by Erica Hilton
***
“Why did you back off them?” Charlie shouted to Ahbou.
“Because the muthafucka knew we were following him,” he replied.
“You shouldn’t have exited off the highway. I want to know where that bitch stay.”
“And we’ll find out, but not tonight.”
They were both pissed that they couldn’t follow Chanel and Pyro home. Her plates were registered to a PO Box, which was smart on Mateo’s behalf. Charlie wanted to fuck Chanel up real good—destroy her life. She hated to see her little sister happy and thriving.
“I know one thing for sure—that bitch fucks wit’ me and I might end up making myself an only child,” Charlie said coldly.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was early morning when Pyro buzzed Mecca upstairs. He barely slept the night before. He had a lot of things on his mind, one of which was Chanel. Their sexual experience replayed in his mind every day. It was good—really good, and he enjoyed it. But it was wrong—so why did he want to do it again? But he couldn’t, right? Mecca was his girlfriend and Mateo was his best friend. Chanel was emotional because of Claire’s suicide, and he wanted to be there for her—to console her whenever she cried or felt alone.
Mecca came into the apartment and stared at her man with mixed feelings. There he was, standing in front of her in his boxers and shirtless while Chanel was still inside her bedroom.
“You always come out your room looking like that?” she asked him without greeting him with the usual hug and kiss.
“What’s the problem? It’s my place,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s your place, but did you forget you have Chanel staying here too? You don’t feel like it’s inappropriate to walk around half-naked?”
Pyro frowned. “What’s wrong wit’ you, Mecca? Why the attitude?”
“I heard that you were with Chanel at her parents’ apartment. I heard what happened to Claire, and that’s fucked up, and I’m sorry she did that to herself. But I’m confused. Chanel didn’t call me to tell me about her sister,” said Mecca. “You know how I found out? By seeing the news.”
“Well, I didn’t know. I thought she would call you,” Pyro said.
“Well, she didn’t. And you know what? When I did find out about her sister, I called her multiple times and she never called me back. And when I called you, you didn’t answer or return any of my phone calls either. It seems like y’all both froze me out.”
“Didn’t nobody mean to freeze you out.”
“So what’s going on then?”
“Chanel is going through some shit. She just lost her sister.”
As if on cue, Chanel’s bedroom door opened and she exited dressed in a T-shirt, scowling at Mecca. Sexual guilt had now turned into anger. Chanel was mad with herself, she was mad at God for taking her sister, and last, she was overwhelmingly mad at Charlie. Chanel felt that Charlie had done something to provoke Claire. And all that anger was now transferred to Mecca.
“Why are you here?” she snapped at Mecca.
It was unexpected coming from Chanel. Even Pyro was shocked by her tone.
“Chanel, are you serious? This is my man’s place—what do you mean, why am I here? And I came to see if you were okay. I knew Claire too,” Mecca replied.
Mecca didn’t match Chanel’s anger because she knew the weight of the situation. Her friend was upset, and she could easily lash out at anyone.
Chanel backed off, knowing it was wrong to go after Mecca. None of this was her fault.
Mecca stayed a few hours to try and comfort Chanel, even though she felt some kind of way about her living with Pyro. But she put that aside for now, knowing Claire’s suicide was weighing heavily on her.
“Why would she do that to herself?” Mecca asked.
But there were no answers. There most likely would never be an explanation on why Claire would commit such a ghastly suicide by throwing herself in front of a moving subway train. Her death was hard enough, but how she killed herself was the most troubling part for the family.
While the trio were inside the kitchen talking, both Mecca and Pyro tried to keep Chanel in an upbeat mood. Mecca paid close attention to Pyro and Chanel’s behavior toward one another. She noticed that sometimes he looked a little too deeply into Chanel’s eyes and vice versa. There was even some minor contact between them at the kitchen table. Pyro would touch Chanel’s hand slightly and then pull away, or he would gently brush his fingers across her cheek for some reason—maybe trying to wipe away a tear. It bothered Mecca. Something was going on, but she brushed her gut feelings to the side because of the situation with Claire.
***
It seemed like the entire neighborhood came out for Claire’s funeral. Her tragic suicide had been airing on the local news for several days. Chanel’s only wish for that miserable day was that Mateo was well enough to be there beside her. Mecca had Pyro, Charlie had Ahbou, and Bacardi had Butch. The somberness of the day made her feel isolated and more alone than ever. Chanel wanted to be held for emotional support; to cry in her man’s arms. When she had visited Mateo at the rehab facility and told him about Claire’s suicide and Butch’s paternity, through his eyes, she saw his heart break into pieces. He felt this was yet another moment he couldn’t shield Chanel from the hurts of life, but she assured him there was nothing he could have done to prevent any of it.
Bacardi planned an all-white funeral and requested that everyone wear white to celebrate her daughter’s life, not her death. A white horse and carriage carried her casket to the funeral home, white roses decorated the place, and white doves were to be released. It was all compliments of Charlie’s drug money. Charlie wanted her little sister to have an extravagant funeral that would rival a famous celebrity’s. Claire’s last days on earth were troubling, so Charlie wanted her home-going service to be special. It was the best that money could buy.
It was a sunny day, but breezy. Chanel and Bacardi stood at the burial site in their white clothing and dark shades to cover their crying eyes. Each held a white rose as the pastor gave his eulogy. Butch was there to comfort Bacardi, and Pyro and Mecca flanked Chanel.
As Mecca stood by Chanel’s side, she glared at Charlie, who was standing next to Ahbou. Pyro continued to stand protectively near the two ladies. He didn’t trust Charlie or her new man.
Wanda also came to the service to pay her respects, regardless of being disfigured. She looked like a burn victim. She too glared at Charlie. Wanda got the shock of her life when she saw her with the same cop that investigated her assault case. It all made sense to her now. She wanted her revenge, but it wasn’t the place or the time. Even if she did attack Charlie, Charlie’s cop boyfriend would be there to protect her.
Claire’s white casket was lowered into the ground, and everyone tossed their white rose on top and walked away as the white doves were released and circled the area. There were teary eyes and sad faces, knowing Claire was gone from this world permanently, but she would be forever remembered.
Pyro, Mecca, and Chanel walked away from the gravesite and climbed into Pyro’s car. They came together and they were leaving together. Chanel climbed into the front seat of his car, and though Mecca felt some kind of way about it, she remained silent. Chanel had just buried her sister and Mecca didn’t want to make an issue of it.
As he was driving back to the Bronx, Pyro noticed the marked police car following behind them and right away, the blue and red lights started to flash in his rearview mirror, indicating for him to pull over.
“Shit,” Pyro cursed. “We gettin’ pulled over.”
The girls glanced behind them, seeing the cop car approaching closely.
“What did you do, Pyro? You ran a red light?” Mecca asked.
“I ain’t do shit. I ain’t break no traffic laws.”
“Then why they pulling us over?”
“I don�
�t know.”
Unbeknownst to them, the cop car was implementing the traffic stop at the behest of Ahbou. He still needed an address for Pyro and Chanel.
Pyro coolly pulled to the side of the road and kept the engine idling. He watched two uniformed cops exit their vehicle and cautiously approach his car with their hands against their holstered weapons.
Pyro rolled his window down and asked the cop at his window, “What’s wrong, officer? What did I do?”
“License and your registration,” the cop said.
“You gonna tell me why you pulled me over?”
“License and registration,” the cop said again in a demanding tone.
“Just give it to him, Pyro,” said Mecca.
Pyro huffed, but he acquiesced to their demands. He slowly reached over to the glove compartment and unhurriedly removed the information that the cop asked for. The last thing he wanted was to become another minority gunned down by the police. He handed the cop his information, and his partner went to run Pyro’s license and vehicle information. While doing that, the look on the first cop’s face was indicative that it wasn’t enough. He wanted to harass the driver.
It didn’t take long for everything to come back clean.
However, the questions came. Where y’all coming from? Are there any drugs or weapons inside the car? Pyro answered them firmly and convincingly, but he knew the inevitable was coming.
“I need for you to step out the car, please,” said the cop.
“What? Why?”
“Listen, let’s not make this shit difficult. You do what I say, and you might get to go home to your barrio,” the cop replied rudely.
Pyro frowned at the insult. “Are you serious?”
“What did I say? Get the fuck out the car before you make it worse on yourself and these bitches,” the cop continued with his verbal abuse.
“Bitches?” Mecca griped.
Pyro glared at the cop and reluctantly removed himself from the driver’s side. He was immediately tossed against the hood of his car and manhandled by the white cop, while his partner kept an eye on Chanel and Mecca.
“In fact, you two bitches need to get out the car too,” the partner instructed.
Reluctantly, the ladies did what they were told. All three were held at gunpoint and harassed while the second cop rummaged through Pyro’s vehicle searching for drugs or guns. Pyro was roughly patted down for a gun, and like his car, the search on him came up empty. Both cops were annoyed that he was clean.
Knowing there wasn’t anything else they could do to them, the cops had to let them go. They had nothing—no information about him. His license and registration listed a PO Box, so they had no idea where he laid his head at night.
Pyro grimaced at the officers but kept his composure, knowing now wasn’t the place or the time for payback.
“Y’all have a nice day, officers,” he said nearly mockingly to them.
They ignored him and went back to their marked cop car.
Pyro predicted the harassment from the cops. When Charlie and Ahbou had waited for him and Chanel for two hours at their parents’ place and tried to follow them home, he knew there was more to come. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know it was Charlie and her cop boyfriend tailing them that night. Pyro knew that Charlie’s man was a dirty cop by the way Charlie was tossing around twenty stacks for the funeral like it was nothing to her. And dirty cops never played by the rules.
Pyro purposely didn’t bring any guns with him to the funeral, and he took a chance riding clean for once. However, he had a contingency plan. He had shooters on his payroll that subtly followed behind them. They were at the funeral, unseen and watchful. Pyro wanted an address on Charlie’s man, Ahbou.
Pyro sent a text to the shooters, instructing them to follow Ahbou home after the funeral. It was time to remind Charlie who she was dealing with. Pyro was not a man to be fucked with.
When Ahbou got out of his car and walked to his front door, two masked gunmen came out of nowhere and lit him up brighter than Times Square at midnight. Several slugs tore into his body—including a gunshot to the head, and Ahbou was dead before he hit the ground. They didn’t give a fuck that he was a cop—a dirty cop was a criminal like them. He violated, and the underworld dealt with him accordingly.
Chapter Thirty-Four
It had been twenty-four hours since Claire was laid to rest in the earth. Charlie kept herself locked inside her apartment, needing some solitude. Although she was bitchy and cold to everyone with her tough-girl persona, half of her died when she buried Claire. Charlie knew it was mostly her fault. Her shenanigans had pushed her sister over the edge. Charlie fondly remembered how people would ask if they were twins when they were younger. As they aged, the bond between the two deepened. Charlie took her sister for granted, and now that she was gone she wondered if Claire knew that she deeply loved her. She didn’t always show it—but she did.
Her solitude wouldn’t last. There was a knock at her door. Charlie opened the door and greeted Mona halfheartedly.
“Can I come in?” asked Mona.
Charlie stepped aside and Mona walked inside. With Claire gone, the place felt different and cursed.
“What do you want, Mona?”
“Listen, I have some bad news to tell you. Ahbou is dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“He was gunned down right after your sister’s funeral.”
It was tragic news, but Charlie wasn’t too broken up about it. She wasn’t in love with him. And she knew he killed KB. Maybe it was karma coming back for him.
“That’s fucked up,” Charlie said with fake outrage.
“I know. And I figure you shouldn’t be alone after everything that’s happened to you,” said Mona. “Whoever killed Ahbou, they’re gonna pay. Believe that, Charlie. The entire force is out there investigating his murder, and someone will be held accountable.”
“Good,” Charlie replied.
She pretended to grieve for Ahbou, but inside, she was cracking up that Mona actually believed that she cared.
Mona got comfortable on the couch and started rolling up a blunt. She looked up at Charlie and said, “Look, Ahbou’s death isn’t the only reason why I’m here.”
Charlie was listening.
“They—my partners—want you to know that this will not hinder our business relationship with you, and they want you to stay focused on what really matters. We need to keep things flowing, especially the money.”
“I know. I understand. I’m always gonna be ’bout my business, no matter what. You know that.”
Mona stared at her, looking for any signs of change or weakness with Charlie, but she saw nothing but the same coldhearted get-money bitch from when they first met.
“Good. It’s what we wanted to hear from you,” Mona said.
“So, we good, right?”
“Oh, we good. You stay focused and we all stay gettin’ paid.”
“No doubt.”
The two ladies shared a blunt together, but Mona couldn’t stay long. She had a job to do and a murder to solve. She left Charlie’s place after an hour.
***
Charlie shut herself inside her apartment for days, moping. She had no one. She had no man. Her parents were still giving her the cold shoulder, she hated her only living sibling, she had no friends with Claire dead, and even her frenemies were long gone. Thinking that the fresh air would pull her out of her funk, she decided to drive to her old neighborhood to conduct a drug transaction with a local dealer. He had requested two kilos from her, cash on delivery. Charlie came through, made the transaction with the dealer, and got her money, but she decided not to leave the hood right away. Near her old stomping grounds, she saw a few dudes she knew shooting dice on the side block, near the bodega. One of the men shooting dice was a fine brother named Daquan, and she’d
had her eyes on him for a minute.
Charlie drove up to the dice game in her Benz and got out looking extra sexy in her tight jeans, stilettos, and reddish hair. For a moment, all eyes were on her.
“My niggas, what’s poppin’?” Charlie asked, walking toward the group.
“Nuthin’ poppin’, Charlie. Just tryin’ to get this money out here,” Daquan replied.
“I see that,” she replied, “and I’m tryin’ to get money wit’ y’all niggas.”
She pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills to buy in to the dice game with the goons, but the mood toward her was aloof. She picked up on their unfriendly attitudes right away—especially Daquan’s. She was ready to fuck him if he wanted the pussy, but he didn’t even look at her.
“What the fuck is wrong? Y’all got beef wit’ me?” she asked with roughness in her voice.
“Nah. We good, Charlie. Ain’t no beef wit’ you,” a young goon named Smack replied.
“I’m sayin’, y’all niggas actin’ all funny and shit, like y’all don’t want me around.” She stared at Daquan, because he was the main one who looked like he had a problem with her.
“Look, we just out here minding our business, Charlie. That’s it,” said Daquan.
Knowing Charlie’s reputation, at first no one wanted to tell her what the streets were saying. But Charlie was adamant in finding out.
“Nah, fuck that. If y’all muthafuckas got a problem wit’ me, then spit it the fuck out and don’t be pussy about it. I see that shit on y’all fuckin’ faces,” Charlie griped.
“Look, the streets are talkin’, Charlie,” a hustler named Dope blurted out.
“Talkin’? Talkin’ ’bout what? I ain’t no fuckin’ snitch.”
Daquan finally looked her in the eye. “It ain’t ’bout you being no snitch, Charlie. It’s about you being cursed,” he said.
“Cursed?” Charlie repeated. “What the fuck you mean, I’m cursed?”
“Look, I’m gonna keep real wit’ you, Charlie. The streets are talkin’, and they calling you ‘suicide pussy,’” Daquan informed her.
