Slipping Into Darkness Read Free

out and grasped her hand and squeezed it. For a moment, we each held each other’s free hand. Almost as in a mirage, I could still see the same blood pact we’d made as girls. In fact, as adults, we’d both shed blood behind Trayvon’s untimely death. Although my murders were public knowledge, Chica’s murders were our unspoken secret. It also was part of our bond.
    Letting her hand go, I changed the subject to try to cheer Chica up. “Hey, do you see Denzel?”
    Just as quickly, Chica’s mood shifted like an L.A. sun peeking out from under the clouds of an overcast gloomy June day. She pulled her hand out of Riley’s hand. “Where?” She tilted her head to peer out of her eyes sideways. “Look! Will Smith and Jada are here too.” She tried hard to contain her excitement. In an effort not to point, she lifted her eyebrows in their direction.
    â€œThere’s Oprah, and look! Jennifer Hudson,” Chica added under her breath. “Look at all that weight Jennifer’s lost. She looks amazing!”
    â€œDoesn’t she?” I agreed, also speaking sotto voce.
    Riley leaned in and hugged me. “Thanks for cheering her up, Z. I appreciate how you’re helping her grow her business too.”
    I flagged my hand in dismissal. For a moment, star gazing had helped distract me from what was really bothering me, too. I was amazed at the chiseled faces, many which came compliments of the local Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Some faces were soft, improved for their efforts; some were macabre looking, almost like masks.
    Without warning, that subterranean side of me reared its illogical head. Blood calling to blood. And blood won out every time. I felt a protective urge. Just the thought of anyone harming my brother hit me with a double punch of fear in my gut. I surely couldn’t go up against some cartel or the Bloods or whoever was holding my brother. Sheesh! Who gave my brother up?

Chapter Two
    We each stepped out the limousine to the setting sun and the blazing flashes of the cameras as were ushered into the world of the beautiful people–“Hollyweird” as they called them on the Black gossip blogs. The paparazzi, here en masse, resembled locusts descending on a lush garden. I couldn’t help but feel the blaring contrast to my private world and the public celebrity world I was now about to enter. Now we were about to become reality stars. Well, at least Haviland was–Chica and I would have bit roles in her program. But it was all good because, in the big picture, we all would get customers for our businesses.
    Romero looked spectacular in his Bond-like Savile Row tux and could have passed for a famous Hispanic actor himself. People said he resembled Academy Award winner Javier Bardem.
    We each took our time strolling down the red carpet at the Oscars. Actually, I had a press pass; the others were all guests. Today I was looking “Hollywood” myself, clad in Haviland’s borrowed black Versace dress. I was even wearing fake eyelashes. I’d been taking martial arts for protection, and now had a side benefit–this new fit, muscular body. Haviland had lost twenty pounds for the night, too, and she was down to almost a three, so she really could get away with the plunging neckline on her Kaufman Franco dress. Chica was rocking the mess out of an Oscar de la Renta gown, also compliments of Haviland.
    Tonight, in addition to borrowed clothes, we were all living borrowed lives, which was pretty much what actors do all the time. We were all given invitations because of Haviland’s boyfriend’s nomination for his role in his first film, a suspense thriller, The Red Herring.
    Before Romero and I strolled all the way down the aisle to our seats, I motioned for him to follow me. “I’m not going to be sitting with you, babe.”
    â€œI know. I just wanted to walk in on the best-looking woman’s arm here