9. Ro #2
After I finished the sweep, I headed back for our room.
Tarnesha was packing her things in a rushed manner, hands trembling as she shoved clothes into a duffel.
Her nails clicked against hangers, the smell of her vanilla body spray fighting with the gunpowder still stuck in the air.
The room was dim, lit only by the streetlight bleeding in through the broken blinds, streaking across her face in sharp lines.
She wouldn’t even look at me, jaw tight, eyes flicking back and forth like she was calculating her next move.
Every zip of that bag was her heartbeat trying to outrun this life, echoing sharp in the stillness.
“Where you think you goin’?” My voice came out low, gravel in my throat.
She whipped around, eyes glassy, lip quivering but jaw locked like she was done crying.
“Anywhere but here,” she snapped, slinging the strap over her shoulder.
Her voice cracked but carried weight, like she’d been holding that answer for hours.
“I ain’t stayin’ in no house where bullets come knockin’ before the sun come up.
I told you, Ro. I told you I ain’t wanna come back to this block. ”
I leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, gun still heavy on my hip.
The hallway light flickered behind me, buzzing soft like it was nervous too.
She was shaking, but that Oakland fire in her voice was real.
I could see the fear in her eyes, but fear don’t cancel attitude—not out here. Not with a woman like her.
“You think runnin’ gon’ change somethin’?” I muttered.
She glared, tears building. “It might save my damn life.”
For a moment, I didn’t say a thing. Just watched her breathe like the walls were closing in. The room smelled like candle wax, sweat, and that leftover tension you can’t wipe clean. I stepped forward, slow. “Grab your hoodie. I’ll take you somewhere safe.”
She froze, searching my face like she didn’t trust me anymore. “Safe? You think there’s such a thing as safe with you?”
“That’s all I got for you right now,” I muttered. My tone cut sharper than I meant. “Let’s go, Neesh.”
We moved through the apartment quiet, my Glock in one hand, duffel in the other.
The hall was dark except for the flashing red-blue glow from a cruiser parked two blocks down.
The siren was off, but its lights painted the wet pavement like some cheap crime scene movie.
The air inside felt heavy, thick with plaster dust, burnt gunpowder, and fear you could almost taste.
Even the floor creaked soft like it knew we were trying to leave without being noticed.
We stepped outside, the cold mist kissing our faces.
Tarnesha hugged herself, duffel clutched tight.
I kept her tucked close to my side, eyes sweeping every shadow.
The air smelled like rain and radiator steam, the block humming low with paranoia.
Curtains twitched as we passed—nosy neighbors pretending they ain’t see nothing. Typical Crest.
My R1 sat under the flickering streetlight, rear tire sagging flat, bullet holes chewed through the side fairing. My gut tightened. “We ain’t ridin’ that,” I muttered, scanning the street. “C’mon.”
We headed to the Impala parked two houses down, old-school Chevy I kept for nights like this.
I opened her door, watched her slide in, her lip trembling as she pulled her hoodie strings tight.
I slammed the door soft, slid behind the wheel, and fired up the engine.
The V8 purred low, a familiar growl that always calmed me. Not tonight.
I pulled off slow, headlights off until we hit Central. The Crest was too quiet for a block that just got lit up. That’s what scared me most. Quiet meant plotting.
Tarnesha finally spoke, voice small. “You gon’ tell me who did that?”
I tightened my grip on the wheel. “Don’t matter who did it,” I said flatly. “Matters who paid ‘em.”
Her eyes flicked toward me. “So… somebody out here really tryin’ to kill you, huh?”
I didn’t answer. That was an answer.
She exhaled shaky, stared out the window at the passing streetlights. “You gon’ get me killed, Ro. I swear to God.”
I stayed silent, navigating backstreets I’d known since I was twelve. Each turn I took was muscle memory—alleys narrow as secrets, streetlights flickering like warning signs. My shoulders stayed tight, one hand on the wheel, one near my piece.
We pulled up to a little roadside motel tucked behind a liquor store, neon sign buzzing like a dying insect. Two stories, peeling paint, door numbers half missing. The kind of spot nobody remembers being at. Perfect.
“Grab your bag,” I muttered, pulling into a back corner spot.
She hesitated. “This where you droppin’ me?”
“For now,” I replied, scanning the lot. A couple cracked-out silhouettes sat on a stairwell, minding their own business. Good.
We walked inside the office. The clerk behind the glass barely looked up, just slid me a clipboard. I scribbled a name that wasn’t mine, slid cash under the glass, and took the key. “Room twelve,” he mumbled, not caring enough to make eye contact.
Inside, the room smelled like bleach and old smoke. I set her bag down, checked the bathroom, closet, under the bed—old habits. No surprises. She stood near the door, arms crossed, lip trembling.
“You good here?” I asked, my voice low.
She finally looked at me, eyes tired, mouth tight. “Don’t act like you care.”
I sighed, rubbed the back of my neck. “If I ain’t care, you’d still be sittin’ in that apartment.”
She scoffed. “Yee, so I could catch another bullet.”
I stepped closer, close enough to smell her vanilla perfume mixed with fear. “Look… this ain’t forever. Just until I figure some shit out. Keep the door locked. Don’t answer unless it’s me.”
“You gon’ come back?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yee. Always.”
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes. I left her with the key and one last look before stepping back into the cold.
The mist clung to my hoodie as I walked back to the car, every streetlight buzzing like it had something to say.
The motel lot smelled like wet pavement and cigarettes, and my boots splashed through shallow puddles as I moved, scanning every shadow.
Even with her stashed away, I couldn’t shake the weight pressing on my chest. That shooting wasn’t random—it was a promise.
And every corner of Lyon Crest felt like it was whispering my name, waiting to cash it in.
The air hit different once I was alone again.
Mist clung to my hoodie, streetlights flickering in the distance.
My boots splashed through puddles as I crossed the lot, eyes scanning every shadow like the city was breathing down my neck.
The Crest had that pulse tonight, the kind that crawled up your spine and whispered names you thought you’d buried.
Even the wind felt thick, carrying smoke and rain and old grudges, like the whole block was awake and watching.
I climbed into the Impala and sat for a moment, engine off, hand resting on the wheel.
My chest felt heavy, but not from the shooting.
From the guilt. Tarnesha didn’t sign up for this, and I knew I’d dragged her deeper than she could swim.
Her face flashed in my mind—lip trembling, mascara streaking down her cheeks, arms clutching that duffel like it was a life raft.
That look was gonna stick to me longer than any bullet hole.
I started the car, rolled out slow, keeping to side streets until I hit the cemetery gates.
The iron bars stood tall, slick with rain, the padlock rusted but familiar.
I parked outside, stepped out, and scaled the fence like I used to when I was a kid.
The cold metal bit into my palms, and for a second, I felt twelve again—skinny, reckless, running from a future I didn’t understand yet.
Funny how I ended up climbing back into it.
The graveyard smelled like wet dirt and eucalyptus trees, the kind of scent that sticks in your memory like a scar.
The ground sucked at my boots, mud soft from days of drizzle, and the rain dripping from branches made a rhythm I couldn’t ignore.
It was quiet here, but not dead. Cemeteries never are.
They hum low, like every name carved in stone is whispering.
I moved through rows of headstones, boots sinking slightly into the soft ground.
Every step felt like it echoed, even though the night was quiet.
Sal’s plot sat near the back, under a crooked oak tree.
The flowers from last week were already dead, petals blackened and curling.
I crouched low, running a hand over the stone.
“Big homie,” I muttered, voice rough. “They still callin’ you a legend out here. Still blamin’ you for shit you ain’t even get to see.”
I leaned back on my heels, scanning the empty cemetery.
The wind carried faint sounds from the city—distant engines, a siren, some drunk yelling down a block too far to matter.
This was the only quiet I could trust. But even here, I felt like I was bein’ watched.
The Crest didn’t let you have peace. Not even around the dead.
I could feel it—the eyes, the tension, that electric hum before somebody makes a move.
I pulled my hoodie tighter, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on Sal’s name carved in stone.
“You left me this mess,” I whispered. “And I’m out here tryin’ to clean it up before they put me next to you.
” The words hit harder than I wanted to admit.
My throat burned, but no tears came. The Crest don’t let you cry easy; it just lets the guilt rot slow.