“Where we going?”
“We can’t keep standing outside talking about this shit.”
He walked back into the apartment, and I followed behind him, stepping carefully around the shattered glass covering the floor.
Booda stood by the broken window, looking out into the parking lot while shattered glass crunched beneath his shoes.
I stayed near the couch, staring at the hole ripped through the middle cushion. Just an hour ago, I’d been curled up right there laughing with him. Now, stuffing poked out through the fabric while glass glittered across the floor around it.
The apartment no longer felt warm. It felt violated, and so did I.
In a matter of minutes, Rich had destroyed the sense of comfort I’d finally started building inside Apartment 214, and I wanted to murder him for it.
Booda’s eyes snapped toward me. “What was you saying about some bouncers, and where did you see them?”
“At the club. They worked the door, and they knew exactly who I was the second they saw me.”
Booda looked at me immediately. “Why you ain’t tell me this shit sooner?”
“Because I ain’t think nothing of it at the time,” I snapped. “I barely remember half the shit happening around me.”
He looked back across the lot. “What they look like?”
“One was dark-skinned with dreads. Tall. The other one was lighter with tattoos on his neck.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to pull the memory closer. “The dark-skinned one did most of the talking while the other one just watched me.”
“What they say?”
“One of them said him and his people owed us their lives. Said if we hadn’t helped his family keep the club afloat after his older brother got killed, the place would’ve shut down years ago.”
Booda went quiet for a second. “You really don’t remember how deep our ties run out here. Niggas don’t forget who showed up for them, Koko.” His attention returned to me.
“They really seemed happy to see me,” I admitted. “They actually cared that I was still alive.”
“That’s because people out here loved us. We took care of a lot of people,” Booda said before glancing over his shoulder. “Call maintenance and have them come board the window. Tell them we’ll pay extra.”
I nodded before bending down to grab my phone off the floor. “You think they’ll come this late?” I asked.
“Yeah. Niggas gon’ make that money.”
I folded my arms tightly across my chest while he made the call. Once that was out of the way, I tiptoed to the bedroom to grab my shoes.
“What you doing?” Booda asked as I walked back through the living room and headed toward the kitchen.
“About to clean this shit up.”
I grabbed the broom from beside the refrigerator and walked back into the living room.
Booda stayed near the window watching outside while I swept shattered glass into a pile near the door. Neither one of us spoke much after that. The television still played softly in the background, but now every little sound in the apartment made me tense.
About fifteen minutes later, a knock sounded at the door, and I opened the door for the two maintenance men. They stepped inside carrying plywood and tools.
“Damn,” one of them said when his eyes landed on the broken window and the hole in my brand-new sofa.
“Yeah,” I replied dryly. “How much would y’all charge to fix it without reporting the damages to the office?”
The two men exchanged a quick look.
“You talking cash?”
