Picasso's Promise

Episode 36| A Good Night's Sleep

My eyes zipped around the room, scanning faces for my cousin, my friend Noora, or any of the people she brought with her from Maddison Prep. There was a difficulty in the task, veering to the right to see whatever was ahead of Picasso. I groaned in frustration.

Firmly, Picasso said, "Stop doing that. Stay low and don't move." The hardness coiled around his demand melted away, sighing. He did a full one-eighty, grasping my shoulders in an instance and guiding me behind a wall in the kitchen. "Please, Sydney. I'll find them."

"You expect me to just wait here like a sitting duck?"

"I mean, I don't see you taking on the three guys with fucking knives," he urged, dripped in sarcasm. Taking out his phone, he sent out a text and stuffed the device back into his jean pocket.

"Who are you contacting?"

"Elijah. He was on his way anyway, but I want to see if he's close or not." He scratched the back of his neck, grumbling. "I'm not going to be able to focus if I have to think about where you are."

I nodded my head, shaking my curls in the process. "I won't move."

"Thank you," he said, kissing my brow bone tenderly. "I love you."

A lump appeared at the sound of those three words. Why did it feel like that would be the last time to hear him say those words to me? I swallowed the enlarged mass the best I could, returning the words to him in a trembling voice. "I love you, too."

He was off, not turning back to look at me as he entered the living room. The sound coming from the front of the house had morphed, changing from shouts and dying down. A man had begun to speak, ordering them to quiet down or else he would slice their "precious little tongues" out.

I hated how I was left so far back in the kitchen, blind to what was going on. The only thing that gave me any clues of what was happening was whenever someone opened up their mouth to talk, barking instructions and expletives. I crouched to the floor, listening in.

"I'm not going until I get Martin Powell standing right in front of my own two eyes!" one of the men roared. "I know that fucker is here, so don't say he's not here."

"I don't know anyone by that—"

"Shut up, bitch." A slap echoed, following his response. "I bet y'all hid him somewhere, huh? I said what I said. I'm not leaving until—" he stopped himself. "Picasso! Not the one I was asking for, but that'll do. Get him."

The unwelcoming noise of screams returned. But when I didn't hear the instant thud of Picasso falling to the floor, I questioned what was going on. My curiosity nagged at me, but I cared more about not upsetting Picasso than sneaking a peek. For that reason, I stayed put.

"Aaah, you didn't come to fight fair," the man from earlier said, who I was no suspecting was Mateo. His voice was distinct, oddly high in pitch. "I could've come with a gun, but I wanted a fair fight. I can see you're not the same."

A gun? Picasso was packing heat?

He concealed really well. I couldn't tell that he had a weapon on him. Knowing that, the nervousness eating up my peace like maggots on rotting fruit subsided to a degree.

"You came with three men swinging machetes," said Picasso. I could pinpoint him anywhere because of the power it held. The mere sound of his voice put me in orbit. "You didn't come for a fair fight, Mateo. Leave while you still can."

"We'll leave without causing any more trouble if you hand over Martin."

"No." In a louder voice, Picasso said, "Let everyone go. This doesn't have to involve innocent people. I know you didn't come here to do that."