Insignificant Others

By Carey Conley

Falsely accused of domestic violence by his estranged celebrity wife, Vaughn Ellison sets forth to clear his name, a quest that leads him to his hometown of Flint, where an old flame and new revelations await. 

Meanwhile back in Atlanta, danger awaits, compliments of his former best friend, his ex's jealous lover, who plots to drive him to destruction through ties with organized crime.

While uncovering that twisted scheme, Vaughn finds allies in friends both old and new; a curious younger woman with amber eyes and hidden motives; his best friend, a comedian with a dark, violent past; that old flame, a rival of his ex who craves her own payback; and a mysterious young private investigator with vast resources and shocking ties to it all.

As danger closes in, old hate boils while new love beckons. Vaughn must face painful revelations about his past in the face of an uncertain future. Which will run out first…his enemies' time, or his luck?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WriteSpeak Media & Publishing
• Release date: May 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386257264

Book preview

Prologue

The first cut was the damnedest.

"How does it feel, you sonofabitch?

The pain from Pamela’s knife attack produced such a yell, I thought my throat would explode.

Does it hurt you, like you’ve hurt me? Screaming and swinging, eyes bulging, lips taught, teeth bared, she nodded and snarled and growled. The blade of her Sashimi hissed through the air again after dividing my flesh.

Her attack was vicious, unexpected, unprovoked. I moved my lips, but the shock and awe from that assault stole my trembling answers.

Pamela’s angry blade had also opened my shoulder, a shoulder she hadn’t leaned on in a long, long time.

Like a woman demon-possessed, or perhaps a demon woman-possessed, she lunged again through the darkness toward me, again and again—my estranged and soon-to-be ex-wife, her sharp blade just missing my temple and ear and cheek and eye. I now understood why she wanted me to stop by so badly.

She screamed, How does it feel, Vaughn?

She’d lured me there to kill me.

Like the fool I am, I had picked up my phone earlier and answered her persistent, demanding calls and texts.

What you’ve taken from me, I’ll never forgive you, you bastard.

I yelled from the pain of her solid mass landing atop mine, buckling my knees.

Pamela Lady Blue Ellison was heavier than I remembered. Maybe that was truth, maybe that was a lie, an untruth whispered by my ego, that fragile center of masculinity serving the delusion that the woman determined to kill me was somehow worse off without me than when she once offered daily assurances that no other woman could ever love me more.

I clutched her wrists and shoved her away.

Pamela lunged again. "Always riding my coattails. Always benefiting from my successes. Always following and never leading. Always! Always!"

I glanced at my shoulder, saw redness flowing from it like a sieve. I finally managed a few panicked words. Pam… oh, my God… I staggered away from more wild lunges, her deadly blade still whistling through the air before me.

"I was the goddamn bread winner in this home. I carried you. What do I have to show for it? Look at me."

Again, she swung as she grew closer. Survival instincts fueled my desperation.

I grabbed her to keep her from slicing me again. She screamed.

We tussled.

Our ending would be so different from our beginning.

A lifetime ago, I had swept Pamela Franklin off her feet, had made a vow to my high school sweetheart before God and witnesses, raised a champagne toast to her before friends and family, then carried her across the sacred threshold of ‘til-death-do-us apart’, where we consummated sworn assurances of unending togetherness in a place where spirituality and carnality intersected, where we called upon the Lord to bless us then cried out to Jesus as we blessed one another.

Now, that lifetime seemed liked it belonged to someone else.

In my family, thinking divorce means you should’ve thought harder about marriage. Ellisons don’t get divorced; we make it work. We keep it moving, even when the two who once became one, are now crumbling to pieces together.

It should never have come to this between us.

Pamela landed atop me, unleashing a shriek which echoed in the darkness. The silvery object in her hand had pierced me, letting blood flow the same way my anger flowed during one disgraceful incident long ago.

To think I started this picturesque Georgia day with peace in my heart. My insignificant other ended it with blood lust in her eyes, a gleaming blade in her hand, and my warm blood on her cold marble tiles, while I fought her for my life.

1

I Got You

Earlier, my best friend, Wil rang my mobile. We were coordinating a hookup at Atlantic Station where we would bond, as men do. We would watch high definition sports battles on the flat screens surrounding us, vent our frustrations about the women on the inside of our lives looking out, and sip cold Coronas with lime wedges.

Wil had seen success as a co-writer for his wife Beverly’s stand up comedy act, but he’d given reports of drama rearing its un-funny head in his home too. He was another man with another unhappy woman who seemed to remember every promise, every vow spoken or implied, except her own.

No one can love you like I do. After spreading her legs, Beverly had spread her lips and whispered that same unquantifiable, self-serving delusion into Wil’s fragile psyche.

Wil had been supportive of Beverly’s career as a rising comedienne, and had written at least half the material she’d executed on stage in order to make a name for herself, but was then too ungrateful to thank him for afterward. He’d been contemplating a move out to the microphone himself, though he was unsure. I wanted to encourage my friend, tell him he was too funny to live in the unfunny shadow of a contentious woman.

I was well on my way to our get-together when I received yet another call from my own unhappy woman.

Pamela, the high school beauty queen, Lady Blue—a moniker she’d earned due to her obsessive love of the color

—demanded I stop by her home as soon as possible. We quarreled, but I agreed to her demands in pursuit of peace. I called Wil, told him I needed to push back our rendezvous for an hour or more. He said he was closer to her home than Atlantic Station and would meet me there instead. We would ride together in his nice, married couple’s family car, rather than my single man’s bucket.

Wil asked, Why exactly, is she insistin’ you come over there so spur-of-the-moment?

I said, I wish I knew. She blew up my mobile. I had four messages from her waiting for me before she called again just now.

Man, why do women do that, blow up your phone until you answer, as if that makes you respond any faster? Bev owes me a few non-calls. If Toni Braxton can have her heart un-broken, then I want my head un-hurt, my hair un-greyed, and my ass un-itched. At the very least, I need to get me some new ears, ‘cause that woman done wore these out.

Well, I think Beverly might say, in that case, you can also look forward to having your mind un-blown, your world un-rocked, and your toes un-curled.

"Humph. You probably right. You know she mean as hell. If she could do any of that, she’d do it with no promptin’ from me at all, like the time she was mean muggin’ me like Aunt Esther from Sanford & Son just ‘cause I told her I was going out before I did some stuff around the house she told me to do. Scared the shit out of me. Literally. Had to change my draws before I left. Twice."

A muted ring tone indicated an incoming call. Damn, it’s her. She musta found my draws.

You left dirty drawers for her to deal with? Beverly will make you sleep in your car for a year for that.

You’re right. She’s rehearsing for her big show in a few days and trust me, she don’t want me around. You've heard how she talks to me. If I so much as look like I want some nookie, she’ll wire me enough stacks from three feet away to stay out till it clouds up and shits. Lemme deal with her and I’ll see you in a bit.

Wil’s call disappeared, familial obligations leading him back into the belly of the insatiable beast of unholy matrimony. He had a humorous take on just about anything, which allowed him to stay positive, no matter how poorly Beverly treated him. The nature of a good comedy writer, I suppose.

Harold, my rust bucket of a car, rattled down I-285, the toxic funk from his emissions-test-failing-exhaust forcing me to keep his windows down, even at sixty five miles per hour, even in a muggy, musty Georgia rain.

I smacked my car stereo and it crackled to life. Bunny DeBarge’s sweet soprano sang of a dream she wished were reality regarding her longed-for lost lover. Luther Vandross pleaded with his lover to promise to leave never and to love forever. Theme songs of wingless dreams and broken promises. The weary eyes staring at me from my rear view were those of a thirty-seven year old man who had seen too many promises broken, and too many dreams burst into flames, plunging to earth like Icarus.

Finally, Pamela’s home loomed to my left, just before the street cul-de-sac-ed into a dead end. I parked Harold on the street, looking to avoid another confrontation with her over oil stains in her driveway. My ancient Pontiac Grand Am had seen better days. Harold shook, rattled and rolled like an old man, then gasped like an asphyxiated mule and gave a Bankhead Bounce-like shiver when I turned off his ignition.

I stepped over the small trail of oil already running from underneath him and into a drain where things like that go. I wondered if there was a hole somewhere my whole export from Detroit could fit into. My GM-loving father in my hometown of Flint, Michigan would be as disappointed in Harold as he was in me.

The unsettling fortress-like feel of Pamela's home contrasted the beautiful evening scenery of her street. Her two-story home sat near a commercial strip along Cascade, in the heart of an area known as the SWATS, an acronym for Southwest Atlanta.

No answer when I rang the doorbell. I knocked. The door fell open wide, creaking like the intro to Thriller. The dry chill of climate-controlled air gave me a shiver. Down the hallway leading from the foyer to the den, a light flickered. The television. An angry local reality show weave monster was convulsing and foaming at the mouth for her adoring, Tweeting viewers.

Hello? Pamela? No sign of my own TV monster.

I moved down that dimly lit hallway. Happy faces in pretty picture frames smiled down from the walls, images of a former life, people I once knew, places I’d once been.

I frowned back.

My heart raced at the crunch of broken glass beneath my feet. The place was ransacked. I called out again. Pamela! Hey, it’s Vaughn.

Still no answer. I pulled out my ancient Motorola to dial 9-1-1. Its dim keypad glowed like a yellow grin missing half its teeth. The battery indicator flashed red then expired. After my long conversation with Wil on the way over, my raggedy phone died because I hadn’t charged it in the last thirty minutes.

Since I had no idea where her house phone was, or even what her condition might be, finding Pamela was first priority. The law would have to wait a few more minutes.

Pamela! Still no answer.

I approached the carpeted stairs leading to her bedroom. The tension in the cold, dry air of her home was thick enough to slice with the barbed tongue she used to deliver scripted news to metro Atlanta viewers every night.

The nearly unrecognizable figure looming atop the landing leading to the bedroom where we once warmed each other to the soul, made my blood run cold.

Tangled hair covered her scowl. Glistening cleavage rose and fell. What appeared to be blood, stained her powder blue silk blouse. Eyes bucked, pupils dilated, knees bent, shoulder width apart. Pamela stood in a defensive posture.

I moved up the stairs toward her. Pamela, are you okay? I showed my upturned palms. "What the hell is going on in here?

Her eyes met mine. She was a mess. Her lipstick was smeared, as if applied by the heel of her hand, in the dark. Her mascara had melted like virginal inhibition inside a honeymoon suite. Her shoulders heaved, rose, then fell like a marriage stuck somewhere between death and do us apart. Her breathing was audible, angry.

I eased toward her. Her twisted glare followed me.

Without warning, she lunged.

My knees buckled under the sudden force of her solid weight added to mine. It was the moment her screaming, lunging attack began.

Here, is where we tussled.

She shrieked when I shoved her, her back smacking flush against the bottom stairs. Her slice had caused dark blood to seep into the worn fabric of my last good shirt.

Anger, pain, fear and confusion danced around me like a strobing flash mob. I staggered backwards down the stairs with her following me. I held my hand out defensively.

Pamela? Pam? Stop this.

At the bottom of the stairs, I fought to keep my balance.

She reached the bottom of the stairs, then lunged. Her blade whipped through the air again, missing my eye by inches.

In one of her investigative reports, Pamela had taken up kickboxing to show women how they could effectively defend themselves from attackers. She applied her lessons well. In a flash, she delivered a swift kick with her instep, landing flush against my midsection, driving the wind from me, doubling me over.

A hard kick from the ball of her bare foot landed above my eye. She was aiming for my temple. I teetered at the edge of consciousness. Needed to get away from her, calm her down, figure out what the hell was going on. Caught off guard, wounded and dazed, I tried to avoid her next lunge, but knew I couldn’t.

She gave me no choice. I caught her arm as she lunged, trying only to restrain her. Seeing what I was attempting to do, she tried to switch the weapon to her free hand. If she did that, she could plunge it into my chest at point-blank range.

She grunted as I drove her into the wall behind her, her feet and hands extended toward me, a backhand serving the purpose of separating her from her blade, and from me. Through my teeth, I asked, Pamela, what is wrong with you? Chest heaving, she glared with crazy eyes, said nothing.

What the hell is going on here? What were you insisting I come over here for?

Her back was still flush with the wall, her butt on the floor, her elbows resting on her knees. I staggered away from her. Why did you attack me?

The sound of more broken glass crunched against the floor beneath us.

I looked to my arm, getting my first good look at what she’d done. Panic came. Oh, my God. Look at… I’m hurt. I huffed through my clenched teeth. I’m bleeding badly over here.

The swelling corners of her bleeding mouth did a slow, upward turn.

Pamela, talk to me!

At first, I thought she was about to break into tears. Then, I saw what inspired that evil smile. Surrounding me, triggers locked into fire-ready status. Flashlights, cutting thru the haze, had found their target: Me. Freeze. Police!

I winced as I threw my hands in the air. Get down on the floor! Now!

I turned back to Pamela, her smirk hidden from all but me. Without speaking, she mouthed the words: I finally got you back.

Fulton County’s finest had got me, too. After encircling me, they barked orders with the authority their standard-issue .40 caliber Glock 22 weapons more than justified.

I said get on the floor! Now! You heard him. Get down now! On the floor now!

"Hands where we can see ‘em!

I pleaded, Officers, I can’t get down. I’m wounded.

Did you hear what he said, sir? Get on the floor, now!

I tried again. Officers, I believe my knee is injured and I cannot bend it. I’m trying to cooperate.

Use your uninjured knee and get your ass down, sir!Now!

My inability to comply was of no concern to them. Bad knees didn’t matter. I could only hope that black lives did.

Their voices and egos rose like leavened bread. Their badges glistened in the gloom. Guns wagged, adrenaline surged.

In a ransacked room dimmed by moonless night, a sweating, disheveled suspect with torn clothing stained with the blood of at least one other person was the focus of men who were monuments to academy training, testosterone, and target practice. I must've looked crazy. Apparently, that was Pamela's intention.

I crumpled to my knees as voltage from a taser coursed through me like lightning. I quaked and trembled and wet myself. Pepper spray clouded my eyes, made them feel like they were being boiled out. I crashed to the floor, hitting my head on something I was now unable to see. My body mercifully went numb, the fire in my eyes of course the only thing I could feel at that moment.

I heard movement behind me, felt shackles being ratcheted around my wrists for maximum discomfort. All I could do was listen. Adrenaline and the loss of eyesight had heightened my other senses.

I heard two conversations near me. One right over me, one just outside.

Wil had arrived. What’s goin’ on? This is my best friend’s crib, or, at least it was. He told me that his wife, or rather, his soon to be ex-wife, called him to come over here. I was meetin’ him. Where is he?

One of the officers barked, Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to wait over there.

This is my friend’s house.

"Sir, I don’t care if he’s your Siamese twin. You need to wait over there.

"Hold up, hold up. I don’t appreciate your tone, bruh. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, so don’t be talkin’ to me crazy, fat boy. Where you get your uniform from, Mattress Firm? Seriously. You need to eat more Panera and less goddamn bread. Wobblin’ around, sweatin’ and barkin’ orders in yo tight-ass uniform, lookin’ like a damn waterlogged biscuit. What’s today’s safety lesson? Look both ways before you eat a salad?"

Sir.

"Which precinct you from, officer Baby Huey? Krispy Crème North? I bet the light on the top of your car flashes ‘hot’. You look like if you farted, they’d have to call FEMA and do air rescues. Respect me and don’t mess with me, bruh. I got that ACLU app on my phone, and it’s already running. Black lives matter. So do these nuts. Now say hi to everyone watching on Youtube."

Sir!

The conversation inside had a far different tone. Pamela was an even better actress than news anchor.

Now, ma’am, what happened?

She sniffled. I… I heard a sound downstairs, like my door was getting kicked in and so I hid in my bedroom closet, and I could hear him screaming my name and throwing things around downstairs. I was so scared, I… I…

It’s okay, Pam. A coddling female officer offered predictable sympathy.

I stayed in that closet hoping—praying that he wouldn’t find me, but then he did. Then he smacked me around that room like a rag doll… like he has before.

He’s done this before? Yes.

I cringed at Pamela’s revelation of a past failure I’d worked hard to make amends for, tried so damn hard to forget.

That officer asked her, Is that your blood, ma’am? Pamela whispered between sobs. I’m not sure.

Someone lifted me. Someone else sprayed water into my eyes. My vision began to return in blurred increments.

So, what happened next, ma’am?

Well, I guess after thrashing me around, he thought that he was gonna just walk out of here, but I was scared and angry, and I said that I wanted to make sure that he didn’t do this to anyone else, so I defended myself from his vicious attack.

I yelled, She’s lying!

A male voice barked back. Sir, I think that at this time, you should remain silent.

After statements were taken, all from Pamela, I was read my Miranda rights. Vaughn Ellison, you have the right to remain silent. I ignored the rest as they dragged me along the hand-tiled walkway toward a waiting squad car.

As I moved past him, Wil asked, Vaughn! Are you okay, man?

I grimaced. The pain from my arm, shoulder, knees and eyes roared. No!

Don’t worry, homie, I got you! I’ma call Johnnie Cochran—well, his law firm, anyway, you know, since he dead and all. You got a bitch, so they just need to just quit this shit. I’ma get you out, man. Sit witcho booty against the wall, especially if one of them hairy lifers starts humming love songs by Luther Vandross, okay?

Wait. What?

But man, if they start sangin’ A House Is Not A Home, then you need to just lie face up on the floor, twirl in circles on yo’ back, and kick yo’ legs at ‘em, like Shabba Doo. Oh, and pray, too. Trust me.

With Wil’s suggestions for defensive break dancing echoing, I was hauled away for a two night stay in the brick-hard confines of involuntary public housing.

All I’d planned to do that night was watch the game with my friend, then the local news which normally followed, long as it was on any channel other than the one where Lady Blue was the evening’s star attraction.

What happened was perhaps my comeuppance for one regrettable, forgettable moment from a lifetime ago.

Pamela’s vengeance threatened to cause my old shame to make some brand-new headlines.

2

You Bet Your Life

Luther Patterson cursed the vices which led to his current station in life.

Along the grey, pockmarked street on which he stood, flickering incandescent signs for twenty-four-hour check cashing stores, fortress-like gas stations, and grimy fast food joints joined the garish, Vegas-styled neons of the adult establishments dotting the landscape along Buford Highway.

The Peach Drop loomed front and center in that forlorn section of town, its carnal commerce beckoning from behind red-painted, shutter-styled , side-entry doors, into a place where those dying for pleasure came to live in lust.

Patterson scowled at the large, silvery face of his flashy designer sports watch as he strode through those old doors, their stiff, groaning hinges announcing his wide-shouldered entry into that den of wine, women and thongs, where gravity-defying pole dancers in clear platform stilettos and various stages of undress simulated sex for mostly male patrons.

Some of those tattoo-covered dancers harbored delusions of discovery and stardom. They were Champale bitches with caviar dreams.

Patterson couldn’t understand why he was asked for a business meeting in such a place by The Corporation. Around him, drinks were served with angelic smiles by women with devilish curves. He bemoaned the demon of gambling addiction. He wanted no part of The Corporation’s life-altering cure, although he knew he was one more unpaid debt from involuntary intervention.

He posted up in the back of the establishment facing the front door, waiting, watching.

Where the fuck are they? He wondered.

An old man groped a young woman’s firm backside with trembling, spotted hands.

A masculine woman with cornrows, a blue mechanic’s shirt, starched khakis and spit-shined men’s Stacey Adams called to a passing dancer. Jenny was the name stitched in cardinal script across an ivory patch above the left breast of her indigo shirt. Come here baby. Her voice was masculine and deep, like Morgan Freeman at midnight.

The dancer then danced for Jenny as she had for the men. Jenny nodded to the beat of the music, flashed a gold-plated grin, and bellowed, Lord have mercy in a Bruce Almighty voice.

Penny for your thoughts, baby. Patterson’s server drew his attention. She was stunning, built like a brick shit house, with a face fit for Penthouse. Her flawless skin possessed a golden glow. A pink rubber band corralled her flowing golden mane, the tip of which rested against the small of her toned back.

My name’s Sandy. She served him a Spanish-themed beer, and a smile.

Patterson outstretched his large hands in protest. I don’t always drink beer, but when I do, I don’t order that.

You should try it. It’s the favorite of our customers.

He sipped his brew, then nodded in approval. Your customers are right, and I stand corrected. This is some good beer.

Sandy nodded and smiled as she hovered. She aroused him. She smelled of jasmine, oozed sex appeal, titillated with her assets.

Patterson admired her, then wet his whistle as if he were the most thirsty man alive. Another dancer brushed past, flat-footed, dark hair flowing behind her lithe body, transparent, come-fuck-me shoes dangling from her fuck you middle finger. She exchanged goodbyes with Sandy, while ignoring the catcalls of an old dog begging for a young trick, until she disappeared behind an Employees Only exit.

Stay thirsty, motherfucker.

Sandy watched Patterson ogling that dancer. She’s sexy, isn’t she? Her smile broadened. Patterson grunted between sips. Yep. Totally fuckable.

I know. Trust me, it’s as good as it looks. She’s delicious, like fresh strawberries with cream. Oh, and far as your beer goes, I know you didn’t order it, honey. Sandy pointed across the room. He did.

Patterson followed the aim of her finger, settling upon a pug-faced man. Razor-lined salt and pepper goatee. Dark, deep set eyes. Large, bald head reflecting the strobe of the overhead lights. The man Patterson had journeyed to this worn patch of town to meet.

That bald man raised a hearty toast toward Patterson with one hand, while smacking the gyrating ass of the dancer in his lap with the other. Patterson frowned and nodded. He’d hoped to get in place before his contacts arrived, only to discover their covert rendezvous was already underway.

The bald man gestured Patterson toward him as his lap dancer slinked away to seek new hands-on investors.

Patterson approached the bald man’s table with caution. Nothing on that table but a beer matching the one in his hand, and two shots of Jaä germeister. That didn’t mean there was nothing more sobering underneath. From the corners of his eyes, he searched the room for others.

After determining they were alone, Patterson said to the bald man, You’re new.

Yes, I’m new, Luther. The Corporation has upgraded its enforcement division. No more Hans and Franz for you.

The bald man clasped his thick, hairy fingers and studied Patterson. My name is Sixto. You’ll be dealing with me, henceforth, regarding your debt resolution. He gestured toward the armless chair opposite him. Have a seat.

Luther Patterson kept his distance. "So, you’re alone?

No crew to back you up?"

With a slight laugh, Sixto held his hands up. "I can assure you, no crew is needed, big fella.

Why did you want to meet here?

Bible study. Why the fuck do you think?

This is a bit out of the way. We could’ve done this in Buckhead.

Buckhead’s not my cup of tea. Sixto sipped his lager, then tossed back one of his two shots of Jaä germeister. Too many snobs, too many fags in Buckhead. Here is better. The ink-covered asses and titties in this ghetto-ass part of town have graffiti like a goddamn Norfolk Southern box car, but the chicken wings in this shit hole are exquisite.

Luther Patterson scoffed. I wouldn’t know, I don’t buy food and pussy in the same place.

Sixto mocked him. Bullshit. It’s called dating. Patterson looked around. Are we on a date?

The enforcer smacked his emptied shot glass down on the weathered oaken table. Are you my pussy, Patterson?

Whatever, motherfucker.

Sixto burped, leaned back. You have your payment? What the fuck do you think? Patterson’s turn to rattle the table. His strong, large hand had broken bones and shattered the careers of two all-star quarterbacks. Underneath his dark fingers lay a manila envelope. Fifty thousand. It’s all there.

Sixto nodded as he examined that envelope’s contents. "Good boy, Luther. Keep making your payments on time.

An ounce of prevention beats a pound of ass, and I’m not talking about the tattoo covered ass up in here."

Patterson squared his chest, flexed his large fists, and stepped closer to Sixto. You wanna step to me, then step. Otherwise, don’t threaten me, motherfucker. I’ll make my payments. I’ll continue to extract the money I make for my payments from the asses of opposing players every goddamn Sunday. I owe your bosses, but I don’t owe you shit, you hear me?

Sixto stood and stepped close to Patterson, matching both dare and bravado. His breath a mashup of mints, beer, and braised lemon pepper wings. "Oh, I hear you. And you’ll do as I say, motherfucker.

Patterson pressed his nose against Sixto’s face and growled, Try me, bitch.

Sixto grinned, held up his hands and backed away. You’ve got heart, Luther. I’ll give you that. He called to his waitress, then gestured toward the seat opposite him.

Have a seat.

Fuck you. Patterson held his position. We’re done here.

Sixto sat and chugged his beer. "We have to discuss the terms of your final drop, remember? Besides, what’s your hurry? Have a seat. Drinks and lap dances will be on me. Your little news anchor girlfriend can wait. Word on the street is hubby is on lock down, so that should clear