Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 2

Pyro sat for two hours watching four episodes of House Hunters, and that was enough for him. It was time to go. He stood up to leave, and Chanel right away asked him, “When are you coming back?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”

She sighed. “This apartment is still new to me, and some nights I get scared.”

He moved closer to her with a compassionate look on his face. He didn’t want her to be scared. He sat next to her briefly and said, “Chanel, you good here. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe here. Believe me; I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You’re right. I just need to get my nerves in check.”

She said it, but he knew that apprehension still swirled inside of her from being alone at night. Having gone through what she went through, Pyro understood. She needed time to heal and to cope.

“Look, from now on I’ll make it back at night to make you feel safer,” he said.

She smiled.

As promised, Pyro made it home that night and slept in his own bed, but he also brought some female company back with him. Chanel didn’t mind. She wasn’t alone, and that was all that mattered to her.

Over the next several days, Chanel figured out that Pyro was a player. His bed was a revolving door. He had about four main women who all thought they were “the one” for him. The one thing the girls had in common with each other was that they all hated that Chanel was staying with their man, and they treated her with disrespect out of earshot of Pyro. They didn’t care that she was Mateo’s woman. They wanted the bitch gone.

Chapter Seven

Stern banging on your apartment door is a familiar yet frightening sound when black and living in the ghetto. There was always something happening in the projects that brought the NYPD with either questions or warrant

s.

Bacardi and Butch were lounging in the bedroom when they heard that stern banging. Bacardi jumped out of bed and put on a robe to see who was knocking like they were the police. Maybe it is the police, she thought. If so, she and Butch hadn’t done shit—not yet. They both guessed that this was somehow connected to the fight they’d had with their daughters.

While Bacardi marched toward the door, tying her robe together, she griped, “I swear, Butch, if those bitches pressed charges on us, I’ma fuck them up fo’ real this time.”

She swung the door open to see two plainclothes detectives standing in the hallway. They immediately flashed their New Jersey badges and announced who they were.

“I’m Detective Meroe, and this is my partner, Detective Flinch. We’re here to ask you some questions.”

Bacardi stood there confused. “What kind of questions?”

“Can we come in?” asked Detective Flinch.

She wanted to tell him no—hell fuckin’ no—but she relented and ushered them into her home.

“What’s this about, detectives?” she asked.

By now, Butch had joined her in the living room. Seeing the detectives made him tense.

“Sorry to bother you, but we have a victim in the morgue who was murdered a couple weeks ago in New Jersey. His name is Godfrey Williams, and we need someone to formally identify his body. From our understanding, this is his last known address,” said Detective Meroe.

Bacardi and Butch were shocked. God was dead?

“He’s dead?” Bacardi asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You said murdered?”

“There seems to have been some kind of domestic dispute, and we have his girlfriend detained on Rikers Island until her next bail hearing,” Flinch answered.

Girlfriend? “What girlfriend?” Bacardi asked.

“Um . . . a Kymberly Stephens.”