Free Unconditionally Single by Mary B. Morrison Page B

then raced to the car, got in. I closed the top and we drove the fuck off.
    There was a reason I gravitated to Benito. A reason bigger than the fact that we were friends while he played college football, that he was my only friend, that both of my parents were deceased, and although I had a son and twins on the way by Summer, a nigga felt empty inside when I was with her. How could I have no feelings for my wife, my seeds? I think it was because the few days I’d lived with Summer after she’d bailed me out of prison, I witnessed my son Anthony was a fucking mama’s boy. He needed to man the fuck up but his mommy kept babying his ass. Made my son soft and shit, like he was a bitch. “Yes, mommy. No, mommy. Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy.” I hated that shit. Benito was all I had.
    Now that my whores were no longer loyal to me, Benito made me feel not so alone in this fucked up world. He gave me someone I could control. I’d come to the realization that after my mother died, a part of me hated every woman except Lace. What I didn’t know was why I hated women so much. Maybe I was attracted to Lace because that bitch was the epitome of womanhood but exemplified the strength of a man.
    My mother wasn’t hard but she was a good mom, a loving and nurturing mom. I thought she’d live to see my kids, see me walk the stage in high school and get my diploma and shit. Why’d she have to die so soon? My dad, he was cool with me but he wasn’t a man. Not a real G. He’d done whatever my mother told him to do. When she died, he died until I buried him beside my mom. I had to get off this sob shit that was making a nigga soft.
    Benito reached into his pocket, pulled out a lot of ones and fives. “Yeah, boyie.”
    “You done good, nigga, count that shit. See if it’s enough to get us a cheap motel room. We need to take these tags off this bitch-ass car and lay low until Grant calls.”
    “One hundred and thirty-seven dollars and sixty-two cents,” Benito said.
    “Good job, my nigga. You keep the sixty-two cents,” I said, taking the dollar bills from him while driving down Piedmont Avenue.
    We passed the botanical gardens. I tried to see that fuckin’ area where that bridge had collapsed and killed a worker. What a fucked up way to die, on the job. I kept going, stopped at the light at Monroe Drive, made a left, made my way into the Ansley Mall parking lot.
    “Where we going, V?”
    “Publix, nigga. Where we’re staying, there won’t be no room service.” I parked in the middle of a long lane near Pier 1 Imports. We got out of the only red fucking convertible in the entire lot. “Check the remaining minutes on this prepaid bitch.” I handed the phone to B. I should’ve gone to Ansley Wine Merchants and loaded up on alcohol but we were so fucking broke, we couldn’t afford it.
    “We have twelve minutes left on the phone. Let me have a ten,” Benito said, holding open his hand. “I’ma go to Starbucks and get me one of those ice cold frappuccinos.”
    I grabbed his shirt. “No, nigga, no. You need to stay with me.” I couldn’t risk letting that nigga out of my sight for one second.

CHAPTER 12
Honey
    W as I my sister’s keeper?
    The last time I’d been that close to a dead body was at my sister’s funeral. The woman in the back of the van was naked. Stiff. Eyes wide open. Mouth taped shut. What was her story? Every woman had one. Some didn’t live long enough to say. Others lived a century but refused to tell. Did men make women mutes? Beside her precious body, a muddy shovel, a slate tombstone, artificial red roses with long green plastic stems in a white plastic vase.
    Two for one? A package deal? Was Ken planning to bury us together? Make me dig my own grave? Why should I care about her? Too late to save her. Maybe she was better off. Who was I to say? Didn’t want to get involved. Have the cops questioning me, considering me a suspect. Best to keep quiet. I had my own plethora of problems.
    “Ken, who