CHAPTER EIGHT

Wake Up!

At 11:20PM, Mechelle was situated on a rickety wooden bench, under a swinging sign that read “BUTNER, N.C.” A halogen lamp above the sign attracted various insects that bounced on and off the lamp window. The 70 degree weather would have been bearable, except Mechelle had to constantly shoo the flying, buzzing annoyances from her face and legs. She wanted to move from the light, but the spot where she sat had become warm from her behind. She decided to remain there until the next bus pulled up. Maybe she’d take a quick stroll later.

Otherwise, the climate was calm. The environment was still. There was no more sleep left in her, but she tried awfully hard, pulling her legs up to her breasts and propping her forehead between her kneecaps. Mechelle squeezed her eyes tight, looking to create designs in the darkness of her eyelids. All she could envision was an empty lot to the side of the Greyhound station. An ice machine with a padlock securing the door. A sign, erect at the entrance to the terminal: JD’S REST AND GO. Mechelle wondered if the old fart who locked her out was J.D. There was a red and blue Greyhound logo at the top portion of the sign, and all that did was make things worse—does Greyhound know the type of people they partner with? A Coke machine stood tall at one side of the bench she occupied. The entrance to the station was to her right with shades pulled down on the inside of the glass doors. The loud red sign wedged in the door was a harsh reminder of the bastard who locked her out earlier. CLOSED.

“Asshole.” Mechelle cursed him for the 50^th time.

The station was shack-like with a shingled roof stretching over Mechelle’s head, just enough to shield her from any potential rain. But no hint of that tonight. Her view of the silent, moonlit sky was a pleasant one, even though she was just bored of looking at the stars. Now, she was no astrology student, but these stars seemed to be saying something to her. What, she couldn’t say. And, if listening to stars wasn’t driving her crazy, then the trees were next, since every other inch of her surrounding was occupied by trees, trees and more trees!

As the midnight hour came around, halfway through Mechelle’s frustrating wait, she began to hear some humming in the distance. Moments later, the humming turned into muffled tones, and then voices. She wondered where they were coming from. People? People! Mechelle lifted her head and looked towards the left and right of the main road. A slight tremor in her chest warned her of possible danger, but she felt it too late to run and hide as three figures came into eyesight. It was dark, and they were merely shadows for a time, but Mechelle was quick enough to know they were white men. She wondered if it wasn’t she who was being the suspicious one. But nonetheless, she returned to her seat and remained there as still as a cat with her eyes begging for compassion.

“Lookie there, Bo. Somebody’s over on J.D.’s bench.” Mike was the first to notice Mechelle. He was also the youngest of the three white men. A delinquent since his early teens, Mike was a pimple-faced eighteen-year-old now. With the crew cut, spectacles and thin build, he maintained a schoolboy appearance. But inside of his head he was conjuring plans like shooting his high school principal and some of the other wiseasses who graduated without him. He even figured to use Bo’s rifle to do the job. However, the plan was on the backburner for now, still leaving him with the images of suicide and his own body falling on top of a small pile of 10 or 15 other dead bodies.

“Yep. That’s a somebody, alright. Ifn’ it ain’t a greezy ole groundhawg, it might be a lil’ ole nigger-girl.” Bo was the heaviest of the bar-room buddies. The local paper mill had laid him off just two months earlier. Meanwhile, he’d be sittin’ home with his mother or spending idle hours at the local tavern, making noise, creating conflicts or just bein’ plain ole lame-ass Bo. His beer belly was extra luggage, and he rarely kept good health or hygiene. So, his older appearance was but a lie since his neglect made him appear much older than 34.

“N’yall just hold on a cottn’ pickin’ minit now. The lil’ nigger girl might need some help sittin’ there all ’lone.” Jed was the eldest of the trio, at 42. He spoke real fast, like he was always on the run. He also earned himself an artificial limb as the contender of a tree-cutting contest, pulling and pushing a 6-foot saw against the county champ.

During the final seconds of the feat, with the stainless-steel blade glowing hot-orange from the friction, the champ lost his grip. Jed made the last pull out and down, he fell back to the ground, and in one quick, freakish motion, the scorching sharp blade melted halfway into his leg. The town of Butner and neighboring Daneville heard his hollers for almost 3 days after the accident. But that was 8 years back. It took a few years for him to get comfortable with the prosthetic leg, but he was never the same Jed that worked at the local hardware store; that happy dude who helped the elderly or who mowed the lawn. He just gave up and turned evil. He didn’t care anymore. Or as he would say it, “I don’ give a flyin’ fuck!” And from the time he emerged from the hospital, everyone looked at him differently, like he was an abomination. The champ on the other end of the big saw was Big Blue; a monster of a black man who Jed never did forgive. Jed blamed him and every other black person for the mishap.

And now, here they were, strolling along the road at the most awkward hour; Jed and Mike with their dirty blonde hair; Bo with his grassy, jet black mop. The three of them wore clothes that could’ve been thrift store specials; holes, stains and faded colors. They also carried the same rubbery, intestinal odor that you’d smell in the corner alley where men urinate. This mangy trio stepped off the main road and approached Mechelle as if they were lazy gunslinging desperados. But, really, all they were looking for was trouble.

“Hey, Bo, I gotta go piss sumpm’ awful.” Mike made a twisted face at the other two. Bo ignored him while Jed did the introductions.

“Hey, whatcha doin’ there, lil’ nigger-girl.” Jed spoke at his normal rat-tat-tat speed.

Mechelle didn’t catch most of what this hillbilly just said, although she did hear the “girl” part of his inquiry. She assumed that the older man was offering help.

“I . . . a . . . I missed the bus.”

“Idn’ that right,” one of them said, pouting as if concerned. Meanwhile, the same guy bobbed his head, appraised Mechelle from head to toe, and even seemed more comfortable now. Now, all three of them felt more comfortable easing closer—about 5 feet from where she sat. The boyish looking one propped his foot up on the wooden walkway in front of Mechelle.

“Where’s ya headed?”

“New York.”

“Idn’ that right. A little ole city nigger-girl.”

Mechelle heard all of that comment, with her legs still pressed up against her chest in an upward fetal position. Her arms and her jaw tightened. No words to express what she was thinking.

“Oh really?” Truth be told, Mechelle couldn’t believe what she’d heard and didn’t really know how to respond. If some of her school friends, or even her sister, were with her, she’d surely be singing a different tune to these meatheads. Oh, Mechelle could get loud and vulgar if she wanted to. Don’t get that twisted. But this wasn’t school, and she wasn’t at home. She was in Buttfuck, North Carolina, with no money, no friends, no help, nowhere.

“Yeah . . . sure.” Mechelle’s answer had an attitude. She slightly chuckled, but this was Mechelle’s way of replying to anyone who challenged her. She was always so instantly sarcastic. Even if this was a different situation, she was the same ole Mechelle.

“Oh, so you’s a funny city-nigger-girl, huh?” The heavy one turned things up a notch. Meanwhile, the slim one whispered to the older, balding, funny-walking man.

“Well, go the fuck on ’n piss, kid! What the fuck!” The older man spoke as if he was looking to reveal Mike’s big secret. Embarrassed, Mike looked around and then settled for the dark area behind the ice machine. He moved in a backwards motion, then turned to scoot to the spot. Just then, the fat one cursed him out again.

“Fuck-no, Mike. Comeer.” Mechelle was finally able to put a name to one of these faces.

Mike.

Mike hesitated at Fat Boy’s order.

“I said comeer!” Fat boy pointed at the porch where Mechelle was huddled like a rock.

“Whachawant, Bo? I gotta go.” Mike stressed his eyes down towards his zipper.

Bo. So, the fat one’s name is Bo.

“Alright, missy from New Yawk. Tell ya what. We’s gonna play a little game since you wanna be all smart-assy . . .” Bo guessed that this girl was trembling now, regretting the attitude she displayed. But he didn’t care a bit since the occasion was making his pecker harder and harder by the second. He wondered if her head was rushing like his was. Maybe that was just the beers fucking with him since they had just been to Joe Bob’s bar a mile away . . . since they were boozed up enough to feel a little above the law . . . and boozed up enough to not give a shit.

“Oh, don’cha be puzzled, little city-slicker . . . don’cha be scrrd cuz a few crackers done run up on ya. We’s a few good boys, we are . . . we just out to have a good ole time . . .”

At this point, Mechelle couldn’t hear any more. She was frightened, afraid for her life, and about to panic. She had no idea that these men were intoxicated, but even so, it didn’t make a difference. This appeared to be nothing less than their very own unprovoked, malicious actions.

Mike’s eyes widened, wondering what Bo was up to now. The last crazy thing that he had Mike do was to hotwire Joe Bob’s car and drive it into Kessler’s Pond when Joe Bob denied them any more credit. Credit was reinstated the next day, along with Bo’s ego. Ever since, he began exercising this notion that he was above the law.

“Alrighty then, missy . . . relax yo’self. Put your legs down like a nice little nigger-girl.” Bo eyeballed Jed as if he was planning to make him proud. Jed blinked unconsciously, in slow motion, while turning his head back towards the girl. Bo took that as agreement from the elder of the crew, then he twisted his head contemptuously towards the girl—zeroing in on his prey. And while these looks were being shared, Mike was simply bloated with piss. The girl was apparently procrastinating, exercising her belligerence, and Mike didn’t see what any of this had to do with him having to pee!

“Ah sayd, put yo’ fuckin’ legs down, bitch!” The man they called Bo emphasized his words, simultaneously pulling a palm-sized, 9 millimeter pistol from under his shirt. He stepped up on the wood platform and pressed the tiny barrel to Mechelle’s forehead. There was a burning sensation in her stomach now as her every limb shivered. She slowly let go of her legs, easing them down below her, sitting perfectly still with hands dropped to her sides on the bench.

Mike seemed to shrivel, and he dropped his shoulders to put his hands in his pockets. Both the older and younger sidekicks simply stared at Bo. But why did Mechelle sense that there was no stoppin’ this guy Bo from whatever he was gonna do?

“Mike . . . you said you had to go? So go.” The skinny one, Mike, quickly turned around to head for the ice machine, the piss just about to explode from him. “Nah, boy . . . here! Go here! Here, on the nigger-girl’s legs.” Bo looked toward Mike, with the gun pressing harder into Mechelle’s skull until it cocked back to its limit. No doubt, Bo wasn’t fucking around. Whatever he was getting to . . . however he intended to get his rocks off, it was about to commence.

Mike fumbled for his zipper and pulled it down. He reached into his pants and boxers as if he had to search for it; he grabbed his penis, exposing the twig-of-a-thing to the two others, and pointing it in the direction of Mechelle’s ankles, Mike stood there with his eyes squeezed closed.

Bo shoved Mike with his free hand. “Gowan’ . . . thought ya had to piss?”

“It’s comin’. It’s comin’.” Mike tried not to look at Mechelle and it was obvious that he never did this before. But all Mechelle could do was grovel before him.

“Please. Don’t listen to—”

“Shut up, city-slick bee-atch. Git’er, boy!”

Mike simply had to go. And go he did, with his steamy stream of urine hitting the girl’s bare legs and flowed down into her sneakers. She let a tear drop down her cheek, even if she remained still and somehow still proud. The urine was thick with fumes—a combination of rotten eggs and burnt rubber. It splashed about the porch under her while Mike looked over at Bo for acknowledgment. But Bo was steady smiling at Mechelle—getting his rocks off and still pressing the gun snug against Mechelle’s head. Bo was also breathing fast and heartily, realizing his own personal neurotic pleasure in the moment. The look at Bo threw Mike off in a way that caused his urine to change directions, now spraying Mechelle’s knees and thighs. He was taken aback by her expression, her tears flowing more rapidly now. Suddenly jolted by the expression on her face, the kid adjusted his direction, now almost a minute into his relief, and aiming back at her ankles as if that were the lesser crime. Once his rush slowed, he shook the remaining drops, then quickly tucked his assault weapon back into his pants.

Mechelle was distraught now, overcome with the lurid stench that was about her waist and limbs. She was breathing harder than a doomed hot air balloon and still trembling with fright. At the same time, the one they called Jed was wide-eyed and grinning with fascination. And now he added his two cents to the malice.

“Might as well leave it out, Mike. I got a feelin’ your virgin days is over.” Mike swung his head around to Jed, his zipper halfway up. He was outraged at Jed’s big mouth. Bo lowered the gun and stepped back to watch with his hearty laughter.

“Jed!”

“Don’ act like it ain’t so, Mike. Sheeet, the whole friggin’ town knows you’s a v, Mike! And you knows we known it all along. You’s a punk-pussy till you grown up to be a man. And you ain’t no man if’n you ain’t had no pussy.”

Mechelle’s body shook and shivered; she was no less than a shaved poodle deserted in a winter snowstorm.

“Please . . . stop this. Don’t dooo this. What did I do to you all?” she cried.

“Shut d’fuck up, nigger-bitch!” Bo’s piece of wood turned even harder at this point. He was in control here; likely the only thing he had control over other than his mouth. “Shoulda stayed your ass on the bus.”

“But please . . .” she said, but then she quickly suppressed her cries when Bo reached his pistol back over his shoulder as if to whip her.

“Shuuut uuup, nigger!” His words came out like a loud echo. And the utter fear raced through her at the thought of her dilemma.

“Git up.”

Mechelle pushed herself up from the bench and immediately felt the sticky wetness in her Reebok sneakers. Beads of urine continued to trickle down her calves. Bo flicked his pistol, indicating for her to move on, and the 3 men trailed Mechelle towards the Coke machine and then around to the lot at the rear of the station. Back here was a gas pump against the wall, a stack of used tires and some empty oil cans. Beyond the lot were trees and darkness. Mechelle considered running, but the thought of endless woods and her fear of bullets detained her.

Bo poked Mechelle to move faster, and in the moon’s glow, their four shadows were cast onto the station’s dirty white wall, all of them moving in unison so that the four bodies look like eight. When they got to the rear of the station they faced an old Bentley parked and rusting. The tires on the vehicle were flat, evidence of a decade’s worth of neglect.

“Open the door,” Bo ordered.

Mechelle obeyed, but the door was locked. Bo pushed Mechelle up against the car and her upper body bent over to the front hood. He pressed the pistol to her temple and smacked her wet ass with his full palm nearly covering her all.

“Keep your head on the car and don’t fucking move.” Bo turned the small handgun so that the barrel was extended from his fist. He pulled up the flap of his flannel shirt to cover the barrel—maybe to lessen the noise—and smashed the driver’s side window. With the glass scattered like crystal chips onto the front seat, Bo reached in and felt for the lever. But what he was reaching for was on the front seat along with the broken glass. He went for the back door lever and eventually got a door opened.

“Alrighty then . . .” All these sounds—the clicks and tugs and broken glass—were noises that continuously startled Mechelle, as if a knife was poking at her. She could feel the sequence of it all; the progress towards inevitable pain and peril. When it would end, she couldn’t imagine. But already, she felt as if there’d been hours of torture. Her tears had stopped and she became lost in the whole theme of events. Just going along as she was told.

Bo pulled Mechelle’s hair back and her body jerked back too.

“Get them pants down, bitch. And don’t give me any problems or you’ll get a slug in yer ass.” With the pistol again to her temple, Mechelle began whimpering. The piece of steel was starting to feel like an extension to her head, she was so conscious of it. She did as she was told. She pried her wet shorts and panties from her waist until they dropped along her legs to the dirt floor.

Mike stood by Jed, still with his zipper open and his inexperienced penis shriveled up and hiding inside. Jed pulled a half pint bottle of Jack Daniels from his back pocket and swigged at it. Refreshing himself.

“You fine’ly gonna get you some. Be a man, boy. Here, this’ll tighten ya some.” Jed pushed the bottle to Mike. Mike was as stiff and scared and speechless as his pimples. He took a swig and grimaced at the bitter strength of the liquor.

While Mike and Jed carried on, Bo was in his own world.

“This too,” said Bo, and he reached out to Mechelle, grabbed her denim top and pulled—hard enough for two of the three buttons to pop—so that the clasp of her bra was ripped and her left breast was exposed. Hype as ever, Bo pushed Mechelle back against the Bentley to observe.

“Gimme some . . .” Bo reached out to Jed for the bottle of Jack Daniels, then he threw his head back for a quick swig. Between drinks, Bo eyed Mechelle, as if to reconsider this event, standing with his legs spread chauvinistically, and the bottle pushing his head back and eyes to the sky. Meanwhile, standing naked in her soggy Reeboks, Mechelle was still that flawless, chocolate prize, humbled and scared before these local hicks.

“Now this is real simple, missy. You’re gonna take all of us and we’re gonna let you go like a good girl. In the morning you’ll forget all about us. Do the job right and you don’t get a cap in yo’ ass. Do it wrong, I’ll kill yer ass juss the same. Try anything stupid, I kill yer ass. And bitch, if you scream once, I’mma shoot you and then kill yer ass again . . . Jed. Give ’er some Jack.” Jed screwed his face a second until he met Bo’s eyes. Then he pushed the bottle to Mechelle.

“Take it, gowon.” Jed softened and handed the bottle over. Mechelle reached for the bottle and held it. She couldn’t decide if this was her chance—to break the bottle and start cutting everything in sight, or was this even threatening enough to save her at all.

“Drink,” Bo ordered. “All of it.” No choice in the matter, Mechelle put the whiskey to her lips and slowly sipped. Bo moved closer, not wanting to dilly dally, and he pushed the bottle up until Mechelle gurgled the liquor down. Some spilled about her lips and cheeks, dribbling down her body. Mechelle could only shed tears that slid down her cheek and neck, blending with the beverage, soaking into the skin about her shoulders and breasts. She felt so helpless and alone, wondering if praying would help. Wondering if anything would help. Her swallow was followed by a heavy, ripping burn.

“Okay. You git in the car first, Mike. And you take care of ’im like a good nigger-girl. This is his first time.”

As told, Mechelle crawled into the dusty cabin of the Bentley. The leather cracked under her knees. She didn’t hesitate anymore, and intended on submitting enough to at least get out of this alive. She was in too much shock to think about protection of any kind—she just wanted this to be over.

Just as Mike started after the girl, Jed pulled his shirt to slow him up.

“God sakes, Mike, drop yer drawers, boy. Ain’t no otha way.”

“But she’s . . . she’s a nigger, Uncle Jed.”

“A bitch is a bitch, boy. One day you’ll learn. Plus a nigger-bitch is better, ’cause she’s as good as a slave. She’ll just do any ole thing ya say. Just watch.”

Mike dropped his pants, leaving his boxer drawers on. With a doe’s eyes, Mechelle sat up in the back seat, arched by her arms and elbows behind her.

“Get in there in front’a her, boy . . .” Jed was calling directions. “. . . Now take his whistle out, girl. Gwon.” Mechelle did take Mike’s penis out, thin and limp as it was. She couldn’t ever remember feeling this inhibited about holding a man’s dick, even after 5 or 6 other men in her life. It was the thought of this kid’s innocence that eased her fears, but it also made her wanna puke. What harm could he do with this?

“Suck it . . . put ’em in your mouth and make ’em hard.” Mechelle leaned over to take him as he kneeled between her legs, there on the back seat. His tall body, head and shoulders were leaning, collecting cobwebs over top of her for lack of headroom in the car. Mechelle barely enclosed her lips over Mike’s grungy-smelling penis before he began to expand. All Mechelle could think of was keeping her tongue and gums away from his prick. But it didn’t help. She was quickly growing nauseous from the cruddy odor of his pubic hairs right under her nose.

Meanwhile, Mike’s eyes got bigger and more excited. If he stretched his eyelids any more, the sockets of his eyeballs could have held golf balls. Mechelle tried to steady him, attempting again to clasp his penis with her outer lips. Surely, he couldn’t know what a real blow job was. Instinctively, Mike held Mechelle’s head, pressing her closer to him. Now her tongue was flat against the underside of his prick. Eventually, Mike was moving about wildly, until Jed spoke up.

“Easy, Mike . . . easy. There’s more, kid. Show ’im more, bitch.” Now, Bo and Jed stood looking through the car windows like peeping Toms with their hands in their pants. Mechelle took the opportunity to remove Mike from her mouth. She let a mouthful of spit drool from her lips, oozing down her chin and chest. After a few deep breaths of mildewed air, she adjusted her body. Mike came down off of his knees and bridged his body over top of her. He was apprehensive about being face to face with a “nigger,” but he had also seen plenty of movies to at least know what went where.

Arching his upper body, Mike mashed his groin against her pubic area. Body to body, he began to rub around and around, applying more friction. Meanwhile, the audience outside was too preoccupied to know that there was no penetration here; they even square-danced around the car, laughing and drinking wildly. Inside, Mike was rocking on top of Mechelle. He was too frantic and desperate to realize that this was not sex. And this began to break the spell, injecting a bit of humor into the escapade. If this wasn’t so horrific and devastating, Mechelle might just have to laugh out loud at this young fool. Was this really happening? Was this guy actually coming closer and closer to orgasm?

Finally, there was a finishing point, with Mike ejaculating and letting out a cry of exhilaration. Mechelle found her tummy and waist dressed with a serving of the 18-year-old’s semen, while he slumped down onto her body. His face molded into her neck as if they’d been longtime lovers.

Seconds later, Mechelle pushed Mike up off of her thinking that the worst was over. He scrambled out of the car while she lay there propped up on her elbows, wondering when these three would leave her be.

Bo slapped Jed on the shoulder.

“Gowon, Jed. I want the bitch last. Sloppy, sloppy thirds.” Bo let out a big laugh as he buddied up with Mike, who was just recuperating from his part in the ordeal. Mechelle’s eyes squinted, suddenly aware that this was not over. And then she realized just what abuse was, now that the older man climbed on top of her. He felt scruffy and smelled of nicotine and whisky. He’d opened his shirt and merely pulled his trousers to his thighs. Jed reached between Mechelle’s legs, knowing what he wanted. He felt wetness, but didn’t know that it was only spent semen from Mike. Still, Jed wiggled his fingers around in the opening and seemed to be preparing himself at the same time with his other hand. Mechelle just lay motionless, crying, barely able to breath.

“Now don’t you worry, girly. This ain’t gonna hurt a bit.” Mechelle’s head began to pound, with the liquor and the raunchy stench taking her senses more and more. She was close to blacking out, but she was still aware that a total stranger was mounting her; inviting himself into her and violating her. The man’s fingers felt so foreign and impersonal inside of her. Then, without a moment’s notice, he was prying her open and entering her. And consequently, the semen that Mike left on her actually helped to ease the pain, with the gluey consistency actually making things slick and bearable. But the more Jed got into Mechelle, the bigger and wider he grew. She felt more than his potential as he expanded inside of her. Mechelle braced herself up against the opposite side of the car, holding onto the front and back headrests for support. Meanwhile, Jed forged himself again and again, getting harder and stronger with each of Mechelle’s whimpers. Mechelle began to moan and wail louder, even as Bo and Mike square-danced outside, the two of them celebrating Mike’s newfound manhood. It was at the same time that Mechelle “oohed” and “aahed” like an overdramatic porn star, only she wasn’t faking. She wasn’t enjoying the act, and yet the act was increasingly overcoming her as she endured every inch of his anguish, his abstinence and his hostility towards blacks.

“No . . . no . . . no,” Mechelle bawled. But Jed did not let up.

“Shut up, nigger-bitch—” With all of his issues on the front line, he continued thrusting and pumping this woman’s hole. It didn’t matter who she was. “—shut-the-fuck . . . up.” Jed pumped his anger deep, turning this stranger into his personal human dispenser for all those many shortcomings. And while her head thumped against the car door, Jed thought about Big Blue the log-cutting champ. Jed’s chest hairs were coarse, sanding her bare breasts as he thought about all the women who’d rejected him over the years. He gripped her hair with one hand and silenced her cries with his other palm over her mouth, pounding her and driving her as he thought about his missing leg. At that moment, he ejaculated, like a leak had cracked his pipe. He yowled and subsequently pulled out, his sperm still dripping onto her chest and belly. He worked his way up to Mechelle’s face until the two of them were crowded there, pressed up against the window of the back door, and he rubbed his penis in her face until she was painted with his semen.

“Yeeeehaww!” Jed shouted an eerie, howling celebration. He jumped off, adjusted his pants, and crawled out of the car, past Bo. Bo was rubbing his hands together in energetic, malicious anticipation. He poked the 9 millimeter into Jed’s hand and climbed into the Bentley.

Mechelle lay helpless as ever now, moaning there on the back seat. Both sets of her lips were swollen, and her eyes were rolling lifelessly in their sockets. Her arms and legs were strewn over the edge of the seat. Her calves and feet were dangling out of the open car door. She looked like an overdose victim; and still, they weren’t done with her.

“Please . . . no more. Please. I—I can’t . . . take any . . . more. I’ll do any . . . thing. But . . .”

WHACK! Bo smacked her with a swift, open palm.

He was already in the backseat, shirt off and pants to his ankles. His belly was pressed against her abdomen and he was volleying with her legs, lifting one up over the front seat and one over the back. Bo was going in like a tank and his victim was uttering her last chances for reprieve.

“Say ‘no more’ again, nigger-bitch. Say it!”

“No . . . more. Plee . . .”

SMACK!

Bo hit her again, leaving her cheek and jaw even more in-flamed and red.

“Say it again. I dare ya. Gowon!” Bo was ruthless. And now he had her on her back with her legs straddled and elevated as if she was ready to give birth. Her body was glistening at the mid-section, but mostly from the perspiration and semen of the previous visitors. Her body was also numb from so much pressure. So much abuse and pain. Bo could care less. He fondled himself to erection and pressed himself into Mechelle’s gooey vagina. She was loose now. Sticky.

Bo was short and stout. He held her one leg in place with his left hand and smacked her ass with the other. With each thrust there was a sigh from her lips. Bo was trying to make it exciting by the ass slapping, but she was too out of it to be revived. Not only was Bo raping her but he was also smothering her. His weight was so unbearable that she no longer sighed. Now, there were merely those effortless gasps for air that came from her mouth and lungs. Mechelle’s body was totally senseless now. No feeling at all. Her world was spinning and her eyes rolled back into her head until she was unconscious. She didn’t feel Bo ejaculate, nor could she feel any more of his smacks to her ass and face. She didn’t even realize the worst, that he had pissed on her face and body when he was done fucking her mouth.

Mechelle might as well have been dead.

The Morning After

At 6am, Mechelle woke up on a cot, with old man Riley holding a smelling salt capsule under her nose. His face came into focus, shaking Mechelle into paranoia. Because he was white, Mechelle associated him with her pain and torture of a few hours earlier. But Riley held Mechelle down, calming her as best he could. He told her that she’d be okay and that he was helping her, not hurting her. She looked around at what seemed to be a back room or office of some sort. There was a steaming cup of coffee on a nearby table. Some warm towels were in a bowl of water, plus she was covered by a clean white blanket. He reached again for a towel to dab on her mouth and cheek.

“You were a mess out there in the back this morning. I cleaned you up as best I could.” Riley smiled, but not selfishly.

Mechelle felt cozy, but if she budged at all there was that sharp pain between her legs. Her vagina was throbbing, and so was her cheek and mouth.

“Looks like you’re outta pocket here.” The man who said he was sorry had introduced himself as Riley; and now he was trying his best to strike up a conversation with Mechelle, perhaps wanting to relieve himself of the guilt he felt. Maybe, Mechelle wondered, there might even be grounds to sue the pants off of him and Greyhound.

When Riley found Mechelle at 6a.m. laying on the porch moaning, he knew that she’d been hurt and that it was his fault. So he took her inside quickly before anyone saw her. He didn’t call the sheriff, for fear that he’d be the talk of the town. Everybody would find out what a creep he was for what he did. Maybe he would even be implicated for assaulting her. So, Riley kept it all hush-hush. He cleaned her up with a hot bath, and she had 4 hours of rest. It was nearly 10 AM now.

When Mechelle realized who Riley was, she wanted to get away from him more than anything else. But she couldn’t. She accepted Riley’s complementary meals and TLC. When he was in the shop tending to a customer, Mechelle took it upon herself to dab the hot cloths on her pubic area and face. She’d already missed the 9AM bus. But, damned if she was gonna miss the next one at noon.

Her shorts were still damp from being hastily washed, but Mechelle wanted them back on her body. She began to stretch her limbs and eventually worked her feet into the shorts to pull them on. Riley walked in on her, not realizing that she was mostly nude and turned his head away.

“Sorry, missy . . . I thought you might like these.” Riley handed Mechelle a set of brand-new sweats. Fresh from the shelf in the souvenir area of the bus depot. The sweatshirt had a bold, scriptive black print against its pink color: “Welcome to North Carolina!” Mechelle thanked him with a somewhat sarcastic overtone. It was obvious by now that he’d seen Mechelle’s body through and through. But it was no time for quarrels or cursing. Mechelle just wanted to walk again, to be mobile and dressed and away from North Carolina altogether.

Riley left the room, leaving Mechelle to indulge in the newness of the sweatsuit, as though she’d just received a new cheerleading uniform and that it would brush away all the pain—not to mention, she felt like the entire high school football team ran a train on her. She did some stretching, some aerobics, and she drank a lot of the bottled water Riley had set beside the cot. Slowly, the headache disappeared. 11:30 came. Mechelle tossed her soiled clothes, pulled on some flip-flops, and she grabbed another blueberry muffin from the tray before heading for the door. Out in the station, Mechelle pretended that nobody was watching her. She noticed Riley at the register where a large variety of candies and cigarettes were displayed.

“Thank you for the food. I’m gonna wait outside—get some fresh air, ya know.”

“Here . . .” He passed some change to a customer and reached under the counter for something. “. . . I put this together for you.” It was a travel bag with various snacks, cakes and sodas. There was a towel and washcloth set and a number of other convenient feminine needs.

“Oh . . .” He passed her an envelope. “. . . and here’s a ticket so there’ll be no problem with the bus driver. Have a nice trip.” Riley offered a hint of a smile and Mechelle was less than appreciative. She waited outside the depot until 12 noon, determined not to look anywhere close to the left; where it all started. She just wanted to erase that whole encounter from her mind. She never wanted to come through here again. If she did, she wouldn’t be without a gang of girlfriends; girlfriends, weapons, and a wicked vengeance.

Mechelle snuggled and curled up in a rear seat of the Greyhound headed for New York. She sought sleep to maybe dream away the nightmare which she lived through. But she couldn’t trick herself. She leaned up against the window, gazing indirectly at passing images and reviewing the events of the previous night. She felt humiliated and used, hurt and violated. No doubt, this had been the most tragic night . . . the most tragic moment of her life. Mechelle wiped away a single tear.

After what felt like the shortest trip ever into New York City, Mechelle weaved through the sea of faces at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, suddenly facing new realities. She still had to find her luggage and her sister, Nikki. Nikki was to be waiting for Mechelle at one in the morning at the appropriate gate. But 1AM seemed like a history book away. And if she did find Nikki, what would she tell her? Would she notice the bruises? Ask questions? Get all nosey?

Mechelle wanted to keep whatever humanity she had left. If that dissolved, she could always cut her wrists.

Between 4:30PM and 5PM, Mechelle did her best to juggle 3 or 4 tasks; she had to learn to walk again, she had to find her luggage, and she had to get home. If she could manage all of that and maintain her sanity, the day might be a success. Life might just continue for her. Eventually, she roughed it, dealing with the sore feeling between her legs. At one point, she grabbed for her tummy. And the queasy feeling eventually made her toss up her breakfast.

After a momentary cleanup in the public bathroom, Mechelle pulled on a Southpole hat that Riley had stuffed in her bag. She fixed it low on her brow and headed off to look for the lost and found office within Port Authority. The attendants there told her to first go through the baggage area, just down the counter. Her most pleasurable sight in the past 24 hours, Mechelle immediately identified her bags. She unconsciously checked her pockets for stubs, but quickly recalled that they were in her shorts, the ones she trashed. Nonetheless, the attendants were helpful, asking her to identify a few items that might be inside the bags. She did, and they let her retrieve her property without I.D.

Mechelle got to a payphone and called Nikki’s apartment collect. No dice. Nikki’s phone would not accept collect calls. No long distance provider. Ghetto shit, Mechelle reckoned. Stranded again, Mechelle decided to rely on hope as she window-shopped at many of the terminal stores. Perhaps Nikki was around or she would at least return.

The New York terminal was impersonal. Nobody gave her a second look and nobody else seemed to care. It was evening, but Mechelle kept her sunglasses on. (Another of Riley’s souvenirs). Announcements were barked over a loudspeaker. Gate numbers and destinations droned and echoed throughout the corridors. Incoming and outgoing buses. People with shoulder bags, luggage carts, attaché cases and strollers, all of them rushing to and fro. The scent of sweet, roasted peanuts mixed with Cinnabuns and fresh popcorn in the air.

Mechelle parked herself next to a monstrous red contraption. Its iron foundations were glossy red like the skin on a cherry. Inside the four walls of glass there were simulated gumballs, the size of baseballs, sliding down rails, climbing up miniature conveyor belts to a high point and then twisting and turning down a colorful maze to a bridge. The bridge led the various balls over a mini pond until they repeated the entire process over again. With so much turmoil in her life, Mechelle watched the attraction in awe, amazed at the simplicity of the design and how the balls kind of resembled people; people who go through all kinds of twists and turns, ups and downs, only to go through it all over and over again, through the very same colorful, gigantic maze called life. Mechelle wondered where she was in that equation. But as she did, she noticed a man on the opposite side of the great big toy. He had his black hair tied back into a ponytail, and he was looking through the glass at Mechelle. Apparently, he’d been watching her all along; maybe ever since she was at the lost and found? Now he was moving in for a closer look. But Mechelle was too wrapped up in her own issues to give any more attention to her admirer.

Stranger

David was not a traveler, a wanderer or an employee at the nation’s biggest bus terminal. This was not his first time focused on a lost young woman either. David was on his usual stake-out at Port Authority. Looking for lost souls to benefit him in his own way. He knew what signs to look for in identifying lost souls. Moreover, his focus was not on just anybody. He was looking specifically for young, attractive women of color. There were some who he bought coffee for, took to lunch and helped with baggage. He forged relationships with those he considered to be aimless and vagabond since, in those cases, there’d be no challenge or demands for independence. Mostly, what he’d find was desperation, in whatever way, shape or form.

In a nutshell, what David was attracted to was weakness and convenience of lonely hearts who arrived in New York to make it big in entertainment. David befriended Mechelle in just that way, hoping to find out more about her. But he held back his sexual aggressions. That was always kept on the back burner—his ulterior motive. He sensed something different about Mechelle, and so he had to be cautious. Her eyes said a lot more than the average vagabond at the terminal. This chick had a sense of knowing and a sharp wit, however hidden under her current issues. There was a greater potential here; more than just sex. For now, David figured, Mechelle was at her weakest. He didn’t know why, but he suspected a shattered story of some sort. A tale that had some whup-ass at the end of it.

The two had coffee. Then more coffee. Then David offered Mechelle a ride to where she was going. Hell, she wanted to go to her sister’s apartment in Queens, but she didn’t even know where that was.

“I didn’t think to take down Nikki’s address because everything was set up for us to meet at Port Authority,” Mechelle told David. “But I always had an alternative. I mean, I could stay with my mother. But I can’t . . .” Mechelle didn’t want to say it—there was no way she could let her mom catch her in this condition.

“The truth is, David, I don’t have any place to stay right now.” Mechelle was critically frank. David comforted her by deliberating, as though he had a number of options. But he spoke up, not wanting to lose the opportunity.

“I take care of this building in the Bronx. It’s close to everything. Even the baseball games and the subway. There are a few apartments still vacant. The entire building was recently renovated. It’s nice . . .” David had every bit of Mechelle’s attention. “I work with the landlord. Good terms. I know you don’t have a job or money just yet, but I can get you in now, and we can work it out down the road, when you get on your feet.” David seemed sincere, without a hint of contempt or larceny, but any of this would work for Mechelle, considering where she came from and how much healing was required to get her life back in order. Finally, she could do nothing but melt in the presence of such good fortune. David was like some guardian angel with a ponytail, how he appeared in her life with such good news at this time of dire need. Maybe he was being nice. Maybe she’d have to be concerned down the road. Whatever. One sure thing was that this was her time of need, not a time to try and discover any possible underlying motives.

David felt he was impressive with his platinum Cherokee, perched up in the driver’s seat as cocky as could be. Dropping signs about his access to money, power and respect. Mechelle could have uttered a dramatic yawn, but she wasn’t herself at present, and she was certainly in no mood to be sarcastic. Not for a long, long time. She merely expected that David’s description of the apartment was another dream he was trying to sell her, a mirage that he cooked up with the help of his jasminescented jeep with its soft reggae sounds consuming them.

“Okay, if you don’t believe me, just watch and see,” said David as the two zoomed up the West Side Highway, onto the Cross Bronx Expressway and a few exits up the Major Deegan throughway until they pulled up to the building on Locust Avenue. The complex was stupendous at first glance, even in the dark. Actually, there were two buildings joined together by a big courtyard. The entrance was secured by a tall, black wrought-iron gate and a lock that was combination controlled. David helped Mechelle with her bags, leaving his truck double-parked on the street. He directed her to the 5^th floor.

“It’s not much,” David warned as he put the key in the cylinder. “Remember, no furniture, no phone, TV or stereo.” David turned the key and opened the door to 5B.

“That’s fine. I’ll make due.” Mechelle would have time to be resourceful later. But for now, she waited to hear what strings were attached.

“Here it is,” said David, surprising her. The apartment was even better than he had her imagine. She inhaled the newness of the studio with its warm and inviting comfort.

“Make yourself at home. I have 2 blankets down in the jeep. I’ll go get ’em.” He did bring blankets back and promised to check with her periodically. “You have my numbers,” were his last words. David must’ve expected to have access to Mechelle whenever and however he wanted to. So he played Mr. Laid-Back, handing her the key before shuffling down the hall to the elevator.

Meanwhile, Mechelle was left to indulge in her very 1^st apartment. It was secure. Simple and spacious. Shiny, polished wood flooring. New fixtures in the kitchen area and bathroom. She felt ultimate independence, even if she was lonely and distant from family and friends. At least she could soak in a hot bath and brush the horrors from her teeth and gums. After a 2-hour bath, Mechelle felt bold enough to trek to the stadium diner at the corner where she phoned her mother collect. Her mother (always dependable) gave her another number for Nikki’s cell phone and an access code for her to use so that she could make coinless calls for the time being.

Later, over a turkey club at the Stadium Diner, Mechelle and Nikki brought each other up to date. Nikki was a single mom with two kids. She had a 2-bedroom apartment in Queens and was relieved at the revelation that Mechelle had somewhere to stay. Even if temporarily. Nikki also revealed to Mechelle (the first in the family to know) that she was a stripper at a club in the Bronx called Gilmore’s Fool’s Paradise. Mechelle became even more interested when her sister told her about the money she was bringing home, how the profession was paying her way through college, rent and for child care.

“Sometimes I make four hundred a night,” was the statement that stood out most in Mechelle’s head, encouraging her with thoughts of a furnished apartment, a car and paying off her own college loan. Nikki gave her sister $150 to help her get on her feet. Mechelle looked at the money, and the stash that it came from, like it was a pile of sparkling diamonds. Nikki’s lifestyle very quickly became infectious.

A New Friend

Mechelle joined Nikki on a visit to Fool’s Paradise and she was quick to audition. She wore a cat mask loaned to her by another dancer, and was able to face those initial fears with ease. She did a cute dance routine, more like a deviation from some cheerleader sequences, and caught the attention of Gil’s son, Douglass. Douglass was spinning records that day—just a hobby for him, using the busy lunch hours to improve his music mixing skills—and he immediately took a liking to Mechelle.

Long story short, Mechelle was hired. And after speaking briefly to Gil, she left with Nikki and returned the next day for a booking on the 12noon to 4PM shift.

Following his hormones, and contradicting his very own discipline of not fraternizing with the dancers, Douglass approached Mechelle on that second day. On the outside it was Mechelle’s tight body and pretty face that sparked Douglass’s interest. However, once he got to know her and listen to her, Mechelle’s wit won him over. On the other hand, Douglass also won Mechelle’s heart. She saw him as a breed apart from those other men who had already approached her with familiar, played-out pick-up lines; men who were no deeper than a one-slice bologna sandwich. But Douglass was unique and different to her, which is why she agreed to his offer for a ride home.

“Wanna take the long way?” Douglass asked.

“What’s that? The long way?” Mechelle asked with a cute, curious smile.

“Well, the long way means I cook dinner . . . at my house—”

Mechelle chuckled.

“No-no . . . don’t judge me yet,” he said. “I don’t have any sneaky plans, I just wanna be a cook tonight.”

After she came down from the laugh, Mechelle said, “Depends on what you’re cooking.” And that statement came with a raised eyebrow.

She thought about all this; dinner with Gilmore’s son; his secure approach; and the invite to his home. His home . . . that was another thing, entirely. Mechelle got to wander through the house while Douglass cooked and she realized that she had never been inside of a residence of such magnificence. It was enormous, with more rooms than she had fingers to count. There came a point when she got a little dizzy and needed a seat. Not just because of the house, but for so much else that crashlanded into her life all of a sudden. The events seemed to escalate so abruptly; from being the victim of a rape only days before, to the easy money job she now had, to this new adventure, and how the boss’s son was embracing her with treatment she long deserved, craved and desired.

“Denworth never even cooked dinner for me,” she told herself. The apparent power and wealth that she was now absorbed in had her ask, Denworth who?? Having another man kiss up to her like Douglass surely reminded her of Denworth. But, then again, it was so easy to erase Den from her mind and to bask in the treasures of the moment. Dinner with Douglass. Mechelle inhaled, then exhaled.

Once the spaghetti disappeared, Douglass took the initiative to soak Mechelle’s feet in warm salt water. Then he massaged them with a menthol lotion. Little did she know, amidst the dreamy sensuality of the moment, Douglass Jr.’s actions were mostly a case of him missing his water when the well went dry. Stacy had left him only days earlier. She discovered a list of women that he’d been with, along with a 1 to 10 rating he marked beside the names. The evidence was the work of an ass; like Douglass was asking for a breakup. He may as well have taped the incriminating list up on Stacey’s make-up mirror, because there were two names on the list that were new; two women whom he and Stacy met while they were together. What’s more, he had a 5 marked next to Stacy’s name. Not a “10” but a 5, in essence saying that she wasn’t all that hot, not compared to some of the others.

Needless to say, the breakup was hostile. They had made a child together, but to these two young lovers that meant little to nothing. He didn’t know how to put his ego away for long enough to calm her; and she didn’t have a rational bone in her body to get past his infidelity. To add to the confusion, Stacy took the child, moved out of state, and was never heard from again.

Along with Stacy went all of those conveniences of having a good woman around the house. So Douglass, too, was a man in need, which was why he strongly considered offering a room to Mechelle when he heard of her hollow arrangement in the Bronx. And even if Mechelle pretended to “think about it,” her answer wouldn’t take long.

Following dinner, Douglass drove Mechelle back to her studio in the Bronx. Out front, their conversation ended with an intimate and promising kiss. She informed Douglass that she was “involved,” and he backed off. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. However, Mechelle subsequently invited him up to see her place. He accepted, and while Mechelle went upstairs Douglass spent close to 10 minutes searching for a parking space. On a block full of apartment complexes, finding a parking space was like mining for gold on a public beach. Eventually, he struck oil about a block away, on a busy street over which Yankee Stadium towered. It was a short walk back to the apartment building, yet long enough for Douglass to talk to himself.

“Don’t play y’self, big dog. Don’t expect or anticipate anything more than companionship. She’s just a friend. Nothing more.” With that, Douglass stepped through the front gate, pressing in the simple combination which Mechelle provided.

Inside the foyer of the building to the right, Douglass pressed 5B on the panel. Mechelle buzzed him in without verification and he instinctively moved towards the elevator. On the 5^th floor, he found the door marked 5B opened and awaiting his entrance. Douglass simply pushed his way in.

“Oh, sorry,” explained Douglass. He peeped Mechelle coming from the shower, casually reaching in a closet for a towel, then heading back into the bathroom. Seconds later the shower water was cut off. Douglass immediately appreciated the newness of her studio. A polished wood floor, fresh paint, new appliances, fixtures and plumbing seemed to be the only complementary elements of this Bronx nest. There was a pillow and comforter laid out on the floor in the center of the room. Mechelle answered Douglass from the bathroom.

“Not a problem, please. You practically watched me all day,” she said. “Grab a drink. I have some things in the fridge.”

He pulled open the refrigerator door and took a gulp from the quart of orange juice. He began to make himself at home, fiddling through her small stack of cassette tapes, then he turned the knob on her portable radio to WBLS for the familiar mix of rhythm and blues. Meanwhile, Douglass took note of the surroundings. Curious to know how this new woman in his life was living. The view from Mechelle’s window was but a voyeur’s exclusive perspective into the building and window of the couple next door. A fire escape was the only separation between the two addresses. However limited the view of the city, the depth of it all was filled with alleys and pockets between buildings, and all the while there were those monsterous subway cars rumbling nearby.

“I think they know we can see them,” Mechelle said, catching Douglass off guard, approaching him from behind while still drying her own dipping body off with the oversized bath towel.

“Uh . . . who? See what?” Douglass was practically tripping over his words, while trying his best to be as blasé as she was about her nudity. Mechelle turned her back to Douglass and handed him the towel to wipe her back. As she explained, he traced her back contours with the towel.

“The couple . . . I’m talkin’ about the couple down there . . .” Mechelle pointed to a window in the building next door. Douglass had not noticed earlier, but down below there were two lovers feeding on each other in a very involved sexual embrace. From Mechelle, to the couple, and back to Mechelle, Douglass’s eyes couldn’t make up its mind. Then, Mechelle eased her perfectly sculptured figure over to the light switch. She dimmed the lights and stepped over to the comforter to lay facedown.

“Could you massage me?” Mechelle placed a bottle of lotion beside her and laid her arms at either side of her head. Douglass shrugged humbly and approached her. He knelt down beside her and began to lotion her neck and shoulders. Meanwhile, Vaughn Harper’s Quiet Storm theme music filtered through the room. That meant it was 10 PM and that the next 4 hours would be all slow jams and dusties.

Douglass was fighting discipline now, realizing that he had fed, chauffeured and touched most of Mechelle’s body, all on one day. This was slowly affecting him as he kneaded and caressed her curves and contours. The electricity was very personal, very intimate. Douglass became excited and aware of his erection. Mechelle also noticed him, in spite of his jeans. Eventually, without words, the two molded and tossed on the floor, sharing each other’s tongues. Lips volleyed for positions. Mechelle was soon caressing him as much as he was her. He softly fondled her breasts and she laid back on the pillow, loving this, breathlessly stretching herself out for his full access. Douglass began to kiss her, progressing from her cheeks and neck, to her breasts and nipples. Teasing, gentle and unselfish, until he realized an immediate need. A condom!

“You gotta excuse me for a minute,” he told her, leaving Mechelle and himself titillated. His pants were unbuckled and pushing down off of his hips, but he ignored the indiscretion and rushed through the front door. He hobbled down the staircase, not wanting to wait for the elevator, and left the door to the foyer ajar. Mechelle was in no position to buzz him in. Besides, he wanted nothing to mess up that image that he left in 5B. Molten, sweet chocolate on the floor, ready for him to eat until he was sloppy with her affection.

Fortunately, Douglass’s oversized hockey jersey covered his erection all the way to the glove compartment of his car and back. When he returned to the apartment, Mechelle was still dreamy-eyed and filled with anticipation.

Thank God!

Feeling the overwhelming heat in the room, Douglass lifted the window a few inches and reclined back to Mechelle’s side. He reignited their fire with tender kisses from her forehead to her toenails. Just in time, that phat jam “Long As I Live” put their action on blast. Mechelle was beginning to erupt when Douglass reached her toes. There was some pain below her tummy, and she realized what was about to go down. She wanted him inside her, but she couldn’t. Not yet. And she didn’t want to let him down. Her intentions had nothing to do with his position, or who his father was. It was that she wanted to give herself to him . . . he was a good man, and she wanted him to have her vote.

Mechelle put her palm to Douglass’s chest when he came up to hover over her. She switched positions with him until he was under her. Shamelessly, with tears falling, Mechelle took him into her mouth. She stroked him and massaged him and made her mouth as wanton as her walls were. It seemed as though he was holding back and that he didn’t want to cum in her mouth, but she encouraged his orgasm. When he eventually came, Mechelle took every drop down her throat. With no words shared between them, this was her way of showing him her passion for him. And in the cool night air, the two embraced until the morning.

Over breakfast, Mechelle agreed to move in with Douglass. Late that morning, they packed her things and she was on the move again. This time, to the Gilmore home in New Rochelle.