I always came back. And that familiar feeling started, the one where everything is so fucking miserable and overwhelming that I just wanted it to be over, but there was no way out.
So, alone in the bathroom, I downed thirteen Tylenol PMs, thinking it would be enough to end it all.
Mark found me sleeping and groggy in bed, and when I’d told him what I’d done, he laughed in my face.
And then he made me go to work so he could go out and do God knows what.
I don’t know how I made it through that shift, trying not to fall asleep.
I fought hard to keep my eyelids open, downing Mountain Dew, hoping it would reignite some life in me.
It wasn’t the worst time of my life, but I don’t know why I didn’t tell that dude to go fuck himself. But we were so twisted—and he would make me the responsible one so he could fuck off and do whatever he wanted while I was at work.
Shit was spiraling in my life again. I just didn’t know how bad it was about to get.