Boss Divas (13 page)

I
'm happy for Profit.

I really am—at least that's what I keep telling myself. Maybe if I say it a million more times, I'll believe it.

It's been three days since life on Ruby Cove changed forever. The once long, war-weary faces have been rejuvenated with Fat Ace's return. Now everyone talks about taking the streets back block by block. The Gangster Disciples and the Grape Street Crips are officially on notice. I try my best to blend into the celebration, and play my position as a new petal with the Vice Lord Flowers. So far these evil bitches won't give me the time of day. I have history with a few of them from Morris High School—particularly with Qiana Barrett's ratchet-ass. If that bitch ain't raping Profit with her eyes every time I turn around, she's busy staring a hole into the side of my head.

Only one chick has even bothered to say more than a few words to me and that's one of Qiana's besties, who gave me a warning:
Watch your back.

If she thought I was scared, I set the confused girl straight. “Step to me again and I'll give you and Qiana matching profiles.”

Adaryl reflexively touched her scar-less her face. “You're never gonna be a
real
Flower. I don't give a fuck whose arm you're hanging off,” she said, scrambling back to her side of the road.

“Don't let them get to you,” Profit whispered. “Give it some time.”

He means well, but I don't think he gets it. It's all right. I'm not interested in him fighting my battles. I can take care of myself. I'll have to earn my own reputation. At the same time, I don't know if I want to be a part of these bitter bitches' family, but what else is left? I can't go back to the safe life in suburbia.

That road, that avenue—that's over now.

Every day since the fire, I've picked up the phone to call Tracee or Reggie's parents. What are the police saying? Have they claimed their bodies? Will there be a funeral? Will I be welcome?

That last question is what's fucking with me. I didn't torch the house, but there's no doubt in my mind that I am responsible for the Douglases' death. I unleashed LeShelle on them. There are no words to make up for that.

Finally, this morning, Tracee and Reggie Douglas are listed in the obituaries. Funeral services will be at Forest Hill Funeral Home.

“Are you going to go?” Profit asks.

“I don't know.” I set down his smartphone, on which I was reading
The Commercial Appeal
online.

Profit glides into the empty seat across from me at the kitchen table. Shirtless, he's still wearing an easy smile that he's had on since his brother rose from the dead.

I reach for my bowl of cereal, but I have no interest in eating it.

“You should go.”

My eager gaze jumps to meet his eyes. “Yeah?”

He nods. “I can go with you. You know—for support.” He takes my hand.

“But . . . what if they hate me?”

He laughs. “C'mon, baby. Nobody hates you.”

My brows arch high for a you-can't-be-serious look.

“Okay. Nobody but that evil-ass sister of yours—but she doesn't count. I'm going to take care of her ass soon enough. The bitch can only be so lucky for so long.”

“I don't know. There's been a lot of street miracles lately.”

Profit leans back and pats his legs. “C'mere.”

I stare at him, but then get up and sit in his lap with my head bowed. “Look at me.” He tilts my chin up. “Have faith in your man and trust me.”

“I do—with my life.”

Doubt flickers across his face.

“You don't believe me?”

He hesitates. “I want to believe you, but given what happened—”

“Profit”—I ease my arms around his neck—“you did everything you could that night. You fought for me.”

His gaze bounces around the room. I cup the sides of his face and force him to look at me. “I love you so much for fighting that night. It means the world to me. Truly.”

After he searches my eyes for the truth, his large smile spreads back across his face. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too.” I press a kiss against his lips and enjoy the flutter of my heart. The past is the past. This man is all I have left in this world and I'll do anything to protect and keep our love alive.

The next morning, a short, black Chanel dress hangs on the back of our bedroom door. “I figured that you'd need something to wear to the funeral,” Profit says, smiling.

Of course, I tear up again. “Thank you. That's so thoughtful of you.” We kiss and then fall into a sober silence.

Not to be outdone, Profit also purchased a black Brooks Brothers suit. My mouth falls open when he transforms from a gangster to a gentleman right in front of my eyes.

“How do I look?” he asks, striking a few male-model poses before the bedroom mirror.

“You look like the man of my dreams,” I tell him, rewarding him with a kiss. We look good together—attractive. I just wish that we weren't going to a double funeral.

We skip breakfast because my stomach is twisted in knots, and when we roll into the funeral home's parking lot, my hands are slick with sweat. The place is packed. Undoubtedly the guests are from Tracee and Reggie's jobs, church, and charity organizations. They spent their whole lives giving back to their community. They touched so many and did so much. Their deaths will leave a hole in the universe.

Disbelief and tears flow down everyone's faces as they head into the building.

“This is a bad idea,” I tell Profit, stopping him from climbing out of the vehicle. “Let's go back home. I don't want to do this. I—”

“Shh. All right. Calm down.” He loops an arm around my shoulders. “You're scared and upset. I get it, but it's gonna be all right.”

“No. No. I can't go in there and face those people. Don't make me do it. I'm not ready.” I unleash a torrent of tears onto his new suit.

“Now. I'm not going to force you to go in there if you really don't want to—
but
if you don't go, there's a strong chance that you'll regret it for the rest of your life.”

My heart lurches.

“You gotta close this chapter, baby. It's the only way that you can move on.”

I know that he's speaking the truth, but this shit hurts so fuckin' bad that it's hard to breathe.

“You can do this,” Profit whispers until I find a kernel of strength to do what I have to do.

“All right,” I say. “Let's go.”

“That's my girl.”

Forcing a smile, I ease out of his arms and mop up my tears.

“You ready?” he asks.

I nod.

“Then let's do this.” He brushes a kiss against my forehead and then climbs out of the vehicle. By the time he reaches my door, I've powdered away my tear tracks and put on a brave face.

Arm in arm, we enter the funeral home. At the door of the ceremonial room, a twenty-by-thirty smiling wedding photo of Tracee and Reggie greets the guests. It's another double punch to the gut. They were so young and so in love.

Profit squeezes my hand and I force one foot in front of the other. Like the parking lot, the place is packed to capacity. However, when everyone sees me, they part as if I were Moses. As we make our way down the aisle, a steady buzz of whispers builds behind us. Focused on the two closed caskets in the front of the room, I block out what people are saying. Those are my parents up there. The only ones that I've ever known.

In the first pew, Tracee's mother, Olivia Sullivan, stands and smiles. “Ta'Shara, we're so happy that you came,” she says through her tears.

My stomach twists into knots.

“We were so worried about you. We've been looking everywhere.”

I sob. “I can't believe that they're gone.” Before I know it, I'm wrapped in Olivia's arms.

“I know, baby. I'll miss them, too.”

We hold each other for a while, and when she finally releases me, I'm passed to Tracee's sisters, Joan and Donna. From there, Reginald Douglas Senior sweeps me into a bear hug.
My family.

Afterwards, I introduce them to Profit, who was met with a few stiff handshakes. I can only imagine the things Reggie told his father about Profit. He made it perfectly clear to me how much he hated Profit and blamed him for what happened on that prom night.

At exactly two o'clock, the service begins with the song “His Eye Is on the Sparrow
.
” The lyrics wring every ounce of water from my tear ducts. Through the prayers, scripture readings, and more songs, somehow I manage to keep it together. During the friends' and families' expression portion of the service, Olivia's eyes remain on me, begging that I'll say a few words. I pretend that I don't notice, but finally give in and walk to the lectern on legs that feel like Jell-O. As I stand before the grim-faced crowd, my mind draws a blank. I've never had to do something like this before.

“Umm, Reggie and Tracee changed my life,” I begin. “I'd never met anyone like them before. They accepted me—wholeheartedly—and loved me as though I was their flesh and blood and I loved them the same way . . .”

I want to say more but can't. My throat closes and chokes off my windpipe. Embarrassed, I scramble back to my seat and tuck my head onto Profit's shoulder.

He loops his arm around me and presses a kiss on top of my head. “You did good, baby.”

Twenty minutes later, the service ends and a crush of visitors pushes to surround us. I'm subjected to so many hugs, kisses, and well wishes that I feel guilty for thinking these people hated me.

We start to leave for the cemetery for the burial.

“Excuse us, Ms. Murphy?” a voice booms. I turn toward two large police officers. “Are you two Ta'Shara Murphy and Raymond Lewis?” the biggest of the two cops asks.

Confused, I blink. “Yes.”

“Why do you want to know?” Profit challenges.

Two sets of handcuffs are slapped onto our wrists.

“You are under arrest for the murders of Markeisha Edwards and Tracee and Reggie Douglas.”

“What?”

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“Wait. Wait. There must be some mistake,” I protest.

They shove us out of the funeral home.

“You have the right to an . . .”

Their words transform into white noise as the guests' mournful faces turn into shock. This time when the crowd parts, it isn't because I'm Moses—but because they think that I am a killer.

Outside, as I'm being shoved into the back of a patrol car, a face across the parking lot catches my attention and freezes my heart.

B
lue and white strobe lights line the front door of the Forest Hill Funeral Home. It's hard to see what's going on with so many people crowded around. The idea of my coming all the way out here for nothing raises my blood pressure. After reading about Tracee and Reggie's funeral services in the paper, I lay in bed all night unable to sleep.

I don't like loose ends.

An eighteen-wheeler zooms past me, where I'm parked on the side of the road across from the funeral home. For a brief moment, my line of vision is obstructed and the Escalade rocks in its wake.

When I'm able to see again, the crowd is parting and Ta'Shara and Profit are being shoved through with their hands behind their backs.

“Well, I'll be damned.” I watch in shock. What in the hell did my bougie-ass sister do to get arrested?

A cop places his hand on top of Ta'Shara's head and crams her into the back of the police car. As soon as she is tucked in, she glances my way.

Laughing, I lift the gat from my lap and salute her. Her eyes widen. Our dance with death will have to wait.

When the squad car pulls off, I tuck the gun underneath my seat and wait to follow three cars behind them. This turn of events keeps me chuckling the whole ride to the precinct. There, I'm unable to follow behind the gated area where the cops escorts their suspects into the building—but I am able to drive down the road a ways and park in a KFC parking lot.

I need to think.

Who knows when I'll be able to get at Ta'Shara again? Even if she's able to get out of whatever this situation is, I have no doubt that Profit will tuck her back onto Ruby Cove, where she'll be surrounded by Vice Lords and stank-ass Flowers. It'll be impossible to get at her. Today was to be my best shot. I'm hardly in the position to play hide-and-seek. I'm already playing that game with the police my damn self.

My jaw clenches at that annoying voice in the back of my head. A part of me still wants to go back to playing the protective big sister to that backstabbing bitch. “I won't do it,” I vow, staring into my eyes through the rearview mirror. I spent my entire life looking after that girl, got locked up, raped, and tossed in the streets while she lived the life of a princess in suburbia, dreaming of becoming a doctor.

Where I was hard and jaded, Ta'Shara believed that her shit didn't stink, with her straight A's and her track star status. I told her to wake her ass up, but she looked down on me and heard nothing I said. Things went south when I set out to prove to her that Reggie Douglas was no different from any other nigga that had taken us in over the years.

I'll admit it: I overplayed my hand and got tossed out in the street after my attempt to seduce him.

I didn't care. I was ready to go anyway. However, Ta'Shara plunged the first knife into my back and refused to leave with me. That shit hurt, but I bounced and got myself a job down at the Pink Monkey strip club. I worked the pole, learned how to use my pussy, and clawed my ass out of the gutter. All the while, I still looked after her. My name gave her protection in the streets—and in that shitty high school. And what did she do in return?

Showed me her ass—and laid down with my enemies.Who the fuck does that shit? Ta'Shara picked that nigga over me so now she has to deal with the consequences. The way I see it, her taking a couple of bullets is the least her ass could do.

A rogue idea strikes. I scramble for the cell phone that I'd tossed over into the passenger seat. I scroll through my mental phone book and call a junior Queen G.

“Yo, Avonte. I got a job for you.”

“Sure, my queen. I got you.”

“I'm over here by the police station off of Third. Who do we have in holding over here right now? Anybody?”

“I'm not sure, but I can find out.”

“Good. The sooner, the better. There's someone there that I want to make sure doesn't come out alive.”