Power

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Act One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Act Two

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Act Three

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  By

  Kenya Wright

  POWER

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Power Copyright © 2016 by Kenya Wright

  Cover Design and Illustrations by J.N. Sheats

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2016

  www.KenyaWrightBooks.com

  Dedicated to my K Killers,

  You read POWER before everyone,

  ripped the story apart,

  murdered the bad scenes,

  and filled the plot holes with the dead carcass of my ego.

  You made me better,

  and you elevated the novel to another level.

  Thank You, K Killers!

  Emily, Camilla, Sonia, Meca, Vickel, India, Simone, Christine, Heather, Jonette,

  Jahsina, Melody, Hollye, Sonya, Rosie, Vinnyetta, Christi, Marie, Nakhia, and Brrina.

  “. . .and this love that violently screams out of you is changing me.

  It is changing the way I give myself to the world.”

  (from the poem “Sweet Little Love” by Robert M. Drake)

  Fun Note:

  Chapter heading jokes are from the oldest surviving joke book called Philogelos (The Laughter Lover). The collection was compiled in the fourth or fifth century AD.

  Chapter 1

  Noah

  A young man said to his libido-driven wife:

  "What should we do, darling? Eat or have sex?"

  And she replied: "You can choose, but there's no food in the house."

  –Philogelos (The Laughter Lover)

  Which one of my friends will die tonight?

  I rested my hand on the table and glared at them. “No one kills anyone without my permission.”

  My cufflinks sparkled in the empty nightclub’s lighting. The blue diamonds were the only thing shining on me. My ex-fuck toy Butterfly had bought them. Said the cufflinks were ice cold and blue like my eyes. A cold bitch in her own right, she’d spent her lifetime trying to warm me. But even a beautifully-formed block of ice could never heat a glacier.

  Which one of my friends takes their last breath? Domingo? Rasheed? Do I kill them both?

  The rest of me stayed dark—black suit, shirt, and tie. All shades of midnight like my hair and the gun that lay on the table in front of me.

  What else can I do? They have to die. They’ve killed kids. Fuck you, God.

  For the murder of one of my friends, I’d closed down my club Surrender for the night and invited Domingo and Rasheed over. Only a few silver lamps lit the empty tables around us, casting an eerie darkness over the place. This was the quietest the club had ever been. No singer performed on the big stage in front of us and no one manned the bar.

  A haunting coldness chilled the air.

  I love them both. This is the way of the streets, but. . .fuck you, God.

  Rasheed shifted in his chair.

  Beads of sweat formed on Domingo’s head. “Are you opening up Surrender tonight?”

  Sitting between both of them, I said nothing.

  Think, Noah. Which one can you lose?

  Domingo wiped the sweat off of his forehead. “Noah, what do you want to talk about?”

  Silence.

  “Usually, it’s packed in here.” Domingo let out a nervous laugh. “Where’s everyone? You closed down so you wouldn’t have witnesses, right?”

  I kept the serious expression on my face.

  “It’s Friday night.” Domingo’s voice came out shaky. “The place should be popping.”

  My nightclub had been an indie theater once—performing edgy, contemporary plays, but never gaining a strong following. I’d bought the place and gave it a million-dollar facelift. I added a three-bedroom loft on the second floor and turned the ground level into an adult funhouse. Chandeliers hung from the ceilings and sparkled with crystals. Fine leather covered the booth seats and chairs. The bar had been voted the best on the East Coast, employed with the top mixologist in the country. I’d renovated the basement into a private strip club for my most loyal soldiers and made the whole million back after a year in business. None of it mattered. I didn’t need the club to make money. My paper flowed from the streets.

  But tonight, silence and death moved through the club.

  Why did they make me do this?

  My heart ached as I traced my finger against the trigger, but didn’t pick up the gun. “A rule has been broken.”

  Who should I choose? Who can I lose? Which death would give me less nightmares?

  Domingo on my right. Rasheed on my left.

  Usually, I didn’t bother with small beefs between them, but too much blood had been shed on my streets. The bribes no longer satisfied the police. The neighborhoods seared hot and ready to boil over. There seemed to be no solution in sight. No peace.

  Now, I had to step in. “Twenty of my soldiers have died in total, coming from the North and South. And there’s been no safe place for any of my people. They’re even dying in the beds of brothels.”

  Both men stirred in their seats.

  “You two run those territories. The North and South.” I loosened my tie and hoped I wouldn’t get blood on my shirt. The stains never came out, not even with black fabric.

  As a kid, I always fainted at the sight of blood. It was so bad, I passed out during the final scene in Carrie—the heroine drenched in that red liquid and taking out her revenge on everyone.

  Doctors said I had an overactive vasovagal response. To this day, I still didn’t know what that meant, just that it dealt with fear. When I spotted blood, fear came, swift and hard like a tsunami, slowing down my heart rate, lowering my blood pressure, and causing blood to drain to my legs and leave the brain. I would get light headed and pass out.

  But the more a person like me exposed themselves to blood, the less the phobia bothered them. Now I only passed out in odd occurrences, when the blood meant something to me. It was why I decided to kill Domingo or Rasheed away from everyone’s eyes. This moment could bring the fear back.

  “You both are to blame,” I said. “You two are the reason why I had to stop my afternoon routine to come down and speak. Why does that make me unhappy, Domingo?”

  Domingo muttered, “Because you are a man of few words.”

  “Yes. A man of few words, but,” I raised one finger in the air, “I am
a man of many bullets.”

  Sweat trickled down Domingo’s face. Like most of the Puerto Ricans in Din City, he’d been raised as a devout Catholic. He’d even served as an altar boy. So devoted to prayer, he might’ve been a pope. But then, a father in the church touched Domingo too much and changed his course forever—from the altar to the streets. Domingo kept his faith, even with so much blood on his hands. Black crosses decorated his favorite gun, Jesus. Tonight, as with most nights, the skinny man wore a white color and a black shirt—similar to a priest.

  I hope you’re praying right now, Domingo. Things won’t end well this evening.

  I turned to Rasheed. His skin was the color of coal. He kept his hair blonde and cut into a Mohawk. On the right side of his face, it was smooth and perfect. On the left, scars lined his jaw and extended to his eye. He never told me what had happened, but I’d met his father and both of his older brothers. I’d witnessed the violence their hands could bring, so I’d left Rasheed’s secrets to himself.

  I knew he’d been through a lot. Perhaps, Rasheed’s brain never got the chance to develop correctly, because he always spoke in the third person, even when we were kids. And although the speech was absurd, no one ever called him on it. At least, no one that wasn’t ready to die.

  “You’ve been in my loft, right?” I asked Rasheed.

  His dark voice filled the room. “Yes, Rasheed has been there.”

  “Do you like my Buddha statue?”

  “The fat man in gold?”

  “Yes, the fat man in gold,” I said.

  “Rasheed likes him, a lot.”

  “Do you know what I do there?” I asked.

  “Rasheed is not sure.”

  “I sit and keep a still mind.”

  On the other side, Domingo shifted a little in his chair. “Noah, what does a Buddha statue have to do with us?”

  I leaned back in my seat. “Because of this beef, I can’t sit in front of my statue. Because of this beef, innocent kids have died. I have to come downstairs and keep the club closed. I have to talk, when I would rather be still and silent. Because of this beef, I may have to kill a friend.”

  Could I survive this? The whole situation had gone wrong. Brothers weren’t supposed to kill brothers. If I cried, I would’ve in that moment. But tears didn’t solve problems. Bullets did. I’d spent the whole morning hardening my heart, stacking bricks inside my chest.

  Emotions made trigger fingers shake.

  Both men stayed still. Frozen. Fear moved in both of their eyes. I bet they were wishing that their own soldiers had been able to come into my club. I bet they resented the fact that my own men had taken their guns in the guise of this being a peace talk.

  I bet they were scared out of their minds.

  Domingo decided to interrupt the silence. “Noah, we go way back. Way back, man. To the days, when you were just a skinny blue-eyed white boy that everybody tried to punk around the block.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “But, no one punked me.”

  Domingo had nothing else to say.

  These were my friends in blood. We came from the same hood. Together, we rose from being in the right place at the wrong time and seizing the opportunities that came our way. As teens, we’d been runners for the big bosses—taking guns and drug money from here to there. One night, the three of us stumbled upon a gun fight in an alley. We hid behind a dumpster and watched one gang destroy the other. By then, we’d seen enough bullets slice the air and more bloodshed than most. By then, I’d become the nickname that most people whispered to themselves.

  Beast.

  One gang ruined the other, but they’d lost a lot of their own. Only two guys remained alive. Unfortunately for them, they’d been the wrong gang. The bosses had ordered us to collect, and I wouldn’t return to them empty handed. As the few survivors headed for their cars, I raised my own gun and shot them. Quick. Silent. And steady. Domingo pissed his pants. Rasheed rushed off to rob the dead bodies, and I grabbed the bags of guns we’d been told to deliver in the first place.

  We were only fourteen, and everything had changed from there.

  By twenty-one, my name put fear into men’s hearts and I’d earned a college degree. My family was good people, which was why I hid this life from them. Mom and Dad expected me to get an education, so I went to school during the day and ran the streets at night. My parents walked their own paths in life—didn’t look at television and barely read up on the news. Mom loved her garden. Dad enjoyed fishing, and they both remained enraptured by each other.

  By twenty-five, I’d finished my master’s in business administration and had killed all of the same bosses that had ordered me around when I was young. I retired my parents and moved them out to the country. By twenty-five, I controlled Din City.

  As a show of loyalty, I gave the North and South to the only two guys that I’d kept at my side—Domingo and Rasheed. As far as the sex game—brothels, prostitutes, and massage parlors-- I handed them over to Butterfly, making her the richest woman in Din City.

  We are supposed to be family.

  Now, two sat at my side with me between them, and loyalty didn’t flow like it used to. In fact, I didn’t think all three of us would walk out of my club, tonight. Too many had been killed, and they’d been dumb enough to let kids be caught in the middle of the gunfire.

  “Come on, man.” Domingo’s bottom lip shivered. “Rasheed and I had your back and we’ve been here all these years. Blood was spilled, but no one has to die.”

  I raised one eyebrow, already knowing the answer, but asking anyway, “Can you two just shake hands and move on from your beefs?”

  “Sure. I can.” Domingo lied, “God says to forgive those that trespass against you.”

  I turned to the other fool.

  The dark man shook his head. “Rasheed cannot forgive.”

  No hope for this. If I let them both live, then more innocent people will die over my love for them.

  “What are my three rules?” I asked them both.

  Domingo frowned. “One, no soldiers or runners can be female. Keep the women out of the game.”

  That was why I didn’t touch Butterfly’s business. She had sole control of her women and we didn’t mix business together.

  “What’s the second rule?” I asked.

  Domingo looked away again. “Don’t kill kids.”

  I held my hands. “Ten children have been buried over this dispute.”

  That very fact made killing one of them bearable. I’d been having nightmares about dead kids. Blood coated their tiny faces. The children never spoke. They just pointed at me, screamed, and then exploded—their guts and shattered bones spraying and knocking me down. Little ones. Toddlers. Tiny mangled bodies. Innocent eyes. They haunted me.

  I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat. “And my last rule?”

  Rasheed decided to answer. “No one kills without your permission.”

  Which one of you will haunt me after your death? Which one will leave me alone?

  I stopped tracing the trigger, gripped the handle, but didn’t point it at anyone. It was the same gun I’d used that first time at fourteen. It would be the same one I would use tonight.

  “That day on Baker Street, when all those children died,” I said. “Which one of you was the one who shot into the crowd of kids at the playground?”

  Neither spoke.

  Why won’t either one of them own up to killing the kids? Make this easier for me.

  A knock came behind us.

  Then, even more noise.

  “Trust me.” A female voice sounded behind us. “My friend knows the owner. He’s expecting me. He told me to come at this time.”

  Who the fuck is that?

  My soldier Fuji’s voice came next. “Ma’am, you can’t go back there.”

  “Just give me a minute,” the woman said again.

  Fuji, get her ass out of here.

  More odd noises ensued. The whole time, Domingo and Rashe
ed glared at each other, and I tightened my grip on the gun.

  “Ma’am!” Fuji yelled. “Stop it! No!”

  Footsteps sounded next.

  Is someone running in here? Who would be so stupid?

  My answer came next. Sure enough, some unlucky, black woman had raced into my club. The wrong club at exactly the wrong time. Fuji’s huge behind thudded after her. The fat man had been a defensive linebacker in college. Now, the pounds had packed on in his non-athletic years. He could shoot a gun and get the bullet to the center of heads. He could wrap his hot dog fingers around any man’s neck and squeeze until bones cracked.

  Fuji could do a lot of things, but apparently he could not chase down a beautiful woman and catch her.

  Caramel skin and brown kinky curls bouncing, she jogged into the room, passing the bar on her left and then us on the right. Probably not noticing the gun or us, she climbed up on the stage and set a big knitted bag down at her feet. “Oh my God. I’m so, so sorry. I know you said three o’clock. And it is so not three o’clock.”

  What?

  Like some sort of hippy, she wore sandals and jeans tattered at the bottom. A white crocheted top finished the outfit. It did nothing to support her breasts that hung like melons in front of her.

  Who the hell is this?

  She hurried and grabbed the microphone, working fast with putting it in front of her and clearing her throat. “Hello? Hello?”

  She tapped the top of the microphone again. “I don’t think this is on. That’s okay. I can yell out the jokes.”

  Jokes? What the fuck?

  Finally, Fuji got to the stage or more like his fat ass doubled over on the edge, huffing and puffing. “Boss, I tried to tell her not to come back here, but she slipped by me and then dashed away. She’s too fast.”

  “I ran track and field in high school.” She beamed on the stage. “Won a lot of medals, too.”

  No one said anything. Everyone, except her, turned to me.

  “So.” Sighing, she rolled her shoulders a little. “Okay. Let’s get this audition started, right? Who’s ready to laugh!?”

  How the hell has she managed to live this long? Does she not see the gun or the big scary guys in the room?