Page 12 of Rocky

“I don’t have a date. I’m taking Briar’s mom to dinner to apologize for yesterday.”

“Hmm…Sounds like a date to me,” she replied.

“He likes her,” Russell said.

“He sure does. I called it as soon as she left. You should’ve seen how they were looking at each other. The sexual tension?—”

“All right, Cinda, chill,” I warned. “You’ve always been a good liar.”

We’d known Cinda since we were teenagers. Her father was the president of Mayhem and took me and my brothers under his wing when he noticed us running with some known gangbangers.

He mentored us for several years, and when he retired, I took his place as president. This ruffled a few feathers at first, but I proved myself, and eventually, the members embraced me as their leader.

“You taught me well, but I’ve told not one lie.”

“I guess that’s my cue.” I held up the deuces and did my rounds to each classroom.

The center accepted children from second to eighth grade. Each grade had two classrooms, two teachers, and an assistant. The children were given a snack before completing one hour of homework. After, they could go to the gym, engage in arts and crafts, or receive extra help in subjects where they were struggling.

It took us a few months to develop a system that worked, but it worked like a charm once we did. Parents typically began picking up their children at 5:00 p.m., and we were open until 7:00 p.m.

On my way back to my office, I passed the gym and saw Russell preparing the stations for the kids to play. I let him do his thing and continued to my destination. As soon as I sat down, my cell phone rang, and Semiyon’s name flashed across the screen.

“What’s up, Semi?” I answered.

“Not too much. I wanted to give you an update on your boy.”

“Whatchu got for me?”

“He spent most of the day on the corner. I can’t believe his old ass is still doing that shit. When he left, he went to the youth center on the Westside for about fifteen minutes. He’s at a smallranch-style house not too far from the center now. I don’t think it’s his house because a woman had to let him in.”

“Text me that address when you get a chance.”

“I got you. He’s been here—oh, shit. Hold on.”

Semiyon was quiet for a minute, but I heard muffled shouting in the background.

“What’s going on?”

“He stormed out, and the woman is on his tail, screaming and hollering.” He paused briefly. “Damn, he turned around and backhanded her. Now, he’s got her by her hair and is dragging her back inside.”

“You incognito?”

“Always.”

“All right. Do what you do and leave when the police arrive.”

“Cool. I’ll keep you posted.”

We ended the call, and I sat back in my chair. When I was notified or suspected a man was guilty of domestic abuse, Semiyon and a few other club members at the club ran surveillance for me. Before I took matters into my own hands, I had to be sure, and they helped me obtain the evidence I needed.

It was difficult to walk away from a domestic abuse situation in progress. After calling the police, our crew would dress up in deliveryman costumes and pretend to make a delivery to create a distraction and halt the ongoing abuse.

Typically, when the police were called, the surveillance ended as soon as they arrived. However, if we decided to take care of it ourselves, we monitored every move the abuser made until we could catch him. That was when the fun began.

“Rue, someone is here to see you,” the young lady who answered the door shouted. “I’m Violet, Rue’s youngest sister. Who are you?”

“You should’ve asked that before opening the door.”

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