Page 7 of Cannon (King Family Saga #3)

Queen

After I left the bar, I made my way back to my apartment uptown.

It was a warm, Afro-bohemian sanctuary tucked above the noise.

My chocolate leather sofa was draped in a handwoven mud-cloth throw, accompanied by bright yellow pillows.

Sculptures from the motherland stood guard in the corners, while bold African artwork commanded the walls like ancestral spirits watching over me.

And plants were everywhere. Hanging, climbing, thriving.

The air smelled like soil and sage. This was my oasis.

My peace. A world away from the champagne-fueled chaos and cold ambition of Sylk Road.

Once the door closed behind me, you would’ve thought that I’d crash.

But I couldn’t sleep. Not even a power nap.

Just laid there in bed with my eyes wide open and my thoughts clawing at the inside of my skull.

My boho sun clock kept ticking like it was mocking me.

Four-o-two. Four-twenty-seven. Five-o-one.

By six, I stopped pretending. I peeled myself out of the sheets and moved through the apartment like a ghost. I showered and moisturized before moving on.

At the vanity, I sat with the lights low and started on my makeup. Primer. Concealer. Foundation. The usual armor. But as I swiped the brush across my cheek, I caught my reflection and stopped.

I looked… old.

Not old in years. Old in spirit. Like the years had dragged me behind them and I’d just now gotten the chance to look back at the damage.

My eyes were puffy, and my skin looked dull. My lips were dry. I looked like a woman trying too hard to stay pretty when everything inside her was falling the fuck apart.

I hated her.

I wiped it all off and started again.

Not because I wanted to look good. Because I refused to go anywhere looking like I’d been crying. That kind of weakness cost too much.

By the time I finished lining my lips, I couldn’t stop thinking about ZaZa.

When I got married and had her, I was running away from my past. I named her Esperanza because it meant hope. And she was my hope for a brighter future.

And for a while she was, until signs of her illness began to show.

ZaZa is beautiful, talented and smart. But her moods were hard to manage.

The mania was enough to drive the entire house crazy.

And the depression broke my heart. At some point in high school she started doing drugs, but I spent every dime I could to get her the best help possible.

Javi never understood her. Esperanza is seriously ill and she knows she’s not supposed to be drinking. I don’t know what triggered this episode, but I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

She had her first bout of mania as a preteen.

One minute she was even-tempered, and the next, it was like something had taken over her.

She stayed up for days, talked a mile a minute, and had boundless energy.

She was convinced she was a superstar and that Javi and I were holding her back from living out her destiny.

At just twelve years old, she ran away, trying to make it to Los Angeles.

Luckily, Javi’s friends on the force were able to track her down in time.

I knew then what it was. Mania. Bipolar disorder. It ran on my side of the family, but he didn’t want to accept it. Claimed I was exaggerating. Said she just needed discipline. Said I was too soft, too indulgent, too busy running a strip club to raise a daughter right.

He thought if he prayed hard enough, she’d be healed. I thought if I loved her hard enough, she wouldn’t shatter.

We were both wrong, because she’s gotten worse. She started experimenting with drugs in high school, then became very promiscuous. Not to mention the credit cards she opened and maxed out with her insane shopping sprees.

I’ve only paid her tuition and forced her to get a part-time job. I also insisted that she see a therapist and stay on her medication, but somewhere along the way, something went wrong.

I was out of ideas on how to help my child, but I wasn’t ready to give up on her.

Last night when I had that drink at the bar, I just wanted to calm my nerves. My daughter’s condition and my mother have left me with crippling anxiety.

I’ve taken things for it, here and there. But I hate the way it makes me feel. So, I power through. Breathe. Pray. Hide when I need to. Drink a little. Smoke some weed. It doesn’t stop the panic attacks, but it helps me manage.

As I blended out my contour, my mind wandered to the man from last night.

He was a nice little distraction. Cannon. I didn’t want to remember his name. Didn’t want to replay that low, deep voice or the way he stood over that bartender like trouble wrapped in a fine-ass package.

I remembered the way his icy blue eyes looked at me. It wasn’t that he was just trying to fuck, but like he was studying me. Like he was trying to figure out what I was made of. Perhaps he already knew.

Men look at me all the time. Half of Harlem’s either scared of me or wants to screw me. But Cannon? He wasn’t scared. And he wasn’t pressed.

He was big dick energy personified. And not many men get my attention. Barely any of them do.

And that’s what made him dangerous.

He had that energy I tried to avoid. The kind that would have you wrapped up in the sheets ruining your life. I didn’t have time for him. I had enough chaos with ZaZa. And enough weight on my shoulders with keeping Sylk afloat.

But the way he said my name?

I liked it.

Hated that I liked it.

Wondered if he’d show up today. Hoped he wouldn’t. Hoped he would.

ZaZa’s scream echoed down the hallway before I even made it past the nurses’ station.

“Get the fuck off me!”

I broke into a run, heels clicking hard against the linoleum, my heart slamming in my chest like a warning bell. Two nurses were struggling to hold her down through the tiny reinforced window of her room, her limbs flailing, mouth frothing with rage and panic.

“She woke up combative,” one of them said, breathless, trying to restrain her without causing injury.

“She’s my daughter,” I snapped, already pushing past them. “Let me in.”

One of the nurses hesitated, then buzzed the lock.

The second I stepped inside, the energy shifted. ZaZa’s head snapped toward me, eyes wild, pupils blown wide from whatever cocktail they’d given her last night.

“You,” she growled, venom dripping from her tongue. “You did this shit.”

She was strapped down, wrists bound to the rails of the bed, but she thrashed like she was ready to rip the walls apart. Her hair was a mess, her face slick with sweat, but she still looked like my baby. My baby with a monster riding her back.

“ZaZa, calm down—”

“Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down! You had me locked up like some crazy bitch!”

“I’m trying to help you—”

“You’re trying to get rid of me!”

Her voice cracked on that last part, and for a second, I saw it. The fear under the fury. The girl who used to sneak into my bed after nightmares. But it was gone just as quick. She hawked and spat at me, the glob of saliva slapping my cheek.

My hand flew up so fast I startled even myself.

She dared me with her eyes and growled, “Do it.”

And I almost did.

It was just instinct. Reflex. Years of frustration and fear bubbling up all at once. But I caught myself mid-swing. My hand hovered in the air like time had paused to test me.

She saw it. Smirked like the devil. “Do it. Hit me. That’s what you really want, ain’t it?”

I shook my head and backed away, eyes burning.

“I hate you! This is all your fault!” She barked at me.

“How? How is this my fault? You got drunk! You know that drugs and alcohol trigger your episodes,” I responded.

“I flunked out of school! And I wanted to get drunk and party to make me feel better. But you had to lock me away—again!”

Hearing that she flunked out of school pissed me off. New School cost over $55, 000 a year. I’d done so much to get that money because she told me she just wanted to dance and dance would keep her in line. I believed her lies. But I can’t fault her. This just her illness.

“You can’t just lock me up and pretend this fixes everything,” she yelled as I walked toward the door. “You don’t love me. You love control.”

“You know that’s not true, Esperanza. This is not about controlling you. This is about getting you the help you deserve. You are not well, baby, but you gotta help me help you. You aren’t supposed to be doing drugs…”

“Except for the shit these doctors shove down my throat!”

“They help you.”

“Then why am I not helped yet? You know what? Get the fuck out. I don’t know why you bothered coming here. Unless you’re coming to offer a job at your club so I can dance, get out!”

I would never let her dance at the Sylk Road. Not with all those men, drugs and liquor. That would be giving her a death sentence. I nodded my head and fought back any tears that were desperate to fall.

My chest tightened like it was wrapped in wire. The panic came fast, heat crawling up my neck, edges of my vision going fuzzy. I didn’t stop to think. I bolted down the hall and into the nearest bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me.

Locked it. Dug through my purse like a madwoman until I found the crumpled paper bag I kept stashed for moments like this.

Breathe.

In. Out.

In. Out.

My hands shook as I pressed the bag to my mouth, trying to slow it all down. The air felt thin, my thoughts even thinner.

I caught my reflection in the mirror, eyes wild, makeup smudged, looking like a woman hanging on by threads.

I’d raised a girl with fire in her chest and glass in her voice. But somewhere along the way, that fire turned inward. And all I could do now was hold myself together and pray she didn’t burn all the way out.