by Erica Hilton
“You know what’s wrong with me!” Claire snapped back.
“She was nobody to you—nothing! That bitch looked down on us, and you lying here feeling sorry for her.”
“What did we do, Charlie? What did we do?”
“We got paid! That’s what we did,” Charlie shouted. “Shit, we were getting our asses kicked out there. I did something about it. And besides, we ain’t do shit but get kicked out an apartment. So don’t start running your mouth off ’bout sumthin’ that ain’t happened.”
Claire’s expressionless gaze lingered on her sister. “You believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes. I believe it. She’s not dead, Claire.”
“She’s not?” Claire then asked incredulously.
“No. So you think I’m a monster?”
“I don’t know what you are.”
“I’m your sister and I didn’t kill your friend. She’s fucked up, but she’s good,” Charlie continued to lie.
The look on Claire’s face spoke something odd to Charlie. Her little sister was bugging. Did she really believe that she didn’t murder Melanie? If so, Claire was funny-farm crazy. But Charlie went along with the program. She was willing to do and say whatever it took to bring some life back into Claire and to get her eating and drinking again.
Little by little, Claire started to eat and drink something. Charlie continued to keep her little sister company, mostly monitoring her every move. Claire reached for the remote control and turned to a movie on HBO. After a while, the crazy delusion she had sold to Claire seemed to be wearing off.
Charlie wondered when Claire officially lost her mind. Was it the cheating scandal? Was it the fact that she pretended to be someone that she wasn’t for all those years? Were the clues somewhere in their childhood? Claire had a case of Kanye West, spewing to everyone how much of a genius she was until she got exposed.
Either Claire would prove to be a crazy genius like Van Gogh, or she would become a psycho bitch and hurt those around her like Charles Manson. Whatever the outcome of Claire’s state, Charlie was still going to get paid and do her.
Chapter Nine
The city was alive with the early afternoon sunshine on what was turning out to be a beautiful October day. Chanel climbed out of the cab on Amsterdam Avenue on the west side of the city and took in the scenery. It felt good being outside and not having to look over her shoulder anymore. She was in that part of town to meet with Mecca. Chanel wanted her life to get back to normal again, and that meant seeing Mecca in public.
Mecca had gotten a full scholarship to Columbia University, and everyone was extremely proud and happy for her, including Chanel. She always knew her friend could do it. She had what it took to succeed. Mecca had a stable home environment. She was focused and smart, and she knew what she wanted out of life.
The two decided to meet up at a local eatery close to the university to catch up on things. Chanel walked into the quaint restaurant with a full bar and mostly undergraduates taking time out from their studies. Chanel joined Mecca at the outdoor patio, knowing warm days like this were becoming far and few between.
“Hey girl!” Mecca excitedly hollered at Chanel.
The two girls hugged for a moment and started to praise each other.
“You look good, Chanel.”
“Thanks. And so do you.”
“I’m so glad that you finally came out.”
“Shit. I needed some time out. It feels good,” said Chanel.
“I know it does. But I got you, everything’s on me.”
“No, that’s not right—”
“Listen, after everything you’ve been through, it’s the least I can do,” Mecca said with finality.
Chanel smiled. She didn’t argue with her friend. They took a seat at the round table and ordered some drinks. Right away, the laughter, the gossip, and the enjoyment of seeing each other took over. Mecca started to tell Chanel about her experiences in college.
“I love it here, Chanel. It’s perfect for me.”
“I bet it is.”
“And I’m thinking about joining a sorority,” Mecca said, taking a sip of her Coke.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, they have connections, especially after you graduate. Girl, I can’t wait for you to enroll into college. Maybe we can join the same sorority,” Mecca said with enthusiasm.
But Chanel didn’t feel the same enthusiasm in attending college and joining a sorority like her friend. She wasn’t ready to get back into the public and focus on college yet, not until Mateo was better.
“You’re gonna love college, Chanel. You’ll see,” Mecca added.
“Your major is communications, right?”
“Business and communications.”
Chanel smiled. “That’s what’s up.”
“But enough about me. How’s Mateo doing?”
“He’s doing so much better, Mecca. I mean, every day is a battle, but Mateo is a warrior and the progress he’s made these past few weeks is phenomenal,” Chanel happily stated. “He’s talking in a low, raspy voice and his physical therapist is pushing him hard to get his coordination back. It’s just a matter of time.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Ohmygod, I want to see you happy, Chanel. You and Mateo, y’all are like the perfect couple. I adored y’all two together.”
“We’re getting there.”
The two ordered their food, and their waiter, Joseph, was mad cool. Mecca and Chanel both had the chicken melt, and before they knew it, it was almost time for Mecca’s next class.
“Girl, I gotta go. I can’t be late for class,” said Mecca, lifting herself from her chair and preparing to pay for their meals.
She pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and placed it onto the table. It would cover the check and a healthy tip for Joseph.
“How are you getting back home?” asked Mecca.
“Pyro is picking me up.”
Mecca looked shocked by the news. “Pyro?” she questioned with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes. I’m staying with him temporarily,” Chanel informed her.
“Oh really?”
“Nothing like that, Mecca. He’s simply a friend looking out for me right now, that’s all.”
“Okay. I’m not judging you. I thought you were still at a hotel.”
“It became too expensive.”
The girls exited the eatery just in time to see Pyro arriving in his sleek Benz. He pulled to the curb and got out of the car with a smile.
“Y’all two ladies good?” he asked.
“Yeah, we’re fine, Pyro,” Mecca returned with a warm smile his way. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” said Pyro.
“I didn’t know you were looking after my girl like that. That’s what’s up.”
“You already know. She’s family.”
“Yes. She is,” Mecca replied.
She couldn’t stop grinning and flirting with Pyro. He came through in his classy CLK Benz with his diamonds glistening and a fresh haircut under a dark blue Yankees fitted. He looked like money.
Pyro hadn’t planned on staying in the city long, but he took one look at Mecca and decided to change his plans. The young college student was looking extra sexy in her autumn attire. The apple bottom she carried in those tight jeans was calling out to him. When she started talking about Columbia University, it piqued his interest.
“So, what you been up to lately, Pyro?” Mecca asked him.
“Busy . . . taking care of business,” he replied.
“I can see that.” She grinned.
He smiled.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that there was some chemistry building between the two of them. Yes, Pyro and Mateo were drug dealers, but they were also smart young men and shrewd investors who wanted to build a legitimate emp
ire.
“Listen, I need to use the bathroom before we leave,” Chanel chimed.
She turned and went back into the eatery, giving Pyro and Mecca some time alone. When she returned, it was time for them to leave. Mecca and Chanel both promised to speak more. Hugs were exchanged.
Pyro and Chanel climbed into his Benz, but before they pulled off, Mecca said to Chanel, “Call me.” They left for home, while Mecca headed back to the university, knowing she was going to be late for class. It was worth it.
Chapter Ten
Bacardi sat by the kitchen window staring down at the street below her, watching the interactions of drug dealers and drug fiends on the block, along with the comings and goings of residents from her building. She liked some of them, but there were a whole lot of people she wanted to slap. It was no secret about what happened to Chanel and who was responsible for it. The gossip was spreading rapidly from block to block like an airborne disease.
Bacardi sipped on her glass of spiced rum with a heavy mind. She and Butch were dead broke and rent was due next week. With their three breadwinners out of the apartment and the both of them not working, money was nonexistent. She needed to do something.
It took everything in her not to call Chanel to see if she had any money to lend them. She definitely wasn’t calling the two bitches who had the nerve to put their hands on her—especially that sneaky bitch Claire. Bacardi never expected that from Claire. Charlie wore who she was on her sleeve, as did Chanel. But Bacardi believed Claire to be a sneaky-ass Scorpio, and she still fumed about Claire hiding what she knew about the assault. She itched to jump on her crazy-ass daughter for that shit.
She downed the spiced rum and poured herself another glass. Butch sat at the kitchen table looking gloomy himself. It looked like he had aged a decade in the past few weeks.
“What we gon’ do, Bernice?”
“I don’t know, Butch. I’m still tryin’ to come up wit’ something. Shit!”
“It needs to be quick. We broke.”
She picked up her glass and slammed it back down on the table. “You think I don’t fuckin’ know that? Muthafucka, I’m sittin’ in the same fuckin’ apartment as you, goin’ through the same muthafuckin’ problems.”
“What about them clothes in the closet?”
“What about them?”
“They gotta be worth something, right?”
Bacardi scowled at the thought of it. She wanted them for herself. She thought she would wake up one day fifty pounds lighter and twenty years younger and be able to wear it all.
Butch pleaded with her to do the right thing. “Our only option is to start selling them clothes, Bernice. Our hands are tied.”
She knew he was right. The clothing she kept would most likely pay their rent for a year and then some.
“Fuck it. I’ll sell ’em off,” she relented.
Bacardi got on her cell phone and called one of Charlie’s old friends, Wanda. She was a pickpocket and a booster, and Bacardi told her about the items she had for sale. Wanda told her that she would be over there on the first thing smoking. She knew that Bacardi calling her meant two things were true—she had some expensive shit and then there was some dirt to hear.
It was early evening when Wanda knocked on the apartment door. Bacardi swung it open and smiled at Charlie’s friend.
“I brought some gifts,” said Wanda, holding up two blunts.
“My kind of bitch,” replied Bacardi with a grin.
The two sat in the living room smoking and drinking, and business was put on hold as they talked, got high, and sipped on brown juice. Wanda told her about the rumors she had heard floating around about Charlie and Chanel. Even high, Bacardi didn’t want to talk about it. She made a mental note to beat that little white bitch Landy down for spreading gossip about her family.
As the two were finishing off the bottle of Hennessy, Wanda continued to press the issue about Chanel and Charlie. She wanted the inside scoop. She had gotten comfortable with Bacardi, calling her Momma B, and she stayed for hours. Finally, Bacardi opened up and started to spill the beans about what happened.
“Charlie’s a foul fuckin’ bitch,” she muttered.
“That bitch is,” Wanda agreed.
“Everything is fuckin’ true, Wanda. My own daughters are fucked up, and now God was killed by some bitch. I got fuckin’ detectives comin’ to my door with questions about his murder and gonna want me and Butch to identify that muthafucka’s body. Dem fools must be crazy, after what he did to our daughter,” Bacardi slurred.
It was all news to Wanda. She was getting all the tea.
“Charlie always been a foul bitch, Momma B, real talk. The only reason I ain’t go after that bitch after the shit she did to me is because I got respect for you,” Wanda proclaimed.
“And I always thought y’all were friends.”
“If she’s a friend, I would hate to see my enemies.”
“That bitch ain’t got no friends.”
“She sure don’t. But anyway, I’m ready to see what you got for me, Momma B.”
“I damn near forgot that I called you here for business. Bitch, you got me high and running my mouth,” Bacardi joked.
“It’s because we’re cool like that.” Wanda smiled.
Maybe, Bacardi thought. Though she was high and tipsy, she was still on her guard and about her business.
Bacardi removed herself from the couch and disappeared from the living room for a moment. Wanda sat there and took another pull from the blunt, her eyes like slits from the potent weed.
Bacardi came back into the living room tugging multiple black garbage bags. She dumped everything out onto the floor for Wanda to look at. The tags were still on the clothes, the shoes were topnotch, and the belts, earrings, and bracelets were high-quality.
“Shit! Charlie left all this shit behind?”
“Bitch ain’t leave shit behind. I took her shit,” Bacardi corrected.
Wanda grinned. “I know she was mad.”
“And? Like I give a fuck ’bout that bitch’s feelings.”
Wanda loved it. She took a look at the clothes and said to Bacardi, “I definitely have some clients for these clothes. I can have everything sold by the morning.”
“You serious?”
She nodded. “Yup! Charlie always had the best shit. The people I know will eat this shit up.”
Bacardi grinned. It was music to her ears.
They started to place everything back into the trash bags. Wanda was eager to leave with the merchandise and get down to business—maybe too eager. Before she could step foot out of the living room, Bacardi grabbed her arm, her grip like a vise. Her fixed stare at Wanda meant that what she was about to say was serious.
“You better not fuck me over, Wanda, cuz I swear, I’ll fuckin’ find you and fuck you up so bad that ya own mama won’t recognize ya ass. You understand me?”
Wanda nodded submissively. She understood.
Bacardi’s tightened jaw transformed into a smile. “Ok then, girl. I’ll see ya tomorrow!” Bacardi released her tight grip from Wanda’s arm and allowed her to leave with the expensive merchandise.
Chapter Eleven
I’m not gonna lie, Chanel, you can definitely cook your ass off,” Pyro said as he devoured a thick slice of her French toast.
Chanel smiled. “I’m glad you like my cooking.”
“I love it. I’m mad at myself for missing out all this time. Damn, this is almost better than sex,” he joked.
Chanel laughed. “You’re so silly.”
Pyro finished off his plate and made himself a second helping of French toast, sausage patties, and scrambled eggs. Pyro had started eating Chanel’s breakfast on the regular and was making it home for her dinners. He had fallen in love with her cooking. Someone to cook for, shelter, and conversation—it was what C
hanel needed.
That night, Pyro stuffed his face with spare ribs, macaroni and cheese, cornbread, and string beans. It felt like he was about to gain fifty pounds. Chanel had made his bachelor pad into a home with her home cooked meals and laughter between them. But behind the smiles, the cooking, and the joyous conversation, he was worried about her.
Pyro looked at Chanel and genuinely asked, “You ever thought about going to see a therapist?”
“A therapist? Why?”
“You know, to talk and let shit out. You’ve been through a lot, Chanel, and I want you to be okay. I don’t want you to stress yourself.”
“I’m fine, Pyro.”
“It’s good to see that you’re going out in public and doing you, but I want you to get active in something. You need to keep yourself busy. You ever thought about applying to college?”
“Honestly, I’m not ready for college. I just wanna take care of Mateo right now.”
“That’s cool. But Mateo would want you to function at your highest level. I know you care about him, but you still gotta live your life, Chanel.”
He wanted her to succeed, not just let days go by waiting on Mateo to make a full recovery.
“You care too much. You know that, Pyro?”
“I’m supposed to care. You’re family, and it’s what Mateo would want me to do.”
“I know, and I will do that—live my life when the time comes. But my main priority is Mateo. He’s been there for me and now I need to be there for him.”
“No doubt. And if you don’t want to see a therapist, then you know you can talk to me about anything. I can be your ear, and I won’t charge you a hundred dollars an hour,” he joked.
She laughed. “Oh, you would be that expensive?”
“Shit, for listening to peoples’ problems on a regular and then having to deal with your own shit afterwards, a nigga better charge a hefty fee.”
“Well, black people don’t go to therapy; they go to church,” she teased.
“Shit, with some of the churches and pastors they got out here today, there’s more shit going on in there than in the streets.”
