Chapter Fifty-Four
Fifty-Four
Chaka Khan was blowing my walls down from my hi-fi as I lay stretched out on my couch, snapping my fingers to the music while my other hand ushered my glass of wine to and from my lips.
Who knew just talking about my problem could make me feel almost normal again? That’s not to say that my mind hadn’t wandered. Not to say that I hadn’t had a craving or two, because I had.
The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. So I’d openly admitted it, and that first step really felt wonderful, and that’s why I was lying there, basking in Chaka and Pinot Noir.
Zhan would be there in just two more days. I could hardly wait. Just having him there would help to get this monkey off my back. I’d have to tell him, of course, but he loved me and I was sure he’d understand, and…
Ring, ring, ring.
“Hello?”
“Noah? I can hardly hear you. Can you turn the music down, please!”
“Stop your screaming, Chevy.” Rolling my eyes, I plucked up the remote for the hi-fi and lowered the volume. “Sorry, Ms.Chaka, Ms.Drama is on the phone,” I said, loud enough for Chevy to hear. “Now what’s the problem?”
“The problem is, I think Kendrick just killed this woman.”
I yawned. “I thought you stopped watching the soaps?”
“You’re so funny,” she said calmly before screaming, “I’m serious, Noah!”
“Okay, you’re serious.” I lifted my hand and literally wiped the grin off my face. “Now I am too. Now, who is Kendrick?”
“Kendrick Greene, Crystal’s boyfriend.”
I just smirked. “You been smoking again?”
“I ain’t high, Noah. I’m serious. I saw him do it!”
The call-waiting signal beeped in my ear, but Ms.Drama did sound serious, so whoever it was would have to wait.
“Where?” I asked.
“In this apartment in Chelsea.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was…”
Uh-huh. Chevy was someplace she had no business being, I thought after she took an eternity to answer.
“I-I was visiting my friend,” she stammered, “the one he killed.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“No,” she whined.
“Did you call the police?” I was up and pacing the floor now, near hysterics. “Are you hurt? Did that bastard hurt you?”
“No, no,” she stammered. “But she’s lying dead right on the kitchen floor!”
“Okay, okay. You have to call the police, Chevy.”
“I-I can’t.”
“What? Why?”
“ Please deposit twenty-five cents to continue this call ,” the recorded voice instructed, but I knew she wouldn’t. Miss Chevy didn’t have a dime to her name, never mind a quarter.