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He aimed the pistol at her chest.
“Get to your knees, whore!”
Joelle, who suddenly started to hyperventilate, cried out: “Xavier, please! Don’t hurt her! She’s all I have left!”
Sasha started sobbing.
“Do it!” Smith said, pointing to the ground.
Sasha suddenly shook her head in defiance.
Smith hauled back his left hand, then swung forward, slapping her with an open palm with such force that it knocked her off her feet.
As she started to get up, trembling, he grabbed her by the hair, yanking her around till she was on her knees, facing his crotch.
“Go on, whore. You know what to do with it.”
“No, please,” she said, starting to sob deeply. “No . . .”
Joelle could be heard taking faster breaths, shorter ones.
Smith looked down at Sasha.
“Do it!”
She shook her head again, closing her eyes at the anticipation of being slapped again.
He didn’t hit her but, instead, touched the muzzle of the revolver to her head and slowly thumbed back the hammer. As he did so, the cylinder rotated. The metallic click-click sounds made her open her eyes wide.
When he’d finished, Sasha began to sob softly.
Xavier “Xpress” Smith, still with his left fist gripping her hair and his right hand holding the pistol to her head, then terrified the beautiful teenager one last time.
“Bang-bang, bitch,” he said as he smiled and squeezed the trigger.
Sasha screamed at the sound of the hammer falling forward.
But there was no bang.
There was just silence—and a great gasping from the couch. Then nothing.
Smith laughed as he and Sasha looked over to the couch.
The old woman had either fainted or was pretending to sleep.
“Next time, old woman, there be a bullet in there,” he called to her.
His left hand let loose of Sasha’s hair. He patted her head.
“That was good, girl. Real good. I just might make you my steady bitch.”
Sasha got to her feet and bolted over to the couch.
“Grammy!” she cried as she reached her.
There was no response. Sasha shook her, but still nothing. She put her cheek to her grandmother’s nose and mouth, looking for an exhaled breath, then desperately touched the inside of her wrists and all along her neck at the jawbone, hoping to find a pulse, however weak.
“She’s dead!” Sasha wailed. “Oh, Grammy!”
