Page 7 of Simply Complicated
Three
It’s hard to love your city when it’s constantly on the news.
The news broadcasters are nice enough to call it South L.A. so they can mean a broad term of cities. But everyone who lives in or close to L.A. knows South L.A. usually meansblack. Except now, it can also mean brown.
Once a week, there’s a shooting, a hit-and-run death, or some other bullshit that gets reported. I used to go jogging around the neighborhood during the afternoons until I heard there was a rapist on the loose. Now I go home and do yoga in front of my TV.
There’s a lot of good in the neighborhood that doesn’t get reported like how the dance academy just went to Spain and performed in front of kings. Or how every Saturday, there’s a small Leimert Village farmer’s market where I can get the best white sage in town and listen to African drums.
Good news doesn’t make people tune in at night. It’s the drama. The anger. The rage. The pity. Who wants to turn on the TV and hear about a good story of kids selling lemonade to buy a puppy when they can turn the channel and watch another police-involved shooting?
I think about the differences of my city and wonder why in the hell would a guy like Savior actually want to come here? It’s not like he can never get a date. I have Google alerts set up on him and trust, his fan club grows by the day.
He’s very popular in the wealthy segment of the country. After all, a billionaire’s son is bound to make him a hot commodity. I read he was also featured in a listing of most eligible rich men and I’m sure all of the golddiggers’ secure the bag scheme went up like a flag on Independence Day.
There’s something amiss about the arrangement Savior is proposing, as if it’s too good to be true. And of course, we all know if it feels that way, it’s more than likely a possibility. Still, I have to wonder, why would Savior go through the trouble of sending me to college when he could’ve just left the sex part out.
I want to fuck you, Keisha. Hard. Fast. Slow. All night. Quickies. In my office. At your house. Everywhere.
His declaration burns in my memory like an open flame and I don’t want to extinguish it. Not now or ever. I can still feel his lips as they parted my cleft and sucked on my budding clit. I can remember his fingers exploring my body. As I received yet another Google alert about him, I open it and shake my head.
There was Savior and presumably, an ex-girlfriend.
It was a recent photo and it looked like they went to a gala of some sort. He’s sharply dressed in a tuxedo and she’s wearing this gorgeous red gown that probably came with a comma between the numbers.
She’s a white redhead. The realization stuns me like a Taser.
As I go through more photos of Savior at past galas, he’s never showed up with someone with darker skin. There was one girl would could’ve passed for Indian (dot, not feather). Another gala he went with a woman who had what I like to call the Debarge – she’s biracial but she looks Latina.
I don’t know if Savior goes to these things because he’s expected to or if it just another way to keep the press entertained on his love life while he handles legal cases. All I know is that he’s about to take a drug dealer’s daughter to the fancy ball and there’s no amount of glass slippers in the world that will make this all right.
Ninety days. That’s all I’m giving him.
~~~~~
“‘Face,” Daddy greets me with a big hug and smile. Looking every bit like Idris’s doppelgänger, Prince Daryn Jones is the man who has always had my back no matter what day.
He named me angel face when I was a baby because I reminded him of a cherub. Over the years, it’s been shortened to just ‘face, but it’s all love, no matter what. I’m the only girl out of four children he has with two different women so I get a bit extra attention.
My Daddy isn’t the typical dad, unless the typical dad is a drug dealer specializing in opioids. My daddy used to sell weed until he heard how white people would practically sell their newborns for a hit of meth. He’s never looked back.
My daddy is a drug dealer with morals, though. He won’t ever sell to the black folks but he has no problem if Becky and Tyler from Malibu want a Xanax. His justification is something about getting his 40 acres and a mule one way or another.
He built his rep being ruthless in Inglewood before he moved on. My father was known to get an enemy’s mama, sister, and auntie high on drugs to prove he runs everything in Inglewood. He never did get out of the game, but he’s definitely not as hardcore about it like he used to be.
It’s why everyone still respects him and why Jalen, for whatever reason, wants to be like my daddy. The difference between Jalen and my daddy, however, is my daddy is quiet about his gangsta. Jalen, on the other hand, is that type of nigga who thinks being the loudest in the yard makes people respect him more.
One thing my daddy has definitely taught me – if you’re going to be loud, don’t be wrong.
“I haven’t seen you since you started your internship. I was wondering if you were so used to the fancy white folks in downtown, you forgot about your poor old daddy here in Ladera Heights.” He chuckles.
“Now, you know I could never forget about my number one,” I give my daddy a big hug and we sit down in the living room to watch the Lakers game.
There is nothing poor or cheap about Ladera Heights. The wealthiest of black families live there and it’s not uncommon to see athletes, celebrities, and CEOs walking their dogs. But that’s my daddy’s sense of humor. He’s always had a depreciating side that made me realize he never takes life too seriously.
“Where’s Ashley?” I ask.
My daddy motions behind him past the stairs. “She’s showering up. We’re getting ready to head to a steakhouse in a minute. She just landed a big account so I’m going to treat boo-thang and take her out shopping for some new jewelry.”
