In These Streets

by Shelly Ellis

  “Hell yeah, I’m serious! I got a hookup with the city so I can start building some major projects, but it ain’t gonna work with me front and center. I need someone like you, Ricky. You did a bomb ass job with Club Majesty. I know you would do the same with this.”

  “A million a year?” Ricky repeated in disbelief.

  “A million a year, nigga!” Dolla Dolla grinned and handed him the blunt. “So you saying yes?”

  Ricky stared down at the blunt in Dolla Dolla’s hands. He could keep his promise to Simone, decline Dolla Dolla’s offer for a hit and to become the fake CEO of a fake company, and try to go legit for real. Or he could take a hit from his blunt, accept Dolla’s offer, and become a millionaire overnight—but become further entrenched in Dolla Dolla’s dirty business dealings.

  I promised Simone, he reminded himself, but a million is a lot of money.

  He had worked hard his whole life, hustled his entire childhood just to keep food in his belly and a roof over his head. He didn’t have a father and barely remembered his mother. He’d lost his grandmother to cancer and his little sister to the streets. Life had dealt him a bad hand, but he’d always managed to make it work. Now it was finally offering him a windfall, after all these years.

  If Ricky had that much money, he could build a good nest egg that could last him into his old age. If he had that much money, maybe Simone would forgive him for the decision he was about to make.

  Ricky grabbed the blunt and took a puff, letting the smoke float through his nostrils. He slowly nodded. “Okay! Sounds good to me.”

  “That’s my nigga!” Dolla shouted, slapping him on the back again. “Let’s celebrate this shit!” He threw his arm around Ricky’s shoulder and steered him into the room. “Get this nigga a drink, y’all!”

  An hour later, Ricky sank back in the arm chair, feeling the glasses of champagne he’d just downed and hits of weed starting to kick in. He tried not to think about what he’d done, what he’d just agreed to. He tried not to think about Simone and how disappointed she’d be.

  He’d made her a promise—and broken that promise, and all it had taken was for Dolla Dolla to wave a million in front of his face. He was swept undercurrent by a wave of self-loathing.

  His eyes began to droop and so did his head. His mind felt sluggish, like the room and everyone in it were moving in slow motion. For a good hour, he sat in the same spot. People passed his chair and he only gave them a scant glance. A pair of long legs strode several feet in front of him. His lethargic brain vaguely recognized that the legs belonged to one of the waitresses at Dolla’s party.

  “Hey,” he called out. He was high now, but he wanted to get blackout drunk too. He wanted a bourbon. “Hey . . . hey, you. Honey!” he slurred, snapping his fingers.

  She didn’t seem to hear him over the din, but continued to walk toward a group of guys sitting on the sofa across the room.

  “Damn,” he muttered. He guessed he would have to wait until she turned around. Maybe then he could get her attention.

  He watched as she bent over and set a couple of glasses and a beer in front of a group of men staring up at the fight on the sixty-inch flat screen TV on the adjacent wall. One man nodded his thanks to her. Another winked at her. “What’s your name, baby?” Ricky heard him shout.

  She murmured something in reply then she shifted slightly. When she did, the waistband of her skirt lowered by an inch and Ricky could see a purple butterfly tattoo at the base of her spine.

  He blinked. He recognized that tattoo.

  Nah, Ricky thought. No, that’s not right.

  The drugs and alcohol must be messing with his head, making him see things that weren’t there. His guilt was making his weed-addled mind manifest Simone out of thin air. But when the waitress turned, he realized it wasn’t the drugs playing tricks on him. His eyes landed on Simone’s smiling face. She looked different but he still recognized her—he would anywhere. She wore heavy makeup, false eyelashes, and a long auburn wig that swept her shoulders to mask her appearance. She had also donned the same uniform as the other waitresses at Dolla Dolla’s party: a black push-up bra, pleated skirt, and stilettoes. He watched in shock as she casually strolled back across the living room, now carrying an empty tray.

  “Oh, shit,” he said aloud, sobering up within seconds.

  If Dolla Dolla caught her here, if he recognized who she was—there would be hell to pay. Ricky didn’t know what that man would do to her and didn’t want to consider the possibilities. He had to get her out of there.

  Ricky shoved himself up from the arm chair, feeling vertigo as soon as he did it. When the world around him steadied, he followed Simone. She was already headed out of the living room. He jogged the distance between them and caught up with her just as she passed another of group of waitresses who were stepping out of Dolla Dolla’s kitchen. They were carrying more trays loaded down with drinks and hors d’ oeuvres.

  He grabbed her arm and yanked her against his side, making her drop her tray to the floor.

  “Hey!” she yelled, whipping around to face him, screwing up her lips. “What the hell do you think you’re d—”

  Her words died when she realized who he was. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers.

  “No, what the hell do you think you’re doin’?” he hissed as he dragged her in the opposite direction of the kitchen, down a deserted hallway.

  She didn’t fight him. She still looked stunned.

  He tried the handle of the first door he saw and threw it open. He turned on the light switch, revealing a pantry closet filled wall-to-wall with shelves and dry goods. He shoved her inside and followed behind her. He slammed the door shut.

  Simone obstinately crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips. “Why are you here?”

  “Why the fuck are you here?”

  “You told me you weren’t doing business with him anymore. That you’d have nothing to do with him! You said—”

  “So that’s why you pulled some shit like this?” He gestured to her outfit and wig. “Because you thought I wasn’t going to be here tonight?”

  “You lied to me, Ricky,” she said tightly.

  “I lied to you? I lied to you? What about you? Huh? You told me that you were going to let this shit go! What the hell do you call this?” he asked, feeling panicked and furious all at the same time.

  She uncrossed her arms and lowered her eyes. “I tried. I really tried. But I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I couldn’t stop worrying about her. I had to at least see her, to talk to her myself!”

  “To talk to her? Are you crazy? Have you lost your fuckin’ mind?”

  “I just need a few minutes alone with her, to talk some sense to her. I know I can!”

  “Be honest, Simone. You came here to save your sister—the same sister who doesn’t want to be saved. Damn it, we’ve been through this shit!”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” she argued, making him suck his teeth in frustration. “Look, I know she said she doesn’t want my help, but . . . but Skylar could just be suffering some . . . I don’t know . . . some form of Stockholm syndrome or—”

  “What?”

  “It’s not unheard of with sex trafficking victims. I told you, maybe the problem is that she needs to see me. If she saw me . . . if I could just . . . just talk to her, I know she’d—”

  “You’re going to get yourself killed! If Dolla sees you—”

  “So what if he does?” she snapped impatiently. “So what if he fucking does? I’m willing to risk my life for her. I made that clear in the beginning. Besides, I didn’t come in here unprotected.” She pointed to her thighs. “There’s more under here than a pair of panties. Okay?”

  She lifted the front of her skirt, revealing a red lace thong and a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield pistol strapped to her thigh.

  He tiredly shook his head as she lowered her skirt again. He scrubbed his hands over his face, wondering why he wasn’t getting through to her. “I don’t c
are what you’ve got under your skirt. You won’t be able to shoot your way out of this! Don’t you realize that? He’s got bodyguards. He’s got—”

  “I don’t care! I’m doing what I have to do. I’m tired of sitting on my hands! I asked for your help. I asked my own department for help. I’ve waited week after week after week—and nothing fucking happened. So I’m gonna do it my goddamn self.” She tried to walk around him and reached for the door knob. “Don’t worry. I’m putting my neck out, not yours! I’ve got—”

  “You’re damn right I’m worried!” He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her hard. “Of course, I’m fucking worried! I care about you, girl. I love . . .” He hesitated. He loosened his grip on her shoulders and gazed down at her, at the “disguise” she was wearing. She looked ridiculous and desperate—exactly how he felt at that moment. “I love you, Simone.”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “There. I said it! I love you, and it’s going to fuck me up if something happens to you. So please . . . Please don’t do this.”

  She lowered her head again and closed her eyes. Ricky drew her against him and wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head on his shoulder.

  He could still hear the party going full throttle on the other side of the door. The heavy base of the music and the muffled laughter and shouts were the only noise that surrounded them as he held her close, offering her his protection, offering all he could give.

  But after a few seconds, he felt her tense against his chest. She pushed back and looked up at him. When she did, he could see tears in her eyes and a steely resolve. She stood on the balls of her feet and kissed him. But it wasn’t a passionate kiss; it was like she was kissing him goodbye.

  “I love you too, Ricky—and I love my sister,” she whispered. “If you care about me as much as you say you do, then you know why I have to do this, why I will have her back even if she says she doesn’t want me to.” She eased out of his arms and his heart sank. “I don’t have any other choice. I’m sorry.”

  He then watched, dismayed, as she opened the pantry door and stepped back into the hall.

  He stood alone in the closet for several minutes, clenching his fists, trying to slow down his racing heart and his hysterical mind.

  She was going to do it anyway, despite his warnings, despite his fears. There was no stopping her—or whatever might happen tonight.

  He raised his shirt and reached into the back of his jeans, pulling out the Glock 43 he had tucked in his waistband. He checked the gun’s magazine to make sure he had a full clip then popped it back in again. He tucked it back into his waistband, lowered his shirt, opened the pantry door, and stepped back into the hall, wiping her lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Ricky would take Simone’s words to heart. She said that when you really cared about someone, you had their back—even if they said they didn’t want your help. Well, he’d have her back tonight. If some shit went down, he guessed he was going down with her.

  Chapter 27

  Ricky

  For the rest of the night, Ricky tried to stay, at most, twenty feet away from Simone at all times. He was her ever present shadow, following her as she went room to room, observing her as she served drinks and food while charming and flirting with Dolla Dolla’s guests. He didn’t stand over her shoulder like a bodyguard, exactly. He tried not to be that obvious, but it didn’t take her long to catch on to what he was doing. More than once, she gave him an annoyed glance. She even angrily mouthed “Back off,” to which he mouthed back, “Hell no.” She stalked off. He didn’t care. If she wasn’t leaving the party, he wasn’t either.

  And the longer she stayed, the more his anxiety ratcheted up. Ricky wasn’t sure if it was the weed, but he felt increasingly paranoid. He felt an overwhelming sense of dread, too. It was like an invisible clock was winding down, drawing them closer to some cataclysmic event. Maybe the guy managing the waitresses would realize that Simone was only pretending to work there and call her out, drawing attention to her. Maybe Dolla Dolla would finally recognize Skylar’s big sister in her half-hearted disguise and deduce why she was there. Or maybe Simone would finally come face-to-face with Skylar and their reunion would be as much of a failure as Ricky suspected it would be. He didn’t know. Either way, it made him nervous.

  A little before midnight, Simone finally made her move. He watched from an alcove in the foyer as she walked toward the staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs where Dolla Dolla usually kept his girls. She carried two champagne glasses on her tray. When she reached the stairs, one of Dolla Dolla’s bodyguards held up his hand.

  “Nah, baby,” he said, shaking his bald head. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Ricky watched as Simone pasted on a sparkling smile. “Oh, I’m sorry! A guy asked me to get champagne and strawberries for him and bring it upstairs.”

  The bodyguard shook his head. “You can’t go upstairs, sweetheart.”

  Her smile disappeared. She pretended to look confused. “Why not?”

  “Cuz those are the rules,” the other, larger guard answered. “Give him his champagne and strawberries when he comes back down, but you can’t go up there.”

  Simone groaned and pivoted on her heels. She tossed her fake hair over her shoulder. “Oh, come on y’all! Don’t make me have to take this back. I’ll have to throw it out,” she said with a pout. “This champagne ain’t cheap! My boss is gonna take it out of my tips!”

  Ricky bit back a laugh. He had to hand it to her; it was a good lie.

  “Then drink it yourself,” the bodyguard replied dryly.

  “Don’t be that way, y’all. Just let me take it to him. It won’t take long.”

  “Look, sis, you can’t go upstairs. It is what it is,” the first bodyguard insisted. “Okay?”

  Simone inclined her head and gave them a wink. “How’s about this? How about you let me go upstairs for just a itty-bitty minute—just long enough to give this to him, and I’ll bring you two a glass of champagne each. You’ll like it. It’s—”

  “What the fuck did he just say?” a male voice barked. “You hard of hearing?”

  Ricky leaned out of the alcove and spotted T. J. jogging down the stairs toward Simone and the two bodyguards. At the sight of him, Ricky’s brows lowered. His hands tightened into fists. If T. J. laid one finger on her, he was going to lose it.

  “You can’t go upstairs!” T. J. shouted. “Just take that shit back to the kitchen.”

  Ricky could tell that Simone was pissed. Hell, so was he, but to her credit, she hid it well. She stayed in character and lowered her head, shuffled away from the staircase, and headed back toward the kitchen like T. J. ordered.

  Good, Ricky thought, exhaling. She’d tried to get upstairs and it didn’t work. Maybe this waking nightmare was finally over. But when Simone passed him and he saw the steely resolve in her eyes again, his shoulders slumped. He knew she hadn’t given up yet.

  Ricky got evidence of this an hour later when the guards had wandered off—one to flirt with one of the other waitresses, and the other had disappeared somewhere else.

  Probably to go take a piss, Ricky presumed.

  He watched from a distance as Simone crept to the staircase again. She glanced over her shoulder, checking to see if she was being watched. With the exception of him, there was no one else in the foyer. She began to climb up the wooden stairs and had nearly reached the second floor when a voice boomed over Ricky’s shoulder. “Hey! Hey, where the fuck you think you’re going?”

  She jumped, startled.

  T. J. roughly shoved passed Ricky and walked across the room. The young man raced up the stairs, toward Simone who opened and closed her mouth helplessly. She couldn’t come up with a lie this time.

  “What the fuck did I tell you?” T. J. shouted, reaching for her. He seized her wrist and yanked her toward him, making her stumble off one of the stairs. She had to grab the handrail to keep from tumbling to the floor below.


  “What the fuck did I tell you?” T. J. shouted again.

  Watching the scene unfold, Ricky didn’t think. He went on instinct.

  He raced up the staircase after T. J., taking the stairs two at a time. He closed in on them in less than a minute, right at the moment when T. J. grabbed the back of Simone’s neck, making her wince in pain. He shouted into her ear, “You bitches never listen! I told your ass to—”

  That’s when Ricky swung at him.

  The first punch connected with T. J.’s mouth and Ricky immediately heard the crunch, signifying that T. J. was about to be short one bucktooth. Maybe two. The other connected with his jaw, making T. J. release a loud squeal of agony.

  T. J. held up his hands to protect his face as one punch connected, then another. A spray of blood hit Ricky’s cheek, then his right eye as his fists continued to fly.

  “Ricky!” Simone screamed, tugging at his shirt. “Ricky, stop, damnit!”

  But he couldn’t stop. He kept swinging, making it his personal mission to beat the shit out of this little punk. All the anger, all his frustration at Dolla Dolla . . . at Simone . . . at Skylar . . . at what had happened to Desiree years ago, he took out on this shit-talking, pint-sized, doo-rag-wearing bully.

  He didn’t know how long it was before the guards finally dragged him off of T. J., or when Dolla Dolla came into the room, but by then, T. J.’s face was so bloodied and bruised, it was barely recognizable.

  “Ricky, chill! What are you doin’, man?” the bodyguard yelled, gripping him around the chest, pulling him back. “You tryin’ to kill him?”

  Ricky blinked as if waking up from a dream. He stared down at T. J. The little punk was slumped back against the stairs with rolling eyes, gurgling through his bloodied mouth and blowing red bubbles through his busted nose.

  “Goddamn!” Dolla Dolla yelled, strolling into the room. His booming voice echoed to the ceiling. “I thought the fight was on TV. I didn’t know y’all motherfuckas was fittin’ to give us a live show tonight!” His chest rumbled as he laughed. He then turned to the crowd of onlookers huddled near the stairs and the foyer entryway. “Okay, y’all! Go back to doin’ whatever the fuck you was doin’! Shows over!”