Page 8 of Vega

He tried to grab my wrist, but I caught his hand, pinned it to the ground, and leaned over him. “Tell Jalen I said Wallace misses him.”

Then I opened his throat. The blade slid through skin, muscle, and everything soft beneath it. Blood spilled hot and fast over my hand, rushing down both sides of his neck before soaking into the collar of his shirt. Tremaine’s eyes grew wide with panic as both of his hands flew to the wound, fingers slipping uselessly through the red pouring between them.

A wet, broken sound came from his mouth. His heels scraped against the pavement as his body fought for a life he had already lost. Blood bubbled at the cut with every desperate attempt to breathe. His chest jerked. His mouth opened and closed, trying to form one last plea. Nothing came out but a gurgle.

I stayed crouched over him, watching the fight drain from his body second by second. His hands weakened first. Then his legs stopped kicking. His eyes remained on mine until the life behind them disappeared, leaving only an empty stare and a body twitching through its final reflexes.

As the alley went quiet again, I wiped my blade on his shirt, stood, and let the rats have what was left of him.

SONNET ELLISON

I barely slept the following two days after I witnessed the murder. Every time I closed my eyes, that gun fired again, and I woke up trying to run before remembering I was in bed.

Living in a condominium offered a decent amount of security. A murderer would have to enter through the main doors, get past the receptionist, make it through another locked entrance, ride the elevator to my floor, and then get through my alarm system and dead bolt.

Logically, I knew that. But logic hadn’t stopped me from checking my locks six times. Every sound from the hallway sent me to the peephole. A neighbor’s dog barked around two in the morning, making me nearly piss myself. The elevator opened at three fifteen, making me hold my breath until I felt like I would pass out. At four, somebody dropped something heavy in the unit above mine, making my heart stop.

When I couldn’t sleep or the walls started making me restless, I went to the range to practice my shot. I knew that I was vulnerable being a woman living alone. So, years ago, I got my permit, bought a gun, and made sure I knew how to use it. I had never needed to pull it on anybody before, but after what I saw in that loading area, it felt like that day was coming sooner than I wanted.

After another night of minimal sleep, I stood in front of my closet in my bra and panties while staring at my clothes. Going to work felt reckless, but staying home felt suspicious.

My phone rang from the bed. Looking over, I saw Dior’s name flashed across the screen.

I grabbed it immediately. “Hello?”

“Bitch.” That single word came through the phone full of scandal, satisfaction, and exhaustion.

I closed my eyes, sighing, “Dior, I need to tell you something.”

“So do I, and mine cannot wait.”

“It really can.”

“No, ma’am. You don’t understand. I met this man on Grindr last night, and when I tell you that profile picture was false advertising in the best possible way…”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. Dior had called me at six forty-two in the morning to give me a sexual Yelp review.

“I have to tell you something important,” I tried again.

“Hold on. I am not done setting the scene.” I groaned, but he ignored me as he went on. “He said he was 6’2”, but you know men lie about height like we can’t see. So, I was expecting 5’11” maybe. Baby, he was 6’2”, with broad shoulders and a perfectly lined beard, and he smelled so fucking expensive.”

I stepped into a navy-blue skirt and tugged it over my hips. Then I murmured, “Congratulations.”

“Don’t give me that dry congratulations. I haven’t even told you how big his dick was.”

“I don’t need to know about that.”

“You absolutely do, because it was large and employed.”

I paused while buttoning my blouse. “Employed?”

“Yes. It’s so hard to meet a nigga with a real job on Grindr.”

Despite everything, a laugh escaped me. That was Dior’s gift. He could drag humor out of me when I had no business finding anything funny.

Then I looked toward the television mounted across from my bed. The morning news played quietly, part of the routine I followed every weekday. Weather while I showered. Headlines while I dressed. Traffic before I left.

A photograph filled the screen, and I stopped moving, because it was Donovan. The image showed him in a black suit, stepping out of a luxury vehicle with two men behind him.