by Erica Hilton
Brooklyn Bombshells
Part 2: Red Charlie
by Erica Hilton
Melodrama Publishing
www.MelodramaPublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Brooklyn Bombshells Part 2: Red Charlie. Copyright © 2019 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address [email protected].
www.melodramapublishing.com
Library of Congress Control Number:1620781005
eISBN: 978-1620781104
First Edition: April 2019
Chapter One
It was a beautiful September afternoon with cloudless skies, a slight breeze, and a warm and friendly sun above. Pyro wasn’t in the best mood as he ordered two cups of hot coffee from the café downstairs from the rehabilitation facility. Mateo had been transferred to the best rehab center in the city, and Pyro was footing the bill. It had been a long few months with Mateo lying up in critical condition, and his progress was excruciatingly slow.
Pyro made his way back into the facility, strolled through the busy lobby, and took the elevator to the sixth floor, where Mateo was fighting to regain his life day by day, minute by minute, second by second. Although Mateo was awake, he wasn’t showing signs of major improvement. But Pyro couldn’t and wouldn’t give up on his friend—his brother from another mother. He needed Mateo by his side as his business partner. They had plans. They had a lot to accomplish together, and this wasn’t the end for the duo. Pyro wanted to believe that. He had to keep his head up and hopes high, especially in front of Chanel.
Chanel was a faithful and loyal girlfriend, and Pyro had nothing but respect for her. She refused to leave Mateo’s side in his darkest hour, and she was willing to take care of him. It was a love that Pyro wished he had.
When he got to Mateo’s room, Pyro saw Chanel by his bedside, praying for her man—the man she was truly in love with. It wasn’t fair. They were supposed to be honeymooning in Hawaii. Now it seemed like that dream of paradise wasn’t going to come true—not anytime soon.
“How you holding up?” Pyro asked her.
“I could be better,” Chanel replied, sadness coloring her eyes and tone.
“Don’t worry about him, Chanel. My dude is a fighter. Believe me, he ain’t going anywhere. He’s too stubborn and vain to die at his age.” Pyro held up one of the cups and said, “I bought you some coffee.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
Pyro took a sip from his coffee and nodded, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. He had taken on a lot since Mateo was shot. Pyro was solely running their business, paying for Mateo’s hospital and rehabilitation bills, and keeping Chanel and her mother booked in the luxury suite at The Manhattan hotel. The expenses were a small fortune. He wanted to keep Chanel safe because Mateo would have done the same for him, but he knew the money would have been put to better use on the streets or in the stock market. Still, with God and Charlie out there, Pyro felt he had to keep Chanel somewhere out of their reach.
“Why him?” Chanel muttered sorrowfully.
Pyro approached closer and placed his hand on Chanel’s shoulder. “I don’t know, but I know this—he’s gonna make it out of this, Chanel. He came too far to lose now. He gonna be a’ight, you feel me?”
His words carried strength to Chanel, but inside Pyro was broken up seeing his friend lying in that bed, looking nearly lifeless. Mateo had this perpetual blank stare on his face with minimal signs of recognition. Every now and then he would squeeze someone’s finger or attempt a half-smile. Pyro knew that his boy was still in the race, fighting to get his life back.
Chanel was trying to be the rock that Mateo needed her to be, but Pyro could see in her eyes that she needed just as much support as Mateo. They both were hurting over Mateo’s condition.
“Where’s ya moms?” he asked.
“She’s back at the hotel,” Chanel replied, her eyes still glued on Mateo.
Of course, Pyro thought. Bacardi barely came to support Chanel and Mateo. What she cared about was living the life of luxury via someone else’s misery and troubles.
Chanel turned to Pyro. “And speaking of that, the hotel is way too expensive for you to keep spending all your money on. It’s not necessary, Pyro. I want you to know that I appreciate all you’ve done, but it feels wrong to me. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.”
Pyro agreed, but staring into Chanel’s chestnut brown eyes and seeing her pitiful demeanor, he just couldn’t say it out loud. “Nah, you good, Chanel. Don’t worry ’bout me, ma. Just be there for my nigga like you been doin’ and help him get better.”
But Chanel wasn’t having any of it. She wasn’t a user. She didn’t want Pyro to go bankrupt or in debt because of her plight with God and Charlie. Besides, Bacardi was the main one luxuriating in the perks. Room service, housekeeping, spa days and nights, and the heated indoor pools, her mother loved every bit of it. Meanwhile, Chanel was at Mateo’s bedside ten to twelve hours a day.
Chanel had already asked her friend Mecca if she could stay with her for a while, until she figured out her next move. Mecca told her that she could spend a few nights there, but her parents wouldn’t allow more than that. Their hearts went out to Chanel after Mecca told them about the robbery, rape, and Mateo’s shooting, but to them it spelled trouble for their daughter. They had moved uptown to avoid such things. First, Mecca had gotten detained by the police at Chanel’s place when that cop was murdered, and now this. It was too much for Mecca’s parents. They felt that Chanel wasn’t as innocent as she claimed to be—getting mixed up with street goons and gangsters.
“You’ve done enough for me, Pyro. I’m a big girl and I can handle myself. I don’t want to become a burden on you. You have enough to deal with too. Besides, I found a place to stay for a week or two. I’ll be at Mecca’s in Harlem.”
It wasn’t contemplated, but the words unexpectedly spilled out of his mouth. “Mecca, nah, it’s not safe there. Look, I have a spare room in a safe building. No one will know you’re there . . . unless you tell them. You can stay until Mateo gets better and back on his feet. And you’re right; it would save me some paper.”
Chanel thought on it for a moment. “Can I tell my mother?”
Pyro shook his head—hell no. “You can tell her that you’re safe, but that’s it. She could slip up and let someone know your whereabouts. I mean, your sister is a grimy bitch, and until that nigga God is handled, you’d be puttin’ my life in danger too.”
The thought frightened Chanel. “I won’t. I promise.”
“You said the same thing to Mateo, and now he’s fucked up,” he said to Chanel without thinking. Pyro didn’t realize he had some pent-up animosity toward her for running her mouth to her sisters and getting his best friend shot in the head.
All along, Chanel had felt exactly what Pyro said—it was her fault. His statement made her burst into tears, and she ran out of the room.
Pyro knew he had fucked up. He felt guilty for letting that statement out, and he immediately ran after her. He caught up to her by the elevators. She was pressing the button rapidly, looking to dash inside and escape somewhere.
“Chanel, I’m sorry for what I said back there. It’s not your fault, so don’t put this shit on you, you feel me?” he apologized sincerely. “And
like I said, my place is safe, and you’re welcome to stay there for as long as you like. I know Mateo would want that for you—for me to keep you safe.”
She stared at him, wiping away the few tears that trickled from her eyes. She nodded.
***
Chanel stepped out of the elevator and into the plush hotel hallway. She still looked depressed from her time at the rehabilitation center. From Mateo’s condition, to her life being in danger, Chanel had so much on her mind that some days she didn’t know if she was coming or going. She felt like a ghost as she walked down the hall to her room. The Manhattan hotel was luxurious, but it wasn’t home. It didn’t give Chanel any comfort.
Chanel entered the hotel room to see her mother walking around in a long robe and downing a glass of champagne. Bacardi greeted her daughter with the nicest smile, but Chanel didn’t smile back. It was nice to see that someone was having a good time on Pyro’s dime. Her mother was making herself at home.
“How is he doin’?” Bacardi asked.
“His condition is still the same . . . nothing changed,” Chanel replied.
“All we can do is keep prayin’ for him,” Bacardi said. “But I ordered some room service. I didn’t know you’d be here, but it should be enough for both of us.”
Chanel had to break the bad news to her mother, and there was no way to sugarcoat it. “Look, Ma, check-out time is noon tomorrow.”
Bacardi stopped what she was doing and stared at her daughter as if she had heard her wrong. “Say what now?” she replied.
“We need to go—pack our things and leave here. Pyro has done enough for us, and I don’t want to keep taking advantage of his kindness.”
Bacardi had the saddest look on her face. Her life had never been so good. She looked like someone had pulled the rug out from under her. Her Cinderella moment was over.
Her sadness transitioned into anger. “That cheap muthafucka just gonna kick us out?! Where we ’posed to go, huh? How the fuck he gonna do us like that, especially you?” she ranted. “Where we gon’ go now?”
Bacardi didn’t want to leave the palace she had been in for the summer—living the high life like a fat hog. Shit, she felt Pyro could afford it. He was a rich nigga getting that street money.
“I got somewhere to go,” Chanel mentioned.
Bacardi looked shocked. “You do? Where?”
“I’m going to stay with Mecca in Harlem for a stint. She doesn’t mind. But we can’t stay here any longer. It’s getting too expensive for Pyro. Between Mateo’s high medical bills and rehabilitation bills and this room with your constant room service, it’s too much on him,” she stated.
Too much on him? Shit, he offered, Bacardi thought.
“We need to be out by morning,” Chanel said, moving around the room and gathering some of her things.
“Fuck it. I’ll be packed,” Bacardi replied. “But I’m leaving this fuckin’ place with a bang.”
“As long as we leave,” said Chanel.
Bacardi didn’t say it, but she thought it. This was all Charlie’s fault, and her first-born would pay.
Chapter Two
Charlie took repeated pulls from her cigarette and stared off into the distance, looking at nothing but thinking about everything, including everyone who had wronged her. She stood on the gravel rooftop of her project building, aimlessly gazing at the floodlit city from a distance on a breezy, fall night. Charlie wasn’t in any rush to go inside. Instead, she continued to relish the comfort of being alone on the rooftop—contemplating and plotting.
She felt she had nothing left; everything had been taken from her. She seethed and found herself in self-preservation mode.
She had killed a man—not some stranger, but a man that she had once deeply loved. She convinced herself that it had to be done. But why? She really didn’t know. He committed a laundry list of infractions against her in the past. He beat her. He cheated on her. He fucked her sister. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word—to say that her man raped her little sister. She had known that prior to the murder and, evidently, she could live with it. To Charlie, her little sister brought the misery on herself.
So, if none of that made her consider murdering him, what made her snap?
A little voice inside her said it was her ego. Her ego couldn’t take hearing God say that Kym had some good pussy and Chanel had better pussy than hers, even though he uttered those words while heavily influenced by the drug she had given him. How could God say such a vile thing to her—after everything she did for him? She was his ride-or-die bitch for years, and she had even killed for him. She hated the fact that Chanel had fucked her man. God was her man and nobody else’s.
In Charlie’s eyes, everything was Chanel’s fault—why she was forced to kill her man and why she now had nothing. Her day for revenge would come.
But first things first, Charlie had to put all her ducks in a row. What if the police found trace evidence she had overlooked in the apartment and decided to believe Kym’s story? Kym would surely plead her innocence and tell them that she didn’t kill God.
There were so many what-if’s in Charlie’s mind, it was becoming overwhelming. She was becoming paranoid, and if anyone got in her way, she was ready to violently cut them down.
Charlie was determined that her story wasn’t about to end. She wasn’t about to rot in some prison cell while her sister remained free and breathing and living her best life. She didn’t want to fade into obscurity and be forgotten.
After being gone for several days and spending hours on the gravel rooftop, Charlie finally walked through the front door to her parents’ apartment. Her foul mood was matched by Bacardi’s—like mother like daughter. Her mother was seated on the couch smoking a cigarette. Charlie, who was still haunted with hallucinations about murdering God, wasn’t in the mental state for chitchat. But the moment she closed the door, Bacardi got up and hurried over to her, almost looking for a confrontation.
“Where the fuck was you, Charlie? Shit is gettin’ fuckin’ crazy out here and you got time to disappear and not tell anyone where the fuck you were at?” Bacardi chided. “And where the fuck is my rent?”
Charlie cut her eyes at her mother. “What are you hollering ’bout now? I’m not in the fuckin’ mood, Bacardi.”
Charlie begrudgingly tried to push past her mother, but Bacardi was adamant in confronting her. Charlie remained defiant as she stood in the hallway across from the kitchen. A few feet from her bedroom, she noticed them. Padlocks. “What the fuck is this?” she asked.
Bacardi smirked at her daughter’s sudden bewilderment and taunted, “Yeah, bitch, shit done changed up in here. From now on, rent is due on the first of the month, and everyone is to contribute toward food. Ain’t no more free rides in my place.”
Charlie twisted up her face. She felt everyone wanted to take advantage of her and disrespect her while she was down. She wasn’t having it.
“Are you fuckin’ serious?! You really wanna go there and talk ’bout free rides? I carried you and this fuckin’ family for years!”
“You either pay rent or you can get the fuck out!” Bacardi retorted.
“Bitch, I ain’t goin’ no-fuckin’-where!” Charlie screamed back.
They no longer looked like mother and daughter, but two strangers shouting in each other’s faces with erratic hand movements going back and forth.
The loud shouting brought Claire out of her bedroom. She had gone along with the program and started paying her mother rent. She didn’t have a choice since she didn’t have anywhere else to go. While Bacardi was living the lavish life in Manhattan with Chanel all summer, Claire had begun to get her life together. She was working part-time at TJ Maxx and attending community college. Things were copasetic until Charlie’s return brought hell back into the apartment.
“Ma, you trippin’ right now,” Claire said.
“Stay the fuck outta this, Claire,” Bacardi yelled.
“I ain’t payin’ you shit, bitch!” shouted Charlie.
More heated words were exchanged, and Claire desperately tried to play the peacemaker between them. Bacardi wanted $300 a month toward rent from both of them, and she wanted $200 a month for food. However, Charlie didn’t have a dime to her name. She was hungry, tired, and she wanted everyone to get out of her face.
“If you think I’m paying you five hundred a month for a project room, then you a dumb fuckin’ bitch. Like I said, you ain’t gettin’ shit from me. All that money and shit me and God gave you, and this is how you fuckin’ repay me!” Charlie shouted.
Hearing God’s name spew from Charlie’s mouth did something to Bacardi. On top of Charlie’s self-righteous tone, it made her go ape shit. She unexpectedly lunged at her daughter, attacking Charlie like she was a bitch in her prime. Charlie got hit with a series of blows, but her mother attacking her unleashed the beast inside of her. The two were going pound for pound inside the living room, knocking pictures off the walls and sending glasses and ashtrays smashing to the floor.
“Fuckin’ bitch!” Charlie screamed, grabbing her mother’s hair and trying to knot it around her fist and pull it out by its roots.
“Get the fuck off me, bitch!” Bacardi growled.
At that point, it would have been a draw between them if someone had been calling the fight. But then Bacardi got a second wind and started to handle her daughter like an OG. She went ham, her fists repeatedly smashing into Charlie’s face, bruising it and spilling some blood.
A mortified Claire saw the blood and tried to pull Bacardi off her sister, but she couldn’t control her mother’s rage. Charlie continued to holler, and when it looked like Bacardi was going to kill her, Claire decided to jump in instead of trying to break it up. Her fists went hammering away at the back of her mother’s head, and now it was two against one.
“Get off her!” Claire screamed out, her emotions on overload.
