Chapter Five
SYNTHIA “JUICY” brOOKS
“Aye, you got your passport in the mail yet?” Romelo’s voice cut through the quiet of the kitchen.
I looked up from the bowl of pancake batter I’d been whisking, my arm aching slightly from the repetitive circular motion. The metal whisk clinked against the ceramic bowl — a rhythmic sound that had become almost meditative over the past few minutes.
Romelo was leaning against the doorway, one shoulder pressed into the frame, his phone in his hand. The morning light streaming through the window caught the diamonds in his watch, making them glint with every small movement of his wrist.
He looked good.
Too good for someone who’d shot himself in the head just days ago.
The white bandage on his forehead was smaller now — less dramatic than the gauze the doctor had wrapped around it — but it was still there. A visual reminder of how unhinged he could be when pushed.
“Not yet, it’s probably another shipment delay,” I said slowly, setting the whisk down and wiping my hands on the kitchen towel draped over my shoulder. “But I kept getting shipment delays. It kept bouncing back because of my address. Was I supposed to use your address or mine?”
My address.
The apartment I hadn’t seen in weeks. The life I’d been living before Romelo turned everything upside down.
I wondered if my landlord had started eviction proceedings yet. Probably. I was behind on rent — way behind. Not that it mattered anymore. I had more money now than I’d ever seen in my life, all tucked away in neat stacks inside Romelo’s safe.
Blood money.
Pussy money.
Whatever you wanted to call it.
“Should I take take another one,” I added, my voice trailing off.
Busy being held captive, I thought, but didn’t say.
“Speaking of,” I continued, forcing brightness into my tone, “I need to go to the DMV so I can get my license renewed. It expired on my birthday two months ago.”
Romelo’s birthday gift to me had been freedom to leave the house for a few hours.
How romantic.
“I’ll pull some strings so you can get your license quicker than they take.”
Of course he had a plug.
Romelo had plugs for everything — legal documents, weapons, drugs, you name it. It was almost impressive how deep his connections ran.
“Did Trecee tell you that she invited me to Turks and Caicos with her?” I asked, testing the waters.
Romelo looked up from his phone, one eyebrow lifting. He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward me, his Nike slides shuffling softly across the tile.
“Ain’t no pressure,” he said, voice easy. “I want you to come too.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him. “I want you there.”
My heart kicked up — an involuntary reaction every time he got too close. Like my nervous system hadn’t gotten the memo I was supposed to be guarded around him.
“I thought it was a couples trip,” I said, my voice smaller than I meant it to be. “I’ll be third-wheeling and looking crazy. Thanks, but no thanks. Fuck all that.”
The mental image of being trapped on an island with Romelo and Trecee twisted my stomach. That was a disaster waiting to happen. Somebody would end up dead — probably me.
Romelo reached out and tucked a loose curl behind my ear. His fingers lingered, brushing my cheek. The tenderness of it messed with my chest, tightening something I didn’t want tightened.
“You really think I’m about to spend a whole trip with just her?” he asked, his voice lowering. “Nah. I need you there, Juicy.”
That nickname.
Every time he said it, something in me softened against my will.
I was losing myself in him.
And I knew it.
But knowing and stopping are two different things.
“Romelo—” I started.
“I already got your ticket. You’re coming.”
My mouth opened, then shut. I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him it was madness. Wanted to tell him bringing me around his girlfriend was setting the whole situation on fire.
But the words didn’t come.
Because a part of me — a selfish, traitorous part — wanted to go.
Wanted to be on that beach with him.
Wanted to pretend, even for a few days, that this was real.
That we were real.
“Doesn’t she have access to a lot?” I asked instead, dodging the real conversation.
Romelo’s expression shifted. Jaw tight. Eyes sharpening.
“The fuck you mean? What type of access?”
I leaned back against the counter, folding my arms across my chest. My crop top rode up, exposing a strip of stomach. His eyes dipped for a second before lifting back to my face.
“Access to your accounts. Money. Your plug—”
“Hells naw!” he snapped, cutting me off. “Where the fuck you getting that shit from?”
“For as long as y’all been together, she gotta know something,” I pressed. “You can’t tell me she completely in the dark.”
He dragged a hand over his waves — that frustrated habit of his.
“Her head’s been in the fucking clouds,” he said. “Trecee only cared about what the fuck I could do for her. As long as I was breaking her off some bread, she was good.”
He stepped closer, crowding me. His cologne — that woodsy, expensive scent — mixed with his cocoa butter lotion.
“If she had access like that, I’d be fucked up out here,” he continued. “She got poor money management. That’d be like giving a kid a bag of candy and expecting them not to eat it all.”
He paused, staring me down.
“Fuck I look like to you?”
I pressed my lips together. He wasn’t wrong. Trecee wasn’t exactly financially responsible. Every time she touched money, she burned through it on designer bags, bundles, bottle service — stunting for social media.
But still…
“What about you being loyal to her for saving your life?” I asked quietly.
His face darkened like a storm moving in.
“I couldn’t let that shit hold me forever,” he said.
“What if she tries to set you up?” I pressed. “What if she finds out about us and decides to get revenge?”
He stepped so close now our noses almost touched. His hand came up and gripped my chin, firm.
“Yo cousin a bird brain,” he muttered. “She ain’t got no real power.”
He let that sit.
“You ready to attend a funeral?” he asked casually. “You’d look sexy as fuck in your Sundays’ best.”
A chill rolled down my spine.
He wasn’t joking.
“Don’t put ideas like that in my head,” he added, tightening his grip slightly. “I don’t gotta be in town to get somebody touched. You know what the fuck I’m capable of.”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah… I know.”
He studied my face for a beat, then released me and stepped back.
“Any more questions?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Actually… I got a lot.”
I folded my arms again, my top riding up more. His gaze dipped, slow, before coming back to my eyes.
“Going forward,” I said, motioning between us, “if you ever reach a stage where you don’t want me, tell me. The way you did Trecee? That was foul. I wouldn’t wish that shit on my worst enemy.”
My voice cracked slightly, but I didn’t hide it.
“Don’t leave me in the dark,” I continued. “If you ain’t feeling me, say that. I’ll move accordingly.”
His face tightened, offense flashing.
“I’ll never do you like that,” he said firmly.
“Do you believe a crackhead when they say they won’t do crack again?” I shot back. “I need to protect my own feelings. This ain’t about you. It’s about me.”
Silence hung heavy.
“Where you going with this?” he asked, controlled.
“I just told you how I feel,” I said, looking away. “You can have bitches lined up around the block. I gotta peep shit for what it is — not what you say it is.”
“Then that go for you too—”
“I already told you how I feel,” I interrupted. “I wasn’t cappin’ when I said that.”
“Yo trust all fucked up,” he muttered.
“Oh, it starts with niggas like you,” I said bitterly.
That hit him.
His eyes went cold.
“Stop insulting yourself like that,” he said, voice low. “It ain’t never been like that.”
He stepped in closer again.
“You wasn’t feeling me back then, so I peeped it and moved on,” he said. “That’s my only regret. I put that on my mama.”
His eyes searched mine.
“I’m convinced you just like hearing yourself talk,” he added, but his voice lacked the usual bite. There was hurt there.
“You don’t get to treat me like a pet,” I said quietly.
“I never said you were.”
“Then stand on what you say.”
“You gotta trust me,” he said, softer now, tilting my chin up gently. “I know I ain’t earned it yet. But try.”
“It won’t be easy,” I whispered.
“Nothing in life is.”
We stood there, in that thick, heavy silence. My heart beating too loud. My breath uneven.
Then his phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, glanced at it, and sighed. “I gotta take this.”
He walked out of the kitchen, shoulders tense, phone already to his ear.
I stood there alone, gripping the counter, trying to calm my breathing.
And failing.
Because the truth was…
I was catching feelings.
Real ones.
And I didn’t know how to stop.
***
The private plane touched down on the tarmac with a gentle thud, the engines winding down with a low hum that vibrated through the cabin.
I’d barely slept during the flight. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt Romelo’s presence—his eyes on me from across the aisle, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air.
Trecee had been glued to him the entire flight.
Literally. Her hand on his thighs. Her head on his shoulder.
Her voice, high-pitched and giggly, constantly in his ear, trying to engage him in conversation.
But Romelo had been distant.
Cold.
He’d responded to her in short, clipped sentences. One-word answers. His jaw tight, his body language reeking of annoyance that she didn’t seem to care about. Trecee kept pushing him. Kept talking. Kept trying to force affection that clearly wasn’t being reciprocated.
It was uncomfortable for me to watch. Mimi had noticed too. I caught her side-eyeing me multiple times, peeping at everything, but I ignored her. I was trying to busy myself with a book—Ethic by Ashley Antoinette.
I did care though.
More than I wanted to admit.