Page 2 of Rayzor: Tell Me It’s Mine II

She didn’t want to shoot me, but she would, and I respected that; that’s why I even let her point that mothafucka at me. I loved that chocolate, good pussy having ass mothafucka. I knew she was doing the right thing, but she was moving off emotions.

“Why are you covered in blood?” she asked again.

I let it linger and headed into the kitchen. She followed closely as I opened the garage door. I enclosed us.

The night air was still. Heavy– in more than one way.

Her neighborhood was quiet, but I was about to wake shit up.

I popped the trunk, then stepped to the side.

She contemplated coming over, but the truth was, she didn’t have a choice because it was out there.

“Oh my God!” she yelled.

Her eyes watered.

“Trevon and Michael,” she squawked, looking over at the bodies crammed and roped together. Their mouths taped shut, eyelids glued together. They never saw what was coming.

She ran quickly away from my grasp, throwing up on the floor in the trash can near the edge of the garage. I wasn’t about to console her behind other niggas. Something inside me wouldn’t let me. This shit was life. It was me.

I grabbed her by the back of the neck. “I told yo’ ass before not to play with me, E. You put these niggas in harm’s way.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she apologized, which further pissed me off because I couldn’t tell if she was crying and apologizing to me or these niggas.

“If you shedding a tear for other niggas in front of me, you might as well put yourself in there wit ’em.”

“Are they dead?” she questioned.

I wasn’t liable to answer that, so I closed it, grabbed her hand that held the gun and took her back inside the house, although she slowly dragged her feet. There was a lot of shit to discuss in a short time, and the clock was ticking. I knew she had questions and I had answers.

When I crossed over into her bedroom, my eyes went over to the bed. A place where I found peace through my own chaos. Whenever I laid my head on her pillows, all the shit from the day washed away. Her presence, her place and space always humbled me.

I made it to the bathroom. Her hand trembled as I dropped her hand. She stood by the door, hugging herself. Like she wasn’t sure what to do in the space with me.

“Strip,” I told her, then turned on the shower.

“You crazy? I need to call the police,” she panicked.

“For what?”

“What do you mean, for what? You got two bodies in the trunk.”

I wouldn’t put it past her to call, but in the meantime, I grabbed her, unzipping the dress she wore to smile in another nigga’s face, watching it fall to the floor. I scanned every piece of her, making sure she didn’t wear have another scent on her home.

“You either gon’ use this mothafucka or put it up before the kids see this shit,” I said, turning on the water.

Her voice almost quivered until it didn’t.

“Not until you tell me why the hell you got two men in the trunk, covered in blood, and why you were arrested for murder.”

“I’ll tell you while you get that nigga’s cologne off you.”

Watching every piece of clothing carefully, her eyes grew bigger at every blood-stained item that fell.

I removed the gun.

I picked her up and placed her under the shower with me.