ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
How interesting to be at this point. To have begun on a dream, a leap of faith, and a credit card. (Okay. A couple of credit cards.) For it is because of you and the Man upstairs that I have made it to this point, several novels later. No idle boast, but this is a special one you hold in your hands, and I hope the chaos you’re about to jump into the middle of leaves you breathless, salivating, and craving more.
Kind of like good sex, huh?
Or crack. But crack is whack.
Stick with the sex.
To my family and friends, I love you guys. I see you out there. From simply an encouraging word to actively getting the word out, I appreciate all that you’ve done and continue to do.
Shontea, Jacqueline (Glad you’re “on the path,” lady), and Jamie. Thanks for being there from the beginning and for taking the time to read and critique this latest monster.
To Kara Cesare, I still remember our first conversation.Each subsequent one has been just as memorable. Continued success to you and everyone at NAL, including Lindsay Nouis, Lisa Mondello, and the whole gang behind the scenes, for taking this walk with me. To Elaine Koster, thanks for bringing it all together during this period.
To all the authors who’ve paved the way, thanks for inspiring us. Mega-kudos go out to my peers and comrades in the trenches, those who understand the sacrifices made in the name of sharing these stories: Kimberla Lawson Roby, Nancy Gilliam, Mary Morrison, Dwayne S. Joseph, Victor McGlothin, Lolita Files, Karen E. Quinones Miller, Zane, Harold L. Turley II, Jihad, Earl Sewell, ReShonda Tate Billingsley, Pat Tucker, V. Anthony Rivers, Victoria Christopher Murray, Jessica Tilles, Dionne Character, Vincent Alexandria, Brenda L. Thomas, Kendra Norman Bellamy, Janet West Sellars, Naleighna Kai, Vanessa Johnson, Yolanda M. Johnson, Claudia Brown-Mosley, William Fredrick Cooper, Jamise Dames, John A. Wooden, Sofia Quintero, Electa Rome Parks, and Cydney Rax.
I have to recognize those in the media—be it print, television, radio, or Internet—who have always been so receptive. An ultraspecial shout-out goes to: Adai Lamar and the KJLH Home Team, Kevin Nash, Erik Tee, Gina Cook, Magic Mike and Big Boy Chill from 107JAMZ, Michael Addison, Gail Norris, Mista Madd, Monica Pierre, Hal Clark, Angela Jenkins, Jackie Simien, Cheryl Smith, Kelder Summers, Ken Gibbs Jr., Silver Fox, Shelia Goss, Charlotte Morgan, Glenn Townes, LeighAnne Boyd, Shunda Leigh, Angie Pickett-Henderson, Jason McDonald, Shanel Odum, and Kandi Eastman.
To all clubs, readers, and reviewers of books, your love of our written words and worlds means the world. And the world says back,
“Merci, gracias, grazie, xie xie.”
To the booksellers who do this out of love when fortune could be easily sought elsewhere, thank you for sticking with us. May your shelves continue to be lined with the ink from our pens.
Susan Farris, thank you for answering my strange questions about broken fingers ‘n’ stuff. Trust, there’s a method to the madness.
I promised myself that these acknowledgments wouldn’t be as long as the last one, so if I missed anyone near and dear, it wasn’t intentional. Next time, ginkgo martinis on me.
Look! Up in the sky!
It’s a bird!
It’s a plane!
Naw . . . just a brother with a sick imagination. Come on up. The weather’s fine.
So as the screen fades to black, the girl with the sexy accent whispers,
“This has been another Eric Pete production.”
Roll credits.
Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Believe that.
1
HENRY
A
gun.
A tool like anything else.
Kind of like the stapler or other supplies strewn about in the box in my trunk. A nameplate, an engraved pen—minuscule things I used to value so much, but which were rendered worthless with two words—
You’re fired.
Yes, a gun was a tool. And I was going to answer with a word of my own. Actually, more like a sound.
The sixth floor was illuminated. Besides a red Range Rover, mine was the only car in the employee parking lot. He still was in his office. Figuring how best to ruin other lives, no doubt. I looked at my TAG Heuer golf watch again. No more golf privileges for me. I would probably pawn it if I lived.
If I
chose
to live. Choice is the important component. Something I lost when my gambling seized control of me. Something I didn’t have earlier today when that smug bastard sauntered over to my desk with an entourage of building security. The humiliation was enough to send me careening over the edge. Paraded past my peers like a circus monkey.
Oh, that’s Henry. He’s so bright. If only I had his brains.
They thought I wasn’t listening. I heard it all.
He was so dumb. What was he thinking, taking that money?
I was going to kill myself. One bullet.
Right here.
In the parking lot of the job that had defined who I was in this town. No gossip or smirks to endure. Maybe it would create more questions for him to answer. Maybe they’d comb through his finances. He probably had enough skeletons to fill a whole wing, let alone a closet. The bottle of Scotch I held in my lap was to numb me in preparation. By the fifth gulp, I felt less like using the bullet on myself. The burn was doing me good.
It was cold outside. The falling rain was turning to sleet as the night went on. I let another gulp of liquid courage pass my lips, then patted the cold metal on the seat. Funny how my hands marred its shine; perfection ruined by my slight touch. The summary of my life—of addictions spiraling out of control, ruining what could’ve been. Shit. I
was
the shit. I glowered at my splinted digit. For now, they’d spared my trigger finger.
Small favors.
“Soon,” I cooed as if the weapon of death were an eager child instead. Soon my baby would be free to run and play.
But only after I’d made my former employer get off that money.
Yeah, I was a genius at the most unexpected times.
A large Cadillac had sat parked in the semicircle drive since I’d returned from the liquor store. While turning the bottle up, I missed somebody’s exit from the building. The car lights surprised me as it roared to life before hastily departing, its tires screaming in protest. It almost clipped my car as it sped past.
Must be getting a ride home tonight
, I thought as I hurriedly cranked my own car and put it into drive. The lights on the sixth floor were dimmed. I decided to follow, figuring it was in my best interests.
Weeknight traffic was light, making it easy to trail the car on the winding roads that bordered the river. It was heading toward the old, run-down side of town. Sleet gathered on the fringes of my windshield and, in my intoxicated state, made me check my speed. I could go faster, but the Cadillac would have to slow down.
It didn’t.
It kept accelerating.
Right into the harsh curve and through the safety railing.
I saw the sparks flying before I realized what had actually happened. The sound came next, a muffled rumble, followed by a cloud of smoke below. I pulled over several yards back and checked my rearview mirror. Nobody was coming.
I turned off my headlights and exited.
He wasn’t getting off that easy. Not after my waiting out in the cold all night. I flung my car door open, gun in hand. The safety was off.
2
MY NAME IS . . .
A
nd I was reborn.
Created anew in an explosion of twisted metal, smoke, and chaos. Emerging from a womb forged in Detroit.
Shards of glass pelted my face, followed by the chill of the rainy night air. The hand that had burst through my window reached for me. In a moment like that, I tried to look in the rearview mirror in some attempt at vanity, but it was gone. Swallowed up in the car’s chasm of a floor as the whole vehicle slid toward the rushing waters below.
“What are you doing?”
“I was . . .” What was I doing? As confused as I was, I’d never felt such clarity in my life. Had I really lived before this?
Giving up on reason, he ended the one-sided conversation and snatched me. I felt a tug on my thigh as he fished for a seat belt. I guess I hadn’t put it on. Assured, he yanked me through the opening he’d created.
As soon as I was clear, I was cast aside. Tumbling onto the soaked weeds and brush, I watched as he ran back to the car. He stuck his head in further, probably looking for others.
Pretty heroic, or maybe just stupid
, I thought.
The car slid further, this time shifting with a groan, as the stormy waters below hungrily lapped at it. He skipped clear to avoid being taken with it. Something shifted inside his jacket. He quit his search to hastily adjust it.
“You’re by yourself?” he asked, seemingly wishing I weren’t alone.
“What the fuck do you think?” I said at his nerve. “Somebody’s in the trunk?”
He wiped the rain from his face, not sure what to make of me. Although winded, he tried to make amends. “Let me help you up.”
“I can do it myself.”
As soon as it was said, I regretted it. I tried to stand in the muddy thicket and fell again. Wet and nasty; not in a good way either. My stilettos were mired in the gunk.
He didn’t laugh. Just came over. “Here.”
I took his hand, strong to the touch. One of his fingers was in a splint. He gingerly held that one aside. I wondered if this was the same hand he’d used on the glass. As I rose, the car crept further down the hill, becoming wedged in some thick branches just above the river.
We both stared at it, expecting the branches to give up their catch and release it with a rousing splash. Instead, they held.
That drama averted, he led me up the hill to the relative safety of the highway. At street level, I was better able to see him beneath the lights. He was a smallish man with a round face, almost disproportionate to his body. I could imagine him once wearing glasses, or perhaps he still did. He wore nice clothes—as ruined as they were by his bravery—like some sort of businessman.
“Thank you,” I offered as we walked toward what was probably his car on the side of the road. Its headlights were off, obscuring it slightly.
“Here.” He removed his jacket and placed it over me. It reeked of alcohol. Even in the rain I could smell it. “Forgot your coat?” he asked.
“Yeah. I guess I left it back . . . where I was. I was in a rush.”
“Rush? You could’ve killed someone,” he scolded.
“I was trying to get somewhere. I was trying to get home.”
“Not driving like that.” He shook his head, chuckling at my answer. “The only place you were going was to a cemetery.”
“You’re not my father.”
He took another look at me, beholding my scant attire this evening. “No,” he answered. “Definitely not.”
I stopped in my tracks. He’d gone another few steps before noticing I wasn’t beside him.
“What? Do you want to stand here in the rain? You’re going to be sick in the morning.”
“I don’t need your shit.”
“I’m not giving you any. Let’s just get in my car; then you can decide what you want to do.” He began walking again, never once looking back. I didn’t like that.
Despite his jacket, I had begun to shiver. I didn’t have a lot of body fat, and the cold was creeping into my bones. My decision reached, I ran to catch up.