The male fiend looked on at Red with lusty eyes and an obvious erection protruded from his dirty and torn pants. The females looked on, mumbling to each other what they could do with Red to get their fix.
Crying heavily, Red took the soap and began to wash herself.
“You see this shit right here, Red,” Bacon said, pointing to her spectators, “this is what I had to go through. Having to take a shower every day with other muthafuckas watching. But you still got it better than me. I had to take a shower with thirty dicks watching my every move. There wasn’t no dropping the soap or throwing it down. You drop the soap, and you get fucked in the ass. Ever get fucked in the ass, Red?”
“If she no do, I can do,” the male fiend interjected in heavily accented, broken English.
Red’s eyes grew as large as baseballs.
“Get the fuck outta my room,” Bacon ordered. The three dregs of society looked at one another, trying to figure out what happened, but they exited the room quickly. “I don’t want none of yo’ corroded-ass pussy, Red. My dick don’t even get hard for you, so you can relax if that’s what you’re worried about. You still got the smell of that nigga you killed on you. That’s what it’s about.
“I got other things in store for you. I want you to feel me. I want you to understand where I’m coming from. I want you to walk in my shoes, and see what it’s like to have to fend for yourself without any help. Now hurry up and finish,” he yelled.
As soon as Red washed the soap off her body, Bacon yanked her out of the shower, cut the water off and shoved her into the room. Forcing her to sit down in an unstable rickety chair, Bacon slapped her once again, just for good measure. Sobbing, Red held her face and turned away.
Bacon smiled with satisfaction. He had her where he wanted her. She was a coward, but that was only because of his physical abuse. For Bacon, that wasn’t good enough. He wanted to control her mind without having to resort to violence. He needed to break her down real good and take away her will to resist. He felt that his plan would do just that.
Bacon lifted the extension cords from the bed.
Instinctively, Red got up and began trying to wrestle the cords from Bacon. “Uh-uh, I played your little game, Bacon,” she said, breathing heavily. “You ain’t gonna hit me with that shit.”
Bacon pushed Red back down into the chair by her shoulders and began to tie her legs to it.
“Bacon . . . stop . . .”
She continued to fight and kick, but once her legs were secured, Bacon yanked her hands behind her back and tied them together as well.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Red cried. She felt demeaned and belittled.
“I’m showing you what prison is like when you ain’t got no support.”
“Bacon, I get the point!”
“Do you, Red? Do you really get the fucking point?”
“Yes!” Red screamed through tears.
“I don’t think you do. See, I would have been cool if you would have been straight up from the get-go and told me that you wasn’t going to ride with me. If you had told me that you was going to move on, and did it in the beginning, I would have had to respect that. But you played me, Red. And so that means that you played yourself. Everybody you ever fucked over is now going to get they revenge on you. You know how?”
Red lowered her head.
“Don’t hold your head down now, bitch. You a cold-blooded killer. Own up to that name. Hold yo’ head high!”
Red looked up at him. Malice, hatred and tears clouded her eyes.
“You know how everyone gonna get their revenge on you?” Bacon shouted again.
Red looked at him but didn’t respond.
“They’re gonna do what they doing right now, just going about they business. Ain’t nobody coming for you. Ain’t nobody coming to save you and that’s because nobody gives a fuck about you. You so fucking shady that the only way people are gon’ know you missing is when they ain’t got nobody fucking over them. They gon’ know you missing when they lives is better. That’s a fucking shame . . . a real fucking shame. You done fucked over everybody and now nobody gives a fuck about you. If nobody gives a fuck about you, then you may as well be dead.”
Red broke down into full-blown tears at what Bacon had just said. She knew he was right. She had fucked over so many people and had done some real dirty shit in her life. Family, friends, strangers—all had felt the wrath of Red at some time. My own mother wouldn’t miss me, Red thought to herself. Sasha is dead; neither Kera nor Terry would even know how to find me. Why would they? I fucked them over so bad, Red thought hard in her mind. Nobody would get in their cars to look for me. Nobody would even ask where I was. Everybody would be happy that I’m not around.
These thoughts devastated her.
“I want you to suffer like I suffered. See what it’s like when you ain’t got no help and the only person you can rely on is a person who doesn’t give a fuck. Just like you did me, you’re gonna suffer slow and painful. I’m gonna enjoy this.”
Bacon turned to leave, but before he did, a thought hit him. He stepped to the thermostat and turned the heater on as high as it could go. He wanted her to sweat. He wanted her to smell the heat, the sweat, the funk, the piss and the shit that she was soon going to be sitting in—just like jail.
“Enjoy yourself, Red,” Bacon said, closing the motel door and locking it.
Red’s eyes wandered around the room. It was already growing warm. She had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, just the sound of rats scampering through the walls. She was truly in her own personal living hell.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Chass Reed cautiously parked her car about a block away from Quentin’s apartment building. Her case defending Terry was over and it was time to leave town, but she couldn’t leave without seeing him. As a woman, Chass understood that women did crazy things—especially when men provoked them to do so. She didn’t justify Terry’s actions but she understood. That was partially the reason she had to see Quentin.
“Why am I doing this?” she asked herself. “Shouldn’t I just leave well enough alone?”
Chass had lost out on a future with Quentin because of her decision to further her education, but Red also played a part in their relationship’s demise. The small amount of time she and Quentin had spent together recently reminded her of all the good times they’d shared. It brought back feelings that she never thought she’d have again. It was like déjà vu. Chass had fallen in love with him all over again, and now, once more, she had to say good-bye.
Chass grabbed her purse off of the passenger seat and dug inside, retrieving a small compact. Popping the top, she coated the puff with powder and, in a T-shaped motion, wiped her face. After she was finished, she put the pad back on top of the powder and snapped the compact closed. She threw it in her purse, then continued to dig for her lipstick.
Finding it, she pressed the rose color against her lips, coating each lip twice. A couple walked past her car as she puckered her lips. Chass watched as they walked in unison with their hands clasped together. A sad sigh escaped her lips. “That could have been us,” she said softly, reminiscing.
A woman in her profession and educational status often found herself alone. It was no secret that women graduated from college at a 2 to 1 ratio over men, and the higher up the education and career ladder they went, the harder it became to find a partner with whom they shared common interests, ideas and goals. Like many other black women in her predicament, Chass had thought about dating outside of her race, and had even gone out to a brunch or two with white colleagues, but the connection just wasn’t there. No matter how nice he was, she couldn’t date a man who didn’t really understand her culture. Even though her friends and family claimed to be open-minded, Chass knew her mother and sisters wouldn’t approve of an interracial relationship, her father wouldn’t stand for it and her girlfriends and sorority sisters would disown her. There were just too many complications associated with it . . . and then there was
Quentin—the old boyfriend option who was also safe.
She and Quentin understood each other, they hailed from similar backgrounds and, most important, they had history. He was smart, even though he wasn’t college educated, but she could change that. He definitely had his own swagger and was fine. Her girlfriends would give their approvals. Chass could see herself spending a good portion of her life with Quentin, and if he went to college, perhaps she would even spend the rest of her life with him. But those were things that she would have to think about later. Right now she had a more pressing matter at hand, and that was to tell the man she loved good-bye.
Saying good-bye had always been hard for her. Cutting off the ignition, she asked herself, “Can I actually look into his eyes and say good-bye? Can my heart handle telling him how I truly feel? What if he came with me? A change of scenery would do him good, especially getting away from that heifer, Red. She’s the reason we’re not together but I had him first. He needs to get out of this environment and away from this negativity.”
Chass’s eyes began to glimmer with a hint of hope as she pumped herself up with plans for the future. “He can go to college in New York, move in with me and we can start a life together.” Confidently, Chass stepped out of her car, closed the door and chirped her alarm as she made her way toward Quentin’s building.
Women were always making plans of building a future based on what they thought a man felt about them. Was she making the same mistake right now? She wondered. Was she putting thoughts into Quentin’s head that weren’t there? Was she putting feelings into his heart that really weren’t there? Would he grab her by her arms, kiss her passionately and plead with her not to leave? And if he did, what would be her answer? Would he come with her to New York? He had his own apartment, but how would he feel about moving in with her? He wasn’t no stay-at-home man. And he definitely wasn’t the type to sit on the couch, watch soap operas and live off of a woman. If he felt like he was doing that, he definitely wouldn’t come with her. Did Quentin love her, was the question she really wanted the answer to. Did he feel the same way about her as she felt about him?
As Chass got closer, she saw a brigade of police cars, an ambulance and a crime scene van. “What happened?” She stopped and posed the question to a bystander after she squeezed through the crowd.
The bystander shrugged. “I don’t know what actually happened but I do know what I heard. You see, I was in my living room about to leave my apartment, you know, then I heard a pop pop pop!” The bystander exaggerated loudly, then mimicked a ducking motion. He continued, “Then I got down on the ground fast. I said fuck that, bullets travel, and I wasn’t stayin’ inside so I took my ass outside.” The way he was talking, Chass was certain that he was looking for a starring role on the midday news.
Chass heard the crowd gasp and turned to look toward the building entrance.
“Clear the way! Clear the way!” an officer shouted. The officers who were stationed outside taking people’s stories began to herd people to the left and to the right, as paramedics wheeled a stretcher with a body out of the building. Even though the victim had an oxygen mask over his face and other apparatuses attached to his body, Chass could clearly make out who it was. Quentin.
“Oh, my God! Quentin! Please, God, don’t let this be happening!” Chass shouted.
“Out of the way, people!” an officer ordered again, shoving her to the right.
Chass grabbed the officer’s arm. “Officer, what happened? What happened to—”
“Ma’am, do you live here?” he asked curtly, cutting her off.
“No, but—”
Eyeing her suspiciously, he told her, “I would suggest you stay out of the way, then, or better yet, come back when all of this dies down.”
Chass narrowed her eyes at the officer. She didn’t like how he cut her off not once, but twice. Not liking his answer, she turned to walk toward the ambulance. A strong grasp pulled her back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the officer asked her.
“I’m going to the hospital with him.” She pointed toward the ambulance.
Chass turned to watch as the stretcher with Quentin’s body was hoisted up and placed inside the ambulance.
“You know the victim?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you but you kept cutting me off.”
The officer took out a small notepad and a pen. “How do you know the victim, Miss . . .?”
“Reed,” Chass answered. “He’s—he’s my boyfriend.” She paused. “Um, I mean my friend. No, we’re old friends,” she continued to correct herself.
“Well, which one is it?” the officer asked condescendingly. “A friend, an old friend or your boyfriend?”
“What difference does it make?” Chass argued. “What happened to him?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t release that information,” the officer told her.
“Then point me in the direction of someone who can release that information!” Chass smarted off.
• • •
Detective Thomas overheard a commotion while he was talking to his partner. Seeing what was going on, he excused himself by saying, “Let me go handle this.” He walked over to Chass and the other officer. “I’ll take it from here,” he told the officer.
“Good,” the officer mumbled under his breath and walked away.
“Ms. Reed,” Thomas acknowledged. “So we meet again.”
“Yes,” she said solemnly. “What happened to Quentin?”
Thomas shrugged. “That’s what we’re still trying to figure out. Do you know anyone who would want to hurt him or see him dead?”
“Dead? Please don’t tell me he’s . . .” Chass couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
“No, he’s not, but if I hadn’t come when I did, he probably would be. He was in pretty bad shape when I found him,” Detective Thomas admitted.
Chass wiped away some of the tears that had fallen from her eyes.
“Oh, my God, Quentin,” she said softly and looked upward. “Please don’t take him away from me again.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Detective Marquez Nuñez strolled through the crime scene with the coolness of a drifting iceberg. No matter how horrific a crime scene was, nothing seemed to faze him. Actually, the bloodier, the better. Nobody could argue about his skills. He was a very thorough detective and took a no-nonsense approach to solving crimes, but there was one thing that everyone agreed upon.
Standing at five feet even and weighing 120 pounds, Detective Nuñez was an asshole in every sense of the word. He had a short man’s complex and was very argumentative. The reason he became a detective was solely because he desired the respect that came with a gun and a badge. Having grown up smaller than average, he got jumped on all the time. Marquez vowed that once he grew up he would never be made a punk of again, and he kept his word.
After high school, he went to the academy and graduated at the top of his class. Once he began street patrol, he requested to partner with anyone who patrolled the most dangerous parts of Detroit. Many people thought he was crazy, but he soon made his mark. Although his arrogant attitude was difficult to work with, his colleagues had to give him his props and gave him the respect due because he took down the hardest and the biggest criminals that many of them wouldn’t fuck with. Because of this, he quickly gained respect on the streets and was known as Mr. Officer Nuñez. Fighting someone, busting someone in his mouth or putting a cap in someone’s ass was not uncommon for him either, and that was why he loved his job. He had a point to prove and on the streets, he made it loud and clear—he wasn’t the one to be fucked with.
Marquez Nuñez had GQ looks and the wardrobe to match. He often wore Armani and Kenneth Cole suits. Almost passing as Jon B.’s twin, he kept his wavy black hair cut low in a fade and sported a nicely trimmed goatee that framed his thin lips. Regardless of where he was, inside or out, day or night, he always wore stunna shades. He knew that it gave off a certain mystiqu
e about him and he wanted to keep it that way.
Most of his fellow cops wondered how he could maintain the style he had on a detective’s salary. It was a department joke that he got his suits from the kids section at Macy’s, but nobody ever asked what was up or even joked about it with him. He did his job, they did theirs, and that was that.
“Damn, someone was pissed off,” he said to himself, looking at the clothes that were marinating in a bleach-filled tub. Because of his expensive taste, he grimaced when he estimated the value of the clothes to be more than $20,000.
Walking out of the bathroom, he strolled throughout the loft while the crime scene technicians did their job. He could sense that his mere presence made things tense, but he didn’t care. He was there for a reason and he wasn’t leaving until he proved that his theory was correct.
Twenty minutes later, he ended back in the living room and stood by the bloodstain now soaked into the carpet.
Did a woman actually do this? he asked himself. Look at all the furniture turned over. I don’t know many women who fight like that, but looking at the stuff that’s destroyed, it could be. Many thoughts ran through his head.
Deep in thought, he was pulled from his reverie and his eyes darted to the left as footsteps rapidly approached him.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the pride of muthafuckin’ Puerto Rico!” Detective Joshua McDonald acknowledged with an inquisitive smile.
“That’s right, my nigga, and don’t fuckin’ forget it,” Detective Nuñez confirmed, strolling up to him and shaking his hand.
Detective McDonald couldn’t stand the Puerto Rican Columbo as a person, but he had to give him props when it came down to his job. They both watched as the crime scene technicians took samples of various fibers and bagged them, dusted for fingerprints, took pictures and tried to reenact what could have happened.
“So what brings you here?” McDonald asked.
“Um . . . just curious,” Nuñez remarked with a sly smile.
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