Distractions (D. SWING)

22

Trust Falls

Silence allows me to peacefully rest with my head in the lap of my boyfriend. All throughout the car is a slight shutter being left behind from the doings of this cold spring night. Tranquil clouds of thoughts settle as the forecast of my mind predicts heavy brainstorms in the near future. The car's vibrations are steady as Jared takes years upon years to get back into the car. He offered to drive me home and when I declined, DeVante stepped right up behind me and accepted. Just as expected, it all comes with a price. Jared has to make an urgent stop out of the blue. The boy pulls over off of 68th and crosses all the way down to North Brunswick, you know, it's about fifteen minutes outside of West Manhattan.

I poke the dew that drips along the window. "Tell your cousin to hurry, I have soundcheck tomorrow." I've been drawing faces for the last four minutes. Figure eights are next up on the list of desperate attempts to keep me distracted. I need a solid distraction.

"He sho' up in that bitch like he back in his mama womb. I'm 'bouta gone and snatch his ass up."

As DeVante reaches for the handle of the door, the fat lady begins to belt out a high, loud staccato. What her name? Gat. In other words, somebody's finger gets all too happy to see the trigger, it most certainly gets too busting. In the midst of the gunfire, DeVante pushes me down to flatly lay across the seat. A low point comes in, it's quiet for an entire third of a second before four more shots pop back. Once the second grows to two, and eventually becomes three, DeVante sits up. Possessing the celerity of a jaguar, he quickly whips out his gun. In the dim lighting it's hard for me to see which. To my knowledge the he only owns three but I'm sure the collection is growing over time and I know he won't inform me of the increasing count.

My vocal chords fight against the lump that has leveled itself in the center of my esophagus. "What are you doing," I ask fighting the pounding of my heartbeat from overruling my mental state. I haven't been this close to a real shoot out in roughly about six years but it feels like twelve.

"I'm 'bout to go find Jared," He calmly says opening the door.

My face contorts into multiple degrees of disgust. I ask, "Negro, are you crazy?"

"Lil' bit."

"A little more than a little," I mumble to myself watching him shut the lock door. He didn't even have to leave instructions because I knew exactly what he would say; Don't move a muscle or I'm gone either fuck you up or catch a case for fucking somebody else up! The clock does not pass more than ten seconds when the two big heads come hopping back into the car– literally, Jared hobbled his ass to the car and hopped in. He got shot, I know he got shot but I'm not even about to say anything. Little Lyric doesn't know anything. "I– you just left, what the hell?!"

The door slams, Jared burns rubber pulling away from the tall building. "What the fuck is you doing man?" DeVante yells smacking the gun against Jared's arm. My eyebrows raises as I turn to the side.

Uhm, what the fuck are you doing?

Shaking off the hefty steel, Jared glances back at us and keeps on driving. "I'm droppin' y'all off at Nel's. Don't you got soundcheck in the morning?" He asks motioning toward me. I stare blankly back at him. "You still don't fuck with me, huh?"

"Muhfucka' obviously a whole bunch of niggas don't fuck wit'chu!" DeVante yells still waving his gun. I push his arm closer to him and further away from me. "My fault, baby," he lowly mumbles positioning his hidden weapon back into his pants... that ain't the only weapon over there.

Jared sighs switching lanes to put us back on 68th. Yeah, hurry and take home because I'm about three seconds from beating your ass. Not that it'd matter because your dumb ass is driving with a fucking bullet wound in your right leg. You're bound to die anyway!