by Erica Hilton
“Please, Mateo, don’t bring it up again! I don’t want to think about it. I told you, let’s forget what happened and move on with our lives. You and I, together, that’s the only thing that matters to me.”
He nodded. “You’re right. We can’t change the past, but we can create our future.”
“Yes. So let’s do that—create a wonderful future together.”
“We will, baby. We will.”
Chanel didn’t want to be trapped in one room with him. She wanted Mateo to get out, and she wanted to try and get her mind off of the thoughts of Pyro sinking deeper inside of her—his muscular body, strong arms, and soft kisses. A light perspiration formed on her upper lip and around her hairline. Soon she felt like she was in a sweatshop. Chanel wheeled Mateo around the facility as he spoke optimistically about their future.
“I can’t wait until our wedding day, Chanel. I can’t wait to finally hold you in my arms all night. I want to watch you sleep peacefully, no fear. I promise I’ll love, honor, cherish, and protect you forever and one day.”
Chanel looked deep into Mateo’s hopeful, love-filled eyes and burst into tears. She sobbed uncontrollably until he was able to get her to calm down.
“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s wrong, Chanel?” he repeated.
Chanel kneeled near his wheelchair and took his hands into hers. She was so ashamed of herself that she could hardly hold his worried stare, but she did.
“I-I-I have something to tell you,” she began. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Shhhh,” he soothed. “Are you ill?”
“Ill? No, that’s not it.”
“Are your parents okay?”
She nodded.
“Look, Chanel, how about this? Whatever you need to tell me, wait. Go home and sleep on it and if tomorrow you still think it’s something that I should know, then we’ll talk. How does that sound?”
Chanel saw the fear in his eyes and she just couldn’t break his heart, not while he wasn’t one hundred percent back to normal. How could she destroy him and then leave him alone to process her hurtful revelation in a rehabilitation center? She had to ask herself honestly, was this something he should know or was it about clearing her conscience? She wasn’t sure. Thank God he stopped her.
For the remainder of their time together, Chanel perked up. She wheeled him around each floor talking about their future and the first thing he wanted to do when he was released was go to Spanish Fly Barbershop and let his barber, Bolo, cut the Patriots logo in his hair. He missed the little things.
She warned, “Over my dead body will you cut your hair.”
After her time with Mateo, Chanel drove back to Pyro’s place, and she was rapidly plagued with embarrassment and guilt again. It hit her swiftly—like lightning striking her—her shame came flooding back. She was parked on the Bronx street but remained frozen in the driver’s seat looking lost. She sat there and cried her eyes out for hours. She cried so hard that her eyes were nearly swollen shut. All she could think about was Mateo.
How could I do that to him? And what about Mecca?
She felt like a whore. Pyro was paying all her and Mateo’s bills. Was last night her repayment? Her mind kept replaying how Pyro made sweet love to her and how good it felt. It was making her go insane. She told herself that it would never happen again.
Chanel worried if Mateo would be able to tell that she willingly had sex. It happened only once, and God had already taken her virginity.
She stared at the building and gazed up at Pyro’s apartment floor. The lights were on, so that meant he was home. She didn’t want to go up. She didn’t want to see Pyro at the moment.
Chanel sighed. She didn’t have much money on her, but she did have enough for a hotel room. She thought about it. She would get a room and spend some time alone, collect her thoughts, and try to quell her guilt.
She was about to pull off when there was a sudden tap on her window, startling her. It was Pyro. She looked at him and rolled down her window.
“You okay, Chanel?” he asked. He could see that she had been crying, and he noticed that she was about to pull off.
“I’m fine.”
But he knew she wasn’t. He felt like a piece of shit. He had taken advantage of her knowing how much she missed Mateo. But them having sex wasn’t the worst thing for now.
“I guess you heard what happened,” he said.
“No. What happened? What’s going on?”
She hadn’t heard yet, which made it more difficult to tell her. Seeing her crying, he assumed Chanel had heard about her sister.
Bacardi couldn’t get a hold of Chanel. She had turned off her phone when she visited Mateo, because she didn’t want any interruptions from anyone, especially Pyro. She hadn’t checked any of her voice messages yet.
“It’s about your sister,” he said with premature sympathy.
“My sister? Who, Charlie?” Chanel assumed, knowing her oldest sister was foul.
“It’s Claire . . .”
“Claire?” There was panic building in her tone. “What about her?”
“She’s dead. She jumped in front of a moving train down in the subway.”
“What? What are you talking about, Pyro? No! Are you lying to me!”
“Yo, I wish I was.”
His eyes were telling her the truth. There was great sadness and pain in them—pain and sadness for her. Chanel started to lose it.
“No! Why would she do that? Why would she kill herself?” she hollered with anguish in her voice. “Ohmygod. No! Why the fuck would she do that?!”
“I don’t know.”
She wondered what had set her sister off this time. She was devastated by the news, so devastated that it looked like she was having a panic attack.
“Chanel, move over. We need to go see your peoples right now,” he said, jumping into the driver’s seat of her truck.
Chanel couldn’t stop crying. Her heart was broken. Claire’s suicide was overwhelming and she was still in disbelief about it. She had to hear it from her mother—to confirm the tragedy from her flesh and blood. While Pyro raced her to her parents’ place, Chanel dialed her mother’s phone. Once she heard her grieving mother on the other end, it was confirmed that Claire was dead.
Chapter Thirty-Two
When Chanel and Pyro walked into Bacardi’s apartment, they were both were surprised to see Charlie and Ahbou seated in the living room, looking cozy. Immediately, Pyro noticed Ahbou’s holstered gun and badge clipped to his jeans. Pyro instantly grew uncomfortable. A cop and a career criminal in a relationship? Both men tried to be cordial, but there was instant and underlying tension.
Chanel right away went to her mother and hugged her strongly. They both were in heavy tears. Her parents were torn up. Chanel was fucked up too, but she knew that she needed to be strong for her parents. Claire was gone, and it was hard for them to fathom that.
Even with her sister’s suicide, Charlie couldn’t stop herself from being an asshole.
“Isn’t this a tender moment?” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Chanel cut her eyes at Charlie, warning the bitch not to start anything. When Bacardi’s two renters came home after a long day of work, Charlie started talking slick and greasy to them, calling them every foul name in the book. It was upsetting to see two pretty strangers now occupying her and Claire’s old rooms, and she had something to say about it, despite the grief everyone was going through.
“You got these dumb-ass lookin’ bird bitches stayin’ here now. Them the hoes you kicked us out for?” Charlie griped.
The two young girls ignored Charlie’s insult and went into their bedrooms. They didn’t want any trouble. The vibe in the apartment was thick with tension and sorrow, and Charlie was adamant on trying to make things worse. She tried to talk slick to Chanel and Pyro, and sh
e kept whispering something to Ahbou, who would stare uncomfortably at Pyro.
Ahbou rubbed Pyro the wrong way. It wasn’t just that he was a cop; it was that he was spending time with Charlie, and birds of a feather flock together. She was grimy, so he knew Ahbou had to be grimy too. He was a shifty looking muthafucka. Pyro knew to be on guard.
The question on everyone’s mind was, what had triggered the suicide? Something had to have happened between Charlie and Claire to push Claire over the edge. Whatever it was, Bacardi felt partly responsible. She would give anything to go back in time and be a mother to her.
It didn’t take long for Bacardi to start mentioning burial money.
“I need to bury my daughter, and I need help. I ain’t got nothing for her funeral or a cemetery plot,” she said, her gaze moving around the room and landing on one person at a time.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll help pay for the cost of her funeral,” Pyro offered.
“Nigga, you didn’t know my sister like that, so don’t worry about it,” Charlie chimed. “I’ll cover her funeral, Bacardi, so stop begging. She was my little sister.”
Bacardi’s ears perked up, but she was skeptical. “You can pay for Claire’s entire funeral?” she asked in disbelief.
“I told you, I got it. Whatever it costs, don’t worry about. It’s the least I could do for Claire. And I want nothing but the best for her,” Charlie said sincerely. “When I lost her, I lost half of me.”
Bacardi and Chanel stared at Charlie with mistrust, knowing that she was probably up to no good again. Bacardi hated to take money from her because people had probably died over it. But she knew that one day Charlie was going to have to answer for her crimes, and she needed the help, no matter where it came from.
“Yeah, Ma, don’t worry about the cost. We got it,” Ahbou confirmed.
Ma? Who the fuck is he calling Ma? Bacardi thought. But she kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to stir up any trouble, and Charlie’s new man looked dangerous and sinister. His eyes were black and icy. He was lounging on her couch like he had known them for years, and his badge and gun were intimidating. NYPD inside her living room, giving his creepy condolences. Who would have guessed?
Bacardi stared at Charlie sideways. She was hesitant to accept her help, but she agreed to take the money. And in doing so, Charlie started talking really big and cocky. She grinned and said to her mother, “I’ll bring over twenty thousand in the morning.”
Twenty thousand? Shit. What the fuck is she into to have that much money lying around? Bacardi wondered.
***
Charlie and Ahbou didn’t stay long. They left, and Pyro and Chanel decided to stay longer to comfort Bacardi and Butch. Bacardi was grateful to see Chanel, and she continued to hug her daughter tightly. She excused herself and asked Chanel to come into her bedroom to talk while Butch and Pyro remained in the living room.
Bacardi closed the bedroom door and first asked her daughter, “How’s Mateo doing?”
“He’s doing fine,” she said.
“Good. Now, are you fuckin’ Pyro?”
Chanel was taken aback by the question. Bacardi wanted to ask her that at a time like this? But that was her mother; she said what was on her mind, no matter what.
She wanted to lie, but she couldn’t. With her mother’s eyes fixed on her, she replied, “Yes. We had sex. But it happened just once.”
She would have confided in Mecca, but for obvious reasons, she couldn’t. Chanel’s eyes started to well up with tears and then she started to cry.
“And I feel so guilty about it. I don’t know what to do. It just happened, and I got feelings for him. But I’m still in love with Mateo,” she cried out.
Bacardi sighed. One daughter was dead, one was the devil, and her youngest was confused. She sat with Chanel at the foot of the bed and placed her arm around her. She knew what Chanel was going through far too well.
“Listen to me, Chanel. We all make our mistakes in life—some more than others, and you’ve made yours and you’re gonna have to deal wit’ them. But a little warning to you, if you want to continue your relationship with Mateo, then don’t tell him about you and Pyro. Men are different creatures than us. He will dwell on that until the end of time. Keep it a secret and take it to your grave.”
Chanel nodded, taking in her mother’s advice. She did leave one thing out. She didn’t tell her mother about Mecca and Pyro being in a relationship.
“Chanel, I’m gonna tell you something, and I tell you, it needs to stay in this room,” said Bacardi.
Chanel nodded and hung her head, awaiting the sermon she figured she was about to receive.
“I had an affair on Butch a long time ago,” she confessed.
Chanel’s head snapped up and her eyes locked onto her mother’s.
Bacardi stared at her daughter and continued with, “In fact, Butch isn’t your real father. I was once in love with your biological father.”
Chanel’s eyes narrowed as if Bacardi was pulling her leg. “What? Are you serious?”
“It’s one of the reasons why I gave you such a hard time growing up. Your father broke my heart, when I wanted to run away and only be with him. But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want me. He left me—left me pregnant with you—and I took out that anger and hatred I felt toward him on you,” Bacardi confessed.
It was a lot for Chanel to take in. She was speechless, but the outpouring of emotion came instantaneously. She closed her eyes and deeply inhaled, and as she exhaled the angst and pain of the situation, the tears rolled down her cheeks.
Bacardi was broken up inside. She had caused all this pain and then some. What kind of parent was she? She gave birth to Charlie—a real menace; Claire—who ended up mentally unstable; and Chanel—the victimized product of an affair. Bacardi decided then and there that she and Butch needed to have an introspective talk about parenting the two children they had left.
Finally, Chanel pulled herself together and asked, “Does Butch know?”
“About the affair? I just said no.”
“That’s an assumption, Bacardi. Do you think he knows that I’m not his daughter?”
Bacardi shook her head. “He thinks you’re his without a doubt.”
“What about Charlie and Claire? How everyone treated me, they had to have suspected this, right? They always said that I wasn’t their sister.”
“Those spoiled bitches—” Bacardi had to bite her tongue. Claire was dead. “Chanel, their disrespect was all my fault. They picked up on my negative energy toward you and ran with it, but I promise you they didn’t know. It’s our secret now. Just you and me.”
Despite the tragedy that brought them together, Chanel and Bacardi enjoyed their mother-daughter time, even though it was under such traumatic circumstances.
Two hours later, Pyro and Chanel left the apartment. Chanel exhaled. She was still sad and troubled by Claire’s suicide, but the talk she had with Bacardi was needed. She even smiled when she got into the passenger seat of her Range Rover.
“You okay?” Pyro asked her.
“Yeah, I’m fine now. My mother and I had a meaningful talk in the bedroom,” she said.
“That’s good to hear.”
Pyro started the SUV and drove off.
“She just told me that Butch isn’t my father.”
“Oh, word?”
“You’re not shocked, are you?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not really. I mean, you don’t look like your sisters, so most would say your moms spit you out. It could go either way. So, how do you feel about that?”
“Butch will always be my dad. I love him so much even when he’s mean. I think when Bacardi told me, I realized that somewhere deep inside, I always suspected it. And now I know.”
“Will you ever reach out to your real father?”
Chane
l shook her head. “Nah. Butch is my father, flaws and all.”
“I understand,” was Pyro’s response. But as a father, if he had a child out there, he would want to know no matter what.
“This conversation doesn’t go past you and me.”
“Not even Mecca?”
“Please, Pyro. Give me your word.”
“Chanel, you can always trust me.” Pyro felt special she would entrust him not only with her first consensual sexual experience but now also this.
As they drove home, Chanel wished she was having this conversation with Mateo. It should be him sharing these life-altering moments.
Chanel stared out the window, looking a bit distant for a moment. Then she said out the blue, “I can’t believe that she’s really gone.”
Pyro’s attention was on something else, though. He continually glanced at his rearview mirror, carefully scrutinizing something behind them. “I think we’re being followed.”
“What?”
“Red Benz.”
He continued to glance in his side and rearview mirrors at the red Benz following them. Pyro rode past his exit and stayed on the highway. He coolly removed his pistol from his coat and placed it on his lap. He was ready to go ham on someone if it came to it.
Chanel looked back to see what he was talking about, but all she could make out were several headlights from various cars traveling behind them. “Are you sure we’re being followed?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. They’ve been on us since we left your parents’ place,” Pyro said.
Pyro continued to drive, keeping his composure. Two miles later, the Benz exited off the highway. Pyro figured they realized he had spotted them and backed off. Still, he kept an eye out in his mirrors.
When he finally arrived home, he hesitated to park. Instead, he circled the block several times, making sure that there was no one posted up nearby and that they didn’t have unwanted company. When he felt the area was secured, he parked and they quickly headed upstairs.
Pyro wanted to talk to Chanel, but she wanted to be alone so she could call Mateo and tell him the sad news. She went into her room and shut the door, locking it behind her.
