Stories That Stay with You

Friday, July 4th — 10:45 PM | Eastside Atlanta, Georgia

“Aye man, y’all ain’t got no Al Green in this joint, maine? Who has a damn card party without Al Green playin’ on the box?” Leon called out, side-eyeing the Bluetooth speaker in the corner.
“I came to take y’all money, not fall asleep in this quiet-ass motherfucker.”

“Awww, shut up and deal! And none of that damn deuces-wild shit this time either,” Bucky fired back, slapping his cards down. “If you gonna take my money, you gon’ have to win it like a man.”

“Dealer’s choice, pimping. I choose what I feel like,” Leon grinned, slick with confidence. “If you don’t like it, remove your broke ass from the table.”

Leon was a big mouth—always had something slick to say. He acted like he was better than everybody else just ’cause he owned a few raggedy rental houses on the lower east side of Atlanta.

Right now, April was just eighteen. It was only her and Charlene—her mother. Her father, he’d walked out months ago after catching Charlene messing around with another man. According to April, it’s been a revolving door of random dudes ever since.

For Charlene, things were good. Old married men paying her bills. Young neighborhood dealers kept her laced—and satisfied. She was in heaven. But for April? Life was hell. Literally.

“Ma! Ma!!!”
“What, girl? What the hell you want?”
“I’m bored and I can’t sleep! That music is too loud!”

“April, what the fuck do you do around here? Do you pay any bills in this bitch? Huh? I’m talkin’ to you.”
“No…”
“Have you cooked anything in this motherfucka?”
“No…”

“Then how the fuck you think you get to make demands in my motherfuckin’ house? Get your ass out my face, little girl, before you get your feelings hurt in front of all these people.”

April looked around the room—at all her mother’s friends laughing, shaking their heads, sipping drinks and basking in the mess. Tears raced down her cheeks as she turned and ran back upstairs.

“Bucky, you gon’ put up, nigga, or you just gon’ sit there holdin’ the damn cards all night?” Leon barked, refocusing on the game.
“Naw, I’m good,” Bucky muttered, tossing his hand on the table. He slid off his chair and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Look at this nigga, man! He done messed the game up. I had two deuces in my damn hand too!” But Bucky wasn’t thinking about the cards anymore. He had his mind set on a different kind of win.

Bucky opened the fridge, snatched a beer, and popped the top. He leaned casually against the counter, sipping slow—just waiting for his moment to slip upstairs unnoticed.

“CHARLENE!” Leon hollered from the living room. “Come on, baby! Come take that lame-ass nigga’s place!”

Charlene, mid-motion, slid the last of the golden catfish from the skillet and tucked the platter into the oven.

“If you hungry, Bucky, make yourself a plate,” she called over her shoulder. But when she turned back—Bucky was gone.

Damn... where the hell he go that fast?
She paused, puzzled, then shrugged it off like nothing.

“Ughhh! I hate this house!” April screamed into her pillow, but the thumping bass downstairs swallowed her voice whole. She dove face-first onto her lumpy twin mattress, the box spring poking through like bones under thin skin. She thought about running away—again. But the thought always led to the same answer. She had nowhere to go.

Quiet as a ghost, Bucky crept into her room. He stood there in the doorway, eyes roaming, taking in the curve of her body sprawled across the bed. Her light-caramel thighs, her shape…

“Damn, you a fine motherfucka,” he muttered aloud, voice raspy and bold.

April jolted upright, scrambling to cover herself.
“What are you doing in my room?” she shouted, her voice sharp, full of fear.

“Okay, okay—calm down,” Bucky said softly, lifting his hands like he meant no harm. He took a slow step toward her. “I just wanna talk to you.”

“Talk to me? For what?! Get out of my room! I don’t even know you!”

“I know. I know. Hey—my name’s Bucky… well, that’s what everybody calls me. You mind if I sit down?”

“No! I do not want you to sit down. Please just get out of my room!”

She spun toward the door.
“Ma!!! Momma!!!” But her voice got swallowed again. The music kept pounding. Nobody heard her.

“Now, there’s no need for all that,” Bucky said, his voice calm, almost playful, as he crept closer. April curled up tighter in the corner of her bed, knees drawn to her chest, hands shaking.

Without warning—SMACK! A vicious right hook cracked her jaw. April’s world spun black. Bucky moved fast, yanking her shorts down to her ankles. She stirred, groggy from the blow, vision blurred. As she came to, confusion twisted into terror.

“Get off of me!” she cried, kicking wildly—her foot catching him in the chest.

“Oh, so you gon’ make me work for it, huh?” Bucky growled, climbing over her, forcing her down with his weight.

“Get the fuck off me! Please! GET OFF OF ME! MOMMA! MOMMY! PLEASE, HELP ME!”

Her screams were raw, desperate—But they went unheard. The music kept thumping downstairs. The voices kept laughing. Bucky didn’t stop. He forced himself inside her.

April screamed—a cry full of pain, confusion, and betrayal.

“Please… please stop! Why are you doing this to me?!”

Sweat dripped from Bucky’s face onto hers as he kept moving, lost in his own sick rhythm.

“You sick motherfucka! GET OFF ME!”

She thrashed under him, trying to claw, trying to scratch, trying to push him off—But he was too strong. Too heavy. Too determined.

Tears streamed down her face. She kept screaming. Kept begging. But no one came. Bucky’s breath quickened. His body tensed. He started groaning—gripping her wrists tighter, his hand pressing hard against her throat.

April’s vision blurred again. Her head spun. The edges of the world faded. Her eyes fluttered—rolling backward—And that’s when she saw it. Charlene. Standing in the doorway. Watching.

Charlene stood in the doorway for just a moment longer. Then… softly pulled the door shut behind her. She left April to fend for herself.

April stopped fighting. Her limbs went still. The tension in her body unraveled and slid into numbness. She just laid there—staring up into Bucky’s face as he grunted, finishing all over her midsection.

Outside her window, fireworks exploded in the sky—a burst of bright color against the darkness. Reds. Blues. Golds. Crackling and dancing across the walls of her dim-lit room.

Bucky let go of her wrist and neck. His jagged, brownish thumbnail had torn through her skin during the struggle—the cut now bleeding heavy onto the sheets.

April didn’t move. She just stared at him. Eyes wide. Frozen.

“Now don’t go tellin’ nobody nothin’ they don’t need to know,” Bucky muttered as he stumbled to put himself back together.

“Your mama don’t give a fuck about you anyway,” he added with a cruel smirk. “Ain’t no point tellin’ her. Shit, she wouldn’t believe you no how.”

A single tear slid down April’s cheek. She stared at the ceiling—watched the colors from the fireworks swirl across the walls. Like they were mocking her. Dancing over pain.

Bucky tucked in the last bit of his shirt. Then eased the door open… and slipped into the hallway like nothing had happened.

Friday, July 5 – 12:53 AM
Grand Rapids, Michigan

“Yo! Everybody ready?” Gas asked, tightening his gloves and pulling his Glock from his waistband.
“This the last lick. We pull this off—we set.” He looked around at his squad, locking eyes with every man.

“Mall, you good, my baby?”
“Hell yeah! You know I’m always ready. What we waitin’ for?”

Gas grinned wide. “That’s why I love you, my guy!”

Mall cracked a smile, adrenaline already humming through his chest.
“Ight—Zay, you and Tuck slide around back. June, you and Zo hit the side door. Once you get it open, hold tight.”

He paused, eyes burning with authority. “If we can slip in and out quiet, we keep it low. But if anything goes left? Mall, we shoot first and figure the rest out after.”

“Bet.” Jamal nodded, stone-faced.

“June—if you hear shit jump off, move in. No hesitation.”

The squad nodded in unison. This wasn’t their first mission together.

“I love every one of you and look forward to enjoying the fruits of our labor once we make it back. So keep your shit together in there. Let’s make it home… These boys are not going to have mercy on us if we’re caught slipping. Ight?”

Gas was a real O.G. Known in every hood in Grand Rapids, his name carried weight. He had been like a father to Jamal since he was five. Jamal’s real parents didn’t want anything to do with him. His mother gave him away for seven grams of crack and a pack of Newports when he was three. The woman who “bought” him was Gas’s god-sister—a dealer who overdosed one night after a robbery gone wrong.

Gas had found Jamal crying by her body. He took the boy in, leaving before calling the cops anonymously. Since then, Gas raised Jamal through the streets. Survival was all Jamal knew.

Gas double-checked the clip in his Glock 19, then opened the driver’s door of the Cadillac Escalade.
“It’s go time.”

Zay and Tuck slipped out of the backseat and disappeared into the shadows, moving quick toward the rear of the building. June snapped the banana clip into his AK with a crisp click, then led Zo along the bushes, creeping up the driveway toward the side entrance.

“Ight, Mall. Come on,” Gas said low as they slid out.

He and Jamal crept across the front lawn, staying low as they made their way to the porch. Jamal reached into his waistband and pulled out his black .45, holding it close to his chest as he tested the doorknob.

“It’s locked,” Jamal whispered.

“Ayo, Gas…” he muttered, scanning the porch. “You know I’ll follow you anywhere, but yo—for some reason, this feel off, bro.”

Gas didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed, reworking the plan in his head. That made Jamal uneasy.

“I told her to call dude and tell him she was on the way—to leave the door open,” Gas murmured. “She said she always came around this time, but sometimes she did have to wait outside ‘cause they be down in the studio.”

“Shit,” Jamal scoffed. “Maybe he don’t trust her ass like that.”

They both fell silent.

“Shh! Yo! You hear that?”

Just then—click!—the porch light snapped on, flooding them in bright yellow.

“Fuck!!! MOVE!” Gas barked, shoving Jamal around the side of the house. They crouched behind the corner, panting. They heard someone unlock the front door.

Gas exhaled hard. He turned back toward Jamal, who was bent over laughing.

“Yo! What the fuck is you laughin’ at?” Gas hissed.

Jamal wiped tears from his eyes, still cracking up. “Yo scary ass, man! Damn, that’s too funny. You good?”

Gas glared. “You know what? Fuck you, Mall! I don’t even know why I waste my time with you,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I should just shoot you right here.”

“Oh, you tough enough to shoot me right here,” Jamal fired back, grinning. “But you was runnin’ like hell from that porch light, remember?”

“Fuck you, Mall. Now bring yo ass.”

“Lead the way, fearless leader,” Jamal cracked, still smirking as they crept back up onto the porch.

This time, the knob turned. Gas slowly pushed the door open and eased inside, gun up, scanning the shadows. He looked back at Jamal and gave a quick nod. They slid in—silent, tight, focused.

The small entryway split into two narrow hallways. Beneath them, faint thumping bass and muffled voices rattled the floor. Gas scanned left. A dim-lit room glowed at the end of the hall, flashes of color bouncing from a TV screen. Jamal covered the right hallway, his .45 still in hand, eyes sharp.

Down the right hallway, black-and-white FENDI logos patterned the plush carpet. The smell of weed hung thick in the air—sticky, loud, and fresh.

Gas crept toward the lit room. He peeked around the corner, then lifted his Glock and slid inside. Seconds ticked. Jamal stayed posted at the crosspoint, heart steady, gun raised.

Gas reappeared. “Yo—Rolexs!” he whispered, excitement in his voice. “This ring too… it look like it’s worth a lil’ somethin’.”

“Word. Aight, come on. Let’s get this done.” Jamal slid down the right hallway.

The first door was cracked but dark. It looked empty. Jamal peeked in quick, clearing it with one swift glance—then turned back and gave Gas the signal to move up.

Gas advanced, gun raised, eyes sharp, covering the hall as he moved toward an opening near the stairs. According to his inside girl, the real stash—the money and the product—was upstairs in a spare bedroom.

Gas nodded at Jamal, then motioned toward the stairs. Jamal crept up first, slow and quiet, keeping low.

About halfway up, he froze. Footsteps. Someone was moving around in a room to the left. Jamal turned back and pressed a finger to his lips, then pointed toward the room.

Gas nodded and followed, careful with every step. At the top, Jamal slid his pistol into his waistband and positioned himself at the side of the doorway. A shadow paced back and forth.

Jamal waited. Watching.

The shadow shifted again—stepping away from the door. That’s when he moved in. Jamal burst in fast—silent. Gas hustled up, catching only the faint thump of impact.

“We good!” Jamal said suddenly, causing Gas to jump as he popped back out into the hallway. Jamal shook his head, smirking. He pulled the .45 from his waistband again and moved toward the next room.

“Bingo,” he whispered, stepping through the next doorway. Gas followed and froze when he saw it.

“Oh shit, G!” Jamal’s voice was low but lit up with excitement. “There’s a lot more here than we were expectin’…”

He looked back over his shoulder, wide-eyed. “Look at all this. We set, bro. We fuckin’ set!”

Stacks of cash. Ziplocs filled with powder. Jewel-studded watches tossed in trays. The room was packed—more than either of them expected.

Gas ran his fingers across a pile of hundreds, nodding slow. “Damn… somebody been eatin’ good.”

Jamal picked up a gold chain, heavy with diamonds. “You wasn’t lying G. This some cartel-level shit.”