Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Detective Mahomes, an attractive black man probably in his late forties, inspects the both of us closely as he greets us. Then he escorts us down the hall to his desk and gestures to two empty chairs next to it.
“Have a seat,” Detective Mahomes invites, and we fall into the chairs opposite him.
“I don’t understand why I’m even here,” Reagan remarks. He still sounds out of it, not like himself. “Foz Whitaker identified the body, right?”
Mahomes nods. “He did. He was at the scene shortly after I arrived.”
“Then why is this a case? He overdosed. End of story. My brother has…” Catching the error, Reagan pauses. “Had a long history of drug use.”
The detective places his forearms on his cluttered desk, his face set in a pensive frown. “Mr. Reynolds, this is a homicide. Your brother was murdered. He didn’t overdose.”
Reagan jerks back, his face a mix of shock, anger, and confusion. “Murdered?”
I do my best to hide the same emotions that come over me. He’s not a faceless victim. This was Reagan’s brother and someone I’ve met. Someone I wanted to know better. Whatever I’m feeling, however, needs to take a back seat to whatever Reagan needs. And right now, it’s my support he needs most. Reaching out, I take his hand and lace our fingers together on my lap.
“Yeah.” Mahomes exhales deeply. He looks genuinely troubled by what happened; a person who still cares about helping people. “Stabbed eighteen times. His girlfriend found him in an alley a block away from tent city…We caught the guy. Another tweaker. He confessed to everything.”
“Why? I-I don’t understand. Was he trying to protect his girlfriend? He got cut a few months ago trying to protect her.” The words tumble out of Reagan’s mouth barely audible.
“He wanted your brother’s sneakers and your brother wouldn’t give ’em up.” Mahomes stares back flatly. Like he’s seen too much stuff he’d like to unsee. “The perp was wearing them when we caught him.”
Other than a blink, Reagan’s expression is completely blank. “Can I see him?”
Mahomes makes a face. “You sure about that? He got kicked in the face pretty badly.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Reagan answers.
Reagan
Staring in the bathroom mirror, I retie my tie for the third time. Then I determine it’s too wrinkled to wear, take it off, and chuck it in the garbage pail. It lies next to a used condom coiled like a snake. It was a shitty tie anyway.
I hate green. I’ve told her I hate green a thousand times, and she continues to buy me green clothing.
It was in my stocking this Christmas. The one that should’ve been hanging next to Brian’s but wasn’t because my parents cut him out of the family. I’m glad I walked out. I wish I’d cut them off. Or threatened something, anything, to make them think twice. I wish I’d been stronger then, but it wasn’t so easy without my trust fund to fall back on. Not as easy as it will be after this funeral today.
“Almost ready?” Alice’s sweet voice cools my anger. Leaning against the doorframe, she pushes her sleek, dark hair behind her ear and inspects me in the reflection of the mirror.
I don’t know where I’d be right now without her, without her steadfastness holding me up. I’ve never had that before––someone keeping me together. I wish I didn’t need it but I do and it scares me that she may find out. I’m not strong the way she seems to think I am. If I was, I wouldn’t have been doing the shit my parents have dictated all my life.
“Yeah.”
“No tie?”
Turning to face her, I place a kiss on her soft lips because I need it. I need to touch her. “I don’t have a good one to wear.”
She blinks in confusion. “You have like…thirty ties in your closet. I’ve never seen so many outside of a department store.”
“My mother bought me those.”
“Oh.” She looks away for a moment. When her attention returns, she tilts her head and looks me over. “No tie works for you.” She gives me a soft smile, her big eyes fixed on me. “We should go. We don’t want to be late.”
I kiss her again, harder this time. Slip my tongue in her mouth and taste the orange she ate an hour ago. With my hands on her waist, I place her on the granite bathroom counter. Her legs dangle and widen to welcome me, her dress rides up.
In the mirror, I watch myself slide the zipper of the same black sleeveless dress she wore on Thanksgiving down slowly and push it off her shoulders. I watch myself kiss a path from the curve of her neck up her throat, her pale skin glowing in the shaft of sunlight from the skylight.
I need her. I can’t tell her, though. The words won’t come out. No matter how much I want them to.