“Trecee, you overdosed on opioids with alcohol. You’re going through something traumatic. They won’t harm you. They’ll assess your mental health and develop a treatment plan. You won’t be able to hurt yourself.”
I scoffed. “I have the right to do what I want. You can’t make me.”
“Actually, under Tennessee law, we can. When someone is a danger to themselves, we can hold them up to seventy-two hours for evaluation. It’s called emergency detention.”
“I’m not a danger to myself!”
I felt trapped. The walls were closing in. He wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. No one did—not Romelo, not my mama. They should’ve let me die.
CHAPTER TEN
ROMELO “ROME” JONES
Leaning back in my seat, I took a toke from the blunt and exhaled with my eyes closed. A lot of shit was running through my mind—Trecee. Sometimes a shot goes smooth when you don’t have to deal with it. But I knew I couldn’t keep pushing shit under the rug. I’d told Synthia I could handle it if shit spilled over. Truth be told, I could—and shit was spilling over like crazy—a motherfuckin’ overflow.
I expected Trecee to nut the fuck up—it’s a natural reaction, considering how she found out and how shit went down. Nonetheless, I didn’t give a fuck. She was gonna find out the easy way or the hard way. Shit was bound to crumble between us, and I didn’t care to clean up the pieces. I didn’t care to talk shit out either. The only thing I wanted her to do was get the fuck away from me and let me be. It played out how it did, and I ain’t taking it back.
My happiness had been on the edge of my demise anyway—plastered a permanent smile on my face for way too long. Some shit gets old, and I’m tired of the back and forth. Trecee was exactly that: the back and forth.
“Do you need anything, Mr. Jones?” the flight attendant asked, breaking through my thoughts.
I popped my eyes open, staring at her chippy demeanor, then shook my head. She didn’t leave—she probed further.
“A glass of water? A shot?” She tittered nervously. “Anything?”
My eyes drifted down to her name badge.Melanie, is it?
Her smile widened. “Yes.”
“I’m cool. Just chillin’, shit. You don’t gotta overdo it with the damn job.” My tone was calm, but irritation was creeping in.
“Understood.”
“Cool.”
I closed my eyes, facing the darkness, put the blunt to my lips, and took a long pull. Exhaled.
“Um, Mr. Jones?”
My eyes shot open again. No hiding the irritation this time. “Mane, what the fuck?”
She fiddled with her fingers, letting out a nervous chuckle. “I-I’m sorry to bother you, but have you h-heard from your brother, R-Roxx? He’s been declining my calls, so I was wondering if you could pass him a message.”
Deadpan, I processed it. I get it. She was fucking my brother. He fucked a lot of women—more than she could count. Poor lil’ bitch was desperate, probably needing whatever he offered.
“Do I look like a fuckin’ messenger, Melanie?”
She gave a closed-mouth smile, running her fingers over her knee-length skirt. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Jones.”
I shook my head, watching her walk away, her plum-shaped ass swaying a little too hard, trying to jiggle.
Instead of trying to relax again, I kept my eyes open, staring at nothing, trying not to get lost in irrelevant shit.
Synthia was next to me, her head resting on my shoulder, curled up under a blanket. She popped a few melatonin, even though the flight was short. I offered the blunt to calm her nerves, but she declined.
Sleep was the last thing on my mind.
There was some shuffling beside me—Synthia stretching, stirring herself awake. I still hadn’t relaxed, aside from the weed running through my system. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her staring at me.
