Page 3 of The Killer Cupcake
Could he survive losing her again?Would he?
Should he even try to keep her, knowing what he'd faced, what he'd done?
Should he?
Or should he let the Wolf of Harlem take over? Lock her away, go after his daughter next. Steal them from their lives, family, and identity. Give them a new one. His baby girl, Sandra, would forgive him for his sins. Of that, he was sure. But his Kathy? Her memory was as long as the Nile. She’d never let him get away with it, unless he gave her no choice. So, it was decided. No matter the punishment or consequence. He’d keep them both with him, always.
Breathing in her scent, memories crashed over him. The soft weight of her pussy when she rode his dick, the molten heat of her sex when he was inside of her, and his cock stretched, reached deep into her soul.
The plunge she took with her jezebel moves as her nails cut red stripes across his chest as she fucked him good, perfect in every way. The rise and fall of her breasts, once small before childbirth, but perfectly perfect after, as she arched back in abandon, lost to everything but breath and sensation. How her nipples swelled to the size of grapes when her neck stretched and her head dipped further back, and breathing was a labored chore for them both. The way their lovemaking stripped him bare of pretense, quieted the chaos in his mind, and anchored him to something real. Something sane. Their bodies had always spoken truths their words couldn't manage. His hands began to undo the tie to her cover-up. She stirred. His palm eased down to her bikini bottom. She moaned. His middle finger slid through the hairs over her pussy to slide between the plump lips of hersex and touch the dewy love button at the hooded center. She shuddered. Eyes opening. She moved to stop him. He put a hand over her mouth to silence her and let his finger go in.
She struggled at first. Modest. Not wanting to be seen.
“Shhh… don’t fight me. They are right there. They’ll hear, they’ll see,” he whispered.
Her eyes stretched upward, and she peered at a few crew members inside, setting up what would be lunch for them. If she made a noise, they could look their way and see her half-open robe, and his hand in her bikini bottom. He pumped his finger in and out of her channel as his erection pressed hard and long against her butt. Kathy’s eyes fluttered shut.
“Mmmm,” he moaned. He wanted her. More of her. All of her. Just in case this was the last time.
Kathy surrendered. She opened her eyes when he began to masturbate her clitoris with the precision only he could do to make her cream. She stared at the workers, praying they would not look as she shuddered and kicked her feet, then her eyes fluttered shut again. The new wave of heat and ecstasy crashed through her vagina up into her core all at once.
“Let me in,” he whispered and licked her ear.
She wanted to object, but he had her. There was no escape. If the ladies doing the cleaning looked over, she’d be mortified. She dared to open her eyes again.
They were gone.
She relaxed, and her bikini bottom was ripped off, and he was fucking her from behind. Surrender was her greatest reward.
CHAPTER 2
THE FIRST LIE | NEW ORLEANS 1950
Kathy, baby girl,
Got your letter. It made me smile wider than a cottonmouth in August. Of course, you forgive me—we Elliott girls always do forgiveness after a proper punishment. Come on down, sugar.
I know about Carmelo's fight. The Marcellos own this city. Boxing, gambling houses, and even the music breezing out of the windows of the French Quarter at midnight. Sicilians got all the keys to all the doors that matter. My Boanno does business with 'em, so yes, it's all set. But you listen to your Tante Janey. Be careful chasing that boxing boy around in the South. These Sicilians smile with their teeth and cut with their lies.
Oh. In your letter, you mentioned the Klan? Des sauvages. Carmello must have warned you. The Klan's beenraising holy hell since the Marcellos started skimming their protection money. Bombed three shops on Rampart last month—made it rain rosary beads for two blocks. Now they’ve got some corn-fed giant they're calling "The Cotton King" fighting your Carmelo. Word is, Nazi money's backing him. Even got some of our own people dancing to their tune for the right price. Shameful, but hunger and greed makes devils of us all.
Come to me in Tremé, ma petite. My house has got galleries sweeter than café au lait, and walls that know how to keep secrets. Nobody here asks questions unless they want the kind of answers that come with a side of my special candies. And Kathy, I’ll show you things while you’re here. Things that'd make your Harlem heart spin like a roulette wheel for the bayou instead.
Come before the heat makes everyone stupid and bloody.
The city's changing, chère. Prosperity of the coloreds in the Tremé done stirred up everything. White folks nervous, colored folks restless, and people like us—nous autres—we walking a tightrope stretched between heaven and hell.
Your Carmelo, he’s gonna need someone who understands the music between the notes, if you catch mymeaning. And you? You’re gonna need someone who knows how to love a man without losing herself to the fantasy. Because until you both face the world like all Elliot women do, you are a liar, and your love affair is just a dream.
It’s okay to lie, not for a man but to a man. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you the difference. Just come. Viens vite, before the summer heat makes me lazy.
Love you like gumbo loves rice,
Auntie Janey
P.S. - Burn this letter after you read it twice. I don’t want Big Mama getting a whiff of this plan. She mad at me enough. And bring that skinny shadow of yours—Willa?—as cover. Make up something, Kathy, but don’t let her or your love-sick Ely know you’re coming to Auntie.
Kathy crumpled the letter in her fist. She'd disobeyed—kept it instead of burning it. Janey's words always cut deep, layered with meanings that revealed themselves only after the third or fourth reading.
