Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 2

But Chanel wasn’t having any of it. She wasn’t a user. She didn’t want Pyro to go bankrupt or in debt because of her plight with God and Charlie. Besides, Bacardi was the main one luxuriating in the perks. Room service, housekeeping, spa days and nights, and the heated indoor pools, her mother loved every bit of it. Meanwhile, Chanel was at Mateo’s bedside ten to twelve hours a day.

Chanel had already asked her friend Mecca if she could stay with her for a while, until she figured out her next move. Mecca told her that she could spend a few nights there, but her parents wouldn’t allow more than that. Their hearts went out to Chanel after Mecca told them about the robbery, rape, and Mateo’s shooting, but to them it spelled trouble for their daughter. They had moved uptown to avoid such things. First, Mecca had gotten detained by the police at Chanel’s place when that cop was murdered, and now this. It was too much for Mecca’s parents. They felt that Chanel wasn’t as innocent as she claimed to be—getting mixed up with street goons and gangsters.

“You’ve done enough for me, Pyro. I’m a big girl and I can handle myself. I don’t want to become a burden on you. You have enough to deal with too. Besides, I found a place to stay for a week or two. I’ll be at Mecca’s in Harlem.”

It wasn’t contemplated, but the words unexpectedly spilled out of his mouth. “Mecca, nah, it’s not safe there. Look, I have a spare room in a safe building. No one will know you’re there . . . unless you tell them. You can stay until Mateo gets better and back on his feet. And you’re right; it would save me some paper.”

Chanel thought on it for a moment. “Can I tell my mother?”

Pyro shook his head—hell no. “You can tell her that you’re safe, but that’s it. She could slip up and let someone know your whereabouts. I mean, your sister is a grimy bitch, and until that nigga God is handled, you’d be puttin’ my life in danger too.”

The thought frightened Chanel. “I won’t. I promise.”

“You said the same thing to Mateo, and now he’s fucked up,” he said to Chanel without thinking. Pyro didn’t realize he had some pent-up animosity toward her for running her mouth to her sisters and getting his best friend shot in the head.

All along, Chanel had felt exactly what Pyro said—it was her fault. His statement made her burst into tears, and she ran out of the room.

Pyro knew he had fucked up. He felt guilty for letting that statement out, and he immediately ran after her. He caught up to her by the elevators. She was pressing the button rapidly, looking to dash inside and escape somewhere.

“Chanel, I’m sorry for what I said back there. It’s not your fault, so don’t put this shit on you, you feel me?” he apologized sincerely. “And

like I said, my place is safe, and you’re welcome to stay there for as long as you like. I know Mateo would want that for you—for me to keep you safe.”

She stared at him, wiping away the few tears that trickled from her eyes. She nodded.

***

Chanel stepped out of the elevator and into the plush hotel hallway. She still looked depressed from her time at the rehabilitation center. From Mateo’s condition, to her life being in danger, Chanel had so much on her mind that some days she didn’t know if she was coming or going. She felt like a ghost as she walked down the hall to her room. The Manhattan hotel was luxurious, but it wasn’t home. It didn’t give Chanel any comfort.

Chanel entered the hotel room to see her mother walking around in a long robe and downing a glass of champagne. Bacardi greeted her daughter with the nicest smile, but Chanel didn’t smile back. It was nice to see that someone was having a good time on Pyro’s dime. Her mother was making herself at home.

“How is he doin’?” Bacardi asked.

“His condition is still the same . . . nothing changed,” Chanel replied.

“All we can do is keep prayin’ for him,” Bacardi said. “But I ordered some room service. I didn’t know you’d be here, but it should be enough for both of us.”

Chanel had to break the bad news to her mother, and there was no way to sugarcoat it. “Look, Ma, check-out time is noon tomorrow.”

Bacardi stopped what she was doing and stared at her daughter as if she had heard her wrong. “Say what now?” she replied.

“We need to go—pack our things and leave here. Pyro has done enough for us, and I don’t want to keep taking advantage of his kindness.”

Bacardi had the saddest look on her face. Her life had never been so good. She looked like someone had pulled the rug out from under her. Her Cinderella moment was over.

Her sadness transitioned into anger. “That cheap muthafucka just gonna kick us out?! Where we ’posed to go, huh? How the fuck he gonna do us like that, especially you?” she ranted. “Where we gon’ go now?”

Bacardi didn’t want to leave the palace she had been in for the summer—living the high life like a fat hog. Shit, she felt Pyro could afford it. He was a rich nigga getting that street money.

“I got somewhere to go,” Chanel mentioned.

Bacardi looked shocked. “You do? Where?”

“I’m going to stay with Mecca in Harlem for a stint. She doesn’t mind. But we can’t stay here any longer. It’s getting too expensive for Pyro. Between Mateo’s high medical bills and rehabilitation bills and this room with your constant room service, it’s too much on him,” she stated.

Too much on him? Shit, he offered, Bacardi thought.

“We need to be out by morning,” Chanel said, moving around the room and gathering some of her things.