King Divas (12 page)

“H
old still,” I tell Python as I dig around in his thigh in the center of the living room, trying to remove the second bullet. I've played surgeon on these types of wounds for him so many times that it's almost second nature, but I'm having a hard time getting one of his wounds to stop bleeding. “I think this bullet shattered,” I tell him worriedly.

“LeShelle, move your head. I can't see the television,” Python complains.

I give him the are-you-fucking-kidding-me stare down, but he ignores that shit too. He's waiting for a newsperson to tell him something about the church shooting, but all any of them seem to care about is how he managed to elude the cops in two different states.

“Where's my fuckin' cell phone? What's taking Diesel so fucking long to call?”

There's no telling with that muthafucka.
“Python, calm down. You're getting yourself worked up again.” I pour another generous amount of peroxide around his thigh and go back to picking out chipped pieces of lead. After another thirty minutes pass, I voice my fears. “Maybe you should go see a doctor about this.”

“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. Here it is.” He punches up the volume on the television.

Python and I both stop breathing.

I turn around from hovering over his thigh to face the television.
Did I hear that right?
Maybe they are reporting on a different church shooting? I know that it's highly unlikely, but my mind clings to the possibility.

Python completely loses his shit. He jumps up and starts punching the walls again. The place is already starting to look like a demolition crew has run through this muthafucka.

I rub his back, searching for the right words to say. In truth, I'm feeling some kind of way my damn self. Momma Peaches was tough OG. After all the shit she went through to now have to deal with this bullshit? The shit ain't right.

“I shouldn't have left her,” Python croaks in regret.

“That shit wouldn't have changed nothing.”

“Who the fuck?”

Python struggles to stand.

I touch his shoulder and tell him, “I got it,” before grabbing his gat from the floor and checking to see who it is. Ain't nobody supposed to be popping up at this bitch. Is it the police ? The FBI? The TBI? If it's a Jehovah's Witness, they asses is about to get a face full of lead. After creeping up to the door, I look out through the peephole to see Diesel's shady ass standing there.

“Fuck. It's your damn cousin,” I tell Python.

“Hurry up and let him in.”

Rolling my eyes, I snatch open the door.

“Hey, Shelle,” Diesel says, quickly shouldering his way through the door.

Shelle? Muthafucka, you don't know me like that.
I peer out the door to make sure that he's alone. I don't see nobody, but remain on high alert, safety off. I trust this nigga about as much as I trust my own damn sister.

“Why the fuck?” Python demands. “What happened? The news got me fucked up.”

Diesel pulls in a breath, but I note that he's careful in not meeting Python's gaze.
Bad news—or this nigga is about to start lying?

“Sorry, cuz,” Diesel says. “It wasn't but a minute after you rushed out of the door before she was gone. There was nothing I could do.”

Python drops and shakes his head. “Those dirty muthafuckas !” Pain and determination harden his resolve. “Blood or no blood, that nigga got to pay for this shit.”

Diesel bobs his head in agreement. “You know I'm here for you, cuz. What the fuck you need, I got you.”

“What I need is to see those niggas about this shit. Put the call out to our top crew. I want to know where that cockroach is at all times. I don't want his ass feeling safe at no time. That includes them being locked down over on their turf on Ruby Cove. You feel me?” Waves of sweat roll down Python's face while his murderous gaze is consumed with pain.

“I definitely feel you.” Diesel's pleased smile expands across his face. “Welcome back, cuz. We're gonna take back these fucking streets. No doubt.” His gaze finally lowers to Python's thighs and the mess of bloody towels littering the floor.

“You good, cuz. Do I need to send you one of my people to suture you up?”

“Nah. I got him,” I say, not wanting to take even a damn glass of water from this nigga. I ain't missing how he's injecting his ass into all our business. That whole
take back
bullshit. When the fuck is this muthafucka going back to the A?

Diesel ignores me to look at Python.

“I'm good,” Python tells him, placing a hand on my shoulder. “My old lady knows what she's doing.”

Despite the vote of confidence, Diesel looks dubious.

Python dismisses the shit with his leg and says, “I don't understand why that grimy nigga would do something like that. If Fat Ace didn't want anything to do with his real fam, he didn't have to agree to the meeting.”

I smother a smile. He's finally gone back to calling Mason by his street name.

“Fuck that muthafucka,” Diesel says, shrugging. “We now know that we have to take him and his crew out.”

There's that
we
shit again.

“Did she at least say anything before the emergency responders got there? Any clue to why the muthafucka did it?”

Diesel nods. “No, but she made me promise her something.”

Python perks up. “What's that?”

“She wants us to get that muthafucka back.”

I detect a false note in Diesel's voice—but his expression remains cool as ice.
Why the fuck is this nigga lying?

“Done deal.” Python and Diesel smack palms and bump shoulders to seal the deal. I see traces of my old man back. For that shit, I smile up at Diesel.

He stares back like I'm something nasty stuck on his shoe.

Qiana. How could I forget?
This nigga knows my secret, and everything in his face tells me he's waiting for the right moment to get rid of my ass.
Tomorrow night
, I remind myself. Hack's Crossing. I'll get rid of Qiana
and
that damn baby.

I
took the first two pills to calm my nerves. I take the next four to go numb. I can't stand the pain in my broken heart right now. I can't. I hate that this shit makes me weak. I'm beyond tired of feeling like a victim. A victim of life, love, and circumstances beyond my control. I should've listened to Reggie:

But it
was
the kind of bullshit that I kept telling myself. I said that Profit and I were different until I fucking believed the shit. Now what am I going to do?

Closing my eyes, I lower my head beneath the steady stream from the showerhead. The hot water turned cold ten minutes ago and I'm barely aware that I'm turning into a human Popsicle. On the other hand, I prefer to freeze to death than go back out there and face Profit again.

For the first time in my life, I understand the concept of a “crime of passion” because I keep replaying seeing Profit kissing Lucifer, but instead of running back to our crib to put a gun in my mouth, I storm into that house and blow holes into both of them. Only then could they feel even the smallest bit of what I'm feeling right now.

I shiver while my fingers turn into soft prunes. It's time to step out of the shower and face my new reality. The drugs have kicked in because I'm moving in slow motion. My thoughts even sound drunk in my head. Small ripples of euphoria wash over me and I smile and ride the wave. For no reason at all, I hum to myself. I can get used to this feeling. When I was in the hospital, I hated being drugged up. Now . . . not so much.

I towel off, but then become fascinated by the Egyptian cotton. I don't remember it being so soft. It's amazing. After I finish drying off, I run the brush through my hair. That fascinates me too. At one point, it becomes difficult to remain on my feet. The floor keeps tilting from one side to the other.

Dizzy, I pop a squat on the toilet—only I did it too quick and become nauseated.

I chuckle—and then I can't stop.

“Ta'Shara, are you all right in there?” Profit asks through the door. He twists the knob, but it's locked.

I laugh.
Serves him right.

“Baby? You've been in there for a while. We're going to have to get going.”

Go away!
“I'm coming,” I shout back.

Silence. However, he doesn't walk away from the door.

“I said go!” I lean forward to smack my hand against the door and almost fall off the toilet seat.

“All right. I'll wait for you in the living room.” He walks away.

I roll my eyes. “Silly rabbit. Trix are for kids.” I have no idea what I mean by that, but it makes me giggle. But then the kiss replays and my eyes wet up.

When it comes down to it, Profit isn't any different than the rest of these niggas out here. That realization makes me feel so alone. I pull my gaze from the door to the mirror. The woman staring back at me is a complete stranger. Where did she come from? How did she get here?

A series of memories flash in my head. The night I was raped and branded like an animal. The vision of Profit being beaten and shot seventeen times. My descent into madness, my attempt to murder LeShelle. The ugly fight with my foster parents. The sight of their house burning to the ground. And the sound of LeShelle's laughter as she peeled off into the night. The murder of that store clerk. And lastly, Profit kissing Lucifer.

There's only so much shit that a bitch can take. As soon as I find a place, I'm out of this bitch.

I backhand my tears, and then push myself back up onto my feet and, on rubbery legs, exit the bathroom. The black dress that I wore to my foster parents' funeral lays on the bed, ready to be worn to another funeral. I weave over to it, but I must've passed out for a few minutes because when I wake, Profit is rocking my arm, trying to get me to get up.

“Hey, baby. Wake up. Wake up.”

I groan and lift my head.

“Here. I made coffee. Drink this.”

“Coffee?” When I struggle to sit up, he helps me out.

“What did you take?”

I shrug off his touch. “Why do you care?”

He looks hurt by the question. “Of course I care.”

He puts on his best puppy-dog expression, like that shit is going to fix something.

“Whatever.”

“Don't you want to eat something before we head out?”

“I'm not hungry.” As soon as I say the words, my stomach growls like it's filled with a pack of lions.

Profit's shoulders collapse. “Look, T. You have every right to be pissed at me right now. I fucked up and I'm sorry. The shit will never
ever
happen again.”

Liar.
How in the hell does he think that I can ever trust him again?

“But, baby, can we deal with this situation later? I got to bury my mom today—and this shit hurts like a muthafucka. Please. I know you understand.”

I do understand. That's what makes this shit so fucked up.

After a long pause, he offers me an out. “Look. I'll understand if you don't want to go to the funeral. After all, you really didn't get a chance to get to know her.”

No. That shit ain't right. I swallow my anger, but it's bitter going down. “I'll go.”

Relief floods his face. “Really?”

I nod and that's all I'm willing to give him.

He sees that I'm not interested in continuing the conversation and moves away from me. “Okay. I'll let you finish getting dressed.”

Instead of answering, I sip my coffee until he exits the bedroom. Then I slump in relief. Last night was the first time we slept in different rooms in this house. I took the bed while he lay on the couch. It was horrible—and the closest thing to drowning in a sea of loneliness.

Despite the number of pills I popped, sleep eluded me. I kept wondering whether he was sleeping—and if he was, who was he dreaming about?

The coffee turns into swill in my gut. I put it aside and force myself to get dressed. More than once Profit knocks on the bedroom door to see whether I'm ready. I try to pick up speed, but the drugs coursing through my body make it impossible.

By the time I leave the bedroom, Profit's irritation has left splotches all over his face—but he's not going to risk saying anything to me. He's also in the same suit he wore to Tracee and Reggie's funeral. A wave of déjà vu washes over me. Hopefully, we can get through this day without being arrested.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.” He walks over to the door and opens it for me. For a brief moment, his hand brushes against my back—and I pretend not to welcome his touch. It's not fair that my body still responds to him. He no longer has the right.

I stiffen my resolve as he escorts me through the rain with an umbrella over my head, to the car. Once inside, Profit hesitates to start the engine. I glance over at him to see what's the holdup. There's a series of emotions playing on his face.

Without thinking, I reach over and touch his hand.

Surprised, he looks over at me.

“It's going to be okay,” I say, referring to him getting through this day—but I think he misunderstands and smiles. I don't have the energy to clarify. Like him, I want to get through this day. I'll worry about moving out tomorrow.