Bullets In A Cold Winter Breeze

Chapter Four Controlled Illusions

"Typical nigga car. Why so loud? Why not raise a flag and say, look at me?" This piece of shit critiques aloud to himself, already out of his facade of shamed grief. With no care for my incoming rescue, Mr. Murduer spins us around, so he's on top of me. However, before I can detest the move or attempt to smash his face for it, he's abandoning my body. With no regard for me, he goes back to his foldable chair.

"He's going to kill you!" I applaud emphatically, racing towards the car of Flippa.

"You shouldn't trust him too much." I hear him call out, but I never turn to give him the satisfaction of witnessing my face again. Now that Flippa's here, I'll never have to see that bitch ass toffee-looking mother fucker again.

My perfectly formed pumping arms can't get enough of the wind hitting them as I remind myself cheek to cheek. My thumbs barely scrape past my ass clean as I run with flawless form inside the unforgiving heels. Even with the choice of footwear forcing my hand to save my face from face-planting a few times, I make it to Flippa unharmed.

"Skrrrt!" The tires roar in anger as I faint in exhaustion, only inches away from the hood of his blue paint whip. The moment the tires cease to roll, Flippa is hopping out and rushing to my side. His flushed, confused features guarantee his concern as his eyes grow wider and broader at my current state. His arms fumble with my church coat, getting me to my feet so he can speak to me. His lips begin moving, but my ears or mind can't process the words, and I screech out nonsense as well.

"Shhhhoulflf ghths rigjt noowww!"

"Huh?" Flippa puzzles as his face breaks down in disarray. "You good?"

"Shoot that nigga!" I scream, pointing back at the hundred meters of landscape I've covered. Half of me expects him to be rolling up on us, but my twenty-twenty vision detects he's sitting down comfortably in his foldable chair.

My victory smile is ravished, quickly turning to mush with the flipping of my cheekbones and the corners of my lips beginning to wiggle with worry. There is no reason that man shouldn't be riddled with fear for what Flippa will do to him. No reason he should have let me escape to the person who risked being set up to come and save my life.

"Did he hurt you?" Flippa investigates, grabbing my fist and looking at how much damage I've vended to the man.

"Can we go?" I plea, my head whipping around to inspect that the sitting man is still lounging restfully.

"Damn. Toc said you could throw them bitches, but damn." Flippa chuckles, opening the passenger door. With immense effort, I find my way inside the chilled vehicle. For a split second, I'm even able to relax, but fear demands I not turn into the gullible blonde in every scary movie. The killer of Toc hasn't started chasing us, and if this was about ransom, I would have never been allowed out of the Rolls Royce. Which means every angle I've been looking at this entire time has been mistaken. It's just I've got no way to understand how wrong.

Regardless, with Mr. Murduer being hundreds of feet away, I know the only way he'd be comfortable enough not to rush toward us is if these two have something lined up as a unit. My thoughts led me to believe it was only possible if he did not doubt that Flippa wouldn't try to kill him or me. At the end of the day, it's apparent that I at least needed to get Flippa to agree to come.

My toned stomach tightens, and I retch as Flippa's slight smile leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Nothing about this situation is funny or worth smiling about. Confusion molds my face like a clay master constructs a pot. Barely registering what's going on but knowing enough to know something is off, I jump across the driver's seat, punching the locks for each door before my eyes shoot to his now worried face. "Flippa?"