Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“I have to give Lux the perfect rainy day before—” My heart won’t let me say, “Before I officially release her.” As I slide into the driver’s seat, a smile creeps up the left side of Burt’s face.
33
LUXURY
My infamous yellow-polka-dot pajamas rub abrasively across my skin. The once plush material will shred to pieces before my heart mends.
God, why did I say those stupid words? Why did I ruin the little of him I had!
I shrouded the mirrors in my bedroom with linen and towels or whatever else I could get my hands on. The few mirrors in the downstairs living room need to be blocked, but for Dad, I attempt to stay outwardly strong. Last night, I left my room to watch reruns with him of all the long-ago canceled shows Dad has saved.
This morning, I’ve showered and brushed my teeth. While completing the rote actions of dressing for work, I remember the shop is still closed because it’s a crime scene. I end up back in my pajamas.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling. It smells like rain, and I feel like death.
I shoulda closed the window. I had left it ajar to let in the fresh air, a subtle cue to continue breathing.
Around noon, the heavens open and sheds tears for my broken soul. A sob begins to form at the pit of my belly.
For all of Victor’s faults, the desire in his eyes decimated every harsh word I ever heard as a bullied child in grade school. While his hard body crushed mine, every perfectly laid defense I had was destroyed. I no longer yearned to be avoided or feared ridicule for my looks. I craved the feeling of his eyes on me, his hands skimming my flesh.
“Lux.” My dad’s muffled voice comes from the opposite side of my bedroom door.
I grumble, placing a hand over my mouth to stifle cries.
“Luxury, please open up. I made breakfast earlier. I got back from a quick walk, and you haven’t eaten. Let’s make peanut butter jelly sandwiches and play a card game?”
Dad’s coddling me like I’m a child. Is that what happened? Had Vic’s view of me changed? Did he come to realize I was too young for him?
Massaging my compressed throat, I raise my broken voice just enough to be heard. “Cramps.”
Seconds later, his footsteps recede. I clasp my pillow in my arms, curling into a fetal position. The dam breaks into another flood of tears.
“Momma, I need you,” I whisper as a drizzle patters against the window.
While growing up in Harlem, a vanilla-sweet scent wafted through the air while Momma baked to mend my heart or Dad’s frustrations. Sweets saved my life after I transitioned from elementary school to hear the same recycled, tired-ass freckle jokes in junior high. To think, I thought that sadness warranted the end of the world back then.
Today, I’m living through the apocalypse.
My phone vibrates on the side dresser. With a crushed soul, I lie immovable. It shakes and rattles before hitting the floor with a thud.
I plop my pillow over my head to drown out the second call and the rain’s tranquil patter against my window.
A while later, a melody interweaves through the window, calling my name. Literally calling out to me.
“Luxury. Luxury. Luxury . . .” My ear perks. That sounds like the trio of singers who often gather outside the shops around the area.
Luxxie, you’re one crayon short of an entire rainbow. Why would those singers be outside your window?
Well, I’ve tossed them coins when I can’t find a couple of dollars.
I tell myself to reach out to a psychiatrist—once I get out of bed.
The singing gets louder, and I pop up into a seated position. “What?”
A chill zips through my body as my bare feet touch the ground. I quickly slide into fuzzy slippers and huddle in my pajamas.
“Dear God, I’m not crazy?” I murmur while approaching the window. I press onto my knees at the window seat cushion to peer over the fire escape balcony and through the haze.
“So not crazy,” I mutter, glimpsing the dudes who might bring R&B back and Victor.
“Luxury!” He forks wet masses of black hair from a face I wouldn’t mind sitting on and strangling with my pussy.
Instantly, I zip to the side of the window into the darkness of my room. At a better vantage point, I watch Victor search the glass for any glimpse of me. “Go away! I don’t want to talk to you.”
The interlude ceases.
“Little One, come down, or I’m coming up.”
At least he gave me two choices.
“Give me ten,” I snap and close my window.
I kick off my pajamas, rushing into my walk-in closet to assess every item I own. My hands graze the sleeve of my favorite snow-white knit dress. The lavish cotton slips from my fingertips. Why am I putting my all into this? Especially for a man who has proved that he’s not willing to put in the same effort for me time and time again?