Picasso's Promise

Episode 14| Lost Angels

Staying close to the door, I listened in. Elijah was shouting at Picasso for taking so long to open up. "I thought yo'ass would be too busy gettin' ya'dick wet to hear the door."

"Shut the fuck up," Picasso snarled. "Always saying shit no one asked you to say."

"Whatcha mean? Like what?"

"Look at what you just said. Shit's always out of pocket when it comes to you. And why you gotta be so damn loud?"

"I was messin' with ya, 'Casso. Shit, it's not like she heard."

Falling idle, I felt paralyzed at the top of the stairs and watched the lanky shadows move against the hardwood floor. I couldn't take it anymore. Knowing Picasso was going back up any second, I decided this was my opportunity to divulge a lie about needing to leave. There was no way in hell I'd be here a second longer.

I had to go home.

Seeing those guns and bullets piled on each other shook me to my core, terrifying me. I'd never seen that many guns in my life. What kind of person was Picasso hiding from me? Was that who his 'crew' saw when they called him 'Skool Boy'? Was I only shown half the story? My mind couldn't stop going in circles, stricken with disbelief by the ordeal. Asking endless inquiries, I mulled over the small details I did know about the boy I was seconds away from giving a chance to my heart.

If he had those many guns, that meant he was shooting those bullets at someone. Which, inevitably meant, he was being shot at, too. Whatever war he was preparing for and line of work he linked himself to, it wasn't safe.

Kissing Picasso nourished a part of me, feeding a hunger that had went unheeded for years. I knew I wasn't a gleeful person. Long before my father perished, I was always aware of the ounce of bitterness that resided in me for the rest of the world. I was negative, pessimistic, and expected everyone to disappoint me if I didn't control everything.

But for once, in that crowded room and on that sinking bed, I was closer to touching happiness than I had at any point since I got to this city. The level of want that chimed in Picasso's eyes crowned me the only captor of his temptation. Steadily, the ice inside me had began to erode, not gone entirely, but beginning to the thaw from the blistering heat created from the kiss alone.

What was the original intent in coming? I was starting to forget.

After Genesis had scared me about being jumped into her gang, I understood that I could not keep this grudge with Picasso.

Selfish to admit, I wanted him to intervene to stop his ex. That was my initial plan, to talk to him and simply talk. What I wasn't expect was...well, everything else that transpired after I walked in.

I didn't expect my own actions, taking claim for my participating in this. Picasso's feelings for me, though known, hadn't crossed my mind when I started peddling to his duplex. He didn't let me forget where he stood when it came to me.

To Picasso, my trip here was probably seen as a first move on its own. It gave him the confidence to hold my hand, thinking that his feelings towards me were equal to how I felt about him. That was far from the truth.

I couldn't keep refusing one truth: the physical angle. The pull of his mouth on mine, making me want to lean in even more, left me lightheaded at the end and hanging off of him. The strength of his arm, holding me like he was going to lose me, had me at his mercy to do more.

Soon enough though, a tornado of troubles had been transported into his bedroom. The real world came crashing back. As much as I enjoyed what I experienced, I wasn't going to play games with a serious thing such as life or death.