10. Wyn
Wyn
I probably should tell Rico I didn’t actually fuck Pooh.
But that nigga fucked Porscha, so I’ma let him be in his feelings for a while.
Especially when my night terror has been a gaggle of Kenton hoes pointing and laughing at me for falling in love with community dick.
One of the laughs sounds like it’s coming from a kid. Then, one of these hoes has the nerve to actually touch me, poking my shoulder.
My eyes burst open, and muted light from the sunset casts orange light on a little boy, his finger poised to poke me again.
His eyes were trained on his finger, before they dart to me, and his smile brightens.
Fuzzy plaits that go to his shoulders cover his head. His fingers are grubby, probably covered in whatever dark substance is in a ring around his lips.
“Don’t–”
He pokes me anyway, a squeal of laughter erupting before he crawls backwards off the bed.
Whose baby is this?
But that’s a dumb question. He looks exactly like the dumbass who fucked my best friend.
My heart, or what’s left of it after last night, shatters just a bit more, the remnants raining down to my ass.
Rico has a son. Of course.
“Are you up?” the little boy asks.
I sit up and wipe the sleep out of my eyes. My body is sore and stiff in places that it shouldn’t be. My hand burns with movement, the soiled bandage probably sticking to healed scabs.
“You’ve been sleep all day,” he whines, climbing back onto the bed. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to get up!”
I clear my throat. “What time is it?”
He sits up and scratches his head. “It’s dinner time. Nan told me to see if you were up. She told me not to wake you, but you’ve been sleep all day. Nan says that’s bad.”
I pull back the covers and get up. My mouth is so dry, and my tummy grumbles at the sound of dinner.
The little boy follows me into the ensuite. All my toiletries are in the bathroom, so I brush my teeth and throw some cold water on my face.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I wipe the excess water off my face, ignoring the mirror.
“Wynter. What’s yours?”
He grins, showing tiny spaced out teeth. “Mars Lamine Alvarez. I was born eleven-eleven, but I’m five.” He holds out five fingers, like he practiced this.
I shake his hand, confirming that his hands are as sticky as his face. “Nice to meet you, Mars. Why are your hands sticky?”
His smile turns sheepish. “Miele let me have an Oreo sundae.”
“Well, come here.” I pick him up–thankfully, he does most of the heavy lifting, jumping, so my body only screams a little–and set him on the sink counter. Wetting a clean towel, I wipe his hands and his face, giggling with him.
“There. All clean.”
“Let’s go!” He hops down, takes my hand, and leads me through the maze of the villa to a courtyard.
“Can you slow down a little?” I huff, tears prickling in my eyes. Geez, my back hurts. My throat hurts. I know I look a mess, but Mars doesn’t care at all.
He drives that point home when he tightens his damp hold on my hand and starts running faster, his little feet slapping against stone, and then wood floors again.
“Nan! She was up!” Mars announces as he drags us into a dining room of sorts.
My eyes bug out. It’s like ten people, all different shades of brown, eating hella food.
With Rico at the head of the table, lording over everyone with an eye patch on that’s quickly becoming hilarious.
Mars walks us over to two empty seats, and I take his hint and sit next to him, with who I’m assuming is Miele on the other side of me.
She beams at me, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how old she is.
Her eyes dart to my hand and she tsks at me. “I’ll clean that up. Eat first.”
I snatch my hand to my lap as she begins to load up my plate. Another woman on the far end of the table asks something in Spanish, and there’s a sort of hush that falls over the room.
Everyone looks to Rico, who is wiping his hands with a napkin. He runs his tongue over his teeth before he glances at me.
“Snow is my guest. Treat her as–”
“Familia,” Nan interrupts him, grinning at Mars. “Trátala como familia.”
I may not know Spanish, but I know that word, and it makes my shoulders hunch a little.
Me and Rico are nowhere near family.
And I refuse to acknowledge the thump in my chest when I hear the word.
I focus on my food instead. As soon as I take one bite of rice and peas, I dig in. How long has it been since I’ve eaten?
Polite conversation resumes, drowning out the tics in my jaw as I chew. My cut pulls with each swipe of my fork, but the pain grounds me in the moment. It keeps me from wondering if anyone is gawking at my bald head, freckles, or broken spirit.
“Slow down, girl,” Miele giggles. “You coming out on the boat with us later?”
“Uh–”
“Miele.”
My body flinches at the sound of his voice. My gaze darts to Miele, wondering if she’s just as scared as I am.
She rolls her eyes playfully in Rico’s direction. “You said she’s a guest, Ricky. It’ll be just us–”
“I heard you on the phone with some dude earlier today, Miele. Lying ass,” the guy with the hoop earring gits from across the table. Miele must kick him, because he hisses and narrows his eyes at her.
“Just for that, you can’t go either.”
Miele’s eyes balloon. “Reno–”
A huge man two seats down mutters something in Spanish, effectively shutting Miele up. She visibly deflates, before reaching on her shoulder for hair that she must have cut off before we met. She’s quiet for the rest of dinner.
As soon as Mars clears his plate, he asks Rico and Nan something in Spanish, folding his hands together. I sneak a peek at them; Nan is grinning, while Rico’s jaw ticks.
Nan cuts her eyes to Rico before nodding, and to my surprise, Mars turns to me.
“Can you tell me a bedtime story?” He blinks those big eyes of his, and my heart doesn’t know if it wants to shatter or warm.
It leans toward the latter as I nod, and match his smile. He hops out of his seat, grabbing my hand once again and leading me out of the room.
A choruses of good nights ring out, and I wave back, the heaviness of the room dissipating the farther we get away.
I don’t know if I can do that every night.
“You, uh, eat with your family every night?” I ask, wincing that I’m gathering intel from a child.
Mars shakes his head. “Tío Ricky said you’re gonna start helping with the hotel tomorrow so he wanted everyone to meet you.”
“So who do you usually eat with every day?” I ask, noting he didn’t call Rico his dad.
“Miele and Cora. Nan cooks at the hotel. But when tío is here, we eat together.”
“What does that mean?”
We get back to Mars’s room, and he leads me to his bed. His grin is a little mischievous.“Tío means uncle, Wynter,” he says, his little brows furrowing like I’m being silly. “My daddy is his brother.”
My eyes stretch at his back, since he turns and runs to his dresser.
“Fredo,” I mouth, as my mind begins to work overtime.
Fredo had a son? Has a son. It sounds so impossible, but he’s right here, three feet away, picking out his pajamas.
I’m stuck as he yells he’ll be back and disappears into his bathroom.
Five, six years ago… Fredo was–
Oh. Oh.
It was kind of an “if you know, it’s for a reason” thing… Fredo being bisexual.
On the outside, Fredo pulled the baddest of the baddest. As we got older, he became the most approachable member of Foe Dub, so when we popped out, women flocked to him. He was genuinely nice. Fine. Paid, but not a drug dealer. And a certified freak.
Fucking Tune was an automatic good time.
The best, by some accounts. He wasn’t old enough to rent a car, but was showing women the time of their life.
A generous lover, my friends told me, and the best part was, he never had any women claiming him, ready to kill about him, like some of his other friends.
And if he really liked you, and you were down, rumor was Fredo would share you with his other equally as fine, equally as paid “friend” Slime.
I’m sure the guys knew Fredo was bi. They’d jumped enough niggas for calling him a slur, so they had to have asked for confirmation.
I don’t think they know Slime was bi.
I don’t think they knew he and Slime were boyfriends.
Dangerously in love, really.
Even though they shared women, I’d never have guessed Fredo had a baby before he passed.
But here he is, busting out his bathroom and stopping right in front of me, shark teeth on display.
“Tío tells me stories about Daddy for bedtime. He said you know him, too. Can you tell me a story about him?”
I plaster a smile and stand. “Sure.”
He grins, and I help him into bed. There’s a nightlight next to his bed, so I turn off the overhead light and then take a seat in the chair next to him.
Most of my notable stories with Fredo are not child-appropriate.
My lips still twitch, thinking about all the late nights and early mornings I’ve had with the guys.
They always acted stank until the liquor started flowing, then I was sis.
And since Fredo had been stopped drug dealing, he’d pop out the most. So many times, we’d be in sections standing on couches, staying up all night for days at a time.
Even as we got older, and Set stopped drinking, Fredo still partied hard with me.
Every win was a celebration, because we came so far, seeing more money than we ever thought possible.
A memory flits through my mind’s eye, and I smile fully, since it’s something I can share.
“Okay. So, Fredo–your dad… you know he had long hair like you, right?”
Mars nods, bringing his comforter up to his chin.
“Well, he used to take little pieces of his hair and dye them bright yellow, or blond. But one day, he wanted to color his whole head a different color.”
Mars eyes balloon as I settle into the chair, my lips pulling at the corners. “And for whatever reason, he asked me. I mean, I’ve colored my hair before. And I have braided his hair before–”
“You used to braid Daddy’s hair?” Mars asks, wonder filling his voice.
“Yeah, a few times. But I had never dyed someone else’s hair before.”
“You used to have hair?” Mars’s voice raises an octave, his eyes darting to my bald head.