Page 17

OMIR

T he night started like any other. The jazz club was alive with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses.

The scent of bourbon and fried appetizers hung in the air, and the band was deep into their second set, the saxophone player wailing out a mournful tune that spoke to something deep in my soul.

I was stationed at the bar, keeping an eye on the flow of things. It was my ritual—make my rounds, check in with the staff, and settle into a spot where I could see and feel the pulse of the night. Business was booming, and the crowd was just the way I liked it: lively but not rowdy.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling me from the rhythm of the room. It was O’Shea. I sighed, debating whether to answer. He’d been a pain in my ass lately with his bullshit baby mama drama and money issues.

“Yo, what’s up?” I said, keeping my voice low enough not to disturb the patrons around me.

“Bro, I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice urgent. “I’m bouta be outside the club. In the back.”

“O—”

“Just come out, bro.”

Something in his tone stopped me from brushing him off.

I nodded at the bartender to hold things down and headed for the back entrance.

The moment I stepped outside, I saw him pacing by the dumpsters, looking over his shoulder like someone was after him.

He was jittery, his usual cool, cocky demeanor replaced by something bordering on panic.

“What’s going on?” I asked, crossing my arms.

O’Shea stopped pacing and turned to me, his face tight. “I need some money, O. Like, right fucking now.”

“Are you fucking serious?” I shook my head. “We’ve had this conversation a million times. I’m not your bank. You gotta stop putting yourself in these situations.”

“This ain’t like the other times, man,” he said, his voice rising. “These niggas I owe? They’re serious. If I don’t pay up, they’re coming for me. I told ’em to meet me here.”

I stared at him, frustration boiling in my chest. “How much?”

“Eight grand,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes.

“Eight gr. . .” I nearly shouted. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Omir—”

Before I could respond, the sound of raised voices cut through the alley. Two men rounded the corner, their postures tense, their eyes locked on O’Shea.

“This him?” one of them said, nodding toward my brother.

O’Shea stepped back, his hands up. “Look, I just need a little more time?—”

“Time’s up,” the other man growled, pulling a gun from his waistband.

“Hey, hey, hold the fuck up!” I hollered. “Whatever this is, we can figure it out without all the extra shit. This is my place of business, and I’m not about to let this go down here.”

The man with the gun sneered. “Stay out of this, big man. Your brother owes Redd.”

“I’ll pay,” I said, my voice steady. “Just let me go inside?—”

“Nah. Too easy.” The gun went off, the sound deafening in the tight alley. My ears rang as I turned to see O’Shea clutching his stomach, blood pouring between his fingers.

“No!” I yelled, catching him as he fell.

The men bolted, disappearing into the night, and I didn’t have the presence of mind to chase after them. My focus was on my brother, his face pale, his breathing shallow.

“Stay with me,” I said, pressing my hands over the wound while also fumbling for my cell phone.

“O. . .” His voice was weak, his eyes glassy.

“Hang on,” I choked out as the line picked up. “I need a fucking ambulance!” But I could feel it slipping away, the life draining from him.

The alley filled with the sound of sirens, but it was too late. By the time the paramedics arrived, my brother was gone. I sat there, covered in his blood, the weight of everything crashing down on me. No matter how much trouble he got into, he was still my brother. And I’d failed him.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. I shut down the club, called my father, hit up Cindy, who broke down screaming crying about Juice growing up without a father. And, after all that shit, the cops questioned me nonstop.

Anya showed up, her face full of worry. But none of it registered. All I could see was O’Shea’s lifeless body, his blood staining the pavement. Anya stood across from me, her arms crossed, her face set in an expression I couldn’t quite place—somewhere between worry and frustration.

I leaned against the bar, a glass of whiskey in my hand. I hadn’t taken a sip. My mind was a mess of grief, anger, and guilt. O’Shea’s blood still felt warm on my hands, even though it was long washed away.

Anya broke the silence. “Omir, you’ve been sitting here for hours. Talk to me.”

I exhaled sharply, staring into the amber liquid in my glass. “What do you want me to say, Anya?”

She stepped closer, her voice softer now. “I want you to let me in. You just lost your brother, and you’re shutting me out like I’m a stranger.”

“You don’t understand,” I said, my voice low, almost a growl. “You can’t understand.”

Her jaw tightened. “Try me.”

I finally looked at her, my eyes heavy with everything I didn’t want to say.

“You weren’t there. You didn’t see him lying in that alley, bleeding out because of some bullshit I don’t even know the full story on.

You didn’t hear him take his last breath while I—” My voice cracked, and I turned away, unable to finish.

Anya moved closer, her hand reaching for mine, but I pulled away. “Baby, you can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t fucking feel,” I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended.

Her eyes widened in shock before narrowing in anger. “Excuse me?”

I ran a hand over my face, regretting the tone but unable to back down. “You keep asking me to talk, to explain, but what do you want me to say? That I failed him? That I couldn’t save him? That maybe if I’d been a better brother, he wouldn’t have been in that alley in the first place?”

“Stop it!” she said, her voice trembling. “You’re not responsible for your brother’s choices. He made them, not you.”

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. “You don’t get it, Anya. You’ve got your perfect family, your perfect life. You don’t know what it’s like to carry the weight of someone else’s fuck ups, to feel like no matter what you do, it never helped.”

Her face reddened, her hands trembling at her sides. “How dare you?” she hissed.

“Just stop asking questions I can’t fucking answer!” I yelled, my voice echoing in the empty space.

The slap came out of nowhere, sharp and stinging against my cheek. For a moment, neither of us moved. The air between us was thick with tension, her chest heaving with emotion, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

She stepped back, her voice breaking. “I get it. You’re hurting.

But that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like this.

” She wiped at her face, shaking her head.

She turned and stormed out of the club, the door slamming behind her.

I stood there in the heavy silence, the faint echo of her footsteps fading into the night.

I dropped into one of the barstools, the whiskey glass still untouched in front of me.

My cheek stung where her hand had connected, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Anya was right.

I was pushing her away. But how could I give her what she needed when I didn’t even know how to fix myself?

For the first time in years, I didn’t know how to hold it all together.