Memphis Streets 4: Skeletons

Chapter 28- Stacy

I miss Jaleesa. The whole family does. The once loud and rowdy house is now a permanent wake.

Everyone's faces stretch while their accusatory gazes ping-pong. I don't look any further than my reflection in the mirror. It's my fault that Jaleesa is dead. The blame is on me. I knew that when Kookie and Pit Bull stepped to Jaleesa in Fabdivas Hair Salon to do Le'Shelle's bidding that shit was going to go south and what did I do? I let it happen anyway. I. Let. It. Happen.

Being the older sister, I always gave Jaleesa grief, but I loved her. I hope she knew that. I love my family. We're a tight unit—something rare out here in these streets. I've seen too many sisters and brothers turn on one another to know that what we have, despite playful banter, is unique. My only hope is that this tragedy won't tear us apart. Le'Shelle led everyone to believe that Lucifer was somehow behind Jaleesa's murder, and I ranted and raved that I'd get that bitch back for that shit.

But then my path crossed with the infamous Cartel Lord in the middle of a cemetery. The chick snuck up on me while I was at Jaleesa's grave. By the time I heard and thought to go for my weapon, Lucifer made it clear that such a move was suicide. I've been out here a long time and I've never come across anyone like Lucifer. Powerful. Graceful. Even while I was standing there, hating her, I couldn't help but admire as well. She wears her danger and power well. It rolls off of her like heat waves.

She's the last bitch that anyone wants to tangle with. At the same time she was dropping information bombs around me that completely rocked my world. She said unequivocally that she'd had nothing to do with Jaleesa's death and I read nothing but truth in her dark eyes. She had no reason to lie. I hardly posed a threat to her that night.

But Le'Shelle? Everybody knows that there isn't an honest bone in the bitch's body. The dilemma now is whether to tell the rest of my family. My brothers, Kobe and Freddy, will wild the fuck out. But our allegiance to the Vice Disciples and the Queen Gs will put the whole family in between a rock and a hard place. We'd all buck and that shit might get our asses slaughtered. So do I tell or not tell? Hell, I'd hoped that when I dropped dime to Lucifer that Le'Shelle and Snake were about to get hitched, and even gave her the address, that the problem would've been handled.

But bullets don't seem to have an effect on that bitch and her man. I could take the bitch out myself—but how? I'm no fuckin' killer. Never have been. The most I've ever done is pull bullshit robberies and burglaries in my teen years. I've never been about that life. The other Queen Gs can have all that shit. Selling pussy or slinging dope ain't for me.

I have bigger dreams. Music is supposed to be my ticket out of the streets. All my life, people have told me that I am talented and that I'm going places. I'm supposed to be the lethal combination of Whitney Houston, Mary J. Blige, and Rihanna. But I get that mostly from niggas tryna gas me up and use me. The bathroom doorknob rattles.

"OCCUPIED!"

"Well, goddamn. Did you fall into the toilet? You've been in there for over twenty minutes," Percy, one of the Studio B audio engineers and an all-around pain in the ass, pounds on the door.

"I'll be out in a minute," I bark, wanting to take his head off, but holding back.

Lately, that's about par for the course. I go from wanting to fight every damn body who crosses my path to flipping the script and curling up in bed and crying all day. I'm an emotional wreck because I want my sister back. In the midst of that shit, I got my fiancé, Kalief, buzzing in my ear about how this is the perfect time for us to roll up in the studio and record tracks.

He insists that all the famous recording artists produced their best shit when they were at their lowest. If that's true, my ass is going straight to the top of the chart. Kalief and I go all the way back to high school. He was that nigga. He was fine and knew how to stack his paper, and we shared a love for music. We spent hours at his crib, listening to the oldie but goodies: Billie Holiday, Etta James, Sarah Vaughan, all the Motown greats, and then there was Aretha Franklin, Tina Turner—the list went on and on.