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of an ass.
    â€œDarcelle is living in fear of this monster touching her daughter or any of his twisted family coming close to her. He mockingly threatened Darcelle, telling her, ‘You know things can happen.’ ”
    â€œYou know all this to be fact?”
    â€œPB, I know not to put you in the middle. God only knows what may happen by me telling you what I am telling you. I did my homework. I had her call him using the phone tapping equipment you showed me how to use. I have it digitally recorded. He is a monster and his mother is twisted.”
    â€œSend me the info.”
    â€œPB—”
    â€œSay no more. Just send me the info.”
    I look down at my arm; I see a vein pulsating and hairs standing up. My sense of justice has awakened. When it comes to abuse, it is akin to life and death as far as I’m concerned. One must live, and the other must die. I like living, so abuse within my reach must take an exit and disappear.
    Sometimes the ocean has a foul smell. It could be for many reasons—things wash up, but mostly it’s pollution from the foulness of people. Sometimes something has died out there. Like humanity can float and thrive; sometimes it dies and rots.
    For now though, I need to clear my head. My lover is upstairs waiting for me.

CHAPTER FIVE
Papillon Hot Butterfly
Gabrielle (Gabby) Brandywine
    I ’m having a morning eye-opener: three strawberries, one ounce of lemon juice, one ounce simple syrup, one ounce vodka, Club soda, and crushed ice while staring at the Northwest winter morning sunshine. Up ten stories, I stare downward, avoiding the blinding sun and enjoying the water, watching the ferries go from Seattle over to the local islands and coming back.
    On the beachfront down below, I’m watching my ex-Secret Service agent, my lover man, who is sparring with the ocean air with quickness and hardly any effort in his fluent movements. He possesses the kind of power men fear. Psalms is on Alki Beach, shadow boxing in the sand.
    With downtown Seattle in one corner of his world, and the Puget Sound in the other, he works out with the street behind him as if his back is against the ropes in a boxing ring. He beats the air until I’m sure the air is heated to one-hundred degrees in twenty feet in each direction surrounding him.
    Since I’ve known him, I’ve had the opportunity to see him do what he is doing now, many times, and I never grow weary of watching him. I have watched him shadow box and heat up the air with his rapid-firing fists along an iced-over river in Moscow. I watched his body move along the Panama Canal with the icy quickness of a Doberman as he seemingly cooled the hot air withthe speed of his kicks. Along the Great Wall of China, I watched him attack the breathed air of past warriors, and it evoked a vision of him fighting and defeating Genghis Khan. Psalms Black has the build of Mike Tyson, yet he moves like a jaguar in the Amazon jungle.
    I have felt that same power in his lovemaking, taking me and making me feel that he wants me. The responsiveness of his proficiencies in lovemaking takes the form of a ballet dancer’s grace performing between my thighs. My ex-Secret Service agent, my lover, has picked me up and floated me down on his manhood in a way a man cannot be trained. He is all-natural in all he does. Psalms touches every square centimeter of my body with his strong hands, and I sweat between my inner thighs from the softness of his caress.
    He gives me hot flashes and my body’s clock is not there yet. When he touches me, it feels like whispers to the pores of my body that he has opened up with the heat of his touch. He licks and sucks on my skin as if he’s licking the middle of an oyster, and he is trying to go as slow as an hour clock drains sand as he eats the middle. He sniffs all my pores and openings, and he makes sounds that have no names. It’s undeniably him. When those golden eyes scan my body, I