William’s cock throbs. He loves Tina Turner. Those legs. That voice. Those lips. He grins. “Exactly like the song.”
Sierra turns so her ass is facing William. She wiggles coquettishly so her cheeks bounce and jiggle in his face. She turns to look at him over her shoulder, tossing her long hair to the side. She licks her lips slowly. William groans, slides lower in his seat, pulls Sierra against him, so they are touching. He closes his eyes and thinks about West Baltimore girls. He listens to the lyrics. He believes in the lyrics. He wants a bitch to see his dick. He wants to beat that pussy up. He comes in his pants, a damp stain slowly inching toward his inseam. When Sierra tries to stand, he holds her tight. She tries to pry his fingers loose, but he is stronger. She glares at the bouncer watching the scene, throws her hands up. The bouncer shrugs, continues to watch. William always tips generously so the bouncer won’t intervene when William breaks club rules, which he does, regularly. Sierra gives the bouncer the finger, her slow angry burn spreading.
After work, Sarah is in a foul mood. She goes to the diner and stands near the entrance, pacing back and forth. Alvarez is refilling salt and pepper shakers. He looks up and smiles, then frowns as he observes her rigid posture, the rage rolling off her in waves. He wipes his hands on his apron, tells his boss he has to leave early. Alvarez drives Sarah home in her car. He asks her what’s wrong but she is silent. Neither song nor stars will console her. At her apartment, Alvarez follows her inside and sits nervously on her couch. Sarah takes a picture from a bookshelf against one wall and hands it to Alvarez. She points to a tall, attractive woman with caramel skin and a sad smile. She sits. “That’s my mother,” she says.
Alvarez's eyes widen but he inches closer to Sarah. He says, “Tu madre es bonita. Eres mi negra blanca.” He removes his apron, rolls up his sleeves, and runs a bath for Sarah. She disrobes in front of him but does not worry. She steps into the warmth, one foot at a time, and sighs as she settles into the water. Alvarez reaches for the washcloth, neatly folded on a towel rack, and washes her gently, wiping away the human oils and the fingerprints and the stale cigarette smoke and the inappropriate behaviors. Sarah tells Alvarez about her horrible night at work. She tells him about men who can’t take no for an answer and other men who allow that sort of thing to happen. “Voy a matarlos,” he mutters. Sarah places her damp hand against his cheek. She says, “No es necesario. It’s an occupational hazard.” Alvarez nods, but while Sarah lies in her tub, her skin clean and pink, her eyes closed, humming a strange little tune, he clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white. Then he kisses her forehead.
* * *
William Livingston III sits in his BMW sedan outside of Sierra’s apartment. He is irate. He doesn’t understand what the stripper is doing with a spic waiter when she could be with a man like him. He’s listening to an angry DMX track, smoking a cheap sweet cigar he stole from his son’s room. He stares at himself in the rearview mirror and tries to bark fiercely like the rapper. He calls his wife Estelle, tells her he’s going to be late. He can hear the gin in his wife’s voice, knows it doesn’t matter when he gets home.
When the waiter leaves, William flicks the cigar butt onto the street, tries to smooth his hair over his bald spot. He’s followed Sierra home several times now. He knocks on her door, traces the number seven. Sarah answers, wearing only a towel wrapped around her slender torso. She is laughing, but gasps when she recognizes William from the strip club. She tries to shut the door but he wedges his foot against the doorjamb.
Sarah has often reviewed the worst-case scenarios requisite to her occupational hazards but a customer showing up at her apartment, north of the city, never crossed her mind. She tries to close the door again, but this time, William pushes past her and into the apartment.
Sarah swallows the chill winding itself around her spine. She thinks about the poli sci paper she has to finish, the Sartre text she needs to read, the excerpt she has to translate, the appointment with her trainer, all this and more before her next shift at the club. She thinks about Alvarez, who has named their daughter Estrella. She thinks about him picking them up something to eat and his sweet voice when he serenades her with "Volver." She doesn’t have time for this.
She says, “If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police. And if my boyfriend finds you here, he’ll kill you.”
William is undeterred by her anger. He raps Trey Songz, “I've been cool, I've been patient/I've been true and I waited.”
William pulls off his tie and shoves Sarah to the floor. She hits her head against the coffee table as she falls. She finds her voice and screams so loudly the windows shake, but all William hears is a loud ringing.
William's fist connects with Sarah's jaw and a sharp pain sinks through the bone. Hot tears stream down her face but she tries to hold it together. She tries to focus past William’s pudgy body looming over her. She tries not to pass out so she might bear witness.
William kneels between Sarah’s thighs. He uses a condom. He doesn’t know where the stripper has been. He practices some of the lingo he has learned from years of listening to rap music. “I’ve wanted to get all up in that since the day I first saw you, Sierra. I love your phat ass.” Sarah moans and heaves, reaches for her cell phone on the coffee table. It is just beyond her reach. William flips her onto her stomach, and then he’s inside her breathing hotly into her ear, telling her that fucking her is just like fucking a black girl without having to fuck a black girl. He smacks her thigh and tells her to do as Lil Jon instructs and bounce, bounce, bounce that ass.
Sarah focuses on her fury. She lets it bind her chest and her heart. She lets it cover her skin. She feels it in her blood. Her fury coats her mouth.
He doesn’t take long. With a final thrust, William groans into her ear. He presses his thin lips against her shoulder, a small token of affection. Sarah cringes. He lies on top of her, his sweaty weight pressing her further into the floor. She tries to crawl away but he is too heavy with liquor and food and fat. Eventually he stands, admires Sarah’s perfect ass again. He dresses and sits on her couch. He sets ten crisp hundreds on her coffee table and says, “We could have done this the easy way, Sierra.” As he’s about to take his leave, he looks down at the picture of Sarah’s mother and pauses. “This black woman looks just like you,” he remarks.
Sarah reaches for her towel, shields herself. She steadies, inhales deeply. “You should leave now,” she says, willing her voice strong.
William holds the picture up, pointing angrily. “Why does this woman look like you?”
* * *
