Chapter 5 - Ciarán
five- Ciarán
A floorboard groaned. My eyes snapped open.
Nobody should have been here. This place was my sanctuary. My fortress. Nobody knew about it.
I was on the studio couch again. The room was pitch black. My hand slid under the cushion. My fingers found cold steel.
The safety clicked off with a whisper in the dark.
I pushed myself up from the sofa. Moved through the darkness, holding my breath.
The sound came again—hangers scraping. From my bedroom closet upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, I froze. My room was dark, but I could make out a shadow moving inside. My heart hammered against my ribs. Adrenaline made my hand tremble around the pistol grip.
Fight or flight kicked in.
I never chose flight.
A shadow shifted behind the slatted closet door. Somebody was digging through it.
“The fuck you doing here?” I barked, squinting to make out the face.
The shadow turned around. My fucking daddy stared back at me. The little bit of fear in my chest burned off, turning into rage.
I clicked on the light.
He stood there, blinking in the sudden brightness. He looked rough as fuck. Skin sagging. Eyes bloodshot. A worn-out shell of the man who used to scare and beat the shit out of me as a kid. Everybody used to call the nigga Luke Cage because he was so big. Now he just looked pitiful.
“Cia,” he slurred, trying to stand up straight. He was holding something shiny. I moved forward and snatched it out of his hand.
My diamond bezel Rolex. The one I bought when I made my first big check. My whole body tensed.
“Nigga, I ain’t seen you in over a year, and you come back here to steal from me?” I yelled.
He tried to backpedal, his hands shaky as he waved them around. “Nah, son, I wasn’t gonna take it. I just needed to look at it, that’s all. Just needed to feel somethin’ nice for once.”
A dry, humorless laugh escaped me. “Bullshit. You came to rob me. Don’t play me for a fucking idiot.”
His face twisted, resentment sliding into place. “What, you think you better than me now? A little money and you’re too good for where you came from? Gonna fight your own father over a cheap watch?” He stumbled forward, weaving like a drunk tree in the wind.
I just watched him, disgust curdling in my gut. He kept coming, trying to use the same bulky presence that used to make me flinch as a kid. It didn’t work anymore. Now it just made my fists itch.
“Look at you,” he sneered, voice gaining strength. “Your little house. Your little cars. You think you’re the man? Just crazy in the head like me. But think you better.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides. I was holding on, but he kept pushing.
“You out here living soft now,” he went on, voice rising. “You ain’t no man, not really. You a spoiled-ass kid with a check. That’s all you are—a weak singing-ass nigga. You wouldn’t have none of this without me.”
Something snapped in me.
“The fuck you just say?” I growled.
I closed the gap between us, stepping into his space. His sour breath hit my nose, but I didn’t back down.
“You think I got all this because of you? Nigga, you didn’t do shit!
You didn’t want to actually help me. You gave me some names to connections and let me do the work.
You weren’t a father before then either—you were a fucking menace.
Coming around just long enough to fuck with my momma and my head, to beat my ass or bark orders at her until she died.
Even after all that, I tried to help you, and now you think you can come up in my house—my house—and talk to me like this?
I oughta bust you upside your head like you used to do me. ”
He opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “You ain’t shit, and you never been shit,” I hissed. “And now you lookin’ like death, smelling like death, trying to take from the son you didn’t even raise.”
My momma had been the sole provider for me until she died when I was sixteen.
He was around when he needed something. He went from traveling musician to drunk, then to fucking crackhead in just a couple years before I made it big at eighteen.
I tried to help him. Threw at least a hundred grand at his addiction, put him in rehab, but he refused to help himself. I cut him off.
His hand came up like he was about to push me, but I didn’t give him the chance.
I shoved him hard, my palms slamming into his chest. The air whooshed out of his lungs.
He fell, hitting the edge of a dresser. My anger went volcanic, watching him play the victim, burning through the last of my restraint.
I didn’t even realize I still had the gun in my hand until I was pointing it at his head.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” I roared, my voice shaking the walls. “I don’t owe you shit. You hear me? Nothing.”
He didn’t say anything back. Just lay there coughing and groaning. That’s when I noticed the carpet staining red.
“Shit.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed, my manager. He answered on the second ring, his voice groggy. “Yo, C. What’s up?”
“I need you to come over, man,” I rasped. “It’s my pops. He broke in, and I think we gotta call someone. He’s leaking from the head.”
Tyrell sighed heavy. “Damn, Ciarán. What the fuck your angry ass do this time? Fuck. Alright, I’ll be there in a few.”
I didn’t feel bad about waking Tyrell. I paid his ass enough to get out of bed anytime I called, and I damn sure didn’t give a fuck about Darryl’s stinking, thieving ass. I was more pissed that the motherfucker was bleeding out on my expensive carpet.
I left him there, taking my watch and gun.
Went downstairs to the bar and poured myself a glass of cognac.
It burned going down but didn’t burn away my anger.
“Fuck-ass coming into my shit to steal—he better be glad I didn’t shoot him.
” I grabbed the entire bottle, hit the living room, and turned on ESPN.
About fifteen minutes later, Tyrell showed up. He didn’t even say anything when he walked in through the front door. He was the only person I trusted with a key.
I nodded toward the stairs, then pushed myself up to follow him.
He looked at my dad on the floor, shook his head, then looked back at me. “This shit is gonna end up on social media,” he muttered. “We gotta call the police so he can’t twist the story later.”
Tyrell crouched to check on him. “You alright, old man?”
My father didn’t respond. He was still on the floor, trying to get up and failing.
“He’s good,” Tyrell declared before stepping out. I heard him making the call, his tone calm and professional, like always. My father and I just glared at each other.
I hated to admit it, but I was just like him.
The police and EMTs came soon after. They took him away on a stretcher. I didn’t even watch. I sat in the bathroom on the side of the tub, popping gummies to calm my frayed nerves. Tyrell handled everything, smooth as always.
He only called me downstairs to back up the story he’d told the cops. “He fell, right, C?” Tyrell asked, nodding slightly.
I nodded. “Yeah. Slipped and hit his head.”
“See, officers,” Tyrell continued. “He slipped and hit his head. He’s alive. It’s no big deal, right? Since he was breaking in?”
The cops seemed skeptical. I had a reputation for putting my hands on people. But there wasn’t much they could do since my father already admitted he broke in. I was surprised to hear him say it, but it worked.
“You good?” Tyrell asked once the cops were gone, his eyes searching my face.
I nodded, but my chest still felt tight, the anger stuck there, refusing to let go. “Yeah,” I managed, though it felt like a lie.
“Cool. I’m going home. My wife mad as fuck I got up out our bed to fix shit for you.”
Tyrell was a big-ass ex-NFL linebacker turned manager—light-skinned, pretty-boy type.
Used to bodyguard entertainers after he fucked his knee up, then decided to use his business degree.
I’d known him since we were young. I didn’t trust many people, but I trusted him.
He was married to an ex-porn chick turned holy-roller.
I didn’t see how he put up with her self-righteous ass. We butted heads all the time.
As we headed toward the door, my mind shifted to Jordin. “Jordin? She coming back anytime soon?” I called behind him.
I’d been trying not to mention her, but her pretty ass constantly stayed on my mind.
Ever since the first day I met her. Women didn’t always bring out the best in me, but Jordin—she was different.
With her, the noise in my head just… quieted down.
“I know she requested time from the label, but she didn’t say how much,” I said.
He turned to face me, a sneaky smile curving his lip. “Nah, she won’t be back for a while.”
I rubbed a hand over my face, exhausted. I was barely getting three hours. “What happened?”
He blurted it like he’d been waiting to tell me. “Her husband cheated on her. It’s been all over the place for weeks. Thought you’d have seen it on social media, considering how much you stalk her.”
I stiffened, shooting him a glare. “Stalk? That’s a strong-ass word, Tyrell.” My voice was defensive as hell. “I don’t stalk her. I just… like to know what she’s doing. Big difference.”
She had this pull, this energy I couldn’t shake no matter how much I tried. It wasn’t just about wanting her. It was deeper. She got under my fucking skin, made me think about shit I didn’t want to think about.
Tyrell laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure, C. Whatever makes you sleep at night.”
I ignored him. Truth was, I hadn’t looked at her socials in weeks—not because I didn’t want to, but because I’d told myself I needed to stop. Last time I saw her, she made it clear she was off-limits.
“Damn. So she’s free now?” The news brought a smile to my face.
Tyrell nodded slowly. “Yeah. You’ve been wanting her for a while. Maybe this is your shot.”
I turned away, looking out into the dark beyond my window. “Shit, maybe it is. Book me a flight from Atlanta to Tampa for tomorrow,” I told Tyrell.