Brooklyn Bombshells--Part 2 Page 15

  Charlie’s eyes grew wide with shock and she cried out, “What the fuck!”

  Claire shrieked when she saw the body inside the car and slowly backed away from the crime scene. She was utterly shocked at what she saw. Though she didn’t see the murder or know the guy, another dead body was troubling enough. Her life had become a continuous reel of monumental lows.

  After Charlie setting Chanel up to get robbed and raped, murdering Melanie, disfiguring Wanda with acid, and now seeing another dead body connected to her sister, Claire was coming unhinged. She looked into her sister’s eyes and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

  Like a zombie, she walked away, not sure where she was going. There was no destination in Claire’s mind. The only thing she wanted to do was get away from the body and get away from Charlie.

  Charlie couldn’t worry about her sister. KB was dead, and she wasn’t going to call the police. She took a napkin and wiped away her fingerprints from the door handle, but not before removing his Rolex watch and his pricey gold chain.

  Charlie was sure that this was Ahbou’s handiwork. Ahbou was a dirty cop with plenty of connections, and it was foolish of her to believe she could keep her affair with KB a secret from him. He was dangerous, and she was seeing it firsthand.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chanel woke up to memories of the horrific ordeal flooding back to her. She and Mateo were having the time of their lives. There were gifts and laughter and promises, and they were planning a trip to Hawaii to get married. And then they weren’t. Funny how circumstances change within a split second. But life moves on, and time moves on, and today she wanted to spend her time with Mateo.

  She got dressed in thick leggings, a nice top, and winter boots and drove her Range to the city to see her man.

  “Hey, baby,” Mateo said with a smile when Chanel walked into the room.

  Chanel smiled back and replied, “Hey, you.”

  She climbed into his bed and hugged him lovingly. He was so brave. Not too long ago he had to piece words together to make conversation, and his emotions were flat. He was unable to carry out small tasks that people take for granted like holding a utensil or sitting up in bed by himself. He had come so far. Their conversations were back to normal, his muscles were strengthening, and he was getting better. Mateo was more awake and aware, and it wouldn’t be long before he would be able to leave the place and function on his own. In fact, she felt he was ready for checkout.

  She tested him. “Do you remember what we talked about the first day we met?” she asked.

  “Yeah . . . I do.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course. How . . . how can I forget?” he said thinly as his mind searched for the answer.

  But the look in his eyes was telling Chanel a different story. The trauma had left some gaps in Mateo’s memory, and though he remembered certain things, there were events that were completely black to him—simple memories that Chanel was cherishing alone, for now.

  She spent the day with him. They had lunch together and watched a few movies in his room. Chanel was grateful for the quality time with her man.

  That evening, she left his bed to return to Pyro’s place to get some rest. She kissed Mateo goodbye as he drifted off.

  When Chanel walked into Pyro’s apartment, she was shocked to find that Pyro had ordered them an expensive dinner and some pricey champagne.

  “Surprise,” he said. “You’ve been down lately and I wanted to do something to cheer you up.”

  “Wow. Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I could do. I know you’ve been through a lot, and seeing you this morning, how sad you were . . .”

  “I appreciate this, Pyro.”

  “C’mon, what are friends for? We look out for each other, right?”

  She nodded. “No doubt.”

  Pyro had decorated the kitchen table for her with lit candles and they feasted on lobster tails, grilled scallops, and salad. Chanel had a thing for seafood, and Pyro went all out.

  He asked about Mateo and she replied that he was doing fine. They joked and laughed and were working on their second bottle of champagne.

  “So, any plans this weekend?” he asked her.

  “Seeing Mateo,” she said.

  “Good to hear. But I got you a gift too.”

  “Pyro, a gift? Why?”

  “Because I wanted to. It’s just something to put a smile on your face, that’s all. And I know if Mateo were here he’d be showering you with gifts left and right. Let me do this for my man,” he said with the warmest smile.

  Everything was genuine about him, and Chanel loved that. Mecca was a lucky woman.

  Pyro got up from the table and went into the next room. He soon came back into the kitchen carrying a perfectly wrapped gift for her.

  “Here you go.”

  Chanel was smiling and couldn’t wait to see what he got her. She started to tear away the wrapping paper like a kid on Christmas Day, anxious to see her gift. It was a cookbook by Chrissy Teigen.

  “I love it, Pyro. Thank you. I’m definitely gonna use it. Maybe I’ll cook something for us tomorrow,” she said.

  “Hey, I wouldn’t mind that. Your cooking is the best.”

  She chuckled at his compliment. Their evening together consisted of playing backgammon, sipping more champagne, joking and laughing, and then sharing stories about family, love, and their future. And then it happened—the lingering stare and the champagne blurring their boundaries. He leaned intimately close to her and pressed his lips against hers. She didn’t resist, and the two of them shared a passionate kiss.

  They both pulled away, knowing it was wrong, though it felt so right. They looked stunned by what just happened—no words for a moment, only silence between them with their eyes speaking volumes. It was a mistake.

  He spoke first, saying, “I’m sorry.”

  “No. It’s my fault.”

  “No. I shouldn’t have tried to take advantage of you,” he said.

  “Pyro, I’m fine. It was just a kiss. It’s not the end of the world.”

  He stood up and removed himself from the volatile situation he had put himself into without saying another word, going into his bedroom and heading straight for his shower. She did the same.

  While showering, Chanel couldn’t help but to think about the kiss. It was nice, though it was short. Pyro was a good kisser, but she hated that she was even thinking about how well he kissed. Chanel didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but she felt like she had let three people down; Mateo, Mecca, and herself. After showering, she donned a T-shirt and crawled into her bed, and instead of closing and locking her door like usual she left it ajar—just in case he wanted to talk. She placed her head against her pillow and tried to get some sleep. But she couldn’t. The only thing on her mind was kissing Pyro.

  Meanwhile, in the master bedroom, Pyro couldn’t sleep either. He was up thinking about Chanel and their shared kiss. He wrestled with an unnerving thought. It stuck to him. It kept him up. And after an hour of trying to resist what he felt was inevitable, he got up from his bed and headed toward Chanel’s room. Seeing her door ajar, he tapped on it and then slowly made his way inside.

  “Hey, are you still up?” he whispered to her.

  “Yeah,” she faintly replied.

  He crawled into her bed and moved close to her with no resistance. They stared at each other briefly, neither one saying a word as he abruptly disappeared underneath the covers, maneuvering his frame between her legs. She was wet, and so hot, and he burned to sample her nectar. Poised between her thighs, he lifted her bottom off the bed and hitched her legs over his shoulders so her pussy was directly in front of his mouth. He dipped his tongue inside of her and sucked and licked her sweet spot while she squirmed in his grasp.

  Chanel knew it was wrong, but it felt so good. Sh
e was tired of having her only memory of sex be of her rape. She moaned and continued to squirm as Pyro swirled his tongue around inside of her and softly rubbed her clit with his thumb.

  “Ooooh . . . uhh . . . ahhh . . .” she moaned.

  The moans that were escaping from her full lips turned him on. He wanted to make her come. He wanted to feel her sweet juices gushing against his mouth.

  Chanel panted and clutched the sheets as Pyro ate her out passionately. She closed her eyes and tried to fight the guilt, but it was a losing battle. Everything inside of her screamed, “You need this. Your body needs this.”

  After giving her ten minutes of oral pleasure, Pyro moved up from between her thighs and readied himself into the missionary position. Without a condom, he slowly penetrated her. He slowly made love to her and he was gentle, his strokes caring but masterful at the same time.

  Chanel moaned against his ear. “Ohhhh. . .”

  Right before she was about to come, he stared intensely at her and told her to open her eyes and look at him. She did so. The transfer of energy that passed between them was undeniable.

  “Pyro,” she moaned his name.

  Soon, she had multiple orgasms. It was mind-blowing for her. Her body quivered in places she didn’t know she had. She was breathless and spent, and Pyro held her tightly as they both fell asleep nestled against each other. Chanel didn’t want to be let go. She wanted Pyro to hold her all night. It was a blissful moment for them both. The guilt they had both felt earlier was a distant memory.

  When Chanel woke up the following morning, Pyro was gone, leaving her to face their situation alone. The feeling of ecstasy was replaced with a feeling of betrayal.

  Chapter Thirty

  Bacardi and Butch were sleeping like hibernating bears. It was 6:20am, and their bedroom was dark and silent. The house phone was the first to ring, and when they failed to answer that, Butch’s cell phone started to ring nonstop. And then Bacardi’s. Someone was desperately trying to reach them, and they didn’t care how early it was.

  Groggily, Bacardi got up and turned off all the phones in the room and then got back into bed and turned over to go back to sleep. She had a late night with Butch, and it was too damn early in the morning to be answering phone calls.

  Thirty minutes later, she heard the banging on their front door. Now the entire apartment was up. The two female renters had to go to work soon, but the heavy banging at the door had them worried. The banging was consistent, and it sounded desperate.

  Bacardi shot up from the bed with an attitude and threw on her robe and slippers and marched out of the bedroom looking like she was ready to go to war. She grumbled to herself and was ready to give whoever it was that was knocking loudly so early in the morning a strong piece of her mind.

  Bacardi swung open the door to find her neighbors, Lester and Tisha, standing there looking strange. “Now why the fuck would you two be knocking on my door at the crack of muthafuckin’ dawn?”

  “Bacardi, didn’t you see the news?” Lester asked her.

  “What? No, I didn’t see the news, Lester. It’s six in the goddamn morning,” she said.

  The look her neighbors exchanged told Bacardi that something was wrong. Lester’s look was sorrowful, as was Tisha’s. Her anger transitioned to concern.

  “What’s on the news, Lester? What happened?” she asked fretfully.

  By now, Butch had joined his wife at the front door. “What is it, Bacardi? What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but it’s something fucked up—I know it,” Bacardi said.

  Tisha was the one to say it, because it seemed Lester was too shaken up to spill the news.

  “NY1 is reporting that Claire Brown, the student expelled from Harvard University, took her own life last night by jumping in front of a subway train,” she informed them with a quivering lip.

  Bacardi and Butch stared at Tisha in disbelief before Bacardi broke the trance.

  “What? No! Stop lying to me, bitch! My daughter isn’t dead,” Bacardi hollered.

  Butch spun around and moved toward the TV and hurriedly turned it on and changed the channel to NY1. And there it was. The news story was running with Claire’s graduation picture and the heartbreaking headline in the lower third of the screen.

  Bacardi ran to see it too. Both were overwhelmed with grief, and Bacardi felt her knees weaken. No, this wasn’t happening. Not their daughter. Not Claire.

  “I’m so sorry, y’all,” Tisha expressed with profound sympathy.

  They didn’t hear her. They both were in shock. How could this have happened? Why did she do it? Suddenly, Bacardi was torn with guilt and anguish. Claire had called and begged to come back home, but Bacardi had treated her coldly and held firm to her grudge. Now their middle child was dead.

  Bacardi nearly fainted, and Butch raced to catch his wife from falling.

  The renters and their neighbors were all trying to console Bacardi. She screamed at the top of her lungs in agonizing grief. It was a bone-chilling mother’s shriek that would become eerily embedded in the memories of those who heard it. No mother should lose her child, regardless of what kind of relationship they had.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chanel wanted to lock herself inside her room for the day. She didn’t think she could face Pyro without the awkwardness they both deserved. Visions of him spending the day with Mecca ate away at whatever dignity she felt she had left.

  Last night wasn’t supposed to happen. Her first consensual sexual experience was supposed to be with her fiancé, Mateo. Chanel was at an age when you still believed in relationship fairytales—when you believed in Prince Charming and happily ever after. It was the fantasy mindset where you remained a virgin until marriage and raised your two-point-five kids in a house with a white picket fence. Now those dreams had gone up in flames thanks to God and his perversion.

  Chanel felt like a slut. She wondered if the rape had changed her, or if this was who she truly was. She was Mecca’s best friend, who had slept with her soon-to-be fiancé. She was also Mateo’s fiancée who had slept with his best friend. She had done that. But wasn’t that kind of thing Charlie’s MO? Charlie was the remorseless one who would do something just like this.

  By noon, she felt like she was suffocating. Her guilt was shutting off her air supply. She got dressed looking extra modest in a loose-fitting turtleneck dress and trench coat. Her face was bare—no blush, lipstick, mascara, eyeliner, or eye shadow. Her first stop was St. Benedict’s Roman Catholic Church for afternoon mass. Chanel wasn’t Catholic or Baptist or any denomination, but she was in pursuit of absolution. Quietly she slid into a back pew and grabbed a Bible as the priest read his sermon. The verses didn’t matter to her. Chanel clutched the Bible, looked at the numerous statutes of white Jesus and the other saints, and began to cry her eyes out.

  Later, Chanel went to see Mateo. When she walked into the room, she perched herself on the side of his bed and kissed him deeply and passionately. It was a sensual kiss that probably could have created a miracle in his pants. It was something she hadn’t done since before the invasion.

  Mateo stared at his lady and worriedly uttered to her, “Have you been crying?”

  Chanel’s eyes widened. “No. Of course not. Why would I be crying?”

  Mateo grew concerned. His eyes weren’t deceiving him. Chanel’s face was flushed, and her eyelids were low, red-rimmed, and puffy. And although she smiled widely, it never quite made it to her eyes.

  He moved his shaky hand to grasp hers. “Something’s going on. Something has changed about you.”

  Chanel’s bottom lip was now visibly trembling. It took all her strength to not burst into tears. “It has? What, baby?”

  “I don’t know. You seem so sad, Chanel. Has something happened?”

  “I’m happy, baby. I’m excited to see you.”

 
“You don’t seem happy. You seem different,” he continued to probe.

  “Different? Please, Mateo, that’s obvious. I am different. Things have changed for the both of us, but I don’t want to keep talking about it.”

  “Do you still love me, Chanel?” he asked her.

  “I do. You know I do, baby. I love you so much.”

  “Just checking. Ya boy can’t be too sure. You come, you don’t come. When you leave I never know if it’s the last time I’ll see you.” Mateo tried to have levity in his voice, but she knew her actions had made him insecure.

  Chanel blurted out, “Let’s get married.”

  “We will. As soon as I get out of here.”

  “Now. Let’s go and get married now. We don’t need a destination wedding. We can go back to our original plan and go to City Hall. Let’s get married before this month ends.”

  Mateo’s reaction to her proposal was tentative. “Babe, we can’t. I feel we should wait just a while longer. At least until I’m feeling stronger and can stand before you on my own two feet and not have to be held up.”

  “Baby, if I’m going to be your other half, you can lean on me—we’ll lean on each other,” she replied.

  “I love you, Chanel. I do. But if you give me a little more time, I’m going to fully recover. I’m gonna walk again on my own—watch and see.”

  She managed to smile. “I know you will.”

  Mateo became emotional. “Chanel, I’m sorry that I couldn’t do anything to stop what happened to you. I should have been there to protect you—to stop it. But I wasn’t.”

  “Mateo, it’s not your fault. I told you so many times already.”

  “I should have stopped them.”

  “You did your best.”

  “No. What they did to you—”

  She didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted to forget about it. She was finally starting to feel normal again.