14. Omar
Omar
I was on edge before I walked through the door. Devon had spotted Kyran in the crowd on the first night, scoping the venue, watching Rashid from the third row with two men positioned at the exits. That was reconnaissance. Tonight could be the follow-through.
Devon was already inside by the sound booth. Kadeem and Shanay were closer to the front, Shanay leaning into Kadeem's side in something dark and fitted that had him looking at her more than the stage. She caught him once and grinned. He put his hand on her lower back and left it there.
Rashid came out to a roar.
He took the stage like he owned the building. The set was tighter than the first night, sharper, the tracks landing harder because he'd already tested them on the same crowd twenty-four hours ago. He knew what worked and he leaned into it.
Stone caught my eye from across the room. He was near the bar, jacket on, no tie, a glass of something he wasn't drinking. He lifted it slightly toward the stage. I nodded. His face carried pride and something underneath the pride that was harder to read.
I couldn't enjoy it the way I had the night before. My eyes kept scanning the room, looking for Kyran's face in the crowd, checking the exits, watching for the two men Devon had photographed. I didn't see them. That made me more nervous, not less.
Rashid closed with his biggest track. The room erupted. When he disappeared backstage the energy stayed up, buzzing, electric.
Devon looked at me. "No sign of Kyran tonight."
"Maybe."
We pushed through toward backstage. The corridor behind the stage was tight and hot, Rashid's people filling the space, venue staff trying to get through with equipment.
Kadeem and Shanay were already there. Stone came through from the crowd and nodded at us, one hand on Kadeem's shoulder, the other still holding that glass.
Rashid was backstage taking the towel someone handed him, grinning, running on the high of it, his crew around him laughing and talking over each other.
Then the side door banged open and Kyran walked through with two of his boys behind him.
I clocked him before he made it three steps. Mid-level artist who'd been running his mouth about Rashid online for months. Who owned what sound, who bit what flow. The usual bullshit. But he'd come here tonight, to Rashid's show, on Baptiste territory, and that wasn't online talk anymore.
I was in front of him before he reached the corridor. "You need to leave."
He looked at me and then past me like I was furniture. "Nah, I need to have a conversation with your brother about some shit he been saying."
"Not tonight."
"Fuck that." His voice carried down the corridor. Conversations stopped. "Yo, Rashi!" He tried to push past me but I caught his arm above the elbow and squeezed until he winced. "The fuck? Get off me!"
"Walk out or I walk you out. Your choice."
His boys shuffled behind him but they weren't stepping forward. Devon had moved to cover the back door. James materialized from somewhere near the equipment cases. Kadeem's hand dropped from Shanay's back and he ushered her away toward the door.
Kyran kept running his mouth. "Baptiste name don't mean what it used to, fam. Your whole family out here riding your daddy's reputation like he built something worth keeping. Rashid ain't nothing but an industry plant making studio music for streaming numbers."
His boys nodded along like they were backing a winner.
"Omar." Kadeem's voice was low. Controlled. A warning to keep it clean and get a handle on the situation.
"Last time," I told Kyran. "Go home."
Kyran's eyes locked on something behind me and his face split into a grin. Rashid had come through the curtain, still in his stage clothes, towel around his neck. He took in the scene without speaking.
"There that nigga is," Kyran called out. "The golden boy himself. Yo Rashid, your pops would be sick watching you put out this garbage. Malik Baptiste rolling in his grave right now watching his son make pop music for white bitches, cos that's where he is, ain't it? Dead and buried for real."
The corridor went dead quiet.
"Watch your mouth or I'mma..."
I didn't get to finish it. Rashid moved around my shoulder before I could stop him.
He crossed the space in three steps and his fist connected with Kyran's jaw so hard that Kyran's feet left the floor.
His body followed his head backward. He hit the wall and bounced off it.
Kyran's boys flinched. Devon and James were already on them, hands firm, voices low.
Rashid grabbed Kyran by the front of his shirt and hit him again. A body shot that folded him forward, then Rashid grabbed the back of his head and drove his knee up into Kyran's face. Something cracked. The sound was wet.
I got Kyran by the collar and hauled him toward the back door before anyone in the venue heard what was happening.
He was heavy and limp and making sounds that didn't form words.
Blood was running from his nose and his mouth and somewhere above his left eye.
Rashid followed us through the door and into the lot, his breathing steady, his face completely flat.
The lot was empty. Cold air, dumpsters against the far wall, two cars parked near the fence. I let go of Kyran and he dropped to the concrete. His head hit the ground and his body curled into itself.
Rashid stood over him. Blood on his knuckles, his shirt pulled out of shape from grabbing Kyran, but otherwise unbothered. Like he was waiting for a cab.
"Don't ever say his name," Rashid said quietly. "You hear me? Don't you ever say his fucking name."
Kyran tried to speak. Blood bubbled out instead. He got one arm under himself and pushed. He made it halfway up before his elbow buckled and he went back down. Rashid watched him struggle, then kicked him in the ribs. The sound Kyran made was barely human.
"Rashid." I kept my voice level. "Enough."
My brother looked at me. His eyes were clear and calm and that was worse than anger. Anger burns off. Whatever this was, it lived in him.
"Aight," he said, and stepped back.
I crouched over Kyran. His pulse was there but it was thin and fast. His breathing rattled. One eye had swollen shut and the other wasn't tracking right. Blood was pooling on the concrete under his head.
"He's breathing," I said.
Rashid pulled out his phone and started scrolling.
Kadeem came through the back door. One look was all he needed. "Nobody was here." He texted Devon.
Stone appeared at the mouth of the lot thirty seconds later. He didn't come in. He stood at the entrance facing the street, one hand in his pocket, his back to us. Watching. Making sure the way was clear. Clean hands. Professional distance.
Devon pulled up in the SUV and we loaded Kyran into the back. His breathing was shallow and his eyes were closed. Kadeem told Devon to take him to King's County, side entrance, make it look like he walked in. Devon nodded and drove.
Stone turned back to us once the car was gone. "Rashid, let me see those hands."
Rashid held them out. His knuckles were split and swelling.
"Come inside," Stone said. "Let's get you cleaned up before anyone notices."
He guided Rashid back toward the building with a hand on his shoulder. Kadeem and I stayed in the lot. The cold settled against the sweat on my neck.
We cleared out separately. Stone left alone. Rashid went to an after-party in Clinton Hill with his people like nothing had happened. Kadeem dropped Shanay home and then met me at Ma's.
She was asleep upstairs, didn't know we were there, didn't know what the evening had produced. Kadeem put two glasses on the table in the kitchen.
"That's the second time," Kadeem said.
We both knew what he meant. Different circumstances a year ago, same result. That time we could call it self-defense. This time we couldn't call it anything.
Kadeem poured us a whisky from Ma's cabinet and pushed one across the table. We drank in silence for a while. Somewhere upstairs Ma was sleeping and she didn't know her youngest had just beaten a man half to death over a name none of us could let go of.
"He ain't gonna stop," I said.
Kadeem looked at me. His face was tired in a way that had nothing to do with the hour. "That's the problem."
Kadeem rinsed the glasses and put them in the drainer. "Go home. Get some rest."
"You?"
"Same."
We left through the back door. The street was cold and empty. I drove back to Bed-Stuy and sat in my car outside my building with the engine off.
My phone buzzed. Devon: He's stable. Barely.
I read the message and closed my phone. The street was quiet. A couple walked past on the opposite sidewalk, laughing about something, living in a version of Brooklyn that had nothing to do with mine.
Then I thought about Asha. Not about the kiss or the park or the conversation. Just her. The exhaustion in her voice when she'd told me about Supreme. The three years she'd been holding it down and the money she was saving and the fact that she was trapped inside a life she'd never chosen.
I was going to get her out of there.
Not the smart way. Not the careful way. Not the way Kadeem and the Associates would approve. But I was going to do it.
I opened my phone and scrolled to the number I'd saved from her Instagram page.
Her booking line. I stared at it. My thumb hovered over the call button and I let it sit there for a long time, weighing it up.
Calling her was stupid. Texting her was stupid.
Anything that left a trail between my phone and hers was a direct line back to Supreme if anyone ever looked.
But I saved the number under a name that meant nothing to anyone but me.
I got out of the car and went upstairs.
Tomorrow I'd deal with the rest of it.