Long Shot (Hoops 1)

The hell it does.

His rules. His dictatorship. His girl. For too long, he’s acted like he owned me, but I’m not his. He doesn’t get the last word. It’s my life. My body. My spirit.

Yours to keep and yours to share.

There is a reservoir in my soul. A pool of strength, lying in wait. Like MiMi’s Mississippi, it surges through my veins, cleansing me, renewing me, imbuing me with the power of a thousand priestesses. Lending me ancient courage born a thousand years before.

I slam my fist into his injured leg, scrambling out of the way when he grabs at the wound. I push against him, shifting our bodies until the gun flies fro

m his hand. We both dive for it, blood leaking from my shoulder and gushing from his leg. Our hands wrap around the barrel and the handle. He presses me to the floor, and we fight and fumble until our fingers overlap on the trigger, the gun wedged between our bellies. It’s him or me.

Or maybe it’s both of us, because together we pull the trigger.

51

August

Every horror movie on the bayou I’ve ever seen comes to mind while I drive the long road to MiMi’s place. “Secluded” was the word Iris used. That’s a daytime word. At night, “scary as hell” seems more appropriate.

When I finally pull into the driveway, the rental car is the first thing I see. Iris was adamant that security not stay. I can’t even think about her reasons without nearly busting a blood vessel. Caleb has so much to answer for, and I plan to personally see to it that he does. Not his money, or his family’s power, or the rug we like to sweep shit under will save him this time.

The car makes no sense, and the closer I get to the house, my duffle bag in tow, the more cautious I become. The door is cracked open, an eerie invitation to come inside.

The house is so tiny, making the scene in the front room unavoidable. It’s the first thing I see, and I’m sure it will haunt me until I die.

“Iris.” I say her name out loud, but I don’t hear it. I don’t hear anything. The words are muffled. I’m underwater and drowning, burning lungs, weighted limbs, struggling to the top, fighting for air.

My Iris.

Lying in a pool of blood—still. And that monster on top of her—still. There’s so much blood, and I can’t tell where he ends and she begins, and whose blood is coming from where. For a second, I’m immobile at the door, trapped in a tragic snapshot, but then all the sounds rush in and I’m in motion, desperate and frenzied. I push the dead weight of Caleb’s body aside.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Iris lies on the floor, wearing one of my shirts. It’s shoved up past the top of her thighs. Blood blossoms across her torso, dousing the shirt from belly to shoulder.

“Iris?” I touch her arm, gentle and hesitant and desperate. “Baby?”

I search for signs of life. I don’t breathe while my heart waits to know if it’s irreparably broken.

When her eyes slowly open, it’s daybreak. It’s dawn. This moment puts everything in perspective because despite all the things I have, if Iris is gone, I’ve got nothing.

“August!” She tries to sit up, and I scoot my body under her so her head can rest on my knee. “Sarai. Where is she?”

My heart seizes when I don’t see Sarai. Did he do something to her? But then a sound from the back of the house filters into my consciousness, insistent, but faint.

“I hear her in the back. She’s calling you.”

Iris releases a long breath out and nods. “I locked her room. She must still be in there,” she rasps, her voice hoarse. She squints, focusing on the prone man a few feet away. “Is he dead?”

Her lips tremble. She’s shaking in my arms. Her cheekbone is swollen, and blood streaks down her face. Black marks stripe her throat.

God, I hope he’s dead.

“I … baby, I don’t know,” I say. “I need to call nine-one-one. There’s so much blood.”

“Not my blood.” She grimaces and lifts her hand, painstakingly slow, to touch her shoulder. “Some of it is. He shot me in the shoulder.”

Motherfucker.