Prologue #2
“I’m going to inform her how you talked about her when she gets older,” my father said, pointing his index finger at me.
“Yeah,” Zion butted in. “I’m going to be her favorite anyway.”
I sucked my teeth. If it was one thing Zion Everette wasn’t, it was somebody’s favorite. He whined more than a cat in heat and couldn’t follow a two-step command if he had a YouTube video on how to complete the mission in front of him.
“Echo, wash your hands and get a receiving blanket so you can hold her,” my mother said.
“I don’t want to hold her funny-looking—”
My father cleared his throat, cutting off my statement. He gave me the look as if I had seconds to do what my mother asked, or it was my ass. That was one thing about Axel—whatever the Queen said, you better make haste.
Scared as fuck, I made my way to the sink and applied water and hospital-grade soap to my hands. I scrubbed front, back, between—hell, I damn near took the soap up to my elbows. Anything to prolong my holding that kid.
Now, was she that ugly to the point I didn’t want to hold her?
I mean, that’s debatable. But for the sake of argument, I’ll say no.
I was scared shitless of this little girl, whom I’d be responsible for the rest of her life.
And the circumstances of her birth would eventually have to be explained to her.
You see, skin-to-skin aside, Olivia Everette wasn’t her birth mother.
Yes, little Pugsley Addams was ours; however, another womb carried her.
Her mother—my best friend—was somewhere in this hospital, heavily sedated.
Under the circumstances that brought her in to deliver this baby, I was almost certain she hadn’t even had the chance to hold her yet.
Hadn’t laid eyes on her. She didn’t even know her baby was here, that she survived.
Yet here we were—healthy, safe, dripping in Gucci and gold—enjoying the fruits of her labor.
That shit sat heavy in my chest.
Because the one person who deserved to be holding this little girl more than anybody… wasn’t even awake to know she existed.
“You don’t even have to do all that to wash your damn hands,” Mylo fussed.
“Shut yo ass up,” I responded.
“Aye, Mylo, watch your damn mouth. And Echo, get your scary ass over there and hold that baby,” my father ordered.
Drying my hands, I grabbed a fresh receiving blanket from the stack and made my way to my mother. I knew my father wasn’t going to ask again, so I draped the blanket over the little bundle of hell and picked her up off my mother’s chest.
Gently, I turned her to face me, holding her like that monkey held Simba in The Lion King.
I had her underarms resting between my thumb and index fingers, the rest of my fingers supporting her wobbly-ass head.
She must’ve felt uncomfortable because her little legs started stretching, and that awful cry of hers let out.
But this time it wasn’t piercing my ears. This time it felt like a challenge.
Own the game.
I heard my father’s voice in my mind.
“Aye, cut all that noise out, girl. Ain’t nobody hurting your little ass,” I said.
The baby immediately stopped crying and opened one eye as if she were in pure disgust at what I just said. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Oh, so you got a little attitude in you?” I questioned, repositioning her into my arms so she could be more comfortable. “You and I just may get along after all.”
The door opened quietly, and two women dressed in scrubs—one in white, one in blue—stepped in. Looking at their name badges, Dr. Kimberly Wilkinson was in green scrubs. The other, in blue scrubs and a white coat, had a name tag that read Marcel Jacobs, OB/GYN Resident.
“Dr. Jacobs, can you please take the children to the family room while I speak with Mr. and Mrs. Everette?” Dr. Wilkinson spoke.
“Certainly,” Dr. Jacobs responded. “Come with me,” she gestured for my brothers and me.
“Not him. He stays,” my father said, pointing to me.
Dr. Wilkinson nodded as Dr. Jacobs took Mylo and Zion out of the room.
“I would suggest laying the baby down,” Dr. Wilkinson said to me.
The seriousness in her tone made me both scared and curious.
Doing as instructed, I gently placed the baby on her back in the bassinet next to my mother’s bed.
She cooed softly at the blanket's touch, settling into its warmth, and for some reason, that made me want to cry.
Hell, I felt like I should start apologizing to her right now.
The way these two doctors came in, the way their voices dropped low and serious—it felt like one of those dramatic scenes you see in a movie, right before the worst news is delivered. All we needed was some sad-ass music playing in the background.
My body felt cold inside, like the temperature in my bones had dropped ten degrees. Anxiety replaced the blood in my veins, and every second that passed without Dr. Wilkinson speaking made my mind run wild with the one thought I was scared to face.
Whatever she was about to say… I already knew it wasn’t going to be good.
“I am so sorry, but the birth mother did not survive,” Dr. Wilkinson said. Empathy dwelled in her eyes, but professionalism never left her voice.
My father’s knees buckled slightly as he leaned against the window. My mother covered her mouth, and her eyes grew three times their size. All I could do was shake my head. Was I hearing this shit correctly? Did not survive?
The permanence in that statement stung like a needle to the eye. And then to label her as “the birth mother”—that shit felt diminishing. Like she was nothing more than an incubator, and now that her job was done, so was her purpose.
Yeah… this doctor got me fucked up.
“Naw. Hell naw. The fuck you mean she didn’t survive. She died during the birth?” I asked, tears now welling in my eyes.
“Miss Hill, sadly, passed before labor. She succumbed to the injuries brought on by the gunshot wounds,” the doctor explained. “As we know, Miss Hill—”
“Simone,” I corrected.
“Simone,” the doctor nodded. “Simone was brought in today due to two gunshot wounds—one to the stomach and one to the chest—both prompting the emergency C-section.”
She looked at the distress on each of our faces before continuing.
“Unfortunately, doctors were not able to stop her bleeding and…”
“She’s dead?” I questioned. Not that it was really a question—it was more of a cry for help. My best friend. My voice of reason. The quiet to my storms. Someone who never asked for anything but gave everything she had. Someone whose smile and humor could bring peace if World War Three broke out.
And she died?
No—correction—she was murdered.
“We have grieving counselors on site and ready if you need, and Simone’s parents are already here and gave consent for me to bring this information to you. You have my condolences,” the doctor stated before making her exit.
My body was so numb and confused that all I could do was stand still.
My vision vanished, and my breathing halted.
For the second time today, fear consumed my body, and I didn’t like that shit at all.
Simone, baby girl’s mother, was brought into the ER due to a domestic dispute that turned violent between her and her boyfriend.
Because Simone listed my family as her emergency contact, we got the call first.
I took a liking to Simone when she came to tutor the neighbor’s kids.
She was stunning—peanut butter skin, thick black hair that she always kept in a high ponytail, secured by what she called a bo-bo.
And she always had a book in her hand. As a matter of fact, she was the only person I knew who went to the library.
She had a slick-ass mouth, too. The first time we spoke was because she caught me staring from my front porch as she crossed the street into the neighbor’s yard.
“Damn, if I trip, it’s definitely going to be your fault for staring at me so hard,” she said, rolling her dark brown eyes.
Her eyes. Her eyes are what mesmerized me first—well, that and all that ass she carried in those jeans. That ass could get her the dick, but those eyes could get her the world.
“Nah, if you fall, it’s because you're looking down and your neck can’t support all that weight from your big-ass head,” I shot back. “Gravity is a bitch, ain’t it?”
“Oh shit, little rich boy got jokes,” she laughed. “I see you holding an Xbox controller. What do you play?”
“Everything, but currently rocking out with 2K,” I responded.
“You nice?” she asked.
“Come find out,” I gestured my head toward my front door.
“Later. I have this tutoring session but give me your number. I’ll text you when I’m done,” she smiled.
“Echo!”
My father’s deep call of my name made my blood flow again and all my senses returned.
“Did you hear me, son?” he questioned. “I know how close you were to Simone, but you cannot retaliate.”
Simone’s boyfriend, Sloane Roberts, was a weirdo.
One of those kids you just knew had the tendencies to be a damn serial killer.
He was always angry and always just… there.
Like, you could be washing your hands in the boys’ bathroom, look up in the mirror, and boom — the nigga was there.
Or at the amusement park, excited, waiting for the roller coaster to take off, and you turn around and boom — this nigga. And I swear he had a hard-on for me.
One time, at a birthday party my father made me attend, I had to toss Sloane’s dumb ass in the pool for knocking a plate of food out of my hand. No one liked this kid, but he was tolerated because his family had major political ties here in Havenbrook.