Sonnet Ellison
Friday nights had never meant much to me.
For most women my age, Friday was an excuse to put on something uncomfortable, stand in a crowded room, and pretend paying twenty dollars for a watered-down drink was fun.
For me, it meant changing into an oversized T-shirt, ordering food, and reading until my eyes burned.
I liked my life quiet. My job was stable. My bills were paid on time. I kept a small circle because large ones came with too many opportunities for people to disappoint me.
Most of my free time belonged to books. Books had always been easier than people. Characters could hurt me, but at least I could close the cover when I had enough.
I knew I probably should’ve been out with a man on a Friday night instead of curled up with a book, but being a twenty-three-year-old virgin didn’t leave me with many options.
I wasn’t a virgin by choice. I would’ve loved to trust a man enough to give him my body and believe he would take care of it.
I wanted to know what that felt like. I wanted the intimacy, the touch, the closeness, and the freedom other women talked about without overthinking every possible way it could go wrong.
But I had been raised in places where people taught you early that trust was expensive and most people couldn’t afford it.
Men proved me right too often and were quick to show me they cared more about access than responsibility.
So, my standards stayed high. I had spent too much of my life surviving people who were supposed to protect me. I wasn’t giving the softest part of myself to a man who couldn’t.
“You cannot spend another Friday night in this house reading about fictional people falling in love.”
Dior stood in the middle of my bedroom with one hand planted on his hip. He wore fitted black pants, a cropped cream top, and too much jewelry.
I playfully rolled my eyes. “I can, actually.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He snatched the book from my hands and read the cover. “A brooding billionaire with emotional damage? Again?”
“He owns a vineyard.”
He humorously scoffed, but there was some disgust and disappointment behind it. “Oh, that changes everything.”
I reached for it, but Dior held it above his head.
“You are twenty-three years old, gorgeous, educated, employed, and wasting all this body on your couch. You stay locked up in here like you’re in witness protection.”
Those words hit differently than he intended. I looked toward the living-room window, though the blinds were closed.
Dior watched my eyes. “See? Even you know the streets are calling.”
“The streets have my number blocked.”
He dropped onto the bed beside me and shoved the book behind his back. “There’s a cute little lounge opening in the West Loop. There’s good music and grown men. Let’s go have one drink.”
“No.”
“Two drinks.”
My eyes narrowed at him. “That’s not how bargaining works.”
A car door slammed somewhere outside, and I flinched.
Dior paused.
I had been like that all week. Every sudden sound made me jump out of my skin.
Even an elevator opening, phones ringing, a delivery cart striking the wall outside my office; every sudden sound sent a startled and fearful jolt through me.
Once, a coworker had approached my desk from behind and said my name, and I had nearly knocked my coffee onto the keyboard.
I had also stopped taking the shortcut beside the warehouse.
It added eleven minutes to my walk from the bus stop, but I didn’t care.
I crossed the street before I reached the block and took the longer route through the front entrance of our corporate building, where there were windows, traffic, and witnesses.
At work, I checked the street from the second-floor windows more than I checked my email. I watched dark SUVs, men in suits, and cars that stayed parked too long.
Nothing had happened, but that didn’t mean I was safe. It only meant Roman Granger hadn’t found me yet.
“You did it again,” Dior said.
I stared at him with a raised brow. “Did what?”
“Left the room while sitting right next to me.”
“I’m tired,” I lied.
“You’ve been tired all week.”
I pulled my knees to my chest. “Work has been stressful.”
Dior studied me. He knew me well enough to recognize most of my lies.
The television played quietly. I had turned on the news out of habit and lowered the volume because every story about Donovan Granger made me nauseous.
And there had been many. His death had dominated Chicago news all week.
Local stations called him a prominent businessman.
National stories referred to him as an alleged organized-crime figure.
The blogs were less careful. According to them, Donovan had not only been Roman Granger’s son.
He was also his father’s heir and second-in-command of the Granger Outfit.
They claimed Roman controlled mostly guns, but some of the city’s drugs as well, and politicians, unions, clubs, and half the men who pretended not to know him when cameras were present.
Roman had never been convicted of any of it. Instead, he donated to schools. Sponsored youth programs. Paid funeral expenses for families in struggling neighborhoods. Politicians shook his hand at charity events and called him a community leader. And the streets called him untouchable.
I believed the streets.
The security cameras at my office had supposedly captured nothing that night. Not the shooting, vehicle, or a clear image of anybody entering or leaving the loading area.
That was impossible. Our company tracked every box of medical equipment that moved through that property. There were cameras at every entrance, loading bay, hallway, and secured door.
Roman hadn’t avoided them. But he obviously had enough pull to have them erased.
That realization had ended every thought I entertained about going to the police.
A man who could clear footage from a private company before detectives accessed it could have some very high-ranking, influential friends.
He could make sure my statement landed on the desk of somebody loyal to him before I finished signing it.
I cringed as Dior picked up the remote and Roman appeared on the screen. Roman stood in front of a church surrounded by cameras, dressed in black with grief arranged perfectly across his face.
“This is some tea,” Dior said, staring at the screen. “Some of my trade has been talking about this murder. Apparently, this Donovan guy is some big name in the streets and his death is going to start a war. They think some rival gang did it.”
Only I knew that that was a lie, that he had been killed by the same man pretending to mourn him on television.
I stopped listening to Dior as Roman started to speak. “My son was loved. He was a father, brother, and leader in this community. Our family will not rest until the people responsible are brought to justice.”
Roman looked straight into the camera. For one irrational second, it felt like he was looking at me.
My eyes darted toward the blinds again.
“Sonnet.”
I didn’t answer.
Dior muted the television. “Okay, enough.”
“Enough what?”
“You jump every time somebody breathes too loud. Checking the window every five minutes. Looking like you’re waiting for Olivia Pope to send a cleanup crew.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
He shifted closer and took my hand. The teasing left his face. “What’s going on?”
The truth pressed against the lie I had been carrying all week.
I wanted to tell him. Dior was the only person in my life I considered family. He was the one listed as my emergency contact. The one who brought soup when I was sick, sat with me on holidays, and reminded me that aging out of foster care did not mean I had to go through the rest of my life alone.
But telling him would make him part of it. Roman could use him to get to me or kill him for knowing. I refused to let the one person I loved become collateral damage.
“My mother has been on my mind,” I lied.
Dior’s expression softened immediately, and I immediately felt guilty for lying to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dior asked.
“I’m tired of sounding like a broken record.”
He pulled me against him. “You don’t have to worry about that with me.”
I closed my eyes and held him. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being weird.”
“You’ve always been weird. That isn’t new.”
I laughed, as Dior kissed my temple. “You know I’m your family, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop trying to handle everything alone.”
I nodded against his shoulder. I felt terrible for lying to him. But guilt was survivable. Roman Granger might not be.
So, I let Dior believe I was haunted by the woman who had abandoned me instead of the man who might kill me.