Page 197 of The Coldest: Stay Dangerous Part 2

My eyes clamp shut, but not before more tears soak her nightie.

I fight past the tightness in my chest. “I couldn’t let him watch his brother die like that, Snow. Even if he was aiming for me, he doesn’t deserve to have that shit replay over and over, no matter how short his life may be. You think that’s what you want, to be there in someone’s last moments… someone you love, to help them over to the other side, but standing in that moment, that shit will do worse than kill you. And he prolly deserves that special type of hell… he and Slime been trying to take me out since we came back from Belize. Niggas got at us in the desert, kidnapped Nan, all type of shit, Snow. I should have left that nigga to watch the light drain from his brother’s eyes… I’m getting soft as fuck, Snow. Mekhi says love not making me soft, but it is, because before, I prolly could have stomached it. I prolly would have finished Slime off, just for G. But all I could think about was Fredo, man. Something broke in me the day he died. I felt it, Snow. I felt his last breath. But to see it? I wouldn’t have survived that, man. And the way G broke down, he wouldn’t have survived that shit either.”

“I miss him so much.” The words tumble out of me, much smaller and more broken than the others. I hold onto Snow for dear life, and try to fight back the shudder from forming. “I miss my brother, man.” A mix between a cough and a sob releasing from my throat, before I make myself melt into her embrace.

“And I hate… I hate that the person he chose for himself may not get to know the one piece of him left.”

Snow keeps me close as I let all the shit from the past few years leak out my eyes and onto her, and she doesn’t complain, not once. She just keeps tracing the shell of my ear, her fingertips dig into my side with her other hand, not letting up until I cry myself to sleep.

I miss you too, brodie. More than you’ll ever know.

Wyn

Quarter Pint, my usual security, pulls into the spot right in front of the Coiffed Beauty Salon in West Kenton. The sun is barely out, fog covering the fall morning, and the street is deserted, with only a red corvette next to us.

“I’ll only be here for a few minutes, and then we need to swing by Memorial, before the studio. Today’s the day!” I grin, tapping my press-ons on his shoulder.

“You gon’ let me listen before everyone else, right?” He grins at me through the rearview as I gather my purse.

“You know it! Sheisty is gonna run through it, then I’ll have him email it to me and we can play it in the car. Don’t get drunk at my release party and start hoo bangin’ and telling niggas you got first listen! You know they be mad as fuck when they land on my detail!”

He waves me off, turning off the car to get out and open my door for me. “Onna dead homies, can’t no nigga tell me shit about my First Lady. And ‘cause of them zinc tablets and shit, ain’t gon’ be no rotating onna detail, cuz. My immune system A1.”

I slide my hand into his and let him help me out of the car. Years of walking in heels have been upended by some balance issues from my surgery, but every day without a headache is a blessing. It’s my first day wearing a wig over my scar; a bright orange bone straight unit that stops at the top of my ass. My navy blue ribbed tee makes the color pop, and paired with my low rise boot cuts and white Louboutin pumps, I’m kinda proud of my casual chic outfit I came up with all on my own.

We walk up to the glass door. There’s one woman sitting in the third chair, scrolling on her phone.

I knock on the glass to get her attention. She stands seductively, her burnt orange set doing nothing to hide her amazing figure as she slinks to the door, unlocking it for me.

“Your pet dog can wait out front,” she snaps. Quarter Pint grins, flicking his nose as he closes us inside the otherwise empty salon.

I set my purse on the counter of the first station. “You’re getting ornery in your old age.”

Frankie stands a few feet away, taping her nails on her folded forearms. “I would say sorry for your loss, and sorry for missing the funeral, but I’m glad that bigoted bitch is dead, and I was happier getting my ass ate than pretending like I feel sorry about how she met her end.” She inspects me, her painted lips curling at the sight of my lace.

“Sit down in my chair and let me get you right. You never could get your lace to melt just so.”

I grab my purse and sit in her chair. She turns the key in the door, then comes to turn me to face her mirror before gathering her supplies.

“Who’s been doing your hair?”

“Sometimes me, sometimes Dori.”

Frankie snorts, her botox-filled face not moving a centimeter. “So she’s not back in rehab.”

“No,” I smirk. “We are both holding steady on the sober subway.”

“Cheeky,” she deadpans, grabbing her glue and getting to work. I close my eyes, feeling at home in her chair.

“I had brain surgery.”

Her hand stills, before grabbing the blow dryer and effectively ending the conversation. At least, she tries to. Once she’s done, and she starts placing my lace on the tacky glue, I continue. “Turns out, I had a brain tumor. Noncancerous, but they still had to get it out. This is actually the first time I’m wearing a wig. You’d be proud of me, Frankie. I didn’t take anything higher than an ibuprofen for pain. When it got too bad, my man would–”

“I don’t need to know anything about this man… A man.” She fake retches, before moving away. I feel the rat tail comb and flinch when I feel the cool melting spray being dabbed on the lace.

“Only man you ever brought up around me is that hoodlum. Tweety Bird? Bugs Bunny?”

“Luney,” I grin, my tummy expanding like it does every time I think about his toxic ass.