𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

47

A/N:
also, you guys, there's a playlist on spotify for statuesque. you can type in the book title and find it or you can scan the code for it in the "cast and playlist" chapter of this book. if you want to of course. x

***

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"

The question sounded like a piece of cherry flavored gum between my teeth-something I was merely chewing on for leisure. I could care less about the gum itself, though I do remember liking cherries at some point in my life.

The truth was, I didn't actually care what Trippie Redd meant, but I had understood it I suppose. I was just being receptive, for lack of anything else to do in the present circumstance.

I glanced outside the open window of the boss' office space. The man had air conditioning blaring, and had kept the window open too. A certain childish defiance perhaps, against the heat raging outside.

Since having come to The Bronx, I never realized the heat had gotten this intense. Perhaps, earlier I had merely not felt the sun's fire on my skin-for my mind had been fixed on getting things done only if they led me to Connor. Had I truly thought about anything else at all in the past two years? Those days had whittled by. Like traveler wearing down its horse until hobbled, I had worn down my mind.

At present, I found myself at a gentle precipice. I just needed to survive now. I needed to make sure Connor lived, and we both breathed in peace. Everything else could just go to hell, I suppose, and I wouldn't even notice the absence.

"Woods and Hernandez are not able to land him," Trippie Redd pressed again, his eyes bearing on me as he kept himself vigilant for the boss' reaction.

John Whittall at present had his back to both of us, short arms barely connecting behind his stout form as he looked out the window in silence.

Despite myself, I rolled my eyes.

"What is he, a plane? Just get him down and bring him. Isn't that how you fetch people, Redd?"

Trippie clenched his jaw. His hapless fury gratified me. Once-a longer time ago than I could possibly care to place-Trippie Redd had a lot to say about what I did, or did not get to call him.

But that had all changed. The rapper had roped me into John Whittall's gang against my will, and as the boss' preference for me grew, Trippie Redd found himself terribly humbled. Perhaps, he even regretted it now. He could've just told Whittall that I died in the surgery room at the Manhattan hospital, if only to spare himself from the humiliation that my presence in the gang brought to him.

"Tell Hernandez and Woods to do the same," I offered with a nonchalant shrug. "Drug him or something-gosh, I cannot believe you're bringing this up right now instead of just telling Lil Uzi Vert and 6ix9ine what to do yourself."

Trippie ran a dark ringed hand through his messy short dreadlocks. He had only just landed after his errand in LA, his usually erect and thickly coiled dreadlocks were a frustrated mess.

"Are you fucking serious right now? We can't just drug Machine Gun Kelly and kidnap him. He's not a four year old kid. He cannot just be put down."

"Alright," I leaned my elbows on the table and interlocked my fingers under my chin-though I was the only seated one out of this meeting of three.

"So you had no plan besides knowing that fact, and those two still sauntered off to LA without having any direction?"

Trippie slammed a ringed hand on the thick glass table, furiously grinding his jaw.

"Fuck, Davina. What would you suggest then, huh? You don't even have the confidence to go out without a fucking scarf on your hair and shades over your eyes like a bitch from an Americana music video. You're fucking dead to the world."