“Nigga, that shit you did to my boy John was just fucked up,” Camron said. “That was some fucked up shit.”
“Shut the fuck up, nigga!” Race snapped, pressing the barrel of his gun into Camron’s forehead. “Shut the fuck up! Ain’t nobody tell you to fuckin’ talk. Don’t fuckin’ talk when I’m fuckin’ talkin’ or I’mma put a goddamn bullet into your head and shit.”
“Okay, okay,” Camron said, believing the guy. “All right, nigga. All right.”
Race chuckled, realizing that he’d always gotten a kind of thrill off from seeing another man humbled. “Okay, nigga,” he said. “Anyway, like I was sayin’… That nigga John brought that shit on his self. You know that nigga shoulda never been up in my place, in my bed, smashing my chick. You shoulda see the look on the nigga’s face when I came walkin’ into the bedroom.” He laughed. “Nigga was standin’ off to the side, lookin’ like a scared little boy.”
The menacing look in Race’s eyes practically angered Camron. On top of that, the dude’s boldness was enough to make him want to kill him. Camron hated that he’d only looked out the front door when Jay came to the door rather than looking out of the window as well. Lately, he’d been hearing more and more stories about dudes being the victim of home invasions and things of that nature. For that reason, he’d been particularly careful when it came to his life. If there was an unknown car parked out in front of his house for too long, he’d make sure to keep an eye on it until it left.
“And now I got you here,” Race said, smiling at Camron.
Drew chimed in, saying, “So, this the nigga that was shootin’ at you, man?” he asked. “This the nigga right here?”
“Mmhmm,” Race answered. “He wasn’t the only one, but he was damn sure the one that came runnin’ for a nigga the fastest like he was just hungry for some damn blood.” He pressed the end of the gun into Camron’s head again, causing Camron to break a sweat. “Yup, this nigga right here.”
Drew shook his head and backed up, knowing what was about to happen.
“Nigga, you lucky I’m not try’na catch no case right now,” Race said, “or else, I might kill your ass and be in some deep shit. But I’m not gon’ do that.”
Camron wanted to feel relieved, but the tension was just too high. He really wondered what this guy was about to do, deeply regretting not having his heat on him when he went to the door. “Okay,” he said, nodding his head.
Race’s eyes became even colder, if such a thing was even possible. He shook his head. “Nigga, I know I told you not to talk unless I fuckin’ told you to!” he said. “I know I fuckin’ told you bitch ass nigga to not say a mothafuckin’ word unless I told you to. What the fuck is wrong with you, nigga? Huh? What the fuck is your problem? You don’t speak no English or nothin’?”
“I just said okay, is all, man,” Camron said.
Race struck Camron so hard across the face that he fell over and crashed into the wood coffee table. Because of how the table was constructed, and how Camron’s back landed flat against the top, the legs collapsed from underneath it. He winced from the pain in his back. “Damn!” Drew said, putting his hand up over his mouth and laughing.
Race looked down at Camron as he tried to move. “Nigga, stay down!” he told him. He kicked Camron in the stomach, causing him to turn over. He leaned down and pummeled Camron in the head several times until he nearly appeared lifeless. Then he backed up and kicked, his feet making contact with Camron’s head and neck and chest.
“Okay, man!” Camron struggled to say, begging for dear mercy. “Okay!”
“Nigga, I ain’t done until I say I’m done,” Race said. “Get your ass up right now, nigga! Get up!”
Camron did as he was told, even though it could have very well been the biggest struggle of his life. He stood up, almost feeling as if he were going to collapse again from the pain in his back. He looked at Race, who struck him again so hard across the face that Camron went tumbling over the other side of the couch. At this point, his eyes were black and several parts of his body were bruised from being kicked. All Camron could think about at the back of his mind was how if Race wasn’t holding a gun, he could easily take him on and none of this would be happening.
Race rushed around other side of the couch and wrapped his hands around Camron’s neck. Camron struggled to breathe, wrapping his hands around Race’s tattooed forearms as he felt himself being pulled toward the kitchen counter. His face turned red—a red that showed brightly through Camron’s brown skin. The confusion almost paralyzed him, as he wondered why he was being drug into the kitchen. His feet kicked, but to no avail.
“Come here bitch ass nigga,” Race said. Race sat his gun down on the counter, tightened his grip around Camron’s neck, and turned Camron’s head toward the edge of the counter. “Come and take shots at my life again and see what happen to you.”
Just then, one of the most horrific things Drew had ever seen took place right in front of him. He stood in the kitchen doorway and watched as Race violently slammed Camron’s forehead into the edge of the kitchen counter. All it sounded like was a deep thump happening over and over and over and over again. It wasn’t long, maybe after the sixth or seventh time, before Camron’s body went totally limp. He was knocked out cold, prompting Race to let go of his neck and watch his body fall to the floor. Drew rushed over and the two of them looked down at Camron, his face and head swollen to where he was practically unrecognizable. He breathed heavily, his eyes swollen shut and his arms spread back on the checkered tile.
“Damn, Race,” Drew said. “You fucked that nigga up bad, man.”
“Fuck him,” Race said, grabbing his gun. “He lucky I don’t kill him too. Let’s go on and get the fuck up outta here. I need to get somethin’ to eat quick. A nigga hungry now.”
Drew followed Race out of the house. Race made sure to leave the front door hanging wide open with the wind rushing inside. Race and Drew pulled off, leaving Camron laying on the floor beaten, swollen, and unconscious. Never in his life had anything happened to him like this. And, little did Race know that he’d started something that he might not be able to finish.
CHAPTER 8
When John got home that night after the family function at his mother’s house, he felt all kinds of ways. In fact, his mind had been working so much overtime that he felt tension in his jaw. It almost felt to him as if one of the muscles in his jaw had swollen up and would throb when he thought too much about it. He had to sit, at the table, during the rest of the family function and watch Sparkle mix and mingle with his family as if she’d been actually invited—as if the two of them were getting back together and she was trying to get to know everybody again.
That night, John didn’t have chance to talk with Sparkle before either of them had fallen asleep because she managed to stay occupied with Isaac. For that reason, and the fact that Isaac had just had a good ole time with his grandmother and family, John simply went back into his room for the rest of the night. When he’d gone out to make some money around midnight, as to be expected, Sparkle had appeared to be sound asleep. John, on the other hand, thought about not only the situation that went down at his mother’s house with Sparkle popping up uninvited, but also the fact that Camron hadn’t responded to any of his texts since last night.
“Fuck,” John said, looking over at the sunrise the next morning. He’d gotten up and rolled himself just a little under a full joint. He didn’t like to smoke blunts in the morning because smoking that much weed would give him headaches first thing in the morning. Once he’d gotten done rolling, he climbed out of the bed. Naked, he walked across the room. Rays of sunlight, cutting through the blinds, formed light lines across his torso. His manhood gently dangled as he approached the window, opened it, and looked out. A gentle, but noticeable and very comfortable, cool wind rushed into the room. It was relaxing and felt good on John’s naked body. “What the fuck is up with that nigga?”
John checked his phone again, then stood in thought
at the window. The smoke billowed out and disappeared into the early morning dew. It was rare John woke up this early in the morning, but the times he did, he actually kind of felt like he was getting a little treat. There was something about waking up early when the weather was nice that made John happy that it actually happened. If Sparkle and Isaac were not staying here, John would have opened the balcony door and the windows, as he always did. He’d walk around naked in his apartment, perhaps smoking, as the wind funneled through the apartment.
John was a little shook when his phone vibrated. He held his phone up and stepped away from the light, cracking a smile when he saw Camron’s name on the screen.
“Yeah, nigga,” John answered, smiling and nodding his head. “Wassup? Nigga, why the fuck you wasn’t respondin’ last night? Some shit happen with your phone or did you wind up with some chick you met at the club or some shit like that?”
Camron groaned, but it wasn’t the groan of waking up early in the morning. Rather, he sounded as if he were in pain. “Come get me,” he said. “Where you at? Come get me.” The anguish in his voice was clear.
“What?” John asked, now concerned about his boy. “What happened, nigga? Where the fuck you at?” He’d never heard Camron talk this way.
“I’m on the kitchen floor,” Camron said. “Race…some otha nigga…they came in here…nigga, come get me. I been here all night. Left the front door open.”
John’s heartbeat sped up. He could tell by the sound of Camron’s voice that the situation was not good. “Okay, nigga, okay,” John said, rushing back to his bedroom. “I’m on my way, I’m on my way. Hold on. I’m on my way.”
“Okay,” Camron groaned.
John hung up and rushed into his bedroom. He got dressed—black jeans and white t-shirt with a Capone drawing on the front—and grabbed his keys. All the while, wondering what the hell could have happened to Camron that he’d sound like that. Furthermore, something told him that Race would be just the nigga to take things further than he had to. John wondered how Race had found out where Camron lived, as Camron never lived in the same place for too long. There was no doubt in his mind that somebody in the hood had got to running their mouths.
John hopped into his car and rushed over to Camron’s place. Just as Camron had said on the phone, sounding as if he could barely speak, his front door was hanging wide open. This let John know for sure that something had happened because there was just no way that Camron would ever leave his door open. And, considering what kind of neighborhood Camron lived in, leaving your front door open could essentially be asking to get killed.
After double parking on the wide side street, John rushed up to Camron’s door. He ran into the house, looking around, happy that he’d carried his heat with him out of the car. The first thing he saw upon entering the house was how messed up the living room had gotten. It looked as if a storm had come through. The coffee table had all but shattered; the couch was out of place. There were splats of blood in various places on the living room floor.
John made his way to the kitchen where he found Camron lying on the other side of the small dining table, just along the cabinet. He rushed around and knelt down. Camron looked as if he were trying to hang on, but it was getting increasingly harder by the moment. He’d made it the entire night, but a person’s body could only go so long without getting any help.
“Camron? Camron?” John asked, looking at his unrecognizable face.
“John?” Camron asked, turning his head. He moved his arms, trying to get himself up, but his efforts were useless. He couldn’t think much, let alone do whatever brain functions were necessary to get up and keep his balance. “Man, you gotta get me to a hospital or somethin’.”
“I am, I am,” John said, trying to think. He was strong and in shape, of course, but Camron had always been built like a football player. Between his weight and his muscles, it would be damn near impossible for John to carry him more than a few feet. The idea of carrying him from the kitchen all the way out to the car on the street definitely seemed impossible. “What the fuck happened?”
Camron pointed toward the living room. “This nigga came over to get some weed and I found out the shit was a fuckin’ set up,” he mumbled, his head lying to the side. “Race and some otha nigga came in here.” He pointed up toward the top of the counter. “Nigga was bangin’ my head into the counter, nigga. Into the fuckin’ counter.”
Rage circulated in John’s blood as he bit his bottom lip. Now, he’d officially dedicated his life to making Race’s life a living hell. There was just no fucking way he was ever going to let this go. John stood up. “Okay, okay, we gon’ get you to a hospital man. I just gotta figure out how I’mma get you the fuck up outta here. You know I can’t carry you.”
John thought about it for a minute. “Hold up, Camron,” he said. “Is there any one of these neighbors that you cool with or what? You cool with any of these neighbors to where they’d come and help me carry you out?”
Camron’s head nodded slowly and in a very agonizing way. “The nigga who live at the corner,” he mumbled. “This nigga they call Ja.” He chuckled. “He look like that old rapper Ja Rule. Me and him real cool. That’s my nigga. I don’t know if he there right now or not.”
“I’mma go see,” John said. “Just hold on, nigga. Hold on.”
As John rushed back toward the front of the house, he noticed a couple of valuable things—television, stereo—were missing. Either Race had taken some things before he departed last night, or someone had come into Camron’s place and taken advantage of the situation.
John ran out of the house as if he were running from the police. He headed toward the blue house on the corner, where he remembered meeting Ja one time. When Camron said the name, he knew who it was, but just didn’t know the guy well. As John hurried down the sidewalk and across the street, careful to not slip and fall in the wet grass, he hoped to God that Ja was home so he could help get Camron out to his car.
John banged on the door and waited. A dog barked next door. He looked both ways on the porch, hoping that this guy wasn’t the type to come to the door with a gun. Next thing John knew, the curtain to the side opened and he could see into Ja’s crusty eyes. He waved and pointed toward Camron’s place, motioning for Ja to come outside. “Help me get this nigga to a hospital!” he yelled through the glass.
Within seconds, the front door opened and Ja looked into John’s frantic face. With a gun at his side, Ja was dressed in nothing but plaid boxers. His ripped body was covered in tattoos and looked as if he went to the gym several times a week. “What the fuck happened to Cam?” he asked. “What you say?”
“This nigga we know rushed up in there and jumped him last night,” Camron said. “The nigga been layin’ on the floor all night in the kitchen, nigga. You can’t even tell who he is by lookin’ at his face. I can’t carry his ass out to the car by myself, man. But I gotta get him to a hospital.”
“Okay, hold up,” Ja said, concerned for his friend up the block.
John watched as Ja turned around and pulled on some blue sweatpants. Barefoot and without a shirt, Ja ran with John down the street. John led him into the house where the two men hurried to the kitchen.
“Fuck,” Ja said, seeing Camron. “Man, how the fuck this happen? Why you ain’t call me, nigga? I woulda came and helped you.”
“Ja?” Camron said, his eyes swollen shut.
“Come on, man,” John said, leaning down. “Help me get this nigga up and out to my car.”
Ja did just that. He took one end of Camron’s body and John took the other. Together, in almost perfect coordination, the two men carried Camron across the house and out into the front yard. Ja listened to details straight from Camron’s mouth, but he couldn’t always make out what he was saying. After putting him into the backseat gently, Ja looked up at John and asked. “What hospital you takin’ him to?”
“Whatever one that is up by the highway,” John answered. “I was just gon’ take hi
m to the Emergency Room up there.”
Ja nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I can meet you up there.”
“Hold up,” John said. “You actually think that you could stay and watch his place. The nigga that did this shit, Race, is the type of nigga to not let shit go and might wanna come back.”
“I see, I see,” Ja said.
Quickly, Ja and John traded phone numbers and John hopped in behind the wheel. He pulled over, looking back at his boy Camron every few seconds. “Am I in the car now?” Camron mumbled.
“Yeah, you in the car,” John responded. “You in the car. I’mma get you to a hospital, man. I’mma get you to a hospital. Just hold on.” He knew he probably needed to keep him talking. “What time was it last night that that nigga came by?”
“I don’t know,” Camron mumbled. “It mighta been nine or somethin’. Ten? Eleven? Shit if I know. What time is it now?”
“Nigga, it’s like seven in the mornin’ I think,” John said. He glanced down at the radio. “It’s seven-fifteen.”
“Why you up so early man?” Camron asked. “You…You…” His voice was getting lighter. “You don’t usually be up this late.”
The smearing of blood on the kitchen floor and in the living room popped up in John’s mind. He glanced back at Camron, wondering how he hadn’t died in the middle of the night. Perhaps him being knocked out was what had kept him at least alive for a while. However, all of that was probably catching up as more than likely he’d been bleeding all night.
John chuckled. “Nigga, I’m not up late,” he said. “I’m up early. I ain’t been up all night. You just make sure you hold on.”
Waiting at stoplights quickly became aggravating, so John rolled through them when he was sure no traffic was coming. Within fifteen minutes, he pulled up at the Emergency Room door and hopped out of the car. “Hold on, Camron!” he shouted as he rushed inside. “Hold on, man.”
The Bed You Make: An Urban Hood Drama Page 11
