Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 2

She followed him through the lobby and into one of the two elevators. It ascended with them riding in silence before it came to a stop on the eighth floor. Pyro stepped out and Chanel followed.

Pyro smiled, slightly, as much as he was used to doing and he started to show her around his place. It was spacious and it was beautifully furnished with a large TV mounted on the living room wall. The spare bedroom where Chanel would be sleeping was cozy with expensive bedding on the king size bed and beautiful artwork on the walls. The walk-in closet was empty except for an area rug that covered the hardwood floor.

“You can put all your things in there. There’s enough room,” he said, placing her bags on the rug.

“Okay.”

Pyro continued to show her around the apartment. There was a roomy kitchen for her to cook in, if she decided to. As she drank in her surroundings, Chanel recognized that everything had a place; things were lined up painstakingly. She wondered if he had a housekeeper. Pyro was neater than both her and Mateo, and that was saying something. The labels on his canned goods in the cupboard were lined up precisely, sparkling water in the fridge the same. His clothes were placed a certain way inside his closet. His sneakers and shoes were organized, and it seemed that there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. It seemed like he had a bit of OCD. It was a bit awkward, and she worried a little. She didn’t want to feel awkward in his home.

Thankfully, the bedrooms and bathrooms were on opposite sides of the condo.

After a quick tour of the place, Pyro went into his bedroom to change clothes.

“You’re not staying?” she asked when he came back into the kitchen.

“Nah, I gotta take care of something,” he said.

She was still frightened to be alone. She stared at him, and he picked up on her uneasiness.

“Chanel, you’re gonna be okay. I keep a low profile and nobody comes here like that. You have everything you need to be comfortable, and security is tight downstairs. No one can come up without you giving the okay,” he said with assurance.

She still felt a bit uneasy, but she nodded. Pyro smiled at her and she weakly smiled back. He turned and left the apartment. The moment he was gone, Chanel made sure all the locks were secured. Now alone, the place felt much bigger than before. She had a nasty vision of God climbing into the apartment through an open window, even though they were eight floors up, and once again coming for her. She shivered from the thought.

When night fell, Chanel still remained apprehensive even with the TV and lights on. She stayed glued to the couch and stared at the door each time she heard some kind of movement or the elevator door opening and closing. She was on edge, though she tried not to be.

By three in the morning, her eyes started to get heavy, and no matter how hard she tried to stay awake, it was becoming a losing battle. Chanel decided to retire into the bedroom. To make herself feel more secure, she pushed the dresser against the bedroom door and went to sleep

with her clothes on.

Eight hours later, Chanel’s eyes popped open to the sun shining through the bedroom window. It was a new day, but she was still living her same life with the same predicament. She got up, moved the dresser from in front of the door, and stepped out into the rest of the apartment to find no sign of Pyro. She wondered if he had come in late and left early. She went to his bedroom door and knocked gently, but there was no answer. Since the door was ajar, she opened it and went into his room. Everything inside seemed undisturbed.

This bothered her greatly. She hoped that she wasn’t keeping him from his own home. She didn’t want to be a burden on him, but she didn’t want to be alone either.

Chapter Four

You should have told me, Bernice,” Butch shouted, the veins in his neck bulging and pulsing with his heartbeat. “I should have known about this shit sooner!”

“Well now you know,” Bacardi snapped back.

“It’s a little too late now,” he said, pacing around the kitchen. “My own daughter. Charlie—how could she do something like that to Chanel?”

Bacardi placed her hands on her wide, robust hips and paused to contemplate the question. But there was no valid explanation. “Don’t worry, Butch. She’ll get hers.”

He stopped pacing for a moment to look Bacardi in her eyes. “They all will.”

Butch hated to be kept in the dark, especially when it came to his daughters. His youngest set up by her own sister. He couldn’t comprehend it. Every time he thought about it, his heart would race to the point that his chest hurt, and it was becoming harder for him to calm down and not think about it.

“That shit ain’t right!” He continued to walk the floor, anger and guilt eating away at him. He had invited the man who attacked his daughter into his home and treated him like his own son.

For the first time in over twenty years, Butch and Bacardi had the apartment to themselves. Usually, the kids leave the nest for college or marriage. Their kids left the apartment from trauma and deceit. Butch had a hard time believing that Charlie could do something so serious to her little sister. And God? He wanted to wrap his hands around that fool’s neck and snap it like a twig.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, Butch growled, “I’ma kill that nigga, Bernice. What he did to our daughter, he needs to pay.”

“He will pay.”

Butch wasn’t immune to violence. Back in his day, he dealt with his share of goons. And although he wasn’t on the best terms with his kids, he was still a father and he was still very protective over his daughters—even Charlie. But she crossed that line.

Bacardi recognized the look Butch carried in his eyes, and they were on the same page. They both wanted to implement justice for their little girl.