“Hosea, who are you talking to?” I uttered lowly.
He turned around and gazed at me like he didn’t know me. His eyes were red and low, and the sunken look in his face let me know that he was going through it in his head,again. Hurricane was 6’5 in height, athletic built like Carmelo Anthony, and his features resembled Future, but a finer version. He had shoulder-length black and brown locs and tattoos from his face to his legs. I couldn’t deny how fine he was physically, but the person he was, internally, overpowered his looks for me nowadays.
“To Coast… He’s outside.” I looked over his shoulder and gazed into the dark.
“He’s not here, Hosea. He’s gone, and he hasn’t been here for two years,” I replied with my voice trembling.
Ever since my brother died, Hurricane hadn’t been the same. The schizophrenia that had been dormant since he was a kid was back, but it was something he didn’t take seriously. A year after Coast was laid to rest, he confided in me that he was hearing voices and seeing my brother when he was alone. I supported him and went to counseling with him, but his illness brought out his impulsive ways.
His ruthlessness, hypersexuality, and fucked-up ways wasn’t who he really was, so I stuck by him. He was my brother’s friend, and I didn’t want to leave him suffering alone. When he had an episode, those were the times I was forced to stay with him. This wasn’t the first time I caught him talking to Coast. I hoped it was the last, though, because his episodes brought me into a deep depression, but I knew it wasn’t.
When I told Hurricane my brother wasn’t outside, his face appeared like he had lost him all over again.
“I miss my nigga, man,” he wept as he slid down the glass door and dropped his gun. I felt bad for him, so I dropped mybag and sat next to him on the floor. Everything that happened earlier in the day with us got pushed to the side.
“I miss him, too. We all do, but you can’t keep beating yourself up over his death.” I wrapped my arms around him.
“I know I been a fucked-up nigga to you, and I apologize. Coast don’t like that shit.” He gazed at me with glossy eyes, but no tears fell.
Even though he was going through it, his apology meant nothing to me. He’d apologized so many times that I was numb to it. I didn’t want to trigger him more, so I did what I had to do.
“You know I accept your apology. I know you’re going through a lot, mentally, but have you been taking your meds?”
“Yeah, I have, but they don’t work. They only make me more aggravated.”
“You need to relax. I’ll help you get ready for bed. Have you eaten?”
“Nah, I ain’t ate, and I can’t go to bed. I gotta go back out and find who killed my boy. It’s been too long, and ain’t a soul came up that did it. I done killed so many niggas that didn’t do it, I’m surrounded by souls yelling in my ear. I needed you home because you know you’re my only medicine that helps me.” He slid me close to him, and my body locked up.
I still wasn’t over what happened between us, but I couldn’t fight him. He was really gone, and the moment he was having might’ve been the worst one he’s had. The look in his eyes was spooky, so I did whatever he told me.
“Why you so tense? You scared of a nigga now?” he asked with his voice low and raspy as though he was reading my mind.
“No, it’s just been a while since you touched me intimately,” I replied softly.
He pulled me onto his lap and pulled his already erect manhood out of his boxer briefs and shorts.
“Take your thong off and ride me,” he uttered seductively as he eyed me like a piece of meat. I took off my thong and proceeded to sit back on his lap. He started rubbing on my vulva.
“Damn, that pussy don’t get wet no more on sight for a nigga? I’m hard soon as I lay eyes on your pretty ass face.”
“I do get wet for you, but damn, you ain’t even kissed me or nothing. You just expect me to get wet with no foreplay?”
“Who you fuckin’, Yumila? You been giving away what’s mine?” He put his hand on my neck,something that he liked doing.
“No. You know I’m not,” I replied with my voice trembling.
“You lyin’. Coast told me you fuckin’ Mula. You fuckin’ my homie?” His grip got tighter, so I tried to stand up because I didn’t want him strangling me. I was scared because I didn’t know where his mind was, but he didn’t let me get up.
“No, I don’t even talk to Mula. You told me to never speak to him.”
“Tell that nigga you’re mine,” he gritted lowly.
Hurricane stood up to his feet while holding me. He sat me on our glass island. I felt a grainy substance where my hand rested, so I looked at my palm. It was a white substance. I knew it was crushed up Percs, but what angered me was that it was on a drawing I had done of a bathing suit I wanted to get material for and make.
On top of his mental illness, he abused drugs and alcohol. When he mixed controlled substances with his psych meds, it triggered him. I didn’t address him about ruining my drawing; it would’ve made him madder. I was trying to get back on my designing, but Hurricane made it hard for me to be creative.
He pushed my legs up to my shoulders and then put his face in my pussy. I moaned from the feeling, but no sooner than it felt good, he bit me.
