Page 101 of Invisible Bars
I remembered every second of that interview—him sitting across from me with that smug, paper-thin smile, thinking he was educating me like I didn’t build an empire without him, or like I needed his “white way” of doing things to keep it standing. That was his first mistake; thinking he could step into my space, disrespect me under the guise of professionalism, and walk out untouched. His second mistake? Not knowing I wasn’t just the COO of Kors Luxe Development, but I wasGatez.
I didn’t go there to ask questions or negotiate. Carter was about to learn the part of the process nobody talks about—the follow-up interview. And that time, he wouldn’t get the chance to walk away.
Chi glanced over at me, chewing on a toothpick, dressed in all black like a shadow that could talk.
“You ready?”
I nodded then opened the door.
We approached on foot, silent. Chi pulled out a set of picks and made quick work of the lock. The side door creaked just slightly as we slipped inside.
“This nigga’s house smells like Little Caesars and fake Versace,” Chi whispered.
The interior wasn’t filthy, but it was far from what I expected. For a man who carried himself like an uppity white executive, I thought his place would be spotless—glass tables, polished floors, the works. Instead, a couple of empty pizza boxes sat stacked in the corner and beer cans lined the table like trophies.
“Yeah, yeah. It was some real nigger nonsense,” we overheard Carter saying with a laugh.
We followed the sound of his voice.
“Like, he actually had a thug sitting next to him like security… a real knuckle-dragger,” he kept talking not knowing death was right around the corner for him. “And don’t get me started on Imanio. The man’s clearly trying to rebrand from kingpin to CEO. I played the part, though; said all the diversity buzzwords. You know how it is.”
Chi and I stopped near the kitchen.
Carter’s back was to us. He was pacing, holding a glass of red wine in one hand and his phone in the other.
I slowly pulled my gun from my hoodie.
Chi cracked his neck and whispered, “I hope this nigga got AppleCare on his spine.”
I walked past a photo of him with a golden retriever and a ski trip montage on the fridge.
Click.
The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked sliced through the air.
Carter froze mid-step.
Still holding the phone to his ear, he slowly turned around. His face lost all color the moment he saw us.
I stood just a few feet away, pistol raised, expression carved from stone. Chi leaned against the kitchen counter, casual but ready, his own piece tucked but visible.
With my gun, I gestured for him to end the call.
Carter’s voice cracked. “Hey, uh—I’m gonna have to call you back.”
He hung up without waiting for a response.
“Now,” I said evenly, voice low but sharp, “what’s all that slick shit you were just saying?”
“I-I didn’t mean any of that,” Carter stammered, sweat already gathering at his temple, his hands twitching like he was searching for an exit that didn’t exist. “I was just—just joking around. You know how white guys talk in private—we don’t mean it!”
“But you said it!” I fired back. “That was your truth. That’s what you think about me... my people… my business.”
“Look, we can talk about this! I… I really did want the job!”
I chuckled, low and dark. “Muthafucka, you didn’t want a job; you wanted to test me… and now you’re failing. Carter, I came to personally let you know your application’s been denied…permanently.”
The bravado he’d carried in the interview was gone… stripped clean. His shoulders were hunched inward and his eyes were glued to the gun in my hand like it was a snake about to strike.
