CHAPTER ONE
SYNTHIA “JUICY” BROOKS
The gunshot exploded in the small bedroom, ringing so loud I thought my eardrums burst. I shoved my index fingers into my ears like makeshift earplugs, but the damage was already done. My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking.
Romelo stood there grinning—that same sick Joker smile he had on his face when he killed Allen two weeks ago. Blood dripped down his forehead in thick rivulets, painting his face red, but he didn't even flinch. This nigga was insane. Certifiably fucking insane.
"Still think I give a fuck about death?" he sniggered, wiping blood from his brow with the back of his hand. "I fear losingyoumore than anything."
The bullet had grazed his forehead—just barely. An inch lower and he would've been dead. My arms broke out in goosebumps and my chest heaved up and down so hard I thought I might pass out. This was too much. All of this was too fucking much.
Then I felt it.
Warmth spreading down my inner thighs. The realization hit me like a slap—I'd pissed myself. The liquid was warm againstmy skin, soaking through my pajama bottoms, but thankfully it didn't smell yet.
"You're really a sick ass bastard!" I screamed, my voice cracking. I curled my top lip in disgust. "You could've killed yourself!"
My eyes followed the blood trailing down his handsome face. Even covered in his own blood, the nigga was fine. That made it worse somehow.
"That's the fucking point, Juicy." His voice was calm, too calm. He staggered past me toward the bathroom, his shoulder brushing mine. "I'd choose death if you don't choose me."
I heard him mutter under his breath: "Pissy ass pussy."
Every instinct told me to stay put, to let him go handle his own shit, but my feet moved on their own. My heart hammered against my ribcage as I followed him into the bathroom, my wet thighs sticking together with each step.
He stood in front of the mirror, legs spread wide in that bow-legged stance, joggers hanging low enough to show the band of his Ralph Lauren boxers. His lanky frame seemed to take up the entire bathroom. He examined the wound on his forehead like he was checking for a pimple, not a fucking gunshot wound.
"Here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, holding it out to me. "Call Roxx. Tell him to meet me at the dungeon."
His tone was so casual, so unbothered, like he hadn't just put a gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. Would he be this calm if I'd been the one to shoot him? Would he have that same dead look in his eyes?
Probably. The nigga doesn't feel shit.
But that wasn't entirely true. I'd seen glimpses of something else in him—something that almost looked human.
"R-Roxx," I stammered, my fingers trembling as I took the phone. "What do you mean 'the dungeon'?"
"Juicy." He sighed, and for the first time I heard exhaustion in his voice. "Just do what the fuck I tell you to do."
I unlocked his phone—I knew the passcode by now, he'd made me memorize it—and scrolled to Roxx's contact. My hands were still shaking as I pressed call and held the phone to my ear.
Roxx picked up on the second ring. His voice was flat, unbothered. "Yo."
"Um, Roxx? It's Synthia. Romelo said to meet him at the dungeon. He—he shot himself. In the head. He's bleeding but he's okay, I think, I don't know, he's acting like nothing happened?—"
"A'ight. I'll be there in ten."
Click.
That was it. No panic. No questions. Like this shit happened every Tuesday.
I stared at the phone in my hand, then at Romelo who was now leaning against the granite countertop, still examining the wound with that same detached curiosity.
"You do know how crazy this is, right?" My voice came out sharper than I intended. "I can't fucking believe you."
He didn't respond.
Something inside me snapped.
