Page 21 of The Birthday Girl
Tahlia didn’t so much as glance at him. She just continued to glide across the lobby, her heels stabbing the floor in an unbroken rhythm. She had just reached the revolving doors when a hand firmly clamped down on her arm. Tahlia pivoted, her gaze dropping to where his flesh met hers, and the temperature in the vicinity dropped ten degrees.
“Release me. Now.”
Vega’s hand jerked back like he'd touched a fire as he replied, “Sorry about that. My intent wasn’t to upset you, but you and I need to talk.”
Tahlia’s eyes traveled from his scuffed shoes to his five o'clock shadow, lingering on the coffee stain near his collar. “Who are you, and why do you think you’re entitled to my time?” she asked, finally lifting her eyes to meet his face, the coldness in her gaze like liquid nitrogen.
“I’m Detective Marcus Vega, and as I said, we need to talk.”
She exhaled through her nose. “About?”
Vega squared his shoulders, planting himself in her path. “Not here. At the precinct.”
Her brows arched, the faintest smile curling her lips. “Do you have a warrant?”
Vega exhaled through thin lips, choosing not to be intimidated. “No, but I do have questions only you can answer, Ms. Banks. The sooner you come with me, the sooner you can get back to…whatever it is you do up there.” His chin angled toward the elevators.
Tahlia’s hand flexed around her bag strap. “And if I decline?”
Vega’s expression softened, almost pitying. “You won’t. For the same reason you never let a story be written about you that you don’t personally narrate. You’re a control freak, Ms. Banks, and right now the only way to stay in control is to come with me.”
She bristled at the accuracy. Vega had the smug, resigned look of a man who’d outlasted a hundred suspects with more to lose and fewer resources. However, she wasn’t them.
Tahlia straightened, her eyes flicking over Vega’s shoulder to confirm the location of the building’s security cameras, then fixed him with a look designed to hollow out his resolve. “You will not contact me again, Detective. If you require anything, you may speak with my attorney.” Her voice rang clear into the lobby, slicing through the hum of onlookers who had paused to be nosy.
Vega’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Ms. Banks, I—”
She raised a finger, the gesture so imperious it could have stopped a firing squad. “My. Attorney.” Tahlia slowly enunciated the two words, then turned her back and strode into the pulse of sunlight beyond the revolving doors.
8- The Best or Nothing
Mercedes upended the Gucci box over the kitchen counter, sending neat stacks of twenties spilling out. Her acrylic nails clicked against the bills as she sorted through her earnings from the baby shower video, her whispered count growing more frantic with each stack. “Thirty-seven... thirty-eight... thirty-nine...”
“Where the fuck is the rest of my money?” she shrieked, snatching up the empty box she’d stashed the money in earlier.
It was light, a lot lighter than it had been.
She stormed into the living room, wheezing with rage, and took in the evidence of a boyfriend, who’d spent the days lounging on the couch. There was a controller in his hands, a empty ramen bowl on the floor, and a crisp new pair of Nike Dunks propped on the ottoman. The box still had the branded tissue paper inside, and the receipt peeked out from underneath the shoes.
Mercedes snatched up the slip and scanned the total: $156.87. They’d fought for weeks about money, his lack of job and prospects, her taking on double shifts at Nail’d It, and her inability to save because he wouldn’t get off his ass. And now, there he was, feet up, playing NBA 2024 on a new PS5, wearing a half-grin that made her skin crawl.
“Tremaine, please tell me you didn’t steal from me,” she said calmly, though she was anything but.
“Baby, chill. I’m playing online. They can hear you.” Tremaine pointed to the headphones he was wearing.
“I don’t give a fuck!” Mercedes snapped. “I asked you if your broke ass stole from me. You need to answer the fucking question.”
Tremaine hurried to mute the headphones and dropped the controller onto the table. “You need to chill with the bullshit. You know damn well I can’t steal from you.”
Mercedes’ head pulled back. “What the fuck do you mean you can’t steal from me?”
“Just what I said. We’re in a relationship. What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours. I know damn well you didn’t think you was gon’ spend all that money on yourself?”
“Hell yeah! Ain’t no what’s yours in mine and mine is yours up in here. What’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is mine because your lazy ass don’t bring no money in. You fucking owe me, nigga! Are you dumb?”
Tremaine smirked, leaning back against the couch cushions like her fury didn’t mean shit. “You trippin’, Mercedes. I ain’t steal nothin’. I just invested in us. You ain’t want your man lookin’ bummy, did you?”
“Invested?” Mercedes barked out a laugh, her voice cracking with frustration. “You blewmymoney on sneakers, a PlayStation, games, and credits. That ain’t no damn investment, that’s robbery.”
