Free A Test of Love: Interracial Erotic Romance (Chasing Love) by Kenya Wright

saying that she would burst out in tears at any given moment which disrupted the class each time.
    O-kay.
    Next were her psych files. That served as the bulk of the binder. Large envelopes stuffed with flimsy papers. Charts and graphs from several tests that had been done on her, even a few X-rays of her brain. Damn. This is what good health insurance gets you, huh? Without knowledge of psychology, I couldn’t decipher through the doctors’ squiggly notes. It was like a maze of words and statements that together meant nothing and separate confused me even more. Lots of stuff came up as I browsed through those sheets.
    Possible post-traumatic stress disorder from a major event that she refuses to discuss.
    Continuous nightmares that deal with her as a tiny mouse trapped within a scientist’s lab, but she can never describe his or her face.
    She has a fear of copper so extreme that she faints if it is brought around her.
    I placed her records on the table. I’d have to let Jazz use her Harvard brain for some of this. I didn’t trust Chase to be real with me, not when he’d lied about the location of the files. Lucy’s medical records came up next. She had undergone typical physical examinations. Again, I wasn’t up to date on what should be there or not, but everything looked normal. I’d had most of the same things done in jail—blood tests and what not. What caught my eye was the only thing out of order, this thick discussion on reconstructive surgery called vaginoplasty.
    What did she have done, something to her vagina? Please tell me this isn’t really about this girl’s vagina.
    I read on and discovered I was right. There was explanation on the procedure focusing on her vaginal canal and its mucous membrane. The doctor went on to use words like genital enhancement and labia reduction. There were further descriptions on how excess vaginal lining had been removed and that the surrounding soft tissues and muscles had been tightened. The last notes declared that she would never be able to have kids, but could experience a functioning sexual life. I checked the dates of the surgery’s notes along with her age and realized they’d reconstructed her vagina at thirteen.
    What happened to you at thirteen, baby girl? Something fucked up I bet.
    No wonder Jazz suspected her. A kid going through stuff like that could be a monster of an adult. Why the government never regulated parenting, I would never know. Why not focus on the one thing that could determine whether the United States would be filled with criminals or intellects, killers or inventors? Not this country, they ignored our youth, gave most the crappiest education they could provide no matter what ZIP code the child lived in.
    Sighing, I checked more of Lucy’s binder and placed it to the side. For now, I knew all I could. Lucy had some fucked-up shit happen to her at thirteen that she’d refused to tell her psychologist. But it obviously stemmed from sex in some way. She had to get her vagina redone, for god’s sake! That didn’t sit right in my gut. Something messed up happened to her body as a kid, and it couldn’t have been any accident. The perpetrator had wanted to mess her up. And as rich parents did, they took her out of her boarding school and spent the rest of her life hiding it.
    I yanked out the other two broads’ binders, Wendy and Dawn.
    Jazz and Viv have it in for Dawn.
    I did a quick check of Dawn’s binder. It was the smallest of the four. Each note was typed and brief, nothing nowhere as exhaustive as the others. Not even as detailed as my sister’s had been.
    Wasn’t Dawn the head chick in that arrangement? She’s probably the one that came up with the binder idea to begin with.
    Dawn’s binder looked like a biography about an idolized person. Loads of cute baby pictures, yet no birth certificate or medical records. A few report cards hung inside, but not all of them, as if she’d been ashamed of the few bad grades she’d had.