Chaos (BLP MC #4)

Chapter 1 Charisma

“Drink this up before it gets cold. I’m heading out now.”

“Thanks for dropping everything off for me, baby.”

I had brought my boyfriend, Ben, a pot of homemade soup, crackers, juices, cold medicine, tissues with lotion for his nose, and some canned soup.

“You’re welcome. Call me if you need anything else.” I kiss Ben’s lips while silently sending up a prayer that I don’t catch his cold.

“I won’t need anything else. Where are you heading again?”

“The studio. I have an interview.”

“With whom?” he asks, eyeing me over the cup of hot tea that I just gave him.

“It’s on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know. You’ll learn who my special guest is when the podcast is published, just like everyone else.” I smile teasingly at him.

He knows that I never reveal my guests beforehand; that is the lure of my show. People can’t wait to find out who will be on my podcast next and what tea they’ll be spilling.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he mutters and pulls the tea to his lips again.

I kiss his forehead. “Stop being a big baby. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Love you, Charisma.”

“Mm-hmm. Ditto.”

I rush out of his bedroom and out of his house. I lock the door behind me and rush to my car. Every time he says that he loves me, something tightens in my belly. I know that he expects me to say it, but I’m just not there yet. I have only told one man that I love him, and he broke my heart.

Speaking of which, I pull out my phone as I hop into my car and dial a number that I know as well as my own.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Chrissy.”

“Hey, boo. How are you?”

“I’m good. Are we still on for lunch this weekend?”

“Of course. You know that I have to see my two favorite people in the world.”

I laugh. “Don’t let your mama hear you saying that.”

“Oh, me and Miss Fast-Ass aren’t speaking right now.”

“Why not?”

“Girl, she went on that trip without giving me more than a day’s notice.”

I laugh. “You do realize your mother is a grown woman who owes you no explanation.”

“Yeah, whatever. She be out in these streets making judgment calls that she needs supervision on. If Chrishon was here—”

“But he’s not, so . . .”

She sighs. “Sorry, baby, but he is my brother, so he’ll come up from time to time.”

“I know.”

“Anyway, I will see you this weekend. I have to run. I’m running late for work, as usual, and I just pulled up.”

“Okay. Love you, sis.”

“Love you, too, Charisma.”

When she ends the call, I feel a solemn weight resting on me. I know what it is, but I can’t seem to shake it. This feeling always comes over me anytime his name comes up or anytime that I think of him for too long.

“God!” I cry out, banging my fist on my steering wheel. “Will I ever get over him?”

Silence answers me as I pull up to my studio not too far from Ben’s house. I hop out, rush into the building, and jab the button for the elevator. Chrishanna, or Chrissy as we call her, isn’t the only one running late.

When I arrive upstairs, I smile at the handsome, light-skinned man with curly hair, sitting in the chair outside of my studio door.

“Hi, Emmanuel.”

“Hello, Charisma.”

“Sorry that I’m late. Your former employer isn’t feeling well.”

He waves his hand and chuckles. “He’s a big baby that one, but he’ll be okay.”

“Are you ready?” I ask, unlocking the door to the office space that I rent.

“Of course.”

“I can’t wait to hear all the juicy details. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea, coffee, juice, or water?” I ask, heading across the room to my little refrigerator.

“Water, please. You won’t hear them all. Some of them you’ll have to wait for when the book releases.” He walks further into the room and takes a look around at my red and white decorated studio space.

Handing him a water bottle, I ask with a pout, “Do any of the details include my boyfriend?”

“You’ll have to wait to see that,” he teases as I remove a mug from the cabinet to pour hot water into.

“But where’s the fun in that? I’m doing the interview. You know you can share a little with me.” I poke my bottom lip out and bat my eyelashes at him.

He laughs. “Girl, you can be very persuasive when you want to, but no, that won’t work on me. The details I’m telling today are just enough to lure people in to buy the book, but it’s not giving anything away that makes it not worth buying the book or that might endanger my life.”

I pause with my hand on a tea bag, and I turn to look over my shoulder. “That deep?”

He angles his head, presses his lips together, and narrows his gaze. “Chile, that deep.”

“Shit.”

My heart races, and I pray that Ben isn’t included in his book. Senator Benjamin Starling has had an impeccable career and a stellar reputation in the community.

“Well, let’s get into it.” I rip my tea bag open and set it inside of the mug of hot water before I join him in the seating area.

Something tells me that I’ll need something stronger than this vanilla chai tea when this is all over with.

My head is banging like someone set off a round of cymbals inside of it. Damn. Would someone turn off the rock music, please? What the entire hell? My ears are stopped up and ringing, and I wish that it would stop.

Did I have too much to drink? I can’t remember. I don’t recall drinking anything recently, but maybe I did. Shit.

I try to roll over, but I bump into someone.

Damn. Please tell me that I didn’t drink so much that I chose to sleep with Ben.

We were so close. Damn it. I promised myself that I would wait a year before deciding to do that.

Why would I remain abstinent all this time just to throw it away on a night of drunken sex that I can’t recall?

I groan. “Ben?” I tap him to see if he’s awake, and my head lolls to the side of the pillow. It hurts too much to move too fast, and when I try to peel my eyes open and lift my head, it starts swimming. “Damn! Ben?”

I tap his arm again, but he doesn’t move or utter a word. Is he drunk too? Not Ben the good boy with virtues and grace. Surely, he isn’t drunk off his ass.

I press my hands into the mattress, and the silk texture of the sheets is unfamiliar to me. I slowly push up to a seated position, cautious not to overwhelm myself too fast.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and I see that I’m only wearing panties and a bra. We couldn’t have gotten too far if I’m still in my underclothes. I reach between my thighs and feel my panties; they’re dry. Hmm. No soiled panties. Still partially clothed.

Thank God. We didn’t have sex. Maybe a very heavy make-out session? Or maybe we were so drunk we couldn’t reach the next part.

“Ben,” I mutter again, running my hands over my messy ponytail. I need to get it braided. It’s going to be hell to straighten it out again, now that it’s all tangled and matted.

“Ben,” I call a little louder, risking the wrath of the rock band. They get louder, and I wince.

This time when I receive no answer, I turn around to shake him. There’s one problem: It’s not Ben’s smooth, golden skin stretched over taut muscles honed from years of running every morning for the last two decades. It’s not Ben’s curly hair that rests on the pillow.

I jump out of bed, forgetting all about the rock band playing for an encore. The ache throughout my tired body is a dull throb now. I stumble backward and look around the dark bedroom for the first time.

I have no idea where I am. We may not have had sex yet and the room may be dark, but I’ve been in Ben’s bedroom, and this isn’t it. “Hey!” I call out to the stranger as I bend to grab my clothes that are strewn on the floor.

I slip my feet into my sandals as I pull my yellow, floral print sundress over my body. A sliver of sunlight barely slips through a crack in the navy curtains that are drawn. A large dresser sits opposite the bed with an array of colognes, lotions, and a few knickknacks.

“Hello?” I call out again as that knot of worry in my belly turns into a rock of fear.

I’m dressed, so I move around the bed slowly, prepared to run at any minute. Maybe I should have grabbed something that could serve as a weapon, but my curiosity is compelling me to find out who this stranger is.

I don’t recall going home with a stranger from a bar. Hell, I don’t even remember being at a bar. The last thing I recall is being at a coffee shop after interviewing someone. It’s then that I realize who is in bed with me.

“Emmanuel?” I call out to the man whose dreads that are pulled back in a ponytail I now recognize.

When he doesn’t say anything, I rush to his side. His dark, handsome features are barely recognizable over the lumps, bumps, and craters that mark his face. Someone has beaten him very badly, and I pray that he isn’t dead.

I check for a pulse at his neck, and I find a thready one, and his breathing is shallow.

“Oh, Emmanuel. Oh my God! What’s going on? What’s going on?” I repeat, looking at his face and attempting to roll him onto his back.

I don’t know if he has any broken bones or not. It’s probably best if I don’t try to move him.

“Honey, hold on. I’m going to get you some help as soon as I find my phone,” I mumble, rushing around the room to search for my phone. It’s not on any surface I can see.

Lowering to my knees, I check underneath the bed and find my phone.

Damn. It’s dead. I search around the room again, and I find Emmanuel’s phone in his pants pocket.

Pulling it free, I press the unlock button on the side of it.

The fingerprint scanner pops up, and I rush to his side, grab his hand, and press his thumb against the screen.

“Please, God. Let this work.”

When the phone unlocks, I breathe a sigh of relief, and I immediately dial 911.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“My friend has been attacked, and he needs an ambulance right away.”

“What’s the address, ma’am?”

“I don’t know. Can’t you just ping the location of this phone?”

“I can. Please tell me, what’s your name?”

“You don’t need to know that, but his name is Emmanuel Tennison.”

I wipe the phone clean of my fingerprints with the hem of my sundress and then toss it on the bed beside him. Leaning closer to Emmanuel, I whisper, “It’s going to be okay, honey. Someone’s on the way now. I can’t stay. I must leave. Take care, sweet guy.”

I press a kiss to my fingertips and then touch them to his forehead before I move to search the room to make sure that I have all my belongings.

Racing into the bathroom, I find some alcohol wipes, and I use them to wipe his phone again, the doorknob, and every other surface I can see myself reasonably touching on my way out the door.

My heart thunders in my chest as I run down the steps of his apartment building and out onto the street. A quick scan of the street proves that my car is not here. So, I didn’t drive myself here, but where is my car?

I need to order an Uber, and I need to trace my last steps in hopes that I can find out what happened to me.

It’s too late in the evening, and most of the businesses on this street are closed.

There is a restaurant across the street and down a couple of blocks, but there’s a bar across the street and two buildings over.

It seems that a bar must have been the cause of my problems. I decide to start there.

It’s probably where Emmanuel and I ended up before coming to his place.

I vaguely recall having an interview with him, but we were at my studio in the morning.

After we finished the interview, we left together for iced coffee.

I can’t recall anything beyond sitting at a table while Emmanuel placed our orders in that damn coffee shop.

That was shortly before noon when we did that.

According to the time that I saw on Emmanuel’s phone, it’s well after seven now.

A blue car is creeping toward me, and chills run down my spine.

I glance in the windshield to see a male driver wearing a ballcap pulled low.

His features are hidden, but I can tell that he’s watching me.

I rush across the street and into the bar, praying that I find some answers and some help.

If someone has a charger for me to power my phone on, I can call an Uber.

The atmosphere is thick with cloying smoke. It isn’t just cigarette smoke, but the sweet, pungent aroma of weed dances in the air. I realize that I don’t belong here. I would have been better off down the street at the restaurant, if I could have made it, considering the blue car.

Looking over my shoulder, I see the car idling outside. I look back at the occupants of the bar again, and I decide to take my chances on the bar’s patrons.

If the cymbals of the rock band playing in my head aren’t bad enough, the hardcore thump of the rap music is even worse and ten times as loud.

The bar is crowded with bikers and women in scantily clad clothing.

I do a visual scan to see if I can find a worker, but it’s hard with people staring at me and whispering.

A group of three women, hanging on one man I can barely see, slowly shift out of their booth, and I realize two things.

First, the place that I have stumbled into is clearly the den of the Immortal Descendents, a one-percenter biker gang.

Second, when my eyes lock with dark, murderous ones that I will never forget, I realize that I’ve been placed in the middle of a nightmare. I’m trapped in hell.