Between Brothers Read online

  His silence was disturbing Monica. “Brandon, I need you to talk to me.” She rubbed her naked body against his and touched her lips to his left ear. Her breath was still minty, but it had a slight tang to it now. Her full lips brushed his cheek as she spoke. “I know it happened sooner than we planned, but we can’t change the past now. Why don’t you lay back and relax?”

  Biting his lip, Brandon turned and cupped Monica’s face in his hands. “I’m gonna go get something to drink. You want anything?”

  Her eyes full of confusion, Monica sank back into the pillow beneath her, her mound of ebony locks covering it almost completely. “No thanks. Hurry back.”

  He slipped into a pair of plaid boxers, house slippers, and his pale blue cotton robe before stepping into the hallway and shutting the bedroom door behind him. He stumbled downstairs, his head swimming with the pleasant aftershocks of the last hour, his stomach curdling with conflict.

  The kitchen and living room were still fully lit, though it was obvious neither Larry nor O. J. were home. Opening the cabinet over the sink, he yanked out a Chicago Bears glass and thrust it under the spigot. Draining the twelve-ounce glass in seconds, he spat out the last few drops of metallic H2O and reached for his cordless phone, which he had quietly slipped into the pocket of his robe.

  Bobby’s line rang four times before his machine picked up. “Homies, you know what to do. Jesus loves you. Peace!” As the machine beeped obnoxiously, Brandon chuckled despite himself at the goofy message, one Bobby could afford now that he had locked up his admission to Emory’s med school.

  “Bobby, I hate to call you at this hour, man, but if you’re there, I need you to pick up—”

  Bobby’s voice was drenched in sleep. “Brandon! Wh-what’s up? Everything okay?”

  A new sense of shame flooding his body, Brandon was too choked up to respond. He rested his head against his right palm.

  “Brandon? Am I dreamin’ here?”

  Brandon pushed the words out. “Bobby, I had to talk to somebody. I did it again, man.”

  Bobby hacked out a round of coughs. “Brandon, at one-thirty in the morning, I can’t be playing guessin’ games. What happened?”

  “Bobby, Monica is up in my room right now, and she’s not exactly dressed.”

  “Brandon! You didn’t . . .”

  Brandon allowed the silence to supply the answer.

  Bobby grasped at words like they were wisps of smoke. “Aw, hey, man . . . I’m not gon’ say I told you so. Dang, did you, uh, use protection?”

  Brandon sighed. “You remember that safety stash of condoms my folks insist on replenishing every year, just in case my jones overtakes me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I gave Terence half the pack a few weeks ago. After tonight, there’s only two left.”

  “Praise God,” Bobby said, “at least you wore a hat. How many condoms you use anyway? I’m sorry, don’t answer that. You say she’s still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You need to take her home, man, before you do anything else. No sense sorting through your emotions while she’s there.”

  “I got you. I guess I should go get her up, then. How did I let this happen, man?” Remembering that Terence’s room was just above the kitchen, he lowered his voice a notch. “How do I square this with all my moralizing all these years? I feel it in my gut, man—it’s gonna be Brandy all over again!”

  Bobby sighed. “Brandon, all sins are equal in God’s eyes. Don’t go making a martyr out of yourself over this. This doesn’t have to end like Brandy’s story did.”

  “I’m afraid, Bobby. This was just like with Brandy—every minute! I’m never gonna get over this. Monica’s gonna break my heart. It’s what I deserve.”

  Bobby grunted. “Cut this crap now, Brandon! Monica has her act together. She won’t do you like Brandy. Until you figure out how to handle this sex thing, you may have to steer clear of her for a while. But don’t worry about that now. Just get her out of there safely, and we’ll talk more when you get back. I’ll be up.”

  Brandon inhaled sharply and headed toward the stairwell. “I can’t thank you enough for picking up the phone, bro. I’ll call you when I get back. Later.”

  He slid the phone back into the pocket of his robe and stared blankly up the stairway. His insides felt as uneasy as the wobbly maple banister that lined the staircase. His groin tingled still, fresh from the white-hot sensations Monica had shared, but his mind turned again to that last night at Brandy’s.

  He’d broken his vow of virginity for Brandy Tower, a statuesque cheerleader for his high school football team. Her complexion was a rich molasses, her exotic braids smelled like honey, and her kisses and warm embraces were smooth as butter. Six long weeks it had been, but the thrill had ended for Brandy by that last night at her house. She hadn’t returned his calls in a week, and she’d been seen out with two different jocks from competing schools.

  “Why won’t you just talk to me,” he’d said that night on her lawn, tugging at her arm with an intensity that frightened him. “Why are you ignoring me?”

  “It’s over, Brandon, damn.” Brandy had jerked herself from his grasp and stepped closer to her black Jeep. “You need to go home before Dante finds out you were here. He won’t stand for this.”

  “B-Brandy, I don’t understand.” Brandon had blocked her way one last time, hoping his desperation would win her over. “You said you loved me. You held me. What we have is real.”

  “Brandon, get a life. I swear, I’ll never mess with a virgin again! Now leave me the hell alone!” She had turned from him then, leaving him sulking in place as she adjusted her halter top and hopped into the Jeep, blasting a Keith Sweat CD and tearing off into the night. Brandon had stayed there in her front yard, in plain view of Brandy’s parents, his eyes full of tears and his heart completely rent.

  As he loitered in the stairwell now, Brandon relived the aftermath of that scene. Brandy had died that night in a head-on collision. The officers had found both her and Dante’s bodies in the Jeep, along with three drained forty-ounce bottles. The whole thing had nearly taken Brandon out. He’d never lost a friend to death, least of all one who had been his only lover.

  Was that the real reason he’d forsaken all romantic activity since? Sure, he’d had help from his parents as well as other Christians, all of whom agreed a lesson of his heartbreak was the dangers of fornication. He still believed that. At least, he had until tonight. How could sex, an act that had been so wonderful each time for him, truly be wrong? What kind of God would make people long for one another at young ages, then limit the expression of that longing to the confines of marriage? Was his abstinence really an attempt to flee the pain Brandy had caused him, the pain he now feared Monica might expose him to? For so long, Brandon had walked the straight and narrow and pitied hypocrites like O. J. Maybe he was really the one who had been deceived all these years.

  His head pounding, he steadied himself against the rickety banister and realized he had covered only the first two steps. He took a longing glance up the stairway to the door of his room. She was still in there, waiting, and she didn’t deserve to be dragged into his inner battle. Willing himself to finish his climb, he whispered a near-silent prayer.

  “Please, let her be fully dressed, Lord. I can’t lie about what’ll happen if she wants some more.”

  At that moment, Preston turned the corner onto Moore Street. His backseat passenger, realizing where he was, shouted in glee.

  “Brotha, it has been one heck of a day!” O. J. said, his chest still heaving with enthusiastic laughter. He was riding in Preston’s pitch-black Ford Mustang. It was almost one-thirty in the morning, and never had he been so happy to see his house just one block away. It had been a draining day, mostly due to his encounter with Grier. On top of that, he had just spent the last four hours partying with Preston and his girlfriend, Tammy, who was in the passenger’s seat. He’d never made it home to discuss Ellis Center with Larry fir
st, but he’d deal with that after a few hours of sleep.

  “O. J., I didn’t think we’d be bringing you home alone,” Tammy said, her arms draped over Preston’s shoulders as he navigated the Mustang to the front curb. “You didn’t want any company tonight?”

  “Sister Tammy, I’m just glad to have my health and wealth tonight, you know what I’m sayin’? Don’t forget, I just got caught creepin’ with my pastor’s daughter today! I’m blessed to still have control over my bodily functions!”

  “Ain’t that the truth!” Preston stepped on the brakes and met O. J.’s eyes in the rearview mirror, the gold in his front teeth gleaming in the dark. “Most fathers would have been ready to put a cap in your rear, boy! You must have God watching your back!”

  “What can I say, the Lord takes care of his own! Let me out of this bucket of bolts, P! I got an important meeting at Ellis Center in the morning. A brother needs his beauty rest.”

  Easing off the brake as O. J. stumbled out of the backseat, Preston turned his head toward the curb. “Awright, playa, take it easy. We’ll rap to you Sunday.”

  O. J. turned back toward the Mustang. “I keep telling y’all to come hear me preach again! I’ll let you know when I’ll be ascendin’ to the pulpit next. Stay up!”

  Waving at his friends as they zoomed away, O. J. shifted the weight of his sport jacket to his right arm and sauntered through the freshly mown grass toward the cement walkway that led up to the front porch. He was going to enjoy some real rest tonight. After the meeting tomorrow, he would have to do some major cramming for his last black-lit final, for which he was woefully unprepared. Hopefully the Lord would be merciful.

  When he first heard the rustle from the bushes that lined the driveway, O. J. figured it was a harmless squirrel fleeing at the thud of his heavy footsteps. So what was that rush of hot breath on his neck? Pausing to turn, O. J. yelped as the crush of solid wood smacked him in the back. The impact sent him hurtling forward, simultaneously blotting out his vision. As he lay on the ground twitching uncontrollably, he pleaded for mercy.

  “Please, no, take whatever you want, d-don’t kill me! I-I got money in my wallet! You can have the whole thing, p-please, take it!” The words gurgled out through splotches of blood that began to collect in his mouth and throat.

  An insane smile of satisfaction across her face, Keesa Bishop leaned over O. J. and whispered into his ear. “This ain’t about money, Reverend. This is about respect!” Before he had time to process her voice, she rammed a sparkling, footlong stiletto deep into his abdomen, producing a spouting spray of red that covered his white oxford and began to form a small pool on the grass.

  “Uhhh!” Kicking and screaming like a stuck pig, O. J. yelled at the top of his lungs, praying, as earnestly as he ever had, that one of the brothers would hear him. As Keesa twisted the sharp instrument into the billowy roll of his abdomen, he was unable to defend himself; his paralysis and blindness that were setting in, combined with a stinging guilt over the depths to which Keesa had sunk, robbed him of the will to resist her.

  “K-Keesa, please! Y-You don’t wanna do this—”

  She dropped to her knees and held the knife to his neck. “Don’t ever, ever think you can treat any woman like this again, fool, you hear? You think women were made just for your enjoyment? You don’t know what we’re capable of! I oughtta cut you open—”

  Her tirade was cut short by a sudden beam from the powerful lights atop the patio. As Keesa gripped his greasy head, O. J. could feel her hesitate suddenly. “Damn!” She slammed his head into the moist grass, bounded to her feet, and returned to the rusty Escort parked across the street.

  By the time Brandon descended the steps and made out O. J.’s bulk on the front lawn, the only evidence of her presence was the roar of the wiggly Escort halfway down the street.

  “O. J.!” Falling to his knees, which were immediately soaked in blood, Brandon cradled the minister’s head and surveyed his body for damage. “What happened, man, where were you attacked?”

  “They . . . hit me in the head . . . with . . . bat.” Coughing up blood, O. J. attempted to heave forward, hoping to gain energy to complete his account. “Then . . . stuck me . . . over here . . . knife . . .”

  “Sweet Jesus. We gotta get you inside and get this wound covered up, get you to a hospital. Can you hear me, O. J.?”

  The young preacher’s eyes flickered open and shut, evidence that he was in danger of losing consciousness. Brandon gripped his face forcefully.

  “O. J., listen, you cannot fall asleep on me!”

  Glancing around, Brandon hesitated at the thought of moving him in this state. He didn’t see how he had a choice, though. The commotion outside hadn’t been loud enough to get Terence or Monica’s attention. He had only heard it because he had been halfway up the stairs when O. J. screamed. If he took time to go get one of them, O. J. would probably black out. Pulling the minister to his feet, he locked his arms around O. J.’s shoulders and dragged him as quickly as his slippered feet would allow, before stopping at the foot of the steps.

  “O. J., adrenaline can only do so much. You gotta help me get you up these steps.”

  When they reached the foyer, Brandon dropped him as gently as possible before running upstairs to the bathroom that separated his and Terence’s rooms. Once he had wrapped O. J.’s wounds and called 911, he would wake Monica and Terence. Terence could take Monica home in his car, and he could ride to the hospital with O. J. in the ambulance. Brandon prayed this would not be an instance in which 911 was a joke.

  Bounding back downstairs, he gasped out directions to the dispatcher on his cordless as he dressed the wounds and elevated O. J.’s head. When he hung up, O. J. looked up at him, his glassy eyes haunting Brandon with their intensity. Grunting like a whipped horse, O. J. whispered, “If I didn’t know better, Choirboy, I’d actually think you like me.” His energy spent, O. J. let his eyes shut. His head thudded to the floor.

  Hoping God would still hear him, Brandon knelt over his friend and lifted his voice in prayer. “Please, don’t let it end like this.”

  CHAPTER 26

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  DEALING WITH THE DEVIL

  Terence barked into the hospital phone like a drill sergeant. “Damn, Big Dog, where you been, man? Armageddon went down at the crib last night. You were nowhere to be found!”

  From his room at the house, Larry sighed impatiently. He needed to know what was going on, not be lectured about the fact that he’d stayed out all night. “T, I called as soon as I got home.”

  “But I left a note taped to both the front door and the garage, in case you came in that way.”

  “It’s a long story, man. I didn’t get in until almost seven this morning, all right? Sheila and I stayed up talking—let me stress, just talkin’—until around one, then I went by Mark’s to bend his ear about my woman problems. Anyway, what the hell’s goin’ on? Who’s in the hospital?”

  For several minutes Larry sat in shock as Terence recounted the early morning’s events. Nine months they had lived in this house without incident, if you discounted a few taunts from local thugs. Now this. “Does O. J. have any clue who attacked him?”

  “To be honest, he bein’ kind of coy, man. He told Brandon something about a group of folk attackin’ him, but Brandon only saw one person in the car that pulled off. It was too dark to get a good description, though.”

  “Did they take his wallet and things?”

  “Didn’t take anything of value, just tried to gut him like a fish. Brandon won’t say it, but I wonder if it wasn’t a personal attack.”

  “I don’t suppose guessin’ at the culprit would serve any purpose right now.” As much as Larry liked O. J., he knew the list of women who would like to see the preacher pay an earthly penalty for his sins was pretty damn lengthy. No point trying to lay blame right now. “How’s he doin’?”

  “It was touch-and-go last night, but the doctor told us this morning that he’ll
be okay. He may be on crutches for a couple of weeks, while the nerves in his spine and neck heal, but his knife wound has already been stitched, so they should release him in the next couple of days.”

  “I need to stop over there, but we’ve got the Ellis board meeting in a couple of hours, and I’ve got to work with Sheila on tying out this trail of evidence between Rolly Orange and Buzz Eldridge.”

  Gritting his teeth, Terence decided to go ahead and break the news. Hopefully Larry wouldn’t make the meeting anyway. “Well, uh, Brandon says he’s not goin’ to the meeting. I agreed he should be the one to stay here with O. J. He’s actin’ kinda funny anyway. That’s another story altogether. Anyway, Pastor Peters won’t be gettin’ into town until tonight, and none of O. J.’s other friends sounded ready to rush down here when I called ’em.”

  A slight sense of foreboding sweeping over him, Larry began scratching at his five o’clock shadow. “Uh, Terence, you know that means you’ll be the only Highland rep at the meeting? Not to pressure you, man, but you’ll be our last line of defense. Whatever you do, don’t let Orange get permission to remove our contributions from the segregated account! That happens, and he’s liable to run off with every red cent! You got me?”

  Shifting his weight as he stood at the hospital pay phone, Terence could feel his temper boil to overflowing. Who did Larry think he was, talking to him like some untrustworthy child? He had enough stress on him without this attitude. Besides, he couldn’t let his little brother be murdered when he could do something, anything, to stop it.