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you must put on your clothes and leave!’ But she no listen. She
come to me. I back away, but she get to me, have me against wall. Then she grab
my pinga .”
    “She grabbed your dick?!” I gasped in startled anger.
    “ Sí . So I grab her hand, snatch it away from me. I
rush out the door. I in resort lobby now. What I should do?”
    “You go back to your room,” I said, trying my best to
contain myself. “And you put her drunk ass out!”
    “But she naked.”
    “Then put her naked drunk ass out! And throw her
clothes out the door after her. I’ll be down there on the next flight out.”
    I was absolutely furious. I know Frankie can have a problem
holding her liquor. I know liquor makes Frankie do strange things. And I know
she’s as addicted to sex as she is to her liquor, but this was totally
ridiculous. She was going to try to fuck her brother’s man? My man? Sister or not, the bitch had crossed the line and I was not having it!
    I tried to call her but got her voice mail. I didn’t leave a
message. I was afraid of what I might have said. In fact, I’m glad she didn’t
pick up. I think I would have said some things to her that no brother should
ever say to his sister. That’s just how pissed I was.
    I also knew that Étie was not going to put her naked ass
out, nor had he retreated from the scene out of any fear or trepidation. He had
gone through enough in his young life to be prepared for almost anything,
including a ditzy Hollywood nympho who just happened to be his boyfriend’s
sister. I had no doubt he would be able to handle the situation firmly, with as
much decorum as could possibly be expected and without breaking out into a
visible sweat. He would handle it and her.
    But what pissed me off was that he had to be
confronted with this, and from my trusted baby sister no less. I was pissed and
I was hurt.
    It was seven o’clock in the evening my time, eleven o’clock
in Santo Domingo. I went online and booked the red-eye flight on American
Airlines, threw some things into a carry-on and headed to the airport, aware
that my seething anger could impair my journey. I calmed down as much as I
possibly could.
    I was so mad I felt like calling Mom and telling her what
her baby girl had tried to do. But as angry as I was, I couldn’t subject my
mother to such sordid bullshit.
    I was so angry that I almost copped an attitude with the TSA
officer at security check-in when she said she had to confiscate my Burberry
Brit cologne because its bottle was more than three ounces. But I caught myself
before I was really about to make a mess of things. I mean, it’s not as if I
didn’t know better, but in my hasty funk, I grabbed the standard-size bottle
instead of the travel size and threw it in my bag with my other toiletries
without even bothering with the requisite plastic bag. The agent really let me
off pretty easy, considering.
    I squirmed in that cramped middle coach seat in that dark
cabin, pretending to bury my head in my Walter Mosely novel to avoid
conversation with my chatty aisle-seat neighbor while my sleeping window-seat
neighbor snored as loudly as the jet engines roared. I kept the grumpy flight
attendant busy on her feet with order after order of double gin and tonics. By
the time we landed in Miami at six thirty-eight a.m., I was one pissed-off,
drunken mess. Not falling-down drunk but sauced enough to feel the retch in my
stomach and the boulders colliding in my head. I went to the gift shop in the
terminal, bought a bottle of overpriced Excedrin and downed a couple. I then
calmed myself, straightened myself up and called Étie.
    “Baby?” I said when he answered the phone anxiously, as if
he had been up all night waiting for this call. “You all right?”
    “I fine, baby. I get her dressed and get her back to her room.
I lay her on her bed. She fall asleep right away.”
    “But how are you doing?”
    “Me?”
    “Yes.”
    “I am okay…I guess. She like my sister. It felt so