Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Why did every mafia guy with a designer suit think they could spot a black chick and just take her.
I was starting to get tired of their entitled bullshit.
Luckily for the church, Ms. Curly’s voice grabbed both of our attention. “Rafael.”
He looked that way, and I did too.
“I’ll take you after church.” She lowered her voice. “Do you have twenty chickens?”
Oh. Hell yes. We’re barbecuing too?
Rafael whispered, “I thought she would only need five chickens for this sacrifice.”
Oh. . .we are sacrificing animals. . .o-kay. . .
Ms. Curly shook her head. “Whatever Jean-Pierre has brewing, I’m sure it will need twenty chickens.”
“You are smart and right.” Rafael nodded and turned back to the Preacher. “You know my cousin well.”
“Don’t forget the snakes either.”
Rafael snapped his face to her. “Must we—?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.”
“Rafael, we’re in church.”
Snakes!?
Chapter 15
Cock Block
A
fter two long ass hours of the preacher yelling and the choir singing and even some old lady coming up to tell us about this and that news of the church, we left. I almost screamed and raced out of there.
I could do church again, but it had to be shorter.
I attempted to introduce myself to Gwen, but Rafael snatched her away and had her off to his blue Benz in a flash. He didn’t even let any of the other men get in. Many of them glared and rushed to the vans to squeeze in.
These damn white boys with sistas. . .
I walked next to Jean-Pierre. “Hey, man. That was Gwen right? The sexy one in white with the curly afro.”
“She’s not for you, Maxwell.”
“What the hell do you mean that she’s not for me?” I scowled. “She’s a sista. She was made for me.”
Jean-Pierre gave me an odd look. “What?”
“Sista. Not like we’re related, yet we are. You know.”
“I do not.”
“Rafael is dating Gwen?”
“I would not even wonder and move on to someone else.”
“Why?”
“Rafael is not logical like me—”
“That’s scary because you’re pretty fucking illogical—”
“I would like to think that I use my head and think rational—”
“You took Em for absolutely no reason at all.”
“Eden was kidnapped.”
“Not by the Lion.”
Jean-Pierre sighed. “Regardless, that move resulted in Eden being returned to me. With all of that, I say to you, that my cousin is even more irrational when it comes to women.”
I rolled my eyes. “So, he’s going to cock block me on that?”
For some reason disgust showed on Jean-Pierre’s face.
“What?”
“My cousin will not be doing anything to you with his cock.”
A minute later, I found myself back in the white Benz, riding with Jean-Pierre and Boris down a highway outlined by murky, green swamp.
Boris grinned to himself like he had just been to Disneyland or something.
I bet he’ll be paying another visit to New Orleans.
Meanwhile, Jean-Pierre appeared stiff and worried.
The driver took the exit off the highway. We headed down a dirt road. Tons of trees bordered the path. Their leaves were a deep, dark green. Gray wavy moss hung from the branches like beards, making the trees appear wiser than the ones of the North.
In that moment, that old Billie Holiday song came to me. It was the one called Strange Fruit where the lyrics talked about Black people being hung from the trees and dangling like fruit.
I remembered the imagery of those lyrics being so haunting. I could see the blood dripping along the leaves, the now lifeless Black bodies swaying from side to side in the wind, their necks broken, their faces covered in pain and shock.
When Billie Holiday hit the chorus, I could smell the rot of their deaths and feel the wet tears of those people who had cried over their loved ones that had been taken simply due to hate for the color of their skin.
Billie’s voice was a weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe, forcing me to understand, to feel their anger, pain, and hopelessness.
Sometimes. . .toward the end of the song. . .I could feel the strength of those who fought for justice and equality. Yet, regardless, it always hurt me—always made my heart ache.
I looked away from the window and faced forward.
See. This is why I never wanted to visit the south.
My feelings were unfair to this part of the country, but Em and I had read so many books in the library when we were cutting school and hiding from foster parents.
After I’d devoured all of the action and fantasy stories, I’d searched for more to read.
I didn’t touch the horror section. Life was fucked up enough. There was no need to scare myself further.
Em liked the romances and tried to convince me that they were cool, but I was a fatherless boy trying to act like a man.
Therefore, I moved on to the history section and delved into the atrocities of the South.
I should have just read books from the horror section. They would have been less scary.