Neighborhood.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4739
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Cut it dangerously close, but that's another chip
Neighborhood.
Kam and Keshawn
Neighborhood.
The casket was cheap, just like everything else in Debra Edwards' life had been in her later years. Angela stood stiffly beside it, wondering if the hollow feeling in her chest was grief or just the strange emptiness of obligation fulfilled.
The funeral home smelled of artificial flowers and disinfectant. Only nine chairs were filled in a room designed for fifty. Vic's family—his mother Eleanora dabbing at eyes that had seen too much death already, Vic sitting uncomfortably in a suit that didn't quite fit—and Keshawn, looking like a giant in the small folding chair, his long legs awkwardly tucked beneath him.
"You good?" Vic whispered, his hand finding the small of Angela's back.
She nodded mechanically, though she wasn't good. Not even close. Her mind was three thousand miles away in a dorm room at Howard, where Paige's soft hands and softer lips had confused everything Angela thought she knew about herself.
The pastor—some man Angela had never met who knew nothing about Debra beyond the bullet points Angela had provided—droned on about God's mercy and eternal peace. Angela wanted to laugh. What mercy? Her mother had been gunned down in a bedroom that reeked of meth and failure, caught in crossfire meant for someone else.
Angela's throat tightened. She should be comforted by Vic's steady presence, his loyalty in showing up with his family for a woman who'd barely acknowledged him when she was alive. Instead, she felt suffocated by his expectations, by the way his fingers intertwined with hers like they belonged there.
"Would anyone like to say a few words?" the pastor asked, his eyes scanning the nearly empty room.
The silence stretched uncomfortably until a woman, one of Debra’s friends that knew her before her husband’s death, stood, smoothing her dark dress. "Debra and I grew up on the same block," she began, her voice warm with memories Angela had never heard. "That girl could do just about anything better than anyone else you knew.”
Angela felt herself drifting, remembering the endless night spent in the darkness of Paige’s dorm room.
Vic squeezed her hand, pulling her back to the present. His eyes were full of concern, of love she didn't deserve. He thought her distance was grief. How could she tell him it was confusion? That while he'd been her rock through years of her mother's addiction, it was Paige's voice she longed to hear right now?
"You wanna say something?" Vic whispered.
Angela shook her head. What could she possibly say about the woman who'd chosen drugs over her daughter? Who'd missed her high school graduation because she was too high to remember the date? The woman whose death had dragged Angela back to Los Angeles when all she wanted was to stay in D.C., finally beginning to find herself, her joy?
"I should have something to say," Angela thought. "She was my mother." But the words wouldn't come, trapped behind a wall of resentment and a newer, more terrifying uncertainty that had nothing to do with her mother.
…
Gayle pushed through the heavy back door of the club, the bass from inside vibrating through her bones even this early into the night. The familiar smell of stale alcohol and cheap perfume clung to the hallway leading to Ray's office. She'd walked this path hundreds of times, but today felt different. Final.
"Look who it is," Ray called out as she appeared in his doorway. "If it ain’t the next motherfucking Cardi B.”
Gayle rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her smile. "Just here for my check, Ray.”
Ray leaned back in his creaking office chair, hands behind his head. "You know how many times I heard your fucking song requested last weekend? Fifteen. I counted." He pulled open a drawer and retrieved an envelope. "DJ Mikey's threatening to quit if he has to play it one more time."
"Being a hater don’t look good on y’all," Gayle playfully snatched the envelope, quickly counting the bills inside.
"So you really done with us?”
Gayle tucked the money into her purse. "I appreciate everything you’ve done for me Ray but I can’t do these hours anymore, man. At the nail spot, I don’t got worry about no drunk fools grabbing at me, no walking to my car at three in the morning and barely getting any sleep by the time I’m in the studio.”
Ray nodded slowly. "I hear you. Just don't forget us little people when you blow up."
"Please. I was never little people." She winked, but then her expression softened. "For real though, thanks for everything, Ray."
As she turned to leave, Ray called after her, "Yo, Gayle…I mean Gigi! You ever need a venue for an album release party, you come see me first, hear?"
The nickname—her stage name—sent a thrill through her. "You'll be the first call I make."
Gayle pushed back through the hallway toward the dressing room, wanting to grab the last of her things from her locker. She nearly collided with Aida and Shawna as they came through the front entrance.
"What’s up, baby girl," Aida eyed her up and down, "I thought last week was your last day.”
"Just collecting my check," Gayle said, holding up the envelope. "Last one."
Shawna stepped forward, giving Gayle a quick hug. "Congrats, girl. For real." Her eyes were sincere, but the dark circles beneath them told a different story. Both women were dressed impeccably—Aida in Balenciaga boots that must have cost a month's worth of tips, Shawna with a new Prada bag—but their faces looked hollow, exhausted.
"You work at that nail spot, right?" Aida asked, checking her reflection in a compact mirror, touching up her lipstick with a practiced hand.
"Started last week. It's chill. Regular hours, you know?"
Aida snapped her compact shut. "Regular money too, I bet."
"It's enough. And I got the studio sessions with Lamont picking up.”
"Yeah, we heard," Aida said flatly.
Shawna nudged Aida. "We're happy for you. Ain't that right, Aida?"
Aida's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Sure. Real happy." She jingled her car keys. "We better clock in. Some of us still gotta work for real."
Gayle watched them disappear into the dressing room, their designer clothes and bags a sharp contrast to the fatigue etched into their faces.
…
Keshawn sprawled on Gloria's couch, his legs hanging off the edge as he scrolled through his phone. He had been picked up a terrible and addicting habit of searching his name every few hours, always on the lookout for latest mock drafts to see where he was being projected, almost always listed in the first round but not quite lottery.
"You want something to drink?" Gloria called from the kitchen.
"Nah, I'm good," he answered, clicking his phone off and staring at the ceiling.
Gloria padded back into the living room and settled beside him, tucking her feet underneath her. She smelled like coconut lotion and that vanilla perfume she always wore.
"What're you thinking about? You look all serious," Gloria said, reaching for the remote.
Keshawn shrugged, shifting his weight to accommodate his frame on the too-small couch. "Just stuff."
"Basketball stuff?" She flipped through channels before settling on a reality show.
"Yeah." He didn't elaborate.
How could he explain the weight of the decision pressing down on him? Two million to return to UCLA. Coach Cronin calling him daily, reminding him they could repeat as champions, that his draft stock would only rise. Then there were the agents—five of them now—promising lottery selection if he just trusted their process.
Gloria's laugh pulled him from his thoughts. On screen, some poor guy had just belly flopped into the water from a platform about ten feet high.
"That's got to hurt," she giggled, nudging him with her foot. "Would you do that for ten grand?"
"I don’t know about ten grand," he answered, forcing a smile, “I’m going to need more than that.”
His phone buzzed. Another text from Coach Bronstein to confirm their workout for tomorrow morning.
Keshawn closed the message without responding. The season had just ended but with him declaring the draft, a formality which allowed him to have until June to decide if he wanted to return to UCLA, he also had to get ready for the NBA Draft Combine in a few weeks.
Gloria laughed again, bright and uncomplicated. She had no idea what was churning inside him—the fear of injury if he stayed, the fear of not being ready if he left. Two million was more money than anyone in his family had ever seen, but NBA rookie contracts, especially if he got selected in the top fifteen, would double that.
"You sure you're okay?" Gloria asked during a commercial break, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
"Yeah, just tired.”
She nodded, accepting his answer without pressing. That was Gloria—easy, undemanding. She never asked about the future, never questioned where they stood. When he texted at 11 PM after film sessions, she was awake and welcoming. When he needed space, she gave it without complaint.
Not like Nadia, who'd left him on read for three days last week and when they would link, casual conversation would turn into whether athletes deserved their salaries or the political and economic state of the world.
"You hungry?" Gloria asked during the next commercial. "I can make sandwiches."
"That'd be cool," he said, grateful for the simple offer, for her uncomplicated presence.
As she padded to the kitchen, the front door opened, and Vic walked in. He nodded at Gloria, ignoring Keshawn, before heading straight for Jessica's room without a word.
"Vic's here a lot, huh?" Keshawn asked casually, watching Gloria assemble turkey sandwiches at the kitchen counter.
Gloria nodded, spreading mayo on wheat bread. "Pretty much every day now. Sometimes doesn't even go home." She glanced toward Jessica's closed door. "It’s better than the opposite, right?”
“I guess,” Keshawn shook his head slowly, turning back to the TV without really seeing it.
Angela had no idea. Here she was, burying her mother, leaning on her boyfriend for support, while Vic was living this whole other life she knew nothing about.
Neighborhood.
The failing grade flashed on Vic's phone screen like a neon sign advertising his inadequacy. Fifty-four percent. Another F to add to his growing collection.
"Fuck," he muttered, shoving his phone back into his pocket as he approached the employee entrance of Macy's. The fluorescent lights of the break room buzzed overhead, matching the static in his brain.
"Cutting it close again, Singleton," his supervisor remarked as Vic punched in exactly one minute before his shift started.
"I'm here," Vic replied flatly, reaching for his name tag from the hook. The plastic rectangle felt heavier than usual, the weight of his future—or lack thereof—pressing down on his chest.
He made his way to the men's department, straightening displays that customers would mess up within minutes. His phone vibrated again. Not his professor this time, but Jessica.
My feet are killing me today. Can u come over tonight?
Vic stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. A month ago, that text would have sent a rush of anticipation through him. Now it just felt like another obligation, another person needing something from him that he wasn't sure he could provide.
He typed back: Got work till 9. I'll try.
The reply came instantly: Please baby, I really need you after today, was a long day, this pregnancy shit is no joke
Pregnancy. The words made his stomach clench. In seven months, he'd be responsible for a whole human being. A child who would need diapers and formula and doctor visits—all things that cost money he didn't have. A child who deserved better than a father who couldn't even pass community college classes.
"Singleton! Customer needs help with suits," his manager called from across the floor.
Vic pocketed his phone. "I got it.”
As he approached the older white man examining a navy blazer, Vic couldn't help but wonder if this was it—if his life would always be this cycle of clocking in, clocking out, and struggling to stay afloat. Angela was back to being three thousand miles away, building a future for herself at Howard. Keshawn was about to be a millionaire, with or without the NBA. Even Jessica was halfway through getting her Bachelor’s, something tangible to fall back on.
What did he have? A failing GPA, nine dollars an hour, and a baby on the way.
…
Quincy jerked awake, his heart hammering against his ribs. The hotel room swam into focus—neutral walls, generic artwork, stiff sheets that smelled of industrial detergent. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was or how he'd gotten there.
Then it hit him. Debra's face, frozen in shock. The bloom of red spreading across her chest. Her eyes, wide and questioning, as if she couldn't believe what was happening to her.
"Jesus," he whispered, sitting up and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. The images wouldn't stop. Debra collapsing, her body sprawled over the floor. His own hands, trembling as he'd stepped over her body, gathering up the cash before the cops arrived after he doubled back once the shooters left.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. The amber liquid burned going down, but it was a welcome distraction from the memories.
The digital clock read 3:17 AM. Another sleepless night in a string of many. The Comfort Inn wasn't much, but it was clean and anonymous. Most importantly, it was far enough from the East Side that he didn't have to worry about getting caught in the crossfire that was brewing in The Jungle.
Quincy took another swig from the bottle. The irony wasn't lost on him—sleeping in relative luxury while Debra lay cold in the ground. He hadn't even gone to the funeral. Couldn't bring himself to face Angela, to face his own family. He couldn’t shake the feeling, no matter how unlikely, that they would somehow know that he took the money, left her lifeless body there like garbage as he scurried away. The truth of the matter is none of them knew anything about his relationship with Debra, forged by addiction and eventually bonded by it. Perhaps them not knowing made it worse.
His phone lit up with a text from Eleanora: "Call me. I'm worried about you."
He ignored it, just like he had the last dozen messages from his sister. Eleanora meant well, but going back to her place meant rules. Structure. Sobriety. The thought made his skin crawl. Getting clean meant feeling everything—the guilt, the shame, the bone-deep knowledge that Debra would still be alive if he hadn't convinced her to let him crash at her place, to turn it into a trap house.
Outside, a siren wailed, growing louder then fading as it passed the hotel. Even here, miles from his old neighborhood, the city felt dangerous, unstable. The turf war between Fat Stacks and Dro had escalated after Debra's death, with three more bodies dropping in the past two weeks alone. The streets weren't safe for anyone, least of all a junkie with pockets full of cash.
…
Keshawn pushed his tray across the dining hall table, the remnants of his third helping of pancakes swimming in maple syrup. The cafeteria was nearly empty, most students having finished their dinner hours ago.
"These pancakes might be the best thing this school does," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I don't know how you eat those egg whites. Looks like sad clouds."
Nadia poked at her plate with a plastic fork. "Some of us can’t eat like you do and dunk a basketball.”
"Fair enough." Keshawn watched her for a moment, noticing the way she separated her food into neat sections, barely touching any of it. "So you mentioned you're volunteering at that crisis center again tomorrow?"
"Yeah." Nadia nodded, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
"That's dope. For real. Not many people our age giving back like that."
Nadia's eyes remained fixed on her plate. "It's not entirely selfless. Sometimes it helps to be around people who are worse off than you."
"Still," Keshawn insisted, "it takes something to show up for strangers like that."
A silence settled between them, comfortable yet charged with something unspoken. Nadia's fingers tapped an irregular rhythm against the tabletop.
"My mom used to volunteer," she said finally, her voice so quiet Keshawn had to lean in to hear her. "At a women's shelter. Ironic, considering."
Keshawn stayed silent, sensing she needed space to continue.
"She and my dad—they both had tempers. Volatile. That's the word the therapist used." Nadia's eyes remained downcast. "Which is just another word for saying they fought, like a lot.”
"Damn," Keshawn murmured. "I'm sorry."
"Everyone was sorry after," Nadia continued, her voice oddly detached. "After he killed her.”
Keshawn's breath caught in his throat. He'd known Nadia's mother wasn't in the picture and that her father had mental issues, but this—this was beyond anything he'd imagined.
"Nadia, I—"
"Don't," she cut him off gently. "It's okay. I've had time to process it. The thing is, I don't hate him. I hate what he did, obviously, but he was sick. Undiagnosed bipolar disorder with psychotic features.”
She finally looked up, meeting Keshawn's eyes. "He should have gotten help sooner. They both should have. But mental health wasn't something you talk about. People still don’t, not really. Just some surface level, Dr. Phil ass bullshit.”
Keshawn nodded slowly, trying to absorb the weight of her confession.
"The fucked up part is," Nadia continued, a bitter laugh escaping her, "sometimes I wonder if I inherited it. His... instability. I get these moods. My family just thinks I’m 'dramatic' or 'sensitive.' Says I'm being moody like it's some personality quirk and not potentially something serious."
"Have you talked to anyone about it? Professionally, I mean," Keshawn asked carefully.
"I’ve been in therapy since I was a fucking kid," Nadia scoffed. "Don’t get me wrong, it’s great and everyone should seek help but I don’t know, it just feels like it’s not the band-aid that everyone thinks it is. It’s so much fucked up shit beyond my own bullshit happening in the world between Gaza, fucking Trump…”
Keshawn nodded his head, struggling to find the appropriate words before stammering through the first that came to mind. "Yeah, I feel you on that.”
A smile crept on Nadia’s face as she shook her head. "Sometimes I think you're the only person who doesn't look at me differently when I talk about this stuff."
"Why would I?" Keshawn shrugged. "We've all got our shit."
A small smile tugged at Nadia's lips. "Very profound, Mr. Chase."
"I have my moments." He grinned back, relieved to see a flash of the Nadia he'd come to—what? Like? Admire? He wasn't sure what to call the feeling that stirred in his chest when she was around.
"Anyway," she said, pushing her tray away, "Enough trauma dumping for one dinner. Tell me about the combine. Are you nervous?"
Keshawn recognized the deflection but didn't push. "Oh yeah, I’m fucking terrified," he laughed. "Seriously though, seems kind of crazy that after all of this, all the work we’ve done this season and now with these workouts, it comes down to a couple days in front of these people that are going to decide my life.”
"You'll kill it," Nadia said with surprising conviction. "Or you won’t and you’ll be back here, right?”
"Eating pancakes with you,” he smiled.
"That does sound better than earning millions from a corporation that finances genocides," Nadia stood, gathering her tray. "I should get going though.”
"Want me to walk you—" Keshawn started, but she was already walking away.
"Thanks for listening," she called over her shoulder. "Enjoy those pancakes, Keshawn.”
Keshawn watched her go, feeling the familiar confusion that seemed to follow every interaction with Nadia. One minute opening up to him like he was the only person she trusted, the next pulling away as if she'd revealed too much.
He sat alone in the dining hall, wondering why it mattered so much, why he liked being around her so much. With the combine weeks away and his future hanging in the balance, he shouldn't be fixating on a girl he barely understood.
Yet as he gathered his own tray and headed for the exit, he found himself hoping she'd text him later, like she sometimes did after their conversations. Just to check in, to continue whatever this was between them.
-
Google[Bot]
- Posts: 3824
- Joined: 01 Jul 2020, 10:03
Neighborhood.
enjoy the pancakes dawg
Neighborhood.
The smell of sizzling meat and onions made Elijah’s stomach growl as he stood in line at the food truck, watching the man behind the counter flip burgers with practiced efficiency.
"Man, everything on this menu is either fried or drowning in cheese," Raul complained, scanning the laminated menu with growing frustration. "I already can't button my suit jacket without looking like I'm about to bust out of it.”
Elijah chuckled, his eyes still on the grill. "Your fiancée loves you regardless, brother."
"Yeah, but suits don't," Raul patted his slightly protruding stomach. "I ain’t got enough money to buy a new one, I’m going to have to squeeze into that bitch.”
The line shuffled forward. Raul sighed, running a hand through his closely cropped hair. "I would get something from one of them fancy joints with the juices and wraps and shit but that shit gonna run me my whole paycheck pretty much.”
Elijah turned to his coworker, a familiar spark lighting behind his eyes. "Rotisserie chicken," he said with the conviction of a man who knew what he was talking about.
"What?"
"Rotisserie chicken," Elijah repeated. "Whole Foods, Ralph's, even Walmart. Eight, nine dollars for a whole bird. Cut it up, portion it out with some rice and vegetables you cook at home. You'll eat for days on that."
Raul looked skeptical. "For real?"
"Used to sell them at my store," Elijah said, his voice taking on a different tone—more authoritative, less like the warehouse worker who'd been quietly loading pallets all morning. "Top seller. Had people coming from all over the neighborhood just for our chicken. The trick is in the seasoning and slow cooking. Makes the meat fall off the bone."
"Your store?" Raul asked, curiosity replacing his frustration.
Elijah nodded, a flicker of something—pride, perhaps, or regret—crossing his face. "Chase Family Market. We had three locations before..." He trailed off, then squared his shoulders. "Anyway, trust me on this. Rotisserie chicken, some brown rice, steamed vegetables. You'll be looking good for your wedding photos and have money left for the honeymoon."
The cook called out their order number. Raul hesitated, then stepped forward. "Actually, you know what? I'll just take the grilled chicken sandwich, no mayo, side salad instead of fries."
…
Fat Stacks pulled the hood of his jacket lower as he exited the county jail, the sunlight still foreign at it hit his face. He'd been holed up in Charlene’s apartment in Windsor Hills, moving only at night, his gun never far from him. The streets had turned into a war zone since Rommel's crew shot up what they thought was his spot.
"We good?" Benji asked, pulling away from the curb before Fat Stacks had even closed the door.
"Yeah. Trey on board." Fat Stacks leaned back, eyes scanning the streets they rode through. "If it’s one thing that motherfucker gonna do, it’s come through.”
Benji navigated through traffic, taking an unpredictable route back toward their temporary hideout. "This whole shit crazy, Blood. I heard that nigga got real kill squad on the streets right now.”
"Rommel’s a fucking dummy,” Fat Stacks sucked his teeth, "I ain’t worried about niggas like him, it’s easy to get them out the way.”
"I ain’t gonna lie, I never fucked with his little brother,” Benji scoffed, "I can’t say I’m losing sleep over this one.”
Fat Stacks nodded, remembering Trey's face in the visitation room. No words needed to be exchanged after he'd asked about Rommel's brother and wiped his nose—the signal they'd established years ago. Trey would pass the message to his people on the inside, and within days, maybe hours, the first major casualty of the war would be felt.
…
"Yo, this shit is fire," Lamont said, bobbing his head to the beat as the track played through the studio's monitors.
Kandi tilted her head as she listened to Gayle's vocals punch through the speakers.
"I'm the type to snatch yo chain and give it to my other nigga!"
Lamont paused the track, turning to Kandi with that look she knew well—the one that meant he smelled money. "I know you see this shit going crazy on TikTok right now.”
"It's catchy," Kandi admitted, tapping her acrylic nails against her knee. "Girl got attitude."
"That's what I'm saying." Lamont leaned forward in his chair. "Now imagine you on the second verse, maybe add a bridge. We drop it as the official remix, push it to radio..."
Kandi raised an eyebrow. "I don’t know, Cosmo, she’s having her moment right now.”
"Nah, it's a co-sign. Shows you respect her talent. Plus—" Lamont pulled up some analytics on his phone "—your last single didn't hit like we wanted. This could be good timing for both of y'all."
Kandi fell silent, considering. She remembered Gayle from their brief studio session months back—hungry, talented, with that raw energy Kandi herself had possessed before years in the rap industry made her calculate every move.
"I don't know, honestly, I really don’t. It's hot on TikTok, but that don't always translate to a real hit, you know that."
"When have I ever steered you wrong?" Lamont spread his arms wide, his confidence unwavering. "Trust me on this one."
Kandi sighed, then nodded slowly. "Alright, alright, I’ll lay a rough on this bitch.”
"Already ahead of you." Lamont grinned, "I even slowed that bitch down so you can get to talking your shit on that motherfucker like you do.”
"Some real Bay shit,” she laughed, “You know how we do.”
Neighborhood.
Angela tasted the lie on her tongue before she even spoke it. "L.A. is just... complicated for me right now."
"Complicated how?" Paige asked, setting her laptop aside. She'd been showing Angela the company website, scrolling through glossy photos of diverse employees with perfect teeth and ambitious smiles. "This is literally the perfect opportunity.”
She'd come over with different intentions tonight—seeking comfort in Paige's arms, a temporary escape from the hollow space her mother's death had carved inside her. Not this.
"I just... I was hoping to stay in D.C. for the summer," Angela said, tucking a braid behind her ear. "Find something here at Howard."
Paige's brow furrowed. "But you're always talking about missing home, missing Vic. This way you could be back for a few months, build your resume, and not have to pay for housing since they offer housing or you could even stay with your mom or Vic or whatever.”
The mention of her mother sent a cold spike through Angela's chest. Three weeks had passed since the funeral, and she still hadn't told Paige. Hadn't told her about standing beside that cheap casket, about the smell of artificial flowers, about how her mother's addiction had finally caught up with her in the worst possible way, in ways even Angela couldn’t have imagined.
"It's a business internship," Angela deflected. "I'm studying social work."
" I know you want to be on your Angela Davis shit but Westwood Solutions has one of the best internship programs in the country. You’ve got the rest of your life to be down for the cause, you need the money this summer." Paige countered, leaning forward with renewed enthusiasm. "Think about it—when you're running community programs or managing case loads, you'll need business skills. Budgeting, organizational management, networking. This gives you an edge."
The truth hovered between them, unspoken, as Angela glanced towards the laptop’s screen. How could she explain that Los Angeles wasn't home anymore? That it was just a graveyard of memories—her father's death, her mother's spiral, and now an empty house filled with ghosts?
"I pulled a lot of strings for this," Paige said softly, her voice losing its enthusiastic edge. "A lot of people want this spot, Ang, and they don't usually take people outside the business school."
Guilt washed over Angela. Here was Paige, trying to help, putting herself out there, using her connections—and Angela couldn't even be honest about why she was hesitating.
"When would the interview be?" Angela asked finally.
"Virtual. Next Thursday." Paige's face brightened. "So you'll do it?"
…
The prison yard buzzed with the usual controlled chaos—men clustered in racial groups, some working out on the makeshift equipment, others pacing the perimeter or huddled in intense conversation. Trey kept to himself, leaning against the chain-link fence, watching without seeming to watch.
Rommel's little brother—Keon—was walking towards the basketball court. Nearly a decade younger with the same narrow face as his older brother but none of the hardness. A kid playing at being a gangster.
Trey felt his stomach knot as he observed the Woods moving into position. Three of them, led by a heavily tattooed skinhead they called Viking. The choreography was subtle—one drifting toward the water fountain, another pretending to tie his shoe, Viking approaching from behind.
It happened so fast most inmates missed it. Viking closed the distance in three long strides. The shiv—fashioned from a melted toothbrush handle and a razor—slipped between Keon's ribs with precision. Once, twice, three times before Keon even registered what was happening.
The young man's face contorted in confusion, then pain. He stumbled forward, hands clutching at his side where blood now soaked through his prison blues.
Guards rushed in, whistles blaring. Inmates scattered or pressed themselves against walls, nobody wanting to be caught in the inevitable lockdown. Viking had already disappeared into the crowd, the weapon likely passed to another Wood who would dispose of it.
Trey tightened his jaw as medical staff surrounded Keon's body. He'd seen enough death to know this one wasn't surviving. The pool of blood spreading beneath the young man was too large, his movements already growing weaker.
Keon’s nose had been wiped, as instructed.
As the yard emptied under guard orders, Trey caught Viking's eye across the chaos. A nearly imperceptible nod passed between them—debt paid, favor completed, not that they ever needed a reason to thin out the Black herd. It was a deal made with the devil, one that Trey couldn’t quite understand. It was one thing to beef on the outside, that was expected but on the inside, Blacks stuck together and when they didn’t, it was Black on Black, not Black on Black via Woods.
Trey shuffled back toward the cell block with the other inmates, his face carefully blank. Inside, though, something shifted uncomfortably. This wasn't his first indirect or direct kill, but it was the first time he'd arranged one for someone that wasn’t only of his race but of his crew, his gang, his creed. A line crossed that couldn't be uncrossed.
…
The hotel room spun in lazy circles as Quincy forced his eyes open. Morning light cut through the blinds in harsh stripes and his mouth tasted like ash and something worse—regret, maybe. He turned his head, wincing at the stiffness in his neck, to see a woman sprawled beside him, her makeup smeared across her face, dark lipstick bleeding onto the pillowcase.
He didn't remember her name. Didn't remember bringing her here.
Quincy sat up slowly, his head pounding with each heartbeat. Empty bottles littered the nightstand, along with the remnants of what had been a promising high twelve hours ago. The woman—was it Tasha? Tanya?—mumbled something in her sleep and turned away from him.
He reached for his wallet, finding it surprisingly intact. He pulled out two twenties and placed them on the nightstand. It seemed like the right thing to do, though he couldn't remember if they'd negotiated a price.
As he stumbled to the bathroom, Quincy caught his reflection in the mirror—bloodshot eyes, gray stubble peppering his once-handsome face, cheekbones sharp from weight he couldn't afford to lose. He barely recognized himself.
"Deb," he whispered, trying to conjure her image. But all he got was fragments—the curve of her neck, the sound of her laugh. Her face was blurring, details fading like a photograph left too long in the sun.
He splashed cold water on his face and braced himself against the sink. Once, he'd had a home. A career. A wife who loved him. A son who looked up to him. Carter would be twenty-four now. Quincy hadn't seen him in seventeen years.
Back in the room, he rummaged through his jacket pockets until he found what he was looking for—a small baggie with enough to help him forget again. The woman on the bed stirred.
"You leavin'?" Her voice was hoarse, thick with sleep and whatever they'd smoked the night before.
"Yeah." He didn't look at her as he tapped out a line on the chipped laminate dresser.
"You got any more of that?" She was sitting up now, pulling the sheet around her naked body.
Quincy hesitated, then shook his head. "This is it."
She watched him bend down with a rolled-up bill. "That shit's gonna kill you one day," she said matter-of-factly.
He straightened up, feeling the familiar burn, the blessed numbness beginning to spread. "That's the idea."
Neighborhood.
Angela was that good of an eater that Paige got her a job? She been eating cat?
