by Ashley
“Damn it,” she whispered. She rifled through her purse in frustration, to no avail. Zyir pulled up behind her, and she smiled. Don’t even say anything until you have a positive test in your hands, she reminded herself.
When he stepped out of the car, she smiled and ran up to him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned her back to study his stern features. He was tense … stressed … and her smile faded as she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing to worry your pretty head about, B,” he replied. “My bad on staying out all night. I wasn’t on no fuck shit. It was necessary.”
She placed a finger to his lips to silence him. “I don’t need an explanation, Zy. I trust you. If you could have made it home to me, I know you would have.”
She could see her love easing him, soothing him. She prided herself on being the solace away from the streets … especially these Flint streets. They were different … colder … more ruthless than sunny Miami.
“I was about to make a quick run. You know me. I can never find my keys,” she said with a shrug.
Zyir held up his own. He had the extra to her car on his ring. She grabbed them. His cell phone rang and he answered it. “Money, what’s good?” he said as he held up a finger to halt her momentarily and began to walk toward the house.
“You’ve got to let me out.…” she whispered, but he kept walking. She blew out an exasperated breath. “I just need to pee on a stick,” she said with a laugh. She eyed Zyir’s shiny, foreign car—the one he never let her drive—and she smiled wickedly. “I’ll just take his.”
She hopped in the car and peeled off. She drove for ten minutes before he even figured out she was gone. She smiled when she heard her cell phone ring. She reached over with one hand and rummaged through her bag, taking her eyes off the road momentarily. She swerved just as she wrapped her hand around her phone. The honk of a car horn caused her to fishtail slightly until she straightened her wheel.
She answered the phone, but the red and blue lights flashing in her rearview mirror caused her to frown. If it had been one squad car behind her she wouldn’t have been alarmed, but the five unmarked black SUVs that trailed her let her know they were the feds.
“Zyir,” she whispered. “There are five unmarked cars behind me.”
“Where are you?” he asked frantically.
“I’m a few miles from the house. On Saginaw Street. I was headed to the pharmacy,” she said. “Zyir. Should I pull over?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m coming, B. Ask for your attorney, don’t say shit else,” he instructed.
“My attorney? Zyir, what’s happening right now?” she asked.
“Just listen to me, Breeze. Pull over. Don’t resist, baby. I’m on my way.”
CLICK.
* * *
Zyir located Breeze’s keys with ease, picking them up out of the same spot she always “misplaced” them in. He found himself doing 100 mph until he saw the federal agents pulling Breeze from the car. It was now a scene. There were agents in blue jackets in addition to local police. He was enraged. They had Breeze’s face pushed into the trunk of one of the squad cars, manhandling her.
He pulled up recklessly and barely threw the car into park before hopping out.
“Sir, back away … you can’t—”
“That’s my fucking wife!” Zyir shouted as he pushed past the officer.
“Zyir!” Breeze shouted, hearing his voice. “Agh!” she hollered as they put the cuffs on too tight.
“Don’t touch her!” Zyir shouted with a look of malice in his eyes. “I will kill you.” Zyir never lost his cool, but seeing his wife being roughhoused had him seeing red.
“Mr. Rich,” one of the monkeys in suits called out. “You’re under arrest, for the intent to distribute narcotics, for possession of narcotics. You have the right to remain silent…”
Zyir stood toe-to-toe with the agent reading him his rights as another officer put him in metal bracelets. He gritted his teeth as his jaw flexed and his nostrils flared. “You sure you want to play it like this?” he asked.
“Mr. Rich, I’m playing it by the law,” the agent said. The agent turned toward the police car that was pulling away with a stoic Breeze inside. “This is a warrant to search the vehicle your wife was driving. We both know what we’re going to find. As a matter of fact, let’s go take a look.”
They led Zyir to the trunk of his car. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion as they popped it. Damn, Zyir thought. His stomach was in knots, but his face was unrevealing. He had made a monumental mistake.
They were the same bricks that he was supposed to trade off the night before. He hadn’t meant for Breeze to take off in his car before he had taken them out.
“I can take that time. It’s nothing. Do whatever you have to do,” Zyir said arrogantly.
“Oh, I believe you,” the agent replied. “But the question is, can your dainty little wife do the time for your crimes? That’s who we’re going after. Daughter of the infamous Miami kingpin, Carter Diamond, found with drugs in the car. The jury will convict off of her family history alone.”
Zyir shot a venomous look at the agent.
“Get him out of here.”
The cop dragged him by his elbow to his awaiting squad car. Zyir remained collected on the outside, but appearances could be deceiving. The inner turmoil he felt crippled him. The last thing he wanted was for Breeze to take the fall behind his actions. He couldn’t let her. He wouldn’t let her. How could I be so stupid? he thought. He knew better. Riding around with product in the car. In Miami he had people for that. He never even touched it down there, but he didn’t have his crew around him. Every shooter he had on deck now felt foreign. He trusted no one, which meant he was playing all roles in order to build his own organization. Zyir had overextended himself. He had been sloppy, and now Breeze was wrapped up in the consequences of it all.
* * *
“I want my lawyer,” Breeze stated, trying to stay strong as the officer on duty passed by the cell. She had told herself that she wouldn’t say anything—not one word—but that was forty-eight hours ago. She had been locked up in the county bull pen for two days and she didn’t know how much more of this she could take. She hadn’t slept and she’d refused to eat the stale bread and moldy meat sandwiches the officers passed out once a day. Breeze felt like her world was ending. Where is Zyir? Where is my lawyer? Why am I still in here? she wondered. The officer continued to walk by the cell, blatantly ignoring her. “Hey! I know you hear me. What is happening? I have rights. I want my attorney now,” she shouted.
“Sit down and be quiet,” the officer said sternly as he pointed through the unbreakable glass toward the dirty concrete slabs.
Breeze turned reluctantly as she peered around at the women snickering behind her. It was clear she didn’t belong there. Even rushing out in her haste she had thrown on an ensemble worth almost a thousand dollars. She looked privileged, sheltered—spoiled, even. The women looked at her like fresh meat, but little did they know her affiliation alone was more gangster than their entire street résumé.
She walked over to the nearest seat and removed her Gucci poncho and placed it down before sitting.
She leaned over and placed her face in her hands as she willed the tears that burned her eyes not to fall.
Minutes felt like hours; hours, like days. The daunting wait was torture in itself. She had no idea what she was even waiting for. What was she being charged with? What did they think they had on her that warranted this type of detainment. Was this about Zyir? Her brothers? Where the hell were they? Why was she, the most innocent of them all, sitting in a jail right now. She sat up and swept her hair out of her face, blowing out an exasperated breath. Before she could find answers to her questions, the same asshole officer who had been ignoring her for days stepped inside.
“Breeze Rich. Let’s go,” he announced.
“About time,” she muttered as she snatched up her poncho and followed the officer
out of the bull pen. She was greeted by a Spanish beauty. She was carrying a Chanel briefcase to match her Chanel ensemble. Her hair was pinned to the back in sophistication. “Hello, Mrs. Rich. I’m Cynthia Sanchez. I’m your attorney.”
“My attorney?” Breeze questioned.
“Your husband, Zyir, retained my services,” she explained. “He’s waiting for you outside. You can collect your things and I’ll take you to him.”
Breeze’s mind spun as she signed paperwork.
The police officer returned her handbag and driver’s license. “You’re free to go,” he said gruffly.
“That’s all?” she asked, looking at her new beauty of an attorney. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Ms. Sanchez replied.
Breeze walked out of the building, stunned but grateful to be going home. Zyir sat curbside, leaning against a black SUV, arms folded across his chest. When she saw him, she couldn’t help but to run toward him. He stepped away from the car and picked her up as she threw her arms around him.
“I’m so sorry, B,” he whispered as he appreciated her presence. Even after two days of rotting in a cell, she had her own lovely scent. His strong arms around her waist made all of her worries melt away. In the safety of his embrace she finally let her tears rain down.
“What’s going on, Zy?” she asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle, Mrs. Rich,” the woman interrupted. “I’m the best defense attorney in the Midwest. Apparently local and federal entities have high incentive to bring down you and your affiliates. It’s my job to see that they fail.”
“Don’t worry, Breeze. I got us. I got you. This will all blow over. Let me take you home,” he said.
She nodded and slid into the car as he opened the door for her.
Zyir turned to Sanchez.
“She will be okay, Mr. Rich. So will you. Just let me do my job,” she assured.
Zyir was solemn, serious, tormented as he nodded his head before running his hand over his face. He knew that getting them out of this wouldn’t be as easy as Ms. Sanchez tried to make it seem. He had gotten them in hot water; now he had to go to great lengths to get them out. He had to go see Carter, whether he liked it or not. He’d have to sacrifice his pride, his code, his manhood in order to right this wrong. It was the only way to save Breeze.
CHAPTER 6
Carter sat. He sat so still that even he questioned whether his heart was still beating, but the steady pulse in his own ear told him he was still here. Still alive. Still breathing. Still existing. He counted his breaths. He had never really marveled at the wonder of life before. He had never realized how blessed he was to take each breath, because before, they didn’t hurt. Now, as he sat, staring into the burning fire, he felt the pain of every single inhale and every single exhale. That ominous, empty feeling that came from losing his only son. It was unbearable. It ripped through him like bullets, and every time he breathed, he thought of how C.J. no longer could. The empty bottle of Louis that sat at his feet wasn’t enough to mask his torment. If anything, it intensified it. He wasn’t a man who liked to lose control. He didn’t normally drink in excess or smoke or hinder his mental in any way, but he was searching for any relief from the agony. He was angry and he wanted to point the blame solely at Miamor, but he had to accept responsibility for his actions as well. They both had led to this. He hated her and loved her at the same time. He couldn’t imagine her hurt. He couldn’t consider her because he was drowning in his own emotions. Carter wasn’t naïve to the fact that he loved her. He always would.… He knew that if she were here with him, grieving with him, going through the motions with him, that it would be easier. He didn’t deserve easy; however, neither did she. They had to feel the magnitude of this time in their lives. They had to survive it without the intensity that their love would bring to the moment. They had to hurt. It was the punishment for not protecting their seed. Now they could never be. He couldn’t even look at her. The line between love and hate was so faint that he would cross it without trying.
The gun that he gripped in his palm was the only thing he could rely on to end his suffering. He had been holding it so tightly that his fingers felt numb. He felt his jaw quiver from the flood of sorrow that overwhelmed him and he clenched his teeth to stop himself from losing it. He hadn’t cried. He had fought the urge to. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to stand tall. He had survived so much: The death of his mother. The streets. The Haitians. Miamor’s disappearance from his life years ago. All of these things had formed the fire that he was forged from. He was boss. He was untouchable … only he had been touched. He had given his enemies a way to touch him as soon as he had planted his seed inside of the woman he loved. If he was truthful with himself, he had developed a weakness the day he had met Miamor. To create a little person who was made up of him plus her was perfection. It was love in its purest form, and losing that had destroyed him. These breaths that ached in his soul no longer felt worth it. He lifted the gun slightly and then placed it back on his thigh, his hand never leaving it. He gritted his teeth, lifted the gun, tears filling his eyes. He didn’t blink as he brought the weapon to his temple. Those painful breaths had stopped. He realized he was holding it. The weight of the decision he had just made caused his shoulders to hang as his finger curled around the trigger.
Life wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He wasn’t afraid to die. His worst fear had already come to fruition. Every story had an ending. There wasn’t another man alive who could do what he was about to. End him. He was all G. Men of men. King of kings. If he wanted this all to end today, then he would have to do it himself because no other man had been successful at taking him out of the game. His demise would be at his own hands and then he could finally reunite with his son. “God save my soul,” he whispered.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
The unexpected sound at his door saved him from curling his finger on the trigger. He looked up, confused. No one knew where he was. He had purchased a magnificent chalet in the mountains of Colorado. It was secluded on all sides by dense forest, and his nearest neighbor was a mile down the only road that led into the mountains.
He went to the door, opening it cautiously.
Zyir stood, cupping his hands in front of his face, blowing hot air into them as he shifted from foot to foot.
“What up, Carter? What’s going on in here, G?” Zyir asked, immediately noticing the mist in Carter’s eyes and the gun in his hand. Carter’s scruffy appearance threw Zyir. He was usually clean-cut and shaven, but today he was rough, the makings of a thick five-o’clock shadow coming in. His clothes were wrinkled as if he hadn’t changed in days. His eyes were dark, with circles underneath.
Carter retreated into the cabin, and Zyir followed him, looking around the immaculate home. His brow creased in concern when he saw the empty cognac bottle. “Where the gunfight?” Zyir asked, treading lightly with his words.
“No fight, fam. Done fighting,” Carter replied. The sadness in his voice and the double entendre behind his words told a story all their own. “You know what it’s for,” Carter admitted as he walked over to his bar and took another bottle of brown down. This time he opted for a glass. He tossed one to Zyir, who caught it out of midair with ease.
“Nah, it ain’t for that,” Zyir replied. “We built stronger than that, fam. I’mma have this drink with you, though, so you can work that shit out, but I’m your friend, Carter. I ain’t too comfortable with the way you looking. I’d be more comfortable if you put the gun up.”
“How did you find me?” Carter asked, respecting the request. He kept the gun tucked in his waistline.
“You talked for years about retiring in a big cabin in the mountains. This was the dream, bruh. Now it looks like it’s become your nightmare,” Zyir admitted.
“Hmm,” Carter replied. He walked up to Zyir and poured his drink before pouring his own and taking a seat. He was defeated. They both knew it. He wore his heart on his sleeve. His eyes couldn’
t conceal his torment.
“I just got to end this shit, Zy. I ain’t never felt no shit like this,” Carter whispered. This time he knew it was useless. His pain rolled down his face in clear liquid pools of emotion.
He leaned over, his elbows resting on his thighs as his head hung low. Zyir’s stomach twisted. Carter was breathing, but he wasn’t living. He was stagnant. Buried under unresolved grief. In all their years of friendship, Zyir had never seen Carter weak. Zyir’s conscience weighed heavily on him. He was bringing trouble to Carter’s door and he already had enough of his own.
“Time heals, big homie,” Zyir said. “You’ve got to just endure.”
“Time won’t heal this wound, Zy,” Carter replied. “There’s only one person in the world who can relate to this weight I’m carrying.”
“Have you talked to her?” Zyir asked, knowing that he was speaking of Miamor.
“I can’t talk to her,” Carter said. “That’s over.” The finality in his tone was shocking. He knew he was half a man without Miamor. It was another thing that plagued his heart. She was his Eve. His curse. She could talk Carter into biting the forbidden apple on her worst day. No, she brought destruction to his life. He couldn’t lean on her for support. He never knew how much he had until it was no longer. He envied the working man with the average family. That man got to go home to his wife and his child every night. The type of man he had chosen to be dug early graves for the ones he loved. Being the king was a gift and a curse.
“I know it’s—”
“No offense, Zyir, but you don’t know shit,” Carter said.
If Zyir had seen it coming, he would have reacted faster. He would have taken the gun, but it had all happened so fast. It was like a light clicked off in Carter’s eyes and Zyir watched as Carter brought the gun from his waistline. Zyir lunged, tackling Carter, but the loud bang in his ear let him know he hadn’t stopped anything.
