Paris was country, but she wasn’t stupid or without talent. Thanks to Jerel Morrison, owner of the Village Art Express, she’d finally taken her painting to a new level. After falling in love with samples of her artwork that had been displayed at a local college, Jerel had offered to feature ten of her selections in his Fifth Street gallery, and the public bidding was scheduled to begin today. Paris knew how important it was to make a good impression on her prospective customers, and a fresh manicure, a bumping hairstyle, and the perfect outfit were all mandatory indulgences.
She’d taken the day off from her job as an accountant with Jackson Hewitt to have enough time to prepare herself. Now she’d barely have time to get through her morning facial before hurrying to Mozelle’s for her weekly hair treatment. If she had any chance of fitting everything in, she’d have to hit the grocery store last, and then come back home to get dressed for the showing.
Paris replaced the sponge on its hook and frowned. Goddamn nana puddin’. And he wanted the pudding made from scratch, too. Instant from the box just wouldn’t do. She stood under the spigot and rinsed her light brown skin. There was no way she could get to Pathmark and still make the showing on time. If there was any hope of getting to the gallery before her customers arrived she’d have to shop at the supermarket right next to the beauty parlor and have the groceries delivered to the house.
She’d have to shop at RICHARD’S.
Stanley Summers zipped the fly of his starched brown uniform, and buttoned his shirt all the way to the top. After pulling on his heavily scuffed dark-brown brogans, he stepped back to admire himself in the splotchy mirror that hung over the back of the employee lounge’s door.
Hah! he thought happily, his broad grin revealing twisted stumps of decaying teeth. I done pass my probationary period and dey done gived me my uniform jes lak dey promise!
Stanley carried nearly three hundred pounds of hard-earned muscle and his frame was easily the width of two average-sized men. A thick scar ran along the line of his right jaw; a thinner scar bisected his bottom lip and crawled all the way down to the mound of his Adam’s apple.
He rubbed his meaty hands across his chest and felt the embroidered RICHARD’S patch on the left, and his own name stitched in script on the right. Grinning crazily at his reflection, Stanley was pleased. Not only had they given him an extra pair of slacks, they’d even stenciled his name and social security number inside each waistband.
This would be Stanley’s first experience working inside of a building instead of outside in the elements. His cocoa-colored uniform made him feel like a security guard—but without the gun. As big as he was, guns scared Stanley shitless but he could get loose with a knife.
Stanley’s good friend Eddie Johns had finally talked the manager of the produce department at RICHARD’S Supermarket into giving him a job. For five months, Stanley had wandered the 149th Street subway station begging passersby for spare change. Ruddy complexioned and obviously able-bodied, the pedestrians had little sympathy for him and he scarcely collected enough money to fill his gut.
Prior to falling down on his luck, Stanley had worked for a family-owned scrap metal company. Twelve months a year he hauled and stacked large, heavy pieces of metal, and during the summer, he also kept the yard swept clean. For seven years, Stanley sweated for the Lambert family, lifting and dragging the cumbersome iron and metal sheets to the commercial ovens to be melted down and sold for scrap. He’d been a good worker, too, always polite, never late, and in seven whole years, he had never missed a single day of work.
But did the Lamberts appreciate him? Nooo, Stanley thought, with a hint of residual anger clouding his simple features. Nooo, they were mean and ungrateful. A bunch of hood-wearing crackers who had treated him like so much black shit.
It had taken all five of the Lambert brothers to knock Stanley down. They’d swung two by fours and iron pipes at his face and head, leaving him semi-conscious. Those honkies had even grabbed jagged pieces of metal and pulled down his pants to slash at his privates. The oldest Stanley brother had tried to castrate him. He got three of his teeth kicked out for his trouble.
Ain’t that jes’ lak a honkie? Stanley thought. Tryin’ to take ever’thang away from a black man, even his dick? And they din’ even wanna gimme my lass’ week’s pay!
All because he had a small problem. Not even a really big one. Just a leetlil’ one. Shit. Stanley chuckled. I cain’t hep it if I got that smell, the one that makes bitches wanna pull off dey panties and go straight to da’ bone! Mistah Lambert shoulda unnerstan’ cause he gived off that same odor ‘round that twenny-two-year-old stock gal I catched him fuckin’ in the storage room!
“I oughtta let them kill your retarded ass!” Tyrone Lambert had hissed as he and his younger brother took turns pulling his five sons off of Stanley.
Retarded? Stanley had thought as hot blood filled his mouth and agony exploded in his busted scrotum. Who da fuck he callin’ retarded?
“You better disappear, Pervert! Dis-a-fucking-pear, or I swear they’re gonna find one big, black, dead nigger in this alley tonight!”
The memory of the beating threatened to roast Stanley from the inside out. It weren’t even my fault! he whined to himself. Mr. Lambert’s niece was the pervert, not me! They shoulda’ kept her outta my face! All the time flouncing by me in those lil’ tiny skirts wit her ass hangin’ out ever’whare, fat white titties jigglin’ in those halter-tops! I din’ bother none wit her; it was she who was riling me! Anyways, she old enuf ta’ know what she want. She see a man what’s big ever’whare, and likes what she see. Like most wimmens, she go for it! Shit, fo’teen is old enuf to lick and to split!
Slow but not stupid, Stanley had immediately split the scrap metal business. He spent the next six months sleeping at the Y and panhandling on the streets until Eddie was able to hook him up with a job in the produce section at RICHARD’S.
Stanley checked himself in the mirror one last time. He posed with his hands in his pockets, then at his sides, and then again in his pockets.
“Fuck dem redneck Lamberts,” he mumbled as he walked from the lounge. “I look bettah in dis here monkey-suit than I did in dem rags they had me wearin’.”
Although the physical pain of that day had vanished, Stanley’s memory of it was still fresh and clear. And so were the mighty waves of desire that fueled his small, but growing problem. With his hands still in his pockets, Stanley giggled, then whispered out loud, “What’s long lak a carrot, but thicker’n a cucumber?” Fingering his rock-hard penis through the material of his pants, Stanley stepped into the crowded store and headed toward the produce department.
Paris pushed through the double doors of RICHARD’S Superstore and entered the shopping area in full stride. Her freshly permed hair bounced around her shoulders and framed her pretty features and heart-shaped face. The digital clock above the doorway read 10:22 a.m. and, if she planned to make it to the gallery by lunchtime, she’d have to get her ass in gear. Damn! She twisted her lips in annoyance, then yanked a metal cart from a tangled jumble near the door and made her way up and down the aisles, tossing items into her cart without much thought.
Pausing in the produce department, Paris squeezed a few lemons and inspected a head of lettuce. Two large tomatoes, a bunch of ripe bananas, a bag of purple onions, a small green pepper, and a bag of croutons completed her selection, and a few minutes later she stood in front of a young Hispanic boy wondering why in the world she was there.
“I said, paper or plastic?” the boy repeated, chewing a wad of gum. Paris blinked several times before answering. She licked her lips and scratched her earlobe. “It doesn’t matter,” she finally answered. She reached into her pocketbook and found her wallet. “But I want my groceries delivered.”
“Not a problem,” the cashier replied, and blew a huge bubble. The scent of Bazooka flooded Paris’s nose as he handed her some change along with a pencil and a small yellow notepad. “Just write down your address.”
> The interior of the room swam in slow, crazy circles.
Paris shook her head, desperately trying to make sense of the pounding in her skull and the fluid gushing from her nostrils. The last thing she remembered was coming home after shopping at RICHARD’S, changing her clothes, then going down to the basement to get the complimentary print she planned to donate to the gallery. She pressed a manicured hand to her nose and it came away bright red.
“You gon’ stay down, Bitch? Or am I gone hafta fuck you up again?”
Agonized, Paris forced herself into a sitting position with her back against the wall, then gathered her legs beneath her and attempted to rise. Her canary-yellow Donna Karan suit was stained with splotches of blood and a multi-colored array of paint that had splashed down on her when the stranger slammed her into the easel head first, breaking her nose. And now the storage room—thanks to William a.k.a. her art studio—was in shambles. Paints and papers were scattered across the floor like a gale wind had swept through. A male voice grated at her ears.
“Oh, you tryna git up? You’s about a hard-headed bitch, huh?”
The stranger raised his fist and threatened to deck her again, even from the other side of the room.
“… W-w-wait a minute, please… what do you want from me? Who are you…?” Her heart pounded and the high-pitched whine in her voice made her feel sick.
“Bitch!” the stranger exploded, jumping over the felled easel and knocking huge stacks of paper to the floor. “Don’t you wurry none ’bout who the fuck I am!” He wound her hair around his fist and yanked her head back until she thought he’d pop her spine. “Jes’ shet the fuck up,” he barked, slapping her first open-handed and then backhanded, “an’ take off dem goddamn clothes!”
Take off my clothes? Paris thought through a cloud of hazy pain. Who the hell was he? Some overgrown junkie looking for a hit? No, maybe that gambling son of a bitch had jerked this fool out of some money. Maybe this giant of a man had come looking for William and found her instead.
Did this motherfucker just tell me to take off my clothes?
Her mind raced. How did this fool get in my house? What in the hell does he want? And why is he dressed in a RICHARD’S uniform? Formulating answers was out of the question. Her nose was swollen and throbbing and he had her head crammed back in an agonizing position. The last thing Paris saw was his huge fist as it came crashing down toward her face.
And then her world went dark.
Stanley dragged her limp body across the room like a rag doll. His breathing was heavy, though not from exertion. The basement was cool and dimly lit, and he headed toward an ancient sofa pushed catty-corner against the V in the far wall.
She didn’t weigh more than a minute and Stanley hauled her over stacks of paintings, boxes containing old magazines, milk crates filled with Motown favorites, and Maxwell House coffee cans crammed with soiled paintbrushes. All the while, he cursed and swore.
“Shit ever’whare! Bitch come in da store smellin’ fine an’ lookin’ sweet, an’ here her house is a pure mess!”
He reached the sofa and sat down heavily, his weighty frame sinking down into the worn foam cushions and his long legs splayed out in front of him. He cradled the lady between his knees and retrieved a switchblade from his back pocket. Placing the knife next to him on the cushion, he unbuttoned and unzipped the starched pants he’d so proudly stepped into that morning. To his delight, they still held a crease, and only a trace of dust was visible on the heavy brown fabric.
He let the lady slide to the cement floor as he stood up and kicked off his heavy boots. Then he stepped out of his pants, freed his erection, and pushed his boxer shorts down to his ankles. Seated once again, Stanley gazed at the unconscious woman on the floor between his legs. He’d seen her in the store many times before, always carefully choosing her vegetables as if they were potential lovers. This bitch was hot. The way she massaged the oranges and kneaded the ripe peaches told him she had passion.
Once he’d masturbated behind a huge stack of crates as she fondled and stroked the dick-sized cucumbers he’d placed on sale that day. He could have sworn she’d licked her lips and looked directly into his eyes as his force gushed into his palm in a warm, sticky flow.
She wanted him.
And he wanted her. And he promised himself he’d have her.
As luck would have it, Kyle, one of the day shift delivery boys, had called out sick with the trots and since Stanley had finally earned the right to wear a RICHARD’S uniform, he was asked to fill in for him. When the lady entered the store, Stanley followed her around with his eyes. He watched her pay for her groceries, and as soon as she began writing down her address, he ran over and volunteered to make the delivery.
She lived on Gunhill Road, an uphill bike ride from RICHARD’S, and the older guys were happy to let him have it. With her forty-seven dollars’ worth of groceries filling the basket in front of him, Stanley quickly pedaled the two miles to her two-story brick home. An ivory Mazda 626 was parked in the lady’s driveway and, on impulse, Stanley tried the driver’s side door.
It opened.
Bitch gots ta’ be mo’ careful!
Quietly closing the car door, Stanley stepped onto the tidy porch and twisted the shiny brass doorknob.
It turned.
Stealthily, he entered the house. The sounds of Luther Vandross immediately filled his ears, just as they’d muffled his entrance. He let his primitive eyes scan the spacious room. Unframed Black art and African masks hung on nearly every wall. Low-seated oak tables supported sculpted figures of ebony natives, meshed and locked in passionate positions. Soft, buttery leather furniture gave the room a comfortable feel.
When a quick search of the ground floor proved fruitless, Stanley scratched his head. Where could she be? Should he try upstairs, or should he go down? Since the music flowed up from the basement, Stanley headed in that direction. Tiptoeing like a church mouse, he started down the narrow stairwell.
Shadows cloaked the dim, unfinished basement, and a light shone from a room off to his right. With his back against the wall, Stanley sidestepped gracefully until he reached the lit room.
He peered around the corner.
The lady was bent over a large stack of art paper attempting to free a sheet from the bottom of the heap. Why’ont she jes grab one from de top? Stanley pondered before filling the room with his presence. He swung his mallet of a fist in a perfect uppercut, catching the lady flat in the face, the force of his blow lifting her tiny body backwards and into the air.
She hit the floor and before she could open her mouth to scream, Stanley seized her throat and flung the tiny creature across the small room. Her head slammed into an oversized wooden easel and she crumpled to the ground in a silent heap.
There! She lay quiet in a disheveled pile. Tame and cooperative. Just how he liked them.
And now, Stanley’s large hands stroked the soft hollow of the lady’s throat as he imagined how far he could thrust himself down there. He was willing to bet she could hold a lot more of him than that cock-teasing teenaged niece of Mr. Lambert’s did.
He looked at the lady. It was time for her to wake up and get to working on his small problem that was actually quite large indeed. Stanley bent over her still form and proceeded to awaken her.
Pain exploded in Paris’s left thumb. From a great distance, her brain managed to register the agony and nudge her body into action. Instinctively her thumb sought refuge in her open mouth, but then an identical fire attacked her right thumb.
Paris shrieked, closing both hands into fists, her blazing thumbs tucked inside. It took her a moment to realize what he’d done. To realize that the stranger had used the jagged tips of his own nails to pierce the tender flesh beneath her thumbnails, digging deep enough to draw blood and restore her to consciousness. This was an old trick someone had once told her would work well, if you needed to rouse a wino.
It worked well for her.
Paris’s face felt like
a disfigured mask of agony. The slightest movement caused nearly intolerable waves of pain. Stunned, she realized that she’d somehow lost control of her bladder and soaked through her pants.
From the swollen slits of her eyes, her gaze traveled the length of the man sitting before her. He was roughly the size of a well-fed giant.
“You reddy now, Baby?” he asked with a sickening grin. “You gon ack right?”
Act right? Was he crazy?
Using his thick knees as leverage, Paris attempted to push herself away, trying in vain to scoot backwards and away from the half-naked stranger.
“Come back heah, Bitch!” he exploded, snatching his switchblade with one hand and yanking her hair with the other. Paris heard the switchblade click open, its cool metal glinting dangerously in the partial shadows, and she peed again.
Fear paralyzed her. Her breath clawed from her throat in short, harsh pellets as the stranger forced her to kneel between his massive thighs. With the knife blade pressed at her throat, he jammed her face into his foul-smelling groin.
“Pretend lak it’s a Popsicle.” The stranger giggled, slapping his dripping, monstrous erection against Paris’s ear and then guiding it toward her mouth. “A sweet an’ juicy red, white, an’ blue, Bomb Pop!”
Paris closed her eyes. Her stomach clenched and twisted at the smell coming from him. When was the last time this fool had washed his ass?
Stanley repositioned his weapon. The edge of the knife bit against her windpipe and immediately a small band of blood appeared and white-hot pain encircled her neck.
Her back stiffened and her eyes flew open.
As her face loomed closer to the strange man’s dick, waves of acrid bile rose in her throat and threatened to drown her. Paris fought the dizzying sensation, swallowing and gasping around her terror until she feared she’d explode. A fat drop of semen seeped from his dick and Paris found herself engulfed in a boiling rage.