“Why the fuck is that?” I frowned. “You don’t put fear in my heart.”
“I shouldn’t. What you should fear is ending up homeless again with nowhere to wash that stank-ass pussy. I heard you was out there bad. It might be fun watching you hit rock bottom again before I kill you.”
Anger started replacing the uneasiness sitting in my chest.
“You called me to talk shit, and go back and forth like a bitch, or did you need some?”
“Nah.” His voice lowered. “I called because I wanted you to know I still see you.”
Silence filled the line for a second.
Then Rich casually added, “That teal couch ugly, by the way.”
Nostrils flaring, I stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room. My eyes immediately landed on the sofa sitting in the middle of the floor.
Suddenly, the apartment didn’t feel nearly as comfortable as it had a few minutes ago. But I wasn’t about to let my enemy know that.
“Nigga, please,” I scoffed.
The words had barely left my mouth when a single gunshot cracked through the apartment. The window exploded, rattling the walls and spraying glass across the living room.
I screamed and immediately dropped behind the couch, my pulse pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. For a second, all I heard was ringing, and all I felt was rough fabric pressed against my face.
“I’ma kill that nigga!” Booda roared, rushing past me toward the front door. “Stay down.”
“The fuck I am!” I snapped, jumping up and hurrying behind him.
Adrenaline flooded my body as I unlocked the door and shoved it open.
The parking lot came into view in scattered flashes beneath the streetlights.
Booda stepped out, weapon raised and ready.
A dark-colored car tore out of the lot so fast its tires screeched against the pavement as it disappeared onto the street.
Before I could make out the model, it was gone. All I’d seen was taillights.
“You catch that plate?” Booda asked, his eyes sweeping the street.
“No.”
I stepped outside, and the rough concrete scraping against my bare feet made me realize I didn’t have on shoes.
Glancing back into the apartment, I eyed the shattered glass glittering on the floor beneath the broken window. Then the bullet that had ripped straight through the middle cushion of my brand-new couch, and another wave of anger hit me.
“Fuck! I hate that nigga.” I spat. “We just bought that sectional.”
My hands had started shaking now that the first shock was wearing off, so I pressed them against my thighs to stop them.
Booda continued scanning the lot, shoulders raised, weight forward, every muscle pulled tight. The man who’d been laughing on my couch thirty minutes ago was gone.
When he finally looked back at me, his eyes moved over my face carefully, checking for damage. “You good?” he asked.
I heard him, but my mind was somewhere else. Every new memory kept changing the way I looked at past conversations and interactions.
That was when I remembered… “The bouncers.”
Booda dragged a hand across his mouth as he looked back toward the parking lot, thinking fast now. “Come on,” he said suddenly.
