Chapter 2
Chapter Two
R her heart pounded so loudly she could hear it in her ears. Panic crowded her thoughts.
“What if they don’t like my voice?” she whispered, a symphony of nerves playing in her.
She was a world away from the church choir; she didn’t have the voices of others to blend in with. This was all her. It was all or nothing at that moment.
Under the dim spotlight, Zena stepped out onto the stage and looked over the audience, hoping to spot a familiar face. The plush seats were packed, but she couldn’t find Tate that caused her stomach to tighten.
“H-how y’all doing tonight?” Zena stuttered into the microphone.
Crickets. Tough crowd.
With no time to ponder, on cue, the beat for “I Have Nothing” by Whitney Houston began playing softly through the speakers.
Taking an uneasy breath, Zena began singing, but stumbled over her words at the song’s opening.
She abruptly stopped, her confidence shaken.
The audience shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances.
Moments went by as she stood frozen, gripping the mic tightly. It became so slick with her sweat that it nearly slipped from her hand.
“Come on with this bullshit. Fuck off the stage. Where are the hoes that can sing?” a man slurred loudly.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
She wanted to shrivel up and die right there on stage.
Yet, amidst the initial unease, a subtle determination flickered in her eyes.
She motioned for the track to start again.
Closing her eyes, she returned to her happy place.
No longer mentally at Lucky’s, she was in the living room with her mother on a Sunday morning after church.
Her mother was playing her favorite Whitney Houston song through the speakers, always providing her with the best taste in music.
They would perform together for an imaginary audience.
Her mother had the most angelic voice she had ever heard.
Had her mother been here today, she would have been cheering her on from the front row and cussing out anyone who felt otherwise, just as she did at every choir performance and every single talent show.
For that little girl who would sing her heart out in front of anyone.
That little girl didn’t have a fear in the world; her dream had always been to sing.
At that moment, she became that little girl again.
This is for you, Mom.
Slowly, she began singing again… as if Angela were in the crowd.
“Share my life, take me for what I am
‘Cause I’ll never change all my colors for you.”
Silence stretched through the room.
As the song went on, she transformed. With each moment, she grew more confident, capturing everyone’s attention in the club. What began as disappointment gradually turned into awe as Zena’s growing confidence shone through every lyric.
“Don’t make me close one more door
I don’t wanna hurt anymore”
Her eyes darted around the venue as she continued to sing.
Waves of appreciation rolled through the audience.
Smiles adorned faces, lighters were raised, and some even closed their eyes, savoring her voice as it wrapped around them.
A middle-aged woman in the audience stood and yelled, “Sing it, girl!” boosting her morale.
Every member of the audience had their eyes glued to her.
Zena finished that song and flowed seamlessly into the next one.
The impact of J-Rock’s fist connecting with Tate’s jaw sent a blinding white flash across his vision. The next strike split his lip, and the metallic taste of blood instantly filled his mouth. The third, a blow to the chest, folded him in half.
“I need my money, lil nigga!” J-Rock barked.
Near the exit, two burly silhouettes stood guard. Their posture was relaxed, faces blank as they watched the beating.
Tate had let his ego run the numbers. He’d overplayed his hand and ended up in the red by five figures.
That was the thing with high-stakes games, it was no limit.
The second the chips cleared and Tate couldn’t produce the money, he’d been yanked out of his chair by his collar and dragged into the night to settle up the hard way.
Another fist slammed into Tate’s ribs. He collapsed onto the concrete, gasping for air.
Wheezing, his mind raced through the numbers. He had already cleaned out her entire savings the last time he’d dug himself into a hole. He couldn’t borrow the money from anybody. He was entirely on his own.
A sudden click shattered the quiet. The barrel of a gun, cold steel, pressed firmly against his temple.
“I hate wannabe hard-ass niggas like you,” J-Rock bellowed, leaning in close. “Always thinking you’re the smartest motherfucker in the room.”
“Wait!” The word tore from Tate’s throat, wet and choked with blood. “Wait... I got something better than cash.”
The pressure against his skull eased up, just a fraction. “Talk.”
“My girl.” Tate’s chest heaved as he struggled to get the words out. “She can sing, man. Like real good. I know you got the connections. You move in those circles, you get people signed.”
J-Rock snatched Tate up by his jacket, dragging him upright until they were nose-to-nose. “You think this is a fucking game, lil nigga? You think you can pay a debt with a mixtape?”
“Nah, man, listen to me! If you put her in front of the right people, you’ll make your money back three times over,” Tate pleaded, the desperation bleeding through his teeth. “I swear to God.”
J-Rock stared at him. “How do I know you’re not just lying to keep your brains off the pavement?”
“My phone,” Tate wheezed. “In my pocket. Just look at the videos.”
At J-Rock's nod, one of the guards stepped forward, shoved his hand into Tate’s jacket, and yanked the device free. He unlocked it and tapped a video, holding the screen up to J-Rock’s face.
The screen was illuminated with a video from their first week in their old apartment. They hadn't even owned furniture yet, just a deflated air mattress on the floor. Zena was sitting against the wall, her hair untamed, a guitar resting in her lap. She was wearing one of Tate’s oversized T-shirts.
Then her voice drifted from the speaker, singing Monica’s “Angel of Mine.” It was a flawless, soul-stirring rendition, perfectly suited for her voice.
In the middle of a filthy alley, her voice sounded pure.
J-Rock watched the video in silence.
Finally, he looked down at Tate, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face.
“She knows where you’re at tonight?”
“No,” Tate whispered.
J-Rock tossed the phone back to the guard and lowered the weapon.
“I might be able to do something with that.” He looked down at Tate like he was a piece of trash. “But if she turns out to be a waste of my time...”
“She won't be,” Tate interrupted, wiping a smear of blood from his chin with the back of his hand. “I promise you, “
“Give him his shit.”
The guard tossed Tate’s jacket into the dirt beside him.
J-Rock turned and walked back toward the heavy metal door, pausing just before stepping inside to look over his shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”
The door slammed shut, leaving Tate alone in the alley.