Chapter 3
Loaded
I spot the Voxy and say a silent prayer before pulling on my gloves. I know I’m going to kill him. The hatred I carry for Adonis is unreal.
Worse than what I felt for Carlos. Maybe it’s because he almost hurt Zara. Maybe because he’s still breathing.
Junior points it out, but my eyes already locked onto it, piercing through the windshield like I can see into his soul.
“A it dat enuh,” Junior says from the back.
The others tense up in response. The way they’re driving. This drive by aguh tek dem by surprise. Every man a dead wid dem eye open.
Look how dark the man a meds…
“Wah wi a go do, G?” Gutta asks, glancing over at me.
“Just slow down,” I instruct, voice calm, hands steady as I draw the Glock.
“Even though a almost 2 o’clock now, yuh might still buck up police pan di road. So wi cya be reckless.”
They listen, every one locked in. Junior and Juaqína have their ‘matics loaded. Gutta’s got the Sig Sauer. Everyone’s ready.
“Anuh no undercover thing like we used to, yuh zimi? So we affi think smart and fast,” I say, scanning the road.
They all nod. “No joke,” Gutta mutters, watching the Voxy like prey.
“Fi real,” Juaqína adds from behind me. Junior’s on the other side.
We’re all dressed in black pullovers and ski masks. I watch the Voxy for a few more seconds.
“Pull ova yasso… cya 3 follow dem, might look sus.” Gutta pulls over and kill the lights.
Gutta pulls over and cuts the lights.
“Wi cya do this messy and wi affi member seh wen him dead police a guh look into the last shooting which would a be with we and that would a lead them to we so we affi do it in a way weh dem nah suspect we,” I say. Their eyes fixed on me.
“Wi a go do this like a drive by, but fi nuh mek we be a suspect wi affi mek it look like a robbery.”
Juaqína chimes in. “Worst like how dem nuh come from up here, and the area weh wi deh known fi things like this.”
“It a go be like another robbery and quick quick that fly over them head. But if we dweet otherwise, chances are we a go be suspect weh tek revenge,” I tell them.
“Yeah fi real. So the robbery thing a go change the whole look of it and limit our chances of being a suspect,” Junior adds.
“Wi nah drive pan the main,” I tell Gutta.
“Mi know that mi Don,” he says. I exhale slow, getting myself mentally ready.
“Ready?” I ask. They nod.
“Born ready,” Gutta mutters, before easing the car forward. As soon as we approach the Voxy, Gutta pulls up on the driver’s side, window sliding down inch by inch.
“Shit!” one of them shouts but before they can even grab their guns, shots tear into them.
I open fire. The first bullet smashes into the driver.
He jerks, scrambling low, trying to escape.
I shoot him again. And again. Until he isn’t moving.
The rest howl, panic spilling out of the Voxy.
I keep squeezing, bullets shredding metal and glass. Everyone a dem affi dead.
I lower my aim, targeting the bottom of the bus door. A technique my father drilled into me, ensuring bullets cut through flesh and vital organs. I remember his words, his voice heavy in my head.
“If yuh a do drive by, it good fi aim fi dem head. But yuh might miss if yuh nuh steady. So mek sure yuh focus pan the door. That way yuh know fi sure it a hit them.” That man was a real killa.
Two minutes flat and it’s over. Me and Gutta jump out quick, guns raised. I circle to the back, weapon steady, scanning. Their bodies slumped. Eyes wide open. Just how I imagined. Adonis still twitching, blood bubbling at his lips, leaking slow.
Lovely. Just lovely.
My jaw tightens, my gaze cutting into him.
“Dem neva tell yuh fi nuh ramp wid me?” I ask, snatching his phone and wallet. He gasps, fighting for breath. I press the barrel to his head.
“Weh yuh did a go do… hurt mi mother?” His chest heaves. I don’t wait for an answer. I pull the trigger, and his marrow splashes out over his dashboard, even his his windscreen.
“Dead bwoy,” Gutta taunts, pulling out their money and phones.
“A it dat. Mek wi move.”
We slide back in the car and speed off. Once we’re out of that vicinity and get to our next stop, Gutta parks, and we get rid of everything.
I move to the side, raise the gun, and put a bullet through the phones before dumping them.
I don’t enjoy killing people, but there’s a darkness in me that makes it easy if you push me.
My mind runs on Zara. Jah. Mi nah hide this from har.
Mi a try change annd stop the secretive, lying thing.
I don’t go home. Not yet. I need to clear my head or cloud it.
I can’t face her yet. I need to get high first.
We crash at Gutta’s house since it’s the closest. We smoke for a while, the more I drag the spliff, I zoned out. They’re still talking. I’m not. By the time the sun starts creeping through the curtains, it’s almost 6 a.m.
Anna walks into the living room, yawning, tugging her shirt down when she sees us. She freezes. “Watch yah? Morning…” she laughs. “A how long unuh deh yer?”
They answer. I don’t. I’m staring out the window, weed burning low between my fingers. My mind’s too loud for a conversation.
“Couple hours now,” Gutta says, his voice flat.
She keeps talking. I don’t listen. Not until I hear my name.
“Nick’s not in the mood,” Juaqína cuts in with a tired laugh.
And she’s right. I’m not. I feel heavy. Hollow. Like I left pieces of myself back there, still holding the gun.
ZARA
I don’t know how people do this. Seriously.
How does anyone sit in a house like this, for more than a day, and not go insane?
It hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours and I already feel like I’m losing my mind.
I’m not built for this kind of stillness.
I’ve spent most of my days in a classroom, doing something, anything.
So now, sitting here in this house, doing nothing, just…
existing? It feels foreign. Like I’m living in someone else’s skin.
And it boring too! My subconscious adds.
Usually, I’d be up early, getting dressed, packing my bag, rushing out for school or heading to my practicum.
Now? Just like that… all that just gone so. Nah lie, mi miss it bad.
This morning, I woke up early after crashing at 1 a.m. I showered, made breakfast, now I’m watching TV. And that’s it.
I can’t do this, just sitting around. Ugh!
I decide to go outside for fresh air. The moment I step out, the dog starts barking. Again. I’m not running today. As I get closer, I see he’s a German Shepherd—huge, muscles rippling under his shiny coat. So big I swear he could snap his chain and tear down his kennel.
I keep my distance, eyes locked on him. He stops barking, but now his lips curl in a low growl. I step back, heart racing. Then my back presses into something solid and warm.
Nickoi.
Before I can think, his rough hands slide up my arms, slow, his fingertips warm, curling around my elbows like he’s anchoring me in place. His face dips into the crook of my neck, breath warm and steady against my skin. I can’t help the soft smile that spreads across my lips.
“Morning, Mr. Jacobs,” I whisper, heat blooming across my cheeks and neck. My eyes drift down to his hands, thick veins standing out against his smooth skin, the way his fingers flex with quiet strength. He brushes his lips along my ear, sending a shiver straight between my thighs.
A low chuckle rumbles in his throat before he whispers, “How was it sleeping without me Mami?” His voice is rough, deep, like velvet mixed with danger. He always looks, and sounds angry, with lust dancing in his eyes, and fire in his touch. Me… did affi breed.
“U-um…” My throat tightens, voice barely a whisper. “It was horrible sleeping without you.”
He pulls me around, so I’m facing him. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion, but he still manages a small smile. Then his expression hardens, his features sharp. “Yuh wah know wah me do?”
I know that tone. He killed someone. His uncle.
I shake my head, unable to look away. “I know, baby.”
He holds my gaze, silent, intense and unreadable. “You okay with this?” he asks, voice low and rough like gravel under silk.
I nod, slow. “Still adjusting… but I understand.”
And I do. It’s not perfect. But with him? I’m learning to hold space for both the fire and the comfort.
He pulls me into his chest, wraps his arms around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Then he bites my lip, and the sting is light, but I still whine.
“Nickoi,” I mumble, touching it, “You already bit it.”
He kisses the spot, gently this time. Soft. Careful.
“Love you,” he whispers.
It lands in the quiet space between us like a promise. Like a truth he doesn’t tell often. I smile at him, and for a second, I forget everything else. The noise, the past, the worry.
“You’re really handsome enuh… I hope she gets your smile,” I tease, brushing my fingers across his cheek.
He narrows his eyes, lips twitching. “Yuh mean yuh hope him get my smile.”
I laugh softly, rolling my eyes. “Let’s see.”
He slips his arms lower, hands settling on my waist, trailing down like he’s been waiting all day just to feel me again.
“Jah Jah,” he mutters, then grabs my ass.
His fingers sinking down in my flesh. My silk shorts ride up from the grip, and heat shoots through me.
Not just because of the touch. But because it’s him.
This man who rarely says what he feels but shows it in how he holds me, how his fingers linger like they’re claiming every inch of me.
And even though his body is all tension and edge, his touch? It’s home. He’s home.
“Mi have sup’m bad fi tell yuh,” he says, voice pulling me from the high.
My smile drops slightly. I blink up at him, searching. “You a go understand?”
I inhale. “Tell me.”
“Talia kiss me.”
He says it low. Honest. No excuses in his tone. And even though a flicker of heat rises in my chest, I see it in his eyes. That regret. That softness he never gives anyone else.
And I feel… safe. Still wanted. Still his.
“A she kiss you, baby. So yuh don’t need fi apologize,” I say, brushing his jaw.
And just like that, his whole energy shifts. His gaze drops, slow and heavy.
I know that look. The one he gives me when his words stop working, and it’s just his eyes telling me what he wants. What he needs.
And my body? It listens before I even think. My stomach flutters. My thighs press close. And I feel that ache. That craving. Because being wanted like this? By him? It makes me feel soft without feeling small. Powerful without needing to be loud. I don’t have to ask for love.
He just gives it, raw, unspoken and buried in the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this world.
“Mi miss yuh enuh,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot and heavy, dancing along my skin like temptation itself.
I smile, lips parting. “Mi miss yuh t—”
But I lose the rest of the sentence. His hand is already sliding down my waist, grazing the curve of my hip before gliding across my navel, slow and deliberate. Then it dips into my shorts. I gasp. Not from surprise, but from the way it feels, the way he touches me like he owns every inch of me.
His palm presses against my print through my lace panty, rough fingers curling agonizingly close to where I want it, he holds back for me to yearn for him to move just a little closer.
I look up at him, frustration painting my glare. He has the prettiest smile, looking down at me, my essence trickling down his fingers. “Why you a play with me?” my back arches just a little, instinctively and I bite my bottom lip to stifle the sound rising in my throat.
God. This man touches me like he’s trying to remind me. Remind me who I belong to. Remind me that no matter what happens outside these walls, here in this moment, in his arms, I’m his.