Page 33 of Roulette: The Madam

This is just a book to most.It’s art for me.

Myart. I’ve hadmytime. Haveyours.

happy reading

ONE

“I’m listening.”

“Eh– eh– Everything is in– in motion, El.”

“Let me know when the drop is made.”

“Su–su–sure thi–”

I ended the call, leaving Stephen and his speech impediment to tussle with the words coming from his mouth. Somewhere between his brain and tongue, they were lost in translation. Hadn’t the call been necessary, I wouldn’t have taken it.

Stephen was restricted to texts. Not because I wanted it that way, but because it was better that way. He preferred it and so did I.

The wooden desk drawer slid open with ease. I laid the navy blue Motorola beside three others. Dissatisfied with its position, I maneuvered it so that it was better aligned.

One inch in width.

One inch in height.

The distance between each phone mattered more to me than the phones themselves. They could easily be replaced. My sanity couldn’t be.

A nod prefaced the closure of the drawer, signaling my night’s end. The phones formed a rectangle. Two on the top row. Two on the bottom row.

I sealed the gap between the desk and the top of the drawer and stood to my feet. The hem of my tailored slacks lowered to meet my ankles. I unfastened the buttons on my sleeves and rolled them up my arm. My body’s temperature had risen slightly at the mere thought of the task ahead.

I stalked the length of the floor of my office until I reached the door. Once on the other side of it, I stared down the dimly lit hallway trying to conjure the words to uplift the only spirit I truly gave a damn about in this world.

But, still, without even one of the words forming on the tip of my tongue truly making sense in the moment, I continued. There was someone waiting for me on the end of that hallway. And though I didn’t have the words to say, they weren’t always necessary. My presence would have to suffice this time. I was almost certain it would matter more.

My fifth prayer of the day led me to my knees where I placed my hands in front of me, palms upright, and bowed my head. I wasn’t a devout Muslim like my Arabic mother or father, but my upbringing instilled habits, routines, practices, and morals within me that were direct reflections of Islam.

“Ya ‘iilahi, ‘aet alsalam liqalbiha warasiha waruhiha,” I prayed.

Dear God, bring peace to her head, her heart, and her spirit.

“Alsalam ealaykum warahmat allah wabarakatuh.”

Peace, mercy, and blessings of God be upon you.

Back on my feet, I strolled down the hallway with thoughts of my mother on my heart. She and my father were aging beautifully. Their home in The Highlands of Berkeley City, Huffington, was everything they’d imagined. It was my pleasure to provide it.

Though I didn’t spend as much time with them as I’d prefer, visits to Berkeley City were impactful. I never left the city without a full stomach and heart. My mother’s love was so plentiful that she could hardly contain it. She poured into me continuously during my stays. I never returned home the same man I’d walked into their dwelling as.

Knock.

Knock.

My knuckles tapped against the wood as I pushed the door open, slowly. A round face, sad brown eyes, and pursed lips stripped me of every barrier I’d built to survive in the jungle we called life. Pretty brown skin lured me toward the bed where I stood over my daughter.

“What’s up, pretty girl?”

Malaya stared up at me, hesitating with her response. A shallow breath left her mouth as she closed her eyes and shook her head.

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