I nodded, but my eyes drifted across the room to Rhythm. She was standing with the women, smiling softly, listening more than she talked. The way she held herself was still humble, but her confidence was growing amongst them.
And as I watched her across that room, I knew that I was still letting my past dictate how hard I loved the next woman. I couldn’t keep doing that. Rhythm deserved a man who chose her out loud, without flinching. And I deserved to stop punishing myself for a mistake I already survived.
This time, I wasn’t going to walk away so easily, though. I wasn’t going to be respectful. I was going to claim that love and protect it. And if anybody tried to take it from me, they were going to find out I wasn’t the calm man they thought I was.
TARIQ “REEK” HORTON
I could never get used to how we could go from ladies and kicking it, to blood and gangsta shit in the blink of an eye. The basement we used for ugly shit sat under one of the laundromats. As machines ran upstairs, nobody knew what was happening under their feet.
Down here there were concrete walls, one buzzing light, and a metal chair in the middle of the floor.
Monáe’s baby daddy was in that chair with zip-ties biting at his wrists and ankles taped to the legs. The smell of his sweat and fear cut through the stench of bleach. Monáe was one of the cartel's most trusted runners. We trusted her to transport an inconceivable amount of drugs and money across the country, and she never played us.
Saint was in front of him, pacing slow, humming some song off-key that was playing on his phone. His gun was dangling from his fingers like a toy. “You know what type of nigga you gotta be to drag a woman by her hair in our building, in front of her kid… then post that shit like it’s funny?” He laughed, loud and sudden, then suddenly smacked the barrel of the gun against dude’s cheek. It wasn’t a full hit, just a taste. The man’shead snapped sideways, and blood gathered at the corner of his mouth.
I leaned on the wall by the door with my arms folded, just watching Saint work.
This bitchass nigga had dragged Monáe through the Cartier Beauty Bar by her wig in front of eight-year-old Kalen, then got online and posted “Cartiers ain’t gon’ do shit ??”.
He found out tonight that was the punchline.
“I told you, man,” he babbled, breathing hard. “I was drunk. We was just arguing...”
Saint laughed again. “Nigga, I don’t want to hear that shit! You snatched your child’s mother up by her scalp. Own that.”
I pushed off the wall and walked over slowly. “Look at me.”
He tried to stare at the floor. I grabbed his jaw, thumb digging into his cheek, and lifted his head. His wild, teary eyes met mine.
“You know who I am?” I barked.
“Re-Reek. I know. I know, bro. I—”
“Then you know I don’t come down here to talk.” I let his face go, pushing hard. There was blood in the imprint of my nails on his cheeks. “You had the nerve to touch one of ours in a building with our name on the deed. You made her son look at her like she couldn’t protect him. Then you got online, talking shit. That’s three violations in one night. You a busy motherfucka.”
He started shaking his head vigorously. “Please, man, I’ll apologize...”
“You know why you still sitting here breathing?”
“Because y’all… y’all got hearts,” he tried.
Saint snorted. “Wrong door, church boy.”
“You breathing because Monáe asked us not to kill you. That’s the only reason. She said she don’t want her son putting flowers on your grave. She just wants you gone.”
“Thank you,” he sobbed. “Thank you, I’ll go, I swear—”
“Oh, you’re leaving,” I taunted him. “But we gotta make sure you remember why.”
I pulled my gun.
He went rigid. “Reek, please...”
Saint was already pulling a thick roll of black tape off the table. “Relax,” he said cheerfully. “If he was gon’ kill you, I’d be sitting down with popcorn.”
He slapped a piece of tape over the man’s mouth before he could scream, then stepped back, humming again as he turned the music up on his phone.
“One for the kid,” I said quietly, aiming at his right knee.
