Still In Too Deep (The Deep #2)

Chapter One

SYNTHIA “JUICY” brOOKS

The gunshot exploded in the small bedroom, ringing so loud I thought my eardrums burst. I shoved my index fingers into my ears like makeshift earplugs, but the damage was already done. My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking.

Romelo stood there grinning—that same sick Joker smile he had on his face when he killed Allen two weeks ago. Blood dripped down his forehead in thick rivulets, painting his face red, but he didn't even flinch. This nigga was insane. Certifiably fucking insane.

"Still think I give a fuck about death?" he sniggered, wiping blood from his brow with the back of his hand. "I fear losing you more than anything."

The bullet had grazed his forehead—just barely. An inch lower and he would've been dead. My arms broke out in goosebumps and my chest heaved up and down so hard I thought I might pass out. This was too much. All of this was too fucking much.

Then I felt it.

Warmth spreading down my inner thighs. The realization hit me like a slap—I'd pissed myself. The liquid was warm against my skin, soaking through my pajama bottoms, but thankfully it didn't smell yet.

"You're really a sick ass bastard!" I screamed, my voice cracking. I curled my top lip in disgust. "You could've killed yourself!"

My eyes followed the blood trailing down his handsome face. Even covered in his own blood, the nigga was fine. That made it worse somehow.

"That's the fucking point, Juicy." His voice was calm, too calm. He staggered past me toward the bathroom, his shoulder brushing mine. "I'd choose death if you don't choose me."

I heard him mutter under his breath: "Pissy ass pussy."

Every instinct told me to stay put, to let him go handle his own shit, but my feet moved on their own. My heart hammered against my ribcage as I followed him into the bathroom, my wet thighs sticking together with each step.

He stood in front of the mirror, legs spread wide in that bow-legged stance, joggers hanging low enough to show the band of his Ralph Lauren boxers.

His lanky frame seemed to take up the entire bathroom.

He examined the wound on his forehead like he was checking for a pimple, not a fucking gunshot wound.

"Here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, holding it out to me. "Call Roxx. Tell him to meet me at the dungeon."

His tone was so casual, so unbothered, like he hadn't just put a gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. Would he be this calm if I'd been the one to shoot him? Would he have that same dead look in his eyes?

Probably. The nigga doesn't feel shit.

But that wasn't entirely true. I'd seen glimpses of something else in him—something that almost looked human.

"R-Roxx," I stammered, my fingers trembling as I took the phone. "What do you mean 'the dungeon'?"

"Juicy." He sighed, and for the first time I heard exhaustion in his voice. "Just do what the fuck I tell you to do."

I unlocked his phone—I knew the passcode by now, he'd made me memorize it—and scrolled to Roxx's contact. My hands were still shaking as I pressed call and held the phone to my ear.

Roxx picked up on the second ring. His voice was flat, unbothered. "Yo."

"Um, Roxx? It's Synthia. Romelo said to meet him at the dungeon. He—he shot himself. In the head. He's bleeding but he's okay, I think, I don't know, he's acting like nothing happened—"

"A'ight. I'll be there in ten."

Click.

That was it. No panic. No questions. Like this shit happened every Tuesday.

I stared at the phone in my hand, then at Romelo who was now leaning against the granite countertop, still examining the wound with that same detached curiosity.

"You do know how crazy this is, right?" My voice came out sharper than I intended. "I can't fucking believe you."

He didn't respond.

Something inside me snapped.

I walked out of the bathroom—or tried to. I made it three steps before I hurled his phone at the counter. It bounced off the granite with a loud crack and clattered to the floor. I didn't check if it broke. I didn't give a fuck.

Fear was draining out of me, being replaced by something hotter. Anger. Pure, molten rage.

"I'm so fucking sick of this shit!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the walls. "I fucking hate you! I hate you! I fucking hate you!"

My vision blurred. Not from tears—from rage. Red flames danced at the edges of my sight and I felt demonic. Feral. I swung my fists in the air, hitting nothing, needing to hit something.

This was cruel. I wasn't a mean person. I didn't deserve this shit. None of this was for me—it was all for him. Some sick game he was playing. Fuck the money. He could keep all of it. This nigga had me trapped like I was in a R. Kelly basement.

I should've run when I had the chance.

"Juicy." His voice was calm behind me. Too calm. "Mane, what the fuck."

I spun around. He was leaning against the doorframe now, white towel pressed to his forehead, blood seeping through the fabric. He looked bored. Unbothered.

That look—that fucking look—made me lose it completely.

I stomped over to him and swung. My fist connected with his mouth with a satisfying crack. His head snapped back from the force.

For a moment, everything went still.

Then he lifted his head, slowly, and I saw it—the shift. His eyes went dark. Cold. The bored expression melted into something dangerous.

There was blood on his upper lip. He licked it off.

"Oh fuck," I whispered.

I balled up my fist to swing again—some suicidal part of me couldn't stop—but he was faster. He caught my hand mid-air, his grip like iron. Then he unballed my fist, slowly, deliberately, and bent my fingers backward.

"Owwww!" I screamed, the pain shooting up my wrist and into my arm. "Stop! Romelo, stop!"

He let go and I snatched my hand back, cradling it against my chest. My fingers throbbed.

"Yeah, 'bout as dumb as yo stupid ass is," he snarled. His handsome face was screwed up in anger now, finally showing some kind of emotion. "The fuck is wrong wit' yo ass, bruh? I don't even hit bitches, but I'm itching to do yo ass in."

"I ain't scared of yo ass," I lied.

I was terrified.

"You shouldn't be," he said, voice dropping low. "That ain't my goal. But I swear that was some stupid ass shit. Keep on fuckin' wit' me and I'ma fold yo ass like an omelet." He touched his mouth, examining the blood on his fingers. "You know how stupid you looked, bruh? Back the fuck up."

He shoved me—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make his point—and brushed past me.

My legs gave out. I sank onto the edge of the bed, the pillow-top mattress dipping under my weight.

I watched him through slitted eyes as he walked back into the bathroom, still carrying that blood-soaked towel.

He picked his phone up off the floor—the screen was cracked now, spiderwebbed across the front.

"C'mere," he snapped, holding his free hand out. Not asking. Demanding.

I didn't move.

"You ain't got no fuckin' choice 'cause I ain't leaving this house without you." His eyes locked on mine. "Find you some dry clothes to put on."

Dry clothes. Right. Because I'd pissed myself.

Shame burned through me, hotter than the anger. I stood up, stomped past him to the dresser, and yanked open drawers until I found a pair of my leggings and some clean panties. He'd brought my shit here weeks ago—more evidence that this wasn't temporary. That he'd planned this.

I started toward the bathroom to change and shower, but his voice stopped me.

"We ain't got time for you to clean that pissy ass pussy, Synthia."

I froze, humiliation flooding through me. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth hurt.

Fine.

I turned around, looked him dead in the eye, and stripped right there in the bedroom. I peeled off my piss-soaked pajama bottoms and panties and threw them in the corner. Let him watch. Let him see what he'd reduced me to.

I pulled on the clean clothes, commando, my pissy ass still damp. My leg bounced with frustration as I finished getting dressed.

The bedroom was dimly lit, but I could still make out his face in the shadows—that sharp jawline, those brown eyes watching my every move. I glanced down at his outstretched hand and hesitated.

He didn't.

Romelo reached over and yanked my arm, pulling me toward him.

"Ouch!"

"Let's go." His grip on my wrist was unforgiving as he dragged me toward the stairs.

I tried to keep up, nearly tripping over my own feet. His footsteps were heavy against the hardwood, echoing through the too-big house. We passed through the living room, then down a hallway I'd only been in once before.

His bedroom.

I hadn't been in here since the night he fucked me in the ass and we fell asleep tangled together in his bed.

The room smelled like him—teakwood and something darker, heavier.

Masculine. There wasn't a single feminine touch anywhere.

No pictures, no decorations. Just expensive furniture and that smell.

He let go of my wrist long enough to stalk over to his dresser. I rubbed the red marks on my skin and watched as he rummaged through a drawer.

When he turned around, I saw what was in his hand.

"Handcuffs?" I shrieked. "Handcuffs, nigga?"

He slammed the drawer shut and the whole room seemed to shake.

"Yeah, handcuffs, nigga." He mimicked my tone perfectly, mockingly. "Fuck you thought?"

"Romelo, this isn't necessary—"

"So I'm supposed to trust your word that you won't leave me?"

I stared at him, speechless.

He didn't wait for an answer. He snapped one cuff around my wrist—tight, too tight—and the other around his own. He had more room on his end. Mine bit into my skin.

"This is fucking stupid," I muttered.

"Ya don't say." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "C'mon, I need to get stitched up and shit."

He pulled his cracked phone out again and typed in his passcode with his free hand. His thumb moved lightning-fast across the screen—too fast for me to catch the numbers. Then he switched to another app, entered a different code, and—