The Demise (7 page)

Breeze finally managed to roll Carter's wheelchair through the grass over to the heated scene. “Take a walk, Monroe,” Carter stated. He might have been out of commission, but his tone of voice was strong and it was clear. He wouldn't stand by and allow anyone to gun her down … not right in front of him.

“After all this, you still defending this bitch?” Monroe said through gritted teeth. His nostrils flared as he lowered his gun and stormed off, completely livid.

Breeze rushed after him as Zyir lingered. “You a'ight?” Zyir asked.

“Yeah, give me a minute, Zy,” Carter replied, conflicted.

Carter looked up at Miamor. He was a shell of the man she was used to seeing. She could see that he hadn't slept. His red-rimmed eyes and the bags beneath his lids gave away his restless nights. He seemed to have aged overnight. The burden of a dead child weighed on him heavily. The bullets in his chest had penetrated so deep that one had nicked his spine, rendering him to a wheelchair temporarily. It would take months of healing before he could walk without pain, but he could deal with that. It was the inner battle he was fighting that made life feel unbearable.

“You played this shit all wrong, Miamor,” he said. He could barely look at her. “You drugged me and tried to handle this by yourself, and you got our son killed.”

“I planned to turn myself in—”

“He was our son, Miamor!” Carter yelled, interrupting her. His voice held so much judgment, so much contempt. He held up his hands and looked at them with tear-filled eyes. “All I see is blood on my hands. I thought I wouldn't be able to choose between you and C.J., but we both understood what had to happen. I knew you were selfish, but I never thought you would put yourself over our son.”

“I didn't,” she shot back. “I would trade my life for his in a heartbeat, Carter. You have to believe me. You must know me better than that by now. I loved our son. I wouldn't have fucked up the exchange. I was taken. It was Murder. He's alive and he—”

Zyir walked back up as Carter interrupted her. “I'm done, Miamor. My son … was the most innocent person I've ever met. His soul was pure, and he was killed because of something you did. I can't say it is all on you. I played my part. I chose this life. I chose you. I knew what type of person you were, and I still tested your gangster. I cheated. You retaliated the only way you know how—with murder, with torture. We both caused this. But it's over now,” he said. “Baraka has placed a million-dollar bounty on your head. I'd advise you to go far away from here.”

“I can't live without you, Carter. You're all I have left,” she whispered. Tears clung to her thick eyelashes, threatening a downpour of emotion.

“I'm done with you. Done with all this shit. There is no us. There is no Cartel. Y'all can have this shit … all of it. I'm out,” he said.

Zyir gripped the handle of the wheelchair and looked at Miamor sympathetically as she fell to her knees. She placed a hand over her heart just to make sure it was still there … still beating. It felt like he had ripped it right out of her chest. She wanted to say that she was the type of queen Fly Boogie spoke of, but she wasn't, and as she watched Carter being wheeled away, she broke down. Her pride wouldn't let her beg him to stay. The farther he got from her, the more it hurt. She leaned her back against the tree and pulled her knees into her chest as she cried her eyes out. Carter didn't want her. Her son had paid the ultimate price for her actions. She had nowhere to go but right back where she had come from … right back where she had spent years trying to escape. Murder had been right all along. He would always represent home to her. He was the only one who would put up with her treacherous ways, because he had taught them to her.

She heard sticks breaking under the weight of approaching footsteps.

She knew it was Fly Boogie. He wanted to be her knight in shining armor. He was determined to rescue the damsel in distress. What he didn't know was that she was the wicked witch in the story. Everything she touched seemed to rot. If he wasn't careful, she would curse him, too.

“Let's go, ma,” he said as he knelt down in front of her. “There's nothing left for you here.”

She stood up. “Take me back to Murder,” she said in a tone so low that he almost didn't catch it.

“Why would you want to go back to that nigga? What's so bad about staying with me? I'm not Carter. My pockets aren't as heavy as his. I know I can't compete with what y'all got, but Murder?” Fly Boogie stated.

“I don't want to hurt you, Fly Boogie. I like you. You're loyal, you're handsome, you have heart—but you're young. You need a nice, fresh chick … someone like Breeze. You don't want me. You just like what I represent,” she said.

“Why Murder?” Fly Boogie pressed, perplexed.

“Because he will kill anybody who tries to lay a hand on me, and I need protection. Baraka has money on my head,” she revealed. “How much did Murder promise you to play this game? To get inside The Cartel … to get close to me?” she asked.

He shifted uncomfortably. “It stopped being about the bread a long time ago,” he replied.

“How much?” she insisted.

“Fifty bands,” he replied.

“I'll wire the money to an account for you. I want you to leave Vegas. Murder was never going to pay you. Once he was done and you were of no use to him, he would have killed you,” Miamor said.

“I'm not leaving Vegas without you, ma,” Fly Boogie said.

“Fly! You're not hearing me. Get lost. I'm trying to spare your feelings, lil' nigga. You never had a chance with me. I like big boys,” Miamor said. Her words were so abrasive that she cringed on the inside, but she had to make a point. She had to bruise his ego, wound his pride so that he would finally turn his back on her. She didn't want anyone else around her to die.

He nodded his head defensively as his mug twisted into a scowl. “Yeah, a'ight, Miamor,” he said, feeling burned. He swaggered off in the direction of his truck, and she backpedaled in the opposite direction. Their good-bye was a silent one as she lowered her head and made her way back to the hotel … back to Murder.

*   *   *

TWO WEEKS LATER

The musty mixture of rotting food, body odor, and alcohol filled the hotel room. It bitch-smacked Murder as soon as he entered. His lip curled in disgust as he spotted Miamor's silhouette across the dark room. She was still lying there … in the same spot that she had been in for two weeks. “Nah, nah, you can't keep doing this, baby girl. You've got to get up, Miamor. Snap out of it,” he said as he made his way across the room. He snatched open the curtains, allowing light to flood the space, revealing an ugly sight. Miamor's hair was matted and nappy. Her clothes were dirty, she reeked, and her eyes were bloodshot. All she did was cry. He had witnessed death many times and had never seen grief in this form. Miamor's pain was raw. She didn't care about anything, not even herself—and the razor scars on her thighs were proof of that. Blood dripped out of the open wounds, and Murder sauntered to her side. He looked at her as she still gripped the razor in her hand. She was holding it so tightly that it was cutting her fingertips. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked her, exasperated. He was at a loss. He didn't know what to do. This woman before him was a shell of the woman he once knew. She was weak. Her normal fire had been snuffed out the moment she found out her son's fate. He snatched her wrist and applied pressure to it, causing her to drop the razor. “Why are you doing this to yourself? The fuck is this gon' solve?” he asked.

Her eyes were spaced out as she stared past him. She was in a daze as she responded. “It's the only way to let the pain out.” She tilted her head back as she closed her eyes. “Just let it all bleed out,” she whispered.

Without warning, Murder slapped fire from her, snapping her out of her funk and filling her with rage. “You want to feel something? Feel that!” he chastised her as she lunged at him.

“Fuck you! Fuck. You,” she screamed as she beat his chest.

He hemmed her up as she struggled to swing on him, but he overpowered her, restricting her movements as if she were in a straitjacket. “Snap the fuck out of this shit, Miamor! I know you lost your kid, but how many kids have you left motherless? Or fatherless? How many of them little mu'fuckas have you bodied?!”

She keeled over, bawling, as the harsh reality of karma slapped her in the face. It was a far mightier blow than the one Murder had served.

Murder had fought so hard to get to her. She had damn near killed him back in Miami when he had tried to take her away from The Cartel the first time. Still, he pursued her. He wanted her. He had to have her and now that he got her, time had changed her. She wore her grief like a heavy cloak. It weighed her down. There was no life behind her vacant stare. Her teary gaze was filled with nothingness, and it was hard to stomach. He felt like he was babysitting. Where was his ride-or-die?
A nigga ain't beat for this shit,
he thought. His heart beat intensely. He was overwhelmed by anger and disappointment. This wasn't how it was supposed to be when they reunited. The sulking, the depression, the insanity … he couldn't understand her logic. Sure, he sympathized, but he was ready to get back to reality. Miamor was stuck in her grief. She was frozen.

“I need my Murder Mama back,” he said as he bent down to help her stand. “That's who you are, Miamor.” He motioned to her, waving his hand up and down her body. “This … this chick ain't you. Bring my Murder Mama back. Murking something always made you feel better.”

Miamor looked him in the eyes and blinked slowly. It took so much effort to do everything. All she really wanted to do was sleep.… If she could sleep forever she would be happy. In her dreams was the only place where she could see her son. “You would do anything for me, wouldn't you?” she asked.

A little patience crept into Murder's heart as he replied, “You know that. Just tell me what you need.”

“I need you to let me go,” she said. In one swift movement Miamor pulled Murder's gun from his waistline.

He chuckled as she pointed it at him. It was instincts like that—her murderous nature, her quick draw—that turned him on. It was over gunplay that they had connected and over gunplay that they would reconnect. He was sure of it. “That shit is in your blood, ma. I love this shit. This is the bitch I know … but I know you well enough to know you not gon' curl that trigger on me,” Murder said. His hands were at his sides. He was relaxed and unmoved by her theatrics. He knew when Miamor was out for blood, and now was not one of those times.

“No, I'm not … not on you,” she said. His eyes bulged in horror as she turned the gun on herself and without pausing to think twice …

CLICK.

She didn't even flinch at the gunshot that should have ended her life. Instead, disappointment filled her face as she realized that Murder had emptied the chamber and popped out the clip upon entering the room. She had been ready to end it all, but the unloaded pistol only revealed how deeply her psychosis had settled in. “No, no, no!”

CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

She pulled the trigger over and over again, aiming at her temple, wishing that she would just die already, until finally Murder rushed her. “Get your ass in here,” he screamed at her as he dragged her across the room, kicking and screaming. “Have you lost your fucking mind? Do you know what you would have done had that shit been loaded, ma? You can't take that back! You can't undo suicide … once it's over, it's over.”

“Just leave me the fuck alone! Just go! I don't want to be here! Don't you get that! It hurts. Unlike anything I have ever felt … it hurts,” she shouted, snot and tears mixing on her face as he manhandled her.

He gripped her shoulders and shook her hard, hoping to shake some sense into her. “I can't trust you. You're not thinking straight. I know what will clear your mind,” he whispered more to himself than to her. He flung open the closet door and pushed her inside and then barricaded the door so she couldn't get out.

He heaved in exhaustion as he rested his forehead against the door. “Hold tight, Miamor. I'll be back. I know something that will help you get through this. I just need you to stay still. You can't hurt yourself in there. I'm sorry,” Murder whispered, winded from their struggle. “Crazy bitch.”

Murder grabbed his gun and snatched his keys off the table as he stormed out. He was determined to get Miamor back.… He had her physically in his clutches, but he needed her mentally to be strong. He needed her, and he knew just the type of therapy to get her to come back to him.

*   *   *

Murder sat in the smoke-filled bar, shoulders hunched, a beer gripped between his hands as thoughts of Miamor cluttered his brain. He turned in his chair as the loud music blared throughout the hole in the wall. Drunken frat boys and college girls made up the crowd. He turned in his barstool and faced the dance floor as his eyes scanned the room until he set his gaze on a pretty, young girl. Her caramel skin, bare midriff, and short pixie cut appealed to him. She was what he needed. She was the perfect distraction, and he nodded his head, greeting her as he lifted his beer bottle to his lips.

She flashed her pretty smile before walking over to him. “You don't look like the college-boy type,” the girl said.

He wasn't thirsty. He simply turned back toward the bar when she sat in the seat next to him. He wasn't with kicking game, not for what he intended.… It wasn't necessary.

“I'm Alisha,” she introduced herself. There was curiosity in her eyes. She was young and reckless; the thought of a new adventure with this obvious bad boy was an exciting notion. In a room full of clean-cut college boys, his grown-man swagger stuck out like a sore thumb. He was just the type of guy she wanted to take home for the night. There was something about those bad boys that made a good girl swoon.