Page 3 of Soft On Her
“It’s upstairs in my craft room,” she replied.
I nodded, leading Milani up the spiral staircase towards the office. It was slightly quieter once we made it to the second level of the home. My feet didn’t stop moving until we waltzed into my mother’s craft room. I released the grip I had on Milani’s hand, and she claimed a seat in the plush, soft chair my mother had in there. The large gift box that housed Milani’s gift sat atop the desk. I custom ordered the wrapping paper, which was blush pink with flamingos, her favorite color and animal. With a confident smile on my face, I passed Milani the lightweight box.
“This gift wrap is so cute, I almost don’t want to open it. What is inside?” She bubbled, running her pink stiletto nail along the edge of the wrapping paper.
I held the black box tightly in my hand, watching Milani pull the fuchsia ribbon loose on top of the gift box.
POW! POW! POW!
The thunderous sound of gunfire erupted in the front yard catching both of us off guard. I instinctively ducked down and reached over to slam the door to the craft room shut. Crawling over to Milani, I snatched her off the sofa because her head was visible through the back window. She landed next to me with a hard thud, emitting a low yelp.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But my God, what’s going on?” Milani fretted, snuggling next to me. Now that she was beside me, I could feel her body trembling.
The music that was previously the backtrack for the incessant gunshots suddenly dissipated, and you could hear the mayhem erupting outside of the house. Screams, more gunfire, poundingfootsteps, furniture scraping across the hardwood floors, and glass shattering sounded in all directions. I was silently kicking myself in the ass because I was trying to be cute and didn’t have my gun on me. My father always taught me to keep one within reach, but I was in the comfort of our family estate, or so I thought.
“I don’t know,” I replied, my voice low and steady, trying to provide Milani with a source of comfort. “We are going to have to make a run for it. The next room over has a safe room inside of it.”
“You want to go out there. Towards the danger?” Milani shrieked, her bottom lip quivering. She closed her eyes and allowed a few tears to slide down her cheeks. I sat up on my knees in front of her and grasped the sides of her face so we were peering into each other’s eyes.
“Milani, I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you. Okay?” I assured her, gently patting her tears away.
She silently nodded and closed her eyes for a moment. My blood boiled seeing how much fear the intruders caused Milani. Until that moment, I’d never seen her cry. She was always upbeat, smiling, and in a good mood. She was the Bubbles to my Buttercup, the control to my chaos.
“Come on, Milani. We have to make this run for it. If they come up here we don’t have shit but a few pairs of scissors between the two of us,” I whispered.
“Okay,” Milani nodded. She was terrified, but I could tell she had faith in me.
BOOM!
The door flew past where we were crouched down in front of my mom’s desk and smacked into the wall. Milani was lifted from the floor by her long braids, and she screamed, horror covering her face.
“Please, don’t hurt us,” I fretted, placing my hands in the air. “I can give you money. Just let her…” I dramatically pleaded, frantically bouncing on the balls of my feet. In the middle of my statement, I lunged towards the masked man, placed both hands on his shoulders, and lifted my knee to his groin twice. He released the grip he had on Milani and doubled over in pain. Milani ran behind me while I pulled the nine from the holster on his hip and put two through the side of his skull. He collapsed on the floor like a sack of potatoes, his body giving one final twitch as blood soaked the hardwood floors. The gunfire slowed, and I prayed it was because we were gaining the upper hand, not the other way around.
I passed Milani the nine and snatched up the rifle that fell by the man’s side. “Sneaux, you know I don’t know how to use a gun.”
“It’s just in case. I got us. But if it comes to it, you aim and shoot,” I assured her. With the rifle perched on my shoulder and my finger resting on the trigger, I kept my eyes locked ahead. The first time my father brought out a rifle for me to shoot, I was thirteen. I remember joking that the rifle was damn near bigger than me, but that never stopped him from teaching me how to shoot one. Now more than ever, I understand why my father started training me up at such a young age. I was poised and ready to fight for our lives, a complete juxtaposition to Milani, whose father thought her only place was in the kitchen or laundry room.
“Sneaux, I’m scared,” she whispered.
“It’s going to be okay. You gotta put on a brave face. You can’t let them smell fear on you because the enemy will exploit it,” I recited a phrase that my father drilled into my head.
We maneuvered around the desk, and a second masked man stepped into the doorframe. I pulled the trigger twice, sending one bullet through his forehead and neck. He dropped to theground, and Milani snuggled up to my back, her bare perspiring skin colliding with mine.
“Sneaux!” My father’s voice echoed through the silent house. “SNEAUXXXXX! BABY GIRL!” My father bellowed, pain and angst lacing his cracking voice.
“I’m in the crafting room! I’m fine!” I shouted.
Within a matter of seconds, my father’s tall frame came barreling through the door in a big black blur. Levi and Terrel were hot on his heels, guns dangling by their sides, sweat forming across their foreheads. Everyone looked like they’d been in a fight for their lives. My father wrapped me up in his arms and rapidly kissed the top of my head. I heard car doors slamming and tires squealing in the distance as the smell of the barbecue suffocated me from being wrapped in my father’s arms.
“You laid these fuck niggas down, baby girl?” My father questioned, pulling away from the suffocating hug to observe the two dead bodies.
“And I did it with his gun,” I nodded with excitement, pointing to the man closest to our feet.
“That’s what the fuck I’m talking about!” My father celebrated, extending his hand for our signature handshake. We bumped fists, then rapidly fluttered our fingers together. It was a handshake we started when I was the quarterback of the Sand Crane Warriors. Every time I threw a touchdown pass, I made sure to find him for a simple celebration and to count the earnings, because my father promised a rack for every touchdown and five racks if we won the game.
“I told you she would handle herself,” Terrel announced before we broke the hug.
