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“What? You’ll what?” the man demands.
“Both of you,” Ma pleads, tears in her eyes. “Please. Lower your voices.”
I’m eavesdropping, tuned into what’s going on in the living room, that I don’t hear footsteps behind me.
Logan grabs me from behind. “Don’t go listening in on things you shouldn’t!”
“You hear this? You hear this guy? Who does he think he is?” I mumble back, pissed as hell.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not your call.”
We’re both drowned out by the voices in the living room.
“I’m sick of the lies, Cutty! It had to be you and your club!” the man roars.
The words have barely left his mouth when the loudest pop I’ve ever heard in my life goes off.
It makes me jump. It makes Logan double back. It makes several people on the block outside scream.
Then it happens again… and again.
The pops sound like fireworks blasting off, but it’s really gunshots from the living room.
“Get down, Mace!” Logan yells, tackling me to the ground.
“MOM! DAD!”
I’m crying out as panic takes over. They’re in the next room and that asshole’s shooting the place up.
The guy who pulled up in the Dodge! He’s shooting atmyparents!
I growl and struggle against Logan as he tries to hold me down. He’s bigger, older, and stronger, so he wins our tussle.
The racket in the air goes from sounding like Fourth of July to nothing. Just silence.
The front door swings open. The guy races out in a blur as he sprints straight for his Dodge.
“NO!” I yell, throwing a fist at Logan to get him off me. “He’s getting away!”
But it’s too late—his tires screech and his Dodge Spirit blasts off down the street, leaving nothing but empty bullet shells behind.
SYDNEY
Twenty years later…
I am a lot of things.Human. Woman. Black. Daughter. Granddaughter. College Graduate with a bachelor’s in journalism. Proud card-carrying member of the Mile High Club. Habitually single. Forever in debt.
But the one thing I am not and never will be, is a damn fry cook.
The fire alarm erupts in a sonorous ring that makes ears bleed. Thick gray smoke fills up the kitchen. Grease crackles and pops from the skillet. The pork chop cooking inside blackens into a lump of charcoal.
What a difference a few minutes can make.
The last time I’d checked on it, it was raw and uncooked. Now it’s burned to a crisp, about to set the whole diner on fire if I don’t act fast.
I shriek as hot flames snap up and lick at the hazy air.
“Freddie, get your butt in here right now!”
