Obsession (8 page)

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Authors: Treasure Hernandez

BOOK: Obsession
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“What You Gonna Do?”
Quick woke up to something wet on his penis. He opened his eyes and saw Ivy's head bobbing up and down.
He smiled as he rested his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. Just a few weeks ago, he didn't know what he was going to do with his life, today he was waking up to some porno head. Quick's future looked bright. He didn't want to be a drug dealer forever, so he planned on just using the drug business as a steppingstone. His dream was to be a legitimate business owner, and he didn't plan on letting anything stop him from reaching his goal.
Once Quick exploded, Ivy got up and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. Quick threw on his sweat pants as he made his way to the kitchen and grabbed the box of Frosted Flakes from off the top of the refrigerator.
Bang!
And his front door flew open.
Quick nervously dropped the box of Frosted Flakes to the floor when he saw Lucky standing in his living room with a .45 aimed at his head.
“Yo, what is you doing?” Quick asked with his hands up in the air, in surrender.
“Were you with those niggas that Turf sent to Sosa's house the other night?” Lucky asked. His voice held a serious tone, his .45 aimed at Quick's head.
“Nah,” Quick lied. “I heard about it though. I tried to give you the heads-up, but your phone kept going to voice mail that day.”
Lucky thought back, and he remembered his phone dying that day, and not being able to find his charger to save his life. He slowly lowered his weapon.
“Why did you just jump ship like that and go deal with Sosa?” Quick asked.
“Sosa not trying to spoon-feed me,” Lucky answered quickly. “He's giving me a chance to make some real money and do less work. I told him about you, and he sent me down here to make you a offer.” Lucky paused. “Whatever Turf is paying you, he's willing to triple that.”
“C'mon, you know I'm a loyal nigga.”
“You loyal to Turf?” Lucky asked, his face screwed up. “That nigga don't give a fuck about neither one of us, and you know it.”
“I know, but I already”—Quick turned when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ivy appear, wrapped in a towel.
The sight caught Lucky off guard, and he raised his gun and pulled the trigger.
POW!
“Oh shit!” Lucky said when he recognized the woman as Quick's new girlfriend. “I—I'm sorry. She came out of nowhere.”
Quick ran toward Ivy and kneeled down next to her body. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“Hang in there, baby,” he said as he held on to Ivy's hand. “You going to be fine, baby. Hang in there,” he said, looking at blood ooze out of the small hole in her stomach.
“I'm sorry it was a accident, Quick. You know that was a accident, right?”
Quick ignored his friend's comments as he watched the life bleed out of the one woman he ever had real feeling for.
Ivy gave Quick a bloody smile. “I love you, baby,” she whispered weakly.
“It was a accident, Quick,” Lucky said as he heard sirens in the distance. “It was a accident,” he said again as he backpedaled out the front door.
Quick stayed at Ivy's side as he watched her lifeless eyes drift off into space. A tear escaped his eye as he took his two fingers and closed her eyes.
Seconds later, Ivy's apartment was full of cops and paramedics.
Quick found himself answering questions all night. The cops placed a sheet over Ivy's body and left her laying right there on the floor where she died, after they took pictures of her and the entire apartment.
 
 
Detective Davis stepped out of his car and flicked his cigarette into the street. He had been up for the past four nights going over details in two different cases. He walked inside the apartment and looked at the murder scene.
“What do we have here?” he asked a uniformed officer.
The uniformed officer told him, “Twenty-seven-year-old woman dead. Seems as if someone kicked the door in and shot her.”
“Was anything stolen?” Detective Davis asked as he pulled out his pen and notepad.
“Nope,” the uniformed officer answered. “I think it was drug-related though, because her boyfriend was here, but he's not talking.”
“Boyfriend?” Detective Davis echoed, a smirk on his face.
“Yeah, he's right over there.” The uniformed officer pointed over in Quick's direction.
Detective Davis looked over in the direction the officer pointed and saw Quick sitting over in the corner with tears in his eyes. “Oh shit! That's the new guy,” he said to himself. He remembered seeing Quick's face as he left the trap house the other day.
Detective Davis walked up to Quick and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Cigarette?”
“No, thank you,” Quick said, his mind all over the place at the moment. He thought about killing Lucky. The only thing saving him was the fact that it was an accident.
“Care to tell me what happened here today?” Detective Davis asked.
“I've answered these questions a thousand times already,” Quick said.
“Well, now you going to answer them a thousand and one times,” DetectiveDavis said, matching Quick's tone.
“Me and my girl was in here chilling,” Quick began. “Next thing I know, I heard a loud boom, followed by the door getting busted open.”
“Then what happened?”
“I remembered Ivy was in the shower. When I hopped out the bed, I heard a single shot. By the time I made it to the living room, I saw her laid out on the floor bleeding.”
“So you didn't see the man or men who done this?” Detective Davis asked with a raised brow.
“No.”
“Did Ivy have any enemies, or anyone who might want to see her dead?” Detective Davis asked.
“Not that I know of,” Quick told him with a straight face.
The detective pressed, “Do you have any enemies that may've killed her to get to you?”
“Nope,” Quick replied.
Detective Davis knew he was wasting his time. Quick wasn't going to talk, and he knew it. He never could understand the stupid street code of silence. Why wouldn't a man help the police put away the person who had just killed his girlfriend, especially if he had information that could help?
Quick sat answering questions for most of the day until the cops and detectives finally left. Even after five hours of questioning, he kept telling the same story over and over again. “I don't know who could've done this.”
After having the cops fucking with him all day, Quick stepped out the house and hopped in his car and decided to just go for a ride. His mind was so scrambled and all over the place, he didn't even notice Detective Davis tailing him.
The first stop Quick made was at the liquor store. He hopped out the whip and disappeared inside the store. Minutes later, he returned carrying a bottle of Cîroc. He cracked the bottle open and guzzled straight from it as he pulled back out into traffic. He still couldn't believe what had just happened. Half of him wanted to hate Lucky, but the other half wouldn't let him.
Quick thought long and hard as he cruised the city getting drunk. He wanted to kill Lucky, but how could he come to kill the same person he had grown up with?
Before Quick knew it, his bottle was halfway empty. “Fuck!” he cursed loudly as he felt his stomach began to feel a little nauseous. He realized he hadn't eaten anything all day.
“Fuck it!” Quick said, pulling inside the IHOP parking lot. He cut the engine off and walked toward the entrance. As he was walking in, a customer coming out bumped into him. He nodded his head and quickly apologized for being in the way.
Quick followed the hostess over to a booth over in the corner. He rested his head down on the table for a second, trying to get his thoughts together. His head was spinning, along with a million thoughts on his mind.
“Hey,” Tiffany said, knocking on the top of the table to get Quick's attention. “You all right?” she asked, her voice full of concern.
Quick looked up and saw Tiffany's bruised-up face. “Yeah, I'm fine. Can I have some water, please?”
“Yeah, sure,” Tiffany said, and she went to go get Quick some water. She returned with a glass of water and two aspirin. “Here you go.” She sat the glass of water down on the table. “I brought you some aspirin too.”
Quick tossed the two pills in his mouth and washed it down with some water. “What happened to your face?” he asked. Instantly he could see the embarrassment on her face.
“I'm okay,” Tiffany said, not knowing what else to say. She knew sooner or later somebody else besides her mother was going to ask her about the bruises that she'd tried to cover up with too much makeup.
“Well, you don't look okay to me.” Quick checked out her bruises. He knew Blake had to be responsible.
“And neither do you,” Tiffany shot back.
Before Quick could say another word, two detectives and three uniformed officers came storming up in the restaurant. Immediately Quick's heart sank into his stomach. He knew the cops were going to try and make it seem like he had something to do with Ivy's murder.
One of the detectives shouted, “You're under arrest!” as he forcefully slammed Tiffany face-first down on Quick's table and slapped the cuffs on her.
“Under arrest for what?” Tiffany asked, wincing in pain.
“Attempted murder!” The detective snatched Tiffany up and escorted her out the restaurant.
Tiffany and Quick made eye contact as the officers escorted her out of her place of work. Quick looked on with the rest of the diners as the detectives roughly tossed her in the back of the unmarked car before pulling off.
 
 
Tiffany sat in the back of the detective car, tears streaming down her face. She knew it was only a matter of time before the cops came for her. All of her things were still inside the house, along with pictures of her and Blake together. Everything had happened so fast, she didn't have time to remove all traces of her being or either living there.
“I feel sorry for you.” The detective shook his head as he looked at Tiffany through the rearview mirror. “Them butch bitches are going to love you,” he said, taunting her. “With that nice ass you got, they gon' pass you around like a cigarette.” He laughed.
If looks could kill, the detective's head would've been cut off. Tiffany did her best to tune out the detective. She continued to remain silent as they pulled up to the station.
When Tiffany got inside, the detective placed her in a holding cell along with a few other women.
“Fuck!” Tiffany cursed as she sat down on the wooden bench and leaned her head back against the wall. For a second she just thought about how her life had slowly gone down the drain. “It wasn't supposed to be like this,” she said to herself.
She thought about how the next few years in jail would be, and she began to cry again. “Get yourself together,” Tiffany told herself as she wiped her face. “Fuck it! If this is where I have to stay for the next ten years, so be it.” She figured being in jail was better than living with Blake.
After Tiffany sat in the cold cell for two hours, the detective finally came and called her name. She stepped out the cell and followed the detective to the interrogation room.
“Cigarette?” the detective asked, holding the pack out to her.
“I'm good,” Tiffany said, as she sat back in the chair.
“So,” the detective began, “why did you try to kill your boyfriend, Blake Robinson?”
“I don't know what you talking about. I don't even have a boyfriend.”
“Bullshit!” the detective yelled. “Your clothes, toothbrush, pictures of you were found all throughout the apartment.”
“And?”
“And I think you have some explaining to do.” The detective placed a pen and pad in front of her.
“I stopped dealing with Blake months ago. I moved back in with my moms a few months, and she'll tell you the same thing.”
The detective laughed. “That's funny, because I just spoke to Blake, and he told me that you were the one who had stabbed him,” he lied, trying to come at Tiffany from a different angle, hoping that she would fold.
Tiffany swallowed hard but remained quiet and just listened. She knew if the detective knew what he needed to know, he wouldn't be questioning her right now.
“And our friend Blake is prepared to press charges against you,” the detective said, continuing to lie. “You looking at fifteen years minimum.”

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