A Cross to Bear (8 page)

A trip to the gym is way overdue,
she thought with a sigh.

Lucky for her, she had ample cleavage and intended on using every inch of it to gain an upper hand on Michael Steele.

Looking through the closet, she quickly determined that it was useless. She would never in a million years fit into Maggy’s clothes. That left only one option—Gabby had to go shopping.

She left the house in a pair of sweatpants and didn’t even bother doing her hair, aside from putting it up in a ponytail. The pistol went with her, in a small white leather purse, along with some of Maggy’s money. Gabby felt reluctant to use it, but it was hers after all, and she might as well put it to good use.

As she walked to the Nova, she scanned the street. It was seven in the morning, and a few kids were at the moment lined up and down the street waiting for the bus.

No one would make a move now,
Gabby surmised. If Steele’s men were going to make a move on her, they would have done it in the dark of night. Assuming that they had been Steele’s men.

But who else could they have been?

***

Gabby skipped out on the mall altogether and went right to the hair salon outside the city. It was a place that Maggy had told her about, and since she wasn’t familiar with any of her own, Gabby thought it was as good a bet as any.

The outside of the Inner Goddess stood in stark contrast to the rest of the shops along the street. While they were made of brick with the intricate workmanship found in decades past when people cared for such things, the Inner Goddess was sleek and shiny. It looked brand-new and promised clients the same.

When she walked in, the door chimed, but rather than the normal chirp of a shop door, this one must have been hooked up with the sound system, for it cut out the bellowing of Katy Perry and replaced the music with a soft female voice that said, “Welcome, goddess. You’ve come to the right place.”

Gabby glanced around. The salon was so modern that she didn’t know if the term quite fit. It was more like stepping into a spaceship, all shiny walls and layered ceilings, with chrome everything: chairs, tables, stands, reception desks, lamps, mirrors, and even picture frames with chrome question marks in them. The only color in the place was that of the actual workers. They wore the loudest skirts—and hairdos—that Gabby had ever seen.

“Hello, goddess, how can we serve you today?” the receptionist asked.

“Uh . . . I . . .” Gabby began. But soon a colorful stylist buzzed over to her.

“This one is mine!” he said, gliding toward Gabby with the grace of a gazelle. “Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm,” he hummed as he walked a circle around her. His light brown skin was radiant against his vanilla skirt, and his long eyelashes and shoulder-length dreads sparkled with glitter.

“Come with Queen Princess, my goddess. I’ll get you ready for this sucka. When I’m done with you, he won’t even know what hit him.”

“Mmm-hmm,” one of the stylists hummed as she foiled a perm, gesturing to slap Queen Princess a high five as he passed by.

Naturally, Queen Princess pulled away just before contact, reached back and touched his ass, made the motion of pulling the pin from a grenade, and tossed the imaginary object. The other stylist waited a playfully tense moment and gave a “
Boom!
” Simultaneously, Queen Princess popped it and dropped it all the way to the floor—like it was hot.

Gabby was surprised to find herself jealous—the queen’s ass was so perky that Gabby could have set her purse on it.

In a flash, she was whirled around like a dancer by Queen Princess and set smoothly into a sleek barber chair. Four pumps of the lifting mechanism had Gabby’s toes dangling off the floor.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Gabby . . . Gabriella Cross . . . your highness,” she said playfully.

“You can call me Quip,” he said, smacking his gum and nearly pulling Gabby’s hair out as he considered her in the tall mirror. “You’ve got beautiful hair, Gabs.”

“Thank—”

“But it’s in horrible condition. Look at these split ends! I haven’t seen a split end like that since . . . well, shit, since last weekend,” said Quip, this time actually high-fiving the Latino stylist behind him.

“I haven’t had much time for myself,” said Gabby.

“Mmm-hmm, well that’s about to change, now ain’t it . . . say, you say your name’s Cross?” He considered her and bit on his long thumbnail. “You related to Maggy?”

Gabby bowed her head and sighed. “She’s my sister.”

Quip missed nothing of her mannerisms. A shadow crossed his beautiful face, and he knelt down before her. “What is it? What’s happened to my Maggy?”

My Maggy . . .

At the mention of her father’s pet name for her sister, Gabby burst into tears.

“Oh, no, say it ain’t so,” he said, hugging her.

He was a stranger to her, but Gabby hadn’t yet had a proper shoulder to cry on during the entire ordeal. She gladly sunk into his strong arms and balled her eyes out on his shoulder.

He let her get it out, but as soon as the final sniffle escaped her, he looked her in the eye and said, “You’re scaring me, child.”

“I’m sorry. My sister . . . Maggy was killed.”

All of the stylists in the place stopped what they were doing, all thirteen of them, and regarded Gabby with concerned looks. Quip clutched his chest and sat on the floor, regardless of his vanilla skirt. “Say it ain’t so, child.”

“I’m sorry. Were you good friends?” Gabby asked Quip while eyeing the other stylists. They turned from her attention as one and went about their work. Still, a quiet permeated the place.

Quip shot to his feet without answering. “Who was it?”

The others didn’t turn and watch, but Gabby could feel their attention on her.

“I . . . I don’t know. How do you know it was a
who
? I didn’t say that she was murdered.”

“You said she was killed. Was it an accident?”

“Well . . . no.”

“Do they know who done it?”

“The police have no leads,” said Gabby.

“Mmm-hmm, well they wouldn’t, now would they? But you do, don’t you?”

Gabby hesitated, and it was enough confirmation for Quip.

“Coming up in here to get dolled up. You planning something crazy?”

“I—”

“Child, if you think you know something, you’ve gots to tell the popo,” said Quip.

Gabby began to get up. “I should go.”

“I’m sorry, Gabby. Please, don’t leave. Your sister was a good friend of mine. You’ve got to tell me what happened.”

Gabby glanced around again. The stylists and many of the customers were seemingly minding their business.

Against her better judgment, Gabby told Quip almost everything that had happened, including her suspicions of a certain high-rolling billionaire, though she left out the name.

Quip studied her when she was done. “And what? You gonna go infiltrate the John? See if you can’t get yourself killed as well?”

Gabby thought of the black sedans. Was she getting in over her head?

“I can handle myself,” she said.

“Child, your sister could handle herself against the best of them, and she
dead
. You need to go be telling the
poe-lease
what you think you know, not dolling up to enter the lion’s den.”

Quip was right, and Gabby knew it, but she couldn’t just do nothing.

Finally, Quip sighed. “Must be your sister’s damned stubborn side. Fine then. If you’re going into the lion’s den, then you ain’t going in looking like a lamb.”

When Quip was done with her, she didn’t even recognize herself in the mirror. Her once-snarly hair hung in perfect ringlets, having been cut just below the shoulder. He had given her a streak of blonde in one of them and did her makeup in such a way that it complemented her olive skin beautifully. She was given a manicure and pedicure as well. Quip even placed his own black glasses on her face, which she found out were not prescription.

“Perfect,” he said, admiring her in the mirror.

“Oh. My.
God
,” said Gabby, marveling at how smart, sophisticated, and powerful she looked. And felt.

She looked at the chrome clock on the wall and nearly gasped when she saw the time.

“I’ve got to go. I’m sorry, but I’m going to be late. The appointment is at noon in the city.”

“But what will you wear?” asked Quip, eyeing her.

Gabby glanced down at her sweatpants and back at the clock. “Uh, I don’t know. I’ll find something.”

“You’ll
find
something? In the next hour? Without knowing where to look?” Quip shook his head and strode over to the door before turning to a confused and flummoxed Gabby. “Come on then, child. The clock is ticking.”

“You know how to drive this thing?” Quip asked when Gabby moved to the driver side of the Nova.

“I’m getting used to it,” said Gabby.

“Ain’t nobody got time for that. You’s late, girl. Gimme the keys. I’ll show ya how to pet this pretty kitty.”

Reluctantly, Gabby handed over the keys and got in the passenger seat.

“Buckle up, bitch,” said Quip, starting the engine.

He peeled out of the parking lot and tore onto the highway without so much as signaling. Gabby hurried to buckle her seat belt. She held on for dear life as Quip screeched around another corner, took the on-ramp to the freeway at sixty miles an hour, and blasted into traffic like a bullet from the barrel of a gun. He changed gears so smoothly that Gabby hardly even noticed. Soon they were rocketing down the road at a hundred miles per hour.

“Are you out of your mind?” Gabby screamed.

Quip, however, speed-dialed a number and shushed her.

“I’m late for an interview, not surgery!” she said, gripping the door handle tight as Quip effortlessly weaved in and out of traffic.

“
Heeey!
This is Quip. I’ve got a fashion emergency. I need a smart-looking skirt that says my brain is bigger than my tits.” He overtook a big rig and barely made it around a minivan and turned to Gabby. “What size are you?”

“I . . . uh, I’m a seven.”

Quip leveled her with a sparkling, raised eyebrow before returning to the call. “Imma need a size eight. With enough room for some big, stupid titties.”

“Hey!”

He ignored her protests, glancing over at her feet. “And size eight pumps. The skirt needs to match a cherry-red sports car. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Why are you driving so goddamned fast!” Gabby finally blurted out.

“You see them two sedans following us?” said Quip calmly.

“Huh?” Gabby turned around and took in a shocked breath. “Those same two cars were outside my house all night.”

“Mmm-hmm, and your dumb ass had ’em following you all day too.”

“Why are you such a dick?” said Gabby.

“Child, I ain’t a dick. I’m a bitch. Now hang the fuck on.” He turned a hard right in front of a fifth-wheel camper and zipped up an off-ramp, cutting off one of the cars from pursuit. The other came on hard.

Around the ramp they went at speeds that left Gabby thinking the car might just tip over. She clung to the handle, and they finally found straight road. Quip didn’t slow, even though they were quickly approaching an intersection. Right at the last minute, he popped the e-brake and cranked it a hard left. They slid into the intersection, barely missing oncoming traffic. The car shot forward, cutting off a pickup truck that was coming from the right. It swerved too far and hit the light pole.

Quip sped across an overpass and quickly took the ramp back onto the freeway. When they had blended with the flow of traffic, Queen Princess lit up a fat cigar and leaned back, driving as though he had not a care in the world.

“What the hell was that!” Gabby blurted.

“Child, you best learn to get ahold of yourself, or you gonna mess up your new damn hairdo.”

“You could have gotten us killed back there, and you’re worried about my hair?” said Gabby. Still, she dropped the mirror and checked herself haughtily.

“Did it look to you like I didn’t know what I was doing back there? Shit. I can handle a kitty like this any day. You hear how she purrs for me?”

“You’re crazy.”

“Yeah? And that shit’s getting boring. You’re welcome, by the way. I lost your friends.”

Gabby looked back; she didn’t see either of the sedans.

“Thanks. Do you think they were trying to hurt us?”

“Nah, probably just keeping tabs. And we just gave them a message.”

“What message is that?”

Quip sucked on the cigar and blew a thick cloud of smoke out of his nose. “We’s some badass bitches.” With that he thumbed the radio. “Baby Got Back” started pumping through the speakers.

Quip parked the car in front of an expensive dress shop in uptown Chicago and eyed the rearview before checking his phone. “All right, child, you got fifteen minutes. Best be changing quickly. I’ll keep a lookout. Go on in. Tell ’em Queen Princess sent you.”

“Why are you doing this?” Gabby asked. “I hardly know you.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just say I owe your sister one. Now go on. Hurry up.”

Gabby got out and looked around nervously before entering the shop.

“Hi, uh, Queen Pri—”

“Right this way,” said a slim Latino hunk in an impeccably tailored suit.

Ten minutes later, she emerged to find Quip leaning against the car, still puffing on his cigar. When he saw her, the cigar fell out of his mouth. “Damn, girl, you clean up nice now, don’t you?”

A nervous laugh escaped her, and she turned a heel in. “You think so?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be getting all Pollyanna on me. Let’s go.”

This time he let Gabby drive.

“You know this is stupid,” he said. “This dude you’re meeting sent those guys after you. If he offed your sister, what do you think he’s going to do to you?”

“If anything happens to me, then go to the police.”

“If anything . . . go to the police . . . what you think this is, a movie? You think this is a game?”

“I can handle myself!” she said.

“Like hell you can,” said Quip, tugging on her skirt to expose bruises left by Derek.

“Hey!”