Read Online A Love Like Blood by Victor Yates - Free Book Online Page B

body was as stiff as the howling wind by the cliffside. We stood on the golden beach, barefoot, dancing, kissing and groping each other until we heard a baritone laugh. Beside us, a bush-bearded woman in a pink sequin gown whistled. We laughed, running behind a rock. He rolled down my swim trunks. Joined together in want, we lowered to the sand and connected genitally and sensually and fell asleep. Footsteps woke us. I rushed back to the hotel, shirtless, with my hands in my shorts, hiding my erection.
    The key grinding sound in our room lock should have reminded me who I was. At the door, Father slammed his forehead against my forehead and grimaced with blood-shot eyes.
    â€œI could choke you right now,” Father screamed. “What happened to your camera?”
    â€œYou broke it.”
    When his hand rose, I saw his face under better lighting.
    Not only had the Mexican sun given him an even tan, but also, I had given him a black eye. Father seeing the black eye meant life or death for me. I fed him red-colored drinks during the remainder of the trip.

Chapter 15
    W alking inside, whiffs of cooked goat, roasted cauliflower, garlic, chilies, and lemon assure me we’re in the right place. The sign outside only says Shorty’s. Reddish-brown, yellowish-brown, brown, and green herbs in barrels emit scents of a Somali kitchen. Rice crunches under my gym shoes. Snap, pause, snap, fingers create a beat in a song playing. A man in one of the aisles hums along. Further inside the market, I smell onions, burnt matches, frankincense, curry, and floral black tea. Camel milk, goat milk, sheep milk, buttermilk, and fruit juice bottles line the refrigerated cases. A prepared food counter, with hot lights, glows in the back. The pale blue walls contrast with the golds, oranges, limes, and pinks on the shelves from fabrics, packaging, tins, and trinkets. Dozens of white stars adorn the walls. Each is five-pointed and perfect. On the sidewall, Somali proverbs have been painted in large letters. The word “women” capitalized stands out in one, and it reads, Where there are no WOMEN, there is no home . Underneath it, is the proverb, Get to know me before you reject me . A buffalo’s tongue, in an advertisement, underlines the last two words.
    â€œSalam alaikum,” Father says to an older man.
    â€œThank you, son,” the man says and repeats the greeting. He unhooks a pink box, hands me a slice of cake in a lace doily, then gives Father a slice.
    The cake is three-layered with white frosting and white filling. I taste cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, vanilla, coconut, raisins, orange, carrots, and a woman laughing. An oil smudge stains the doily.
    â€œMy son you want another, no?”
    The man hands me a second slice.
    Before I can say thanks, Father says, “You are too kind to us, uncle.”
    A flash of pink at the end of the aisle disappears over to the next aisle as I lick my fingers. The pink is a collarless, pullover shirt worn by a young Somali man. Through the shiny material, I see his pierced nipples. His features are mousy, and his ears stick out on his small head. He dyed his short curly hair blond. His goatee and the patch of hair under his lower lip match. Strands of gold chains loop around his neck in a gaudy fashion. They vary in length with the longest reaching below his belted waist. Gold rings exaggerate the length of his neck. On his wrists, he wears gold cuff bracelets. His pants are a darker pink and have a gorgeous floral print. The belt is black; however the print is floral. Dark eye shadow and pencil highlight his hazel eyes. Every eye in the back of the market follows him.
    â€œWhat the hell,” the server at the food counter says.
    â€œKhaniis,” the older man says.
    Father repeats the slur, then says, “twelve,” to the server, pointing at the sambusas under the hot light. The man ignores them as he flips over a bag of corn flour. A yellow mist falls from the