Tale of the Murda Mamas

Concern was written all over Carter’s face. He grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look into his eyes. “Who, Miamor? You have to tell me who you’re afraid of,” Carter said. He was determined that when he found out the identity of Miamor’s attacker, he was going to kill him.

Miamor saw the sincerity in his eyes, which only made her cry harder.

He sighed and pulled her to his chest. “Shh. It’s okay, ma. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I almost lost you once. I won’t lose you again,” he promised.

He scooped Miamor into his arms and carried her to the rocking chair. He sat down with her and stroked her hair while he rocked back and forth.

“I can’t stay here, Carter,” she whispered. She gripped the collar of shirt in fear. She was holding on to him for dear life.

“Shh… I got you, ma. I promise you-”

“Carter, no!” Miamor yelled as she sat up shakily and looked at him with sad eyes. She wanted to be a part of this charade. She wanted to live here with him, but with Mecca around, her life would always be at risk. “I can’t live in this house. I don’t feel safe here. I won’t stay here, Carter. If you try to make me, I’ll run. I’m like a sitting fucking duck in this bitch!” she cried. She had never been this emotional, but since coming out of her coma, her fear had rendered her helpless and feeble. All she did lately was cry. “He can touch me here. I have to go to a place where he can’t find me.”

“Who, Miamor? Who the fuck is after you? I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” Carter said in frustration. “I’ll handle that nigga. You don’t have to run. You don’t have to worry about it if you just trust me. Give me your burdens, ma,” he whispered as he put his hand gently behind her head and pressed his forehead against hers.

Miamor desperately wanted to give her all to him. She wanted to put her life in his hands, but how could she, when the one man she feared on this earth was Carter’s flesh and blood? She hated Mecca just as much as she loved Carter. If I show him who I really am, I’m going to lose him, she thought as she shook her head and kissed his lips. “I can’t Carter. You would never understand. Just please get me out of here. Right now. I need to feel safe,” Miamor pleaded.

It hurt Carter that after all they had been through, Miamor still didn’t trust him enough to feel secure in his home. He tried to understand where she was coming from. He figured that she was just paranoid from her attack. She was afraid, and he was determined to give her a sense of security. “Alright, ma. Let me get you dressed then we’ll go. We’ll go wherever you want to go,” he assured her. He placed her back in the bed and put a pair of sweat pants on her.

He touched her with such gentleness that it made Miamor yearn for him, not in a sexual way, but in an emotional way. He was so stable. He was always so focused and in control. Every move that he made was calculated concisely. Miamor wanted to depend on him and take his lead, but it could never happen. In the grand scheme of things, they would always be adversaries. Like Romeo and Juliet, their allegiances lay on different sides, while their hearts were in each other’s hands.

“Let me get your pain medication. It’s in the master bedroom. I’ll be right back,” Carter said before kissing the top of her head.

She nodded and watched him disappear into the hallway. This man is my soul mate, but we can never be together, she thought grimly.

She looked over to the nightstand that was beside the rocking chair. A gun lay on top of it. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, wincing in pain as she stood to her feet. Her legs felt like Jell-O, but she used all her energy to make it over to the stand. She leaned against it and took deep breaths as she grabbed the gun. Holding the pistol in her hand caused a wave of relief to wash over her. She gripped it as her head hung on her chest, and she inhaled deeply.

Miamor had been through hell, and she would never be the same woman that she was before. Her body was scarred for life. She would never be able to forget what had happened, because the war wounds would be a constant reminder of her plight. Like a Jew who had been terrorized by Hitler or a slave that had been victimized by their master, Miamor would always remember. She would always feel the pain; she would always harbor fear, resentment, and insecurity… she would never forget. Mecca had changed her life for the worst, and now she had to refocus. She had to retrain her body, and she had to regain composure over her emotions, because she was determined to get back at Mecca. But, she didn’t have a choice but to wait. She had to give herself time to heal.

Carter came back into the room and frowned when he saw Miamor standing. He rushed over to her. “What are you doing? You shouldn’t be on your feet,” he said. His eyes went to the gun in her hands. He tried to take it from her, but she shook her head.

“Don’t, Carter. I need it,” she whispered seriously.

Carter picked her up, and with the gun in her hand he carried her out of the room.

All of the luxury inside of the house meant nothing to Miamor. By being there, she was in Mecca’s territory, and she refused to stay. She clung to her man and kept her finger on the trigger of the gun as he carried her outside to his car. After making sure that she was secure in the passenger seat, he hurried around to the driver’s side, and they pulled away.

* * *

Murder sat up in his seat when he saw Carter carrying Miamor out of his house. It was the first time he had seen her in five long years, and it was evident that she was badly injured. His blood boiled at the thought of someone putting their hands on her, and the intimate way that Carter handled her enraged Murder even more. I’ma handle that nigga personally, he thought as he palmed his pistol and leaned low in his seat as he watched Carter drive by. Murder pulled out into traffic and followed. This was the opportunity he had been waiting patiently for. There were no bodyguards surrounding Carter. It’s just me and him. This mu’fucka riding around with my shorty like she’s his bitch, Murder thought angrily. I’ma bout to claim that, and wipe him and his people off the map.

Murder made sure that he kept Carter’s car in sight. Now that he had seen Miamor, he was more determined than ever to bring her home.

* * *

Anger pulsed through Carter as he drove in silence. He was livid, not with Miamor, but with whoever had instilled so much fear in her heart. He stroked her hand reassuringly as he sped through the city streets, headed toward the Four Seasons Hotel.

Miamor didn’t ask him where he was taking her. She trusted that he would take her to a place where she couldn’t be touched.

When they arrived, Carter didn’t let Miamor’s feet touch the ground. Seeing her so broken was tearing him up inside. All he wanted to do was treat her like his queen, and if tucking her away inside a fortress was what she wanted, then he would give it to her. He picked her up, and she nestled her head into his chest. He tucked the gun inside of his jacket so that it wouldn’t be visible as he took her inside.

“I need your Presidential Suite,” Carter said to the front desk clerk. The young man behind the desk looked awkwardly at Carter, who was still holding his woman in his arms. “Now!” Carter reinforced with authority.

When Carter entered the room, he lay Miamor down on the bed. “Close your eyes, ma. You’re safe here. Nobody knows where you are but me,” he said as he pulled the duvet up to cover her battered body.

Tears accumulated in her eyes until they were so full that they had nowhere else to go but down her face. “Will you hold me?” she asked.

Carter removed his clothes as Miamor’s eyes took him in. Her love button began to throb as she admired his chiseled abdomen and chest. He stood before her in nothing, but his boxers. He was exquisite… the ideal specimen of a man in every way. He was the Adam to her Eve, but seeing his perfection brought about her insecurity as she reached up to touch her face. She had yet to look at herself in a mirror, but she knew that she didn’t look the same. Her face felt differently, as if Mecca’s fists and torturous beating had rearranged her features in the worst possible composition.