TIME’S UP #3
Thrusting her hips against his, Niva wined slowly, working her way toward her next climax.
Their heavy breathing left the car hot and foggy.
Kneading at her flesh, he could have sworn he caught a glimpse of a shadow moving around his whip.
Gripping Niva’s back, he pulled her closer and looked past her shoulder.
His sixth sense went off at the same time he shot up the club.
The sudden spew of gunfire into the car sent Eazy falling into the passenger seat with Niva close in his arms.
Simultaneously, he caught a blast of fire going off in the distance, sending an amber glow through the sky.
Glass shattered far too close for his comfort, and a string of bullets suddenly emptied into his whip.
Riddled with hot, searing pain, he listened while tires skirted against the pavement.
Silence enveloped them seconds later, as if nothing happened.
It echoed in the air before panicked voices chattered along the sidewalk.
People suddenly poured from their apartments onto the street to see what was happening.
“The fuck?” Eazy peered into Niva’s stricken expression. “Baby, you good?” He gripped her face between his large hands and watched her lips slowly part.
She released a weak gasp, and his eyes swept over her in panic. He spotted the blood stains filling her top. When she tried to speak, she choked with tear-stained eyes.
“Niva, baby… shit...” Eazy broke, gripping her chin and suddenly growing weak and dizzy himself.
He didn’t realize that he’d been hit too.
Sirens wailed against the mutters of the eyewitnesses on the block.
With a million thoughts bouncing around his head, he held his girl close.
Niva took her last breath in the arms of the man she loved, and a part of him died right there with her.
Slipping his hands into the pocket of his pants, Eazy dug out the burner phone he used for business.
When he hit speed dial number one, the phone seemed to ring forever before someone picked up.
His grip loosened, but there was soft rustling before whimpers and light breathing filled the line.
“Help me,” were the last muffled words he heard before the phone slipped from his bloody hand.
About a week later…
“Bull! Telephone!” With a deeply furrowed brow and beads of sweat dripping down his face, Bezai Andrews, known as Bull to the streets, spun toward the metal door that pitched open.
Chest heaving, he skimmed one of his men, Red, lingering in the doorway, holding his cell phone up.
Using his upper arm, Bull swiped some of the sweat from his forehead.
Painful groans slipped through the swollen lips of the man hanging from a hook in the ceiling.
With his hands bound by thick rope, his chin drooped to his chest, and blood oozed out of the many slashes in his skin. The room smelled like death and acid.
“Take a fucking message.” He gritted his teeth, prepared to turn back to his prey, when Red’s next words stopped him.
“It’s a call from Prospect Pointe.”
He was in LA, and his parents were in Kansas, which meant there was a time difference, and it was later there than it was here.
Instinctively, he knew something was wrong.
Tossing the blade in his hand onto the nearby steel tray lined with more weapons of all shapes and sizes, he moved toward the door and took the phone from Red.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Bronx.” His father, Braxton Andrew’s booming voice struck the line when Bull pressed the iPhone to his ear.
“What happened?” Bull breathed heavily, stomach tanking anxiously, waiting for an answer.
He spoke to his family on a week-by-week basis, but for the last couple of years, Los Angeles was his home.
His mother was always trying to plead her case and get him to come back, but Prospect Pointe, Kansas, didn’t fit into his plans.
He wanted to wipe his hands of his hometown, but something was constantly trying to pull him back there.
The West Coast was good to him. There was pretty weather, legalized weed, and beautiful women to keep him distracted.
Not only that, but his clientele out here paid top dollar for his services.
“He’s dead. His funeral is tomorrow,” his father revealed. “Your family needs you, Bezai.”
“The fuck you mean dead? How the fuck am I just now hearing about this?”
“I didn’t think you cared.”
“The fuck out of here. That’s my fucking brother!” he growled.
“Your ticket is waiting for you at the airport. Flight leaves in two hours. I just spent the last week planning to bury the son who decided to stick around for his family. I hope this doesn’t inconvenience you too much.” Braxton’s mocking tone left Bull clenching his fist and jaw at the same time.
“I’ll be there.” Without another word, he ended the call.
Typically a man of little reaction, Red caught the flicker of something behind Bull’s hardened expression.
“You good?” he checked with him.
“My brother is dead.” Bull shook his head, causing his shoulder length locs to sway.
The news rattled him, but he’d never let a motherfucker see him off his square. Stepping to his captive audience, Bull snatched a surgical blade from the table and inched closer.
“Looks like you get a fast track to hell. I have something more important to deal with.” In a single swiping motion, he slit the man’s throat and listened to him gargle and struggle to take in a breath.
He had what he needed an hour ago. He’d maimed him for his own shits and giggles.
Blood filled his lungs, depriving him of oxygen.
Tilting his head to the side, Bull watched him twitch until there was no life in him.
He swung back and forth from the ceiling in a gradual motion.
Tossing the knife on the table, Bull pivoted on his heel.
Taking long strides to the door, his six-foot three stature often towering over other men, Bull stopped in the hallway where Red handed him his phone.
“There’s a car waiting for you,” Red reported. “What you need me to do?”
“Get rid of this mothafucka. I want his body so far gone not even the dogs can detect his ass. I might be MIA for a while. You straight with holding shit down around here?” Bull queried.
“Yeah, I got you, boss. Everything good with the family?”
“Nah. Looks like I gotta go remind a few mothafuckas what it is.” Bull pushed past him so he could swing by his condo for a quick shower before he hit the airport.
Luckily, LAX wasn’t far from his spot, so he would make good on time.
He knew to pack light and take what he would need because when he touched down in his home city, he would have everything at his fingertips.
Not one to dwell too much on things out of his control, Bull did his best to push the voice of his father out of his head.
Yet, when he boarded the plane and finally settled in his seat, all he could hear was the fact that his brother was dead.
Signaling to the stewardess for a drink, he tossed his head back against the seat.
In his mind, he would never willingly return to Prospect Pointe.
Out of all his family, Bronx was the only one who understood when he left and why.
Being under his father’s thumb was never something Bull wanted for himself.
He tried to lock his goon tendencies away, but motherfuckers stayed bringing him out.
He didn’t know what happened, but he was prepared to paint the streets and lay anybody down when it came to his blood.