Chapter 1: Bullets and a Blunt Tongue
Glass exploded inward in a glittering, violent rain.
The bass from Anaijiah’s speakers swallowed the first pop-pop-pop, but the second volley was unmistakable. A client screamed, ducking low in the leather chair as a bullet punched a neat, starred hole through the mural of her Camaro on the far wall. The scent of cordite cut through the coconut oil and ink.
Anaijiah didn’t hit the floor. She dropped the ink cartridge she was holding, its black contents splattering like a tiny oil spill across the pristine tile. Her blood wasn’t fear; it was a thick, hot rush of pure fuck-you. She stalked past her trembling client, her gold belly ring catching the neon as she yanked the shop’s front door open.
Another shot rang out, digging a chunk of concrete from the doorframe near her head. She didn’t flinch.
“Yo! Dumbass motherfuckers!” she screamed into the dim Chicago evening, her voice slicing through the sudden quiet that had fallen on the block. Two figures were already scrambling into a beat-up sedan halfway down the street. “This is a fucking business! You see the sign? Lash & Ink Empire, not ‘Shoot-Your-Shot Cafe’! Take that weak-ass drama down the block!”
The sedan squealed away. Silence rushed back in, broken only by the distant thump of music from a neighboring bar and the rapid, shaky breathing of her client still crouched inside. Anaijiah stood in the ruined doorway, chest heaving, the sunset roses tattooed up her side seeming to bloom with her anger. She could feel eyes on her from darkened windows upstairs.
Across the street, idling like a panther in the shadows, was a black SUV with tinted windows so dark they swallowed the light.
Inside the SUV, Nevaieh took a long, slow drag from her cigarette, the ember flaring in the dim interior. The smoke curled from her lips as she watched the scene unfold. She’d been here to collect a debt from the shitbag landlord two doors down when the shooting started. A normal person would have slid lower in their seat. Nevaieh had just rolled her window down a fraction, curious.
She watched the ginger-haired tornado stomp outside, all gold piercings and swirling ink, shouting at professional shooters like they were kids tagging her fence. The girl’s voice, a raw mix of Miami accent and unleashed fury, carried across the distance.
“Who the fuck is that?” Nevaieh said, her voice low and flat, not really asking her driver. It was a statement of pure, analytical disbelief.
The driver, a bulky man named Reyes, shifted. “New girl. From Miami. Opened the shop a few months back. Does lashes and tats. Name’s Anaijiah. Talks a lot.”
“I see that,” Nevaieh murmured, her eyes tracing the defiant line of the woman’s spine, the way her tight jeans hugged the peacock tattoo on one thigh. Fearless. Or stupid. Usually the same thing in this neighborhood.
Anaijiah turned, as if feeling the weight of the gaze from the SUV. Her eyes, sharp and blazing, locked onto the impenetrable windows. For a three-count, they held the stare. Anaijiah’s chin lifted a fraction. Then she spun on her heel and marched back into her shattered shop, the broken glass crunching under her boots like teeth.
---
An hour later, the police had come and gone with empty notepads and vacant promises. The client had been sent home with a free touch-up voucher and a shot of tequila. Anaijiah was alone, sweeping glittering shards into a dustpan, her movements jerky with residual adrenaline. The bass was back, pounding through the speakers—a choice, a weapon against the quiet.
The bell on the unbroken portion of the door chimed.
Anaijiah looked up, broom in hand. The woman who walked in filled the doorway. Tall. Buff in a way that spoke of weights, not just labor. Masculine-cut jeans, a simple black tee stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to show off intricate tattoo sleeves of her own—gothic lettering and sacred hearts. Long curly hair was tied back in a severe knot. A silver hoop gleamed in her nose. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes were like dark water—deep, still, and hiding everything.
“We’re closed,” Anaijiah said, not stopping her sweeping.
“I see that.” The woman’s voice was smoother than Anaijiah expected, quieter, but it carried an undertone that made the words feel heavy. She glanced at the bullet hole in the Camaro mural. “You handle unplanned renovations with a lot of yelling.”
Anaijiah leaned on the broom. “What’s your point? You selling replacement windows? Because if not, you’re blocking my draft.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the woman’s lips. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Nevaieh.”
The name landed in the room. It was just a name, but the way she said it, the quiet ownership, made it a key, a warning, a resume. Anaijiah had heard it. Who on the South Side hadn’t? The ghost who ran the blocks. The reason some corners stayed quiet.
Anaijiah didn’t bow. She snorted. “Anaijiah. You here to critique my community outreach? I thought telling people not to shoot at me was pretty fucking diplomatic.”
Nevaieh took a few steps in, her boots silent on the tile. She studied the walls, the art, the unapologetic Miami chaos of the place. Her gaze lingered on the phoenix rising on Anaijiah’s other thigh, visible through the rips in her jeans. “This is my block,” Nevaieh said, finally looking back at her. “That makes your problem my problem. And I don’t like problems.”
“Well, welcome to the party, Nevaieh.” Anaijiah stressed the name, throwing it back like a challenge. “My problem was some assholes with bad aim. I handled it.”
“You screamed at them. That’s not handling it. That’s inviting a second visit.” Nevaieh moved closer. The scent of her—clean soap, faint cigarette smoke, and something else, something cold like night air—wrapped around Anaijiah. “They were aiming for the tax office next door. Got the wrong storefront. The guy they want is under my protection. That bullet in your wall?” She pointed a blunt, tattooed finger. “That’s a receipt. For your mouth.”
The space between them crackled. Anaijiah dropped the broom. It clattered on the floor. She got right in Nevaieh’s space, having to look up only slightly because of her heels. The gold in her tongue glinted as she spoke. “Let me get this straight. You let some limp-dick shooters operate on your block, they fuck up and almost hit me, and now I’m the one getting a lecture about my mouth? Bitch, please.” She poked a finger against Nevaieh’s chest. It was like poking stone. “How about you handle your fucking business so I can handle mine? Ink and lashes. See? Simple.”
For a long, dangerous second, Nevaieh didn’t move. No one touched her. Ever. Anaijiah watched the dark water in her eyes churn, saw the calculation, the weigh-up of violence versus curiosity. Then, Nevaieh’s hand came up, not to strike, but to wrap around Anaijiah’s wrist, moving her pointing finger away. Her grip was firm, unbreakable, her skin surprisingly warm.
“You’ve got no sense,” Nevaieh stated, her thumb brushing over the stars and "305" inked on Anaijiah’s inner arm.
“Sense is for people who plan on dying old in bed. I plan on living loud right now.” Anaijiah didn’t pull her arm away. The heat from the woman’s hand was seeping into her skin, a counterpoint to the icy demeanor.
Nevaieh’s gaze dropped to Anaijiah’s mouth, then traveled slowly, deliberately, down the column of her throat, over the swell of her breasts beneath a thin tank top, taking in every visible tattoo, every gold piercing. It was a predatory scan, full of possession. “Loud gets you killed here.”
“Quiet gets you forgotten. I didn’t come all the way from Miami to be forgotten.”
Something shifted in Nevaieh’s face. The ice layer fractured, just a hairline crack, revealing a flash of raw, hungry interest. It was gone in a blink. She released Anaijiah’s wrist. “Clean up your glass. I’ll handle the shooters. They won’t mistake your door again.”
She turned to leave.
“What’s the catch?” Anaijiah called after her.
Nevaieh paused at the door, glancing back over her shoulder. The neon sign from the window played across the sharp planes of her face. “I don’t like debts. Or noise. You’re a lot of noise, Anaijiah from Miami.” Her eyes darkened. “I’ll be collecting a different kind of quiet.”
Then she was gone, melting into the night outside as if she were part of it.
Anaijiah stood amidst the glass, her heart pounding for a whole new reason. The adrenaline from the shooting was gone, replaced by a thicker, warmer current. She walked to the door, turned the lock, and killed the main lights, leaving only the purple glow of the neon ‘EMPIRE’ sign humming.
She needed to finish cleaning. Instead, she found herself at her workstation, leaning against it, her mind replaying the unbreakable grip on her wrist, the cold eyes that had suddenly heated. Her own hand drifted down, over her stomach, fingers tracing the outline of the peacock on her thigh. The shop was silent except for the hum. She unbuttoned her jeans, pushed them down just past her hips, and slid her hand inside her panties.
She was already wet. Soaked. The shock of it, the intense throb between her legs, made her gasp. It was from the confrontation, the danger, the sheer audacity of that woman. Nevaieh. She let her head fall back against the mirror, her other hand pinching her gold nipple ring through her top, tugging sharply. The sweet pain made her hips jerk.
She imagined it wasn’t her own fingers, but blunt, tattooed ones. Not gentle, but claiming. She pictured Nevaieh pushing her back onto this very table, the cold stainless steel against her bare ass, her powerful body slotting between Anaijiah’s thighs. She’d be rough. She’d grip Anaijiah’s hip hard enough to bruise, her other hand fisting in her ginger curls to yank her head back.
“You loud now?” a low voice would whisper in her ear.
Anaijiah moaned, working her fingers faster, circling her clit with a pressure that bordered on painful. She imagined Nevaieh wouldn’t fuck her with tenderness. She’d drive into her, deep and relentless, her own pants barely open, all controlled power and silent intent. She’d bite the gold hoops in Anaijiah’s ears, suck on the tattoos on her neck as if she could taste the ink.
“Come on,” the phantom voice would command, no sweetness, just expectant authority.
Anaijiah’s back arched, her free hand scrabbling against the mirror. A high, sharp cry tore from her throat as the orgasm slammed through her, violent and breathtaking, lighting up every nerve ending. She saw stars and phoenix fire behind her eyelids.
She slumped against the workstation, breathing ragged, slowly pulling her hand free. The reality of the dark, damaged shop seeped back in. The hole in her wall. The promise in the night.
Nevaieh would be collecting.
Anaijiah wiped her hand on a clean towel, a slow, defiant smile spreading across her face. Let her try.
Let her try.
The thought fueled her for two days. She got the window boarded up with a nice piece of plywood she spray-painted gold, because fuck a boring brown eyesore. She did lashes on two regulars and started a sleeve on a college kid who nearly passed out when the needle touched his skin. Business as usual. But every time the bell chimed, her eyes snapped to the door, expecting to see that tall, silent frame filling it.
Nothing.
By the third evening, the anticipation had curdled into a sharp, pissed-off irritation. Nevaieh’s “I’ll handle it” felt like a lie. A power play. The kind of shit people said to make you feel small and grateful. Anaijiah wasn’t feeling grateful. She was feeling like she’d been left with a bullet hole and a vague promise, and the ice queen had probably already forgotten her name.
“Fuck this,” she muttered to the empty shop. She locked up, not bothering to change. She wore what she’d tattooed in: a low-cut, sleeveless black top that showed off her marine life arm, skin-tight leopard print pants, and boots that added three inches of fury to her height. Her ginger curls were a wild halo. She looked like trouble, and she knew it.
She knew where to go. Everyone knew The Velvet. It was Nevaieh’s flagship, a three-story club on a corner that used to be a funeral home. Ironic, people whispered. Anaijiah parked her candy-painted Camaro right at the curb, ignoring the valet’s wide eyes. The bass from inside was a physical thing, vibrating up through the pavement.
The bouncer at the rope was built like a refrigerator. His eyes scanned her, lingering a beat too long on her chest. “List?”
“I’m the list,” Anaijiah said, not breaking stride, ducking under the velvet rope.
“Hey—!”
She was already pushing through the heavy doors. The club was a cavern of dark reds and low lights, packed with bodies moving in a sweaty, unified pulse. It was nicer than she expected—plush banquettes, top-shelf bottles glittering behind the bar, security discreet but everywhere. It screamed controlled profit. It screamed Nevaieh.
Anaijiah shouldered her way through the crowd, her gaze sweeping the upper levels. A mezzanine overlooked the dance floor, accessible by a staircase guarded by another huge man. That’s where she’d be. Holding court.
The guard at the stairs put a hand out as Ana approached. “Private area.”
“Tell Nevaieh her decorator is here.” Anaijiah’s voice cut through the bass thump. “About some broken windows.”
The guard’s expression didn’t change. He spoke into a small mic on his cuff. A moment later, he nodded and stepped aside.
The music was quieter up here, the air cooler. A few people lounged on sofas, smoking, talking low. Their conversations died as she passed. At the far end, in a semicircular booth that looked out over her kingdom, sat Nevaieh. She was wearing a dark maroon button-down, sleeves still rolled, talking to a man in a suit. Her eyes lifted and found Anaijiah before she was halfway across the room.
Ana stopped at the edge of the table. The man in the suit looked between them, sensing the weather change, and wisely slid out of the booth and disappeared.
“You got a bill for me?” Nevaieh asked, her tone dry. She took a sip from a glass of clear liquid, ice clinking.
“A bill?” Anaijiah leaned her hands on the table, putting her face close. The scents of ink and her coconut oil mix clashed with Nevaieh’s clean, smoky aura. “Bitch, I got a fucking message. You said you’d handle it. My window’s still got a board on it. My wall’s still got a hole. That’s your shit, not mine. So yeah, you’re gonna pay for my fucking windows, you bitch ass nigga. With interest.”
The silence that fell around them was absolute. The few people on the mezzanine froze. No one talked to Nevaieh like that. Ever. Reyes, standing a few feet away, took a subtle step forward.
Nevaieh just stared. She set her glass down slowly. The dark water in her eyes wasn’t still anymore; it was churning, a storm under ice. Then, she did the last thing Anaijiah expected. She laughed. It was a short, surprised huff of air, but it was real. She leaned back, spreading her arms along the back of the booth, the picture of casual dominion.
“Interest,” Nevaieh repeated, tasting the word. “You want me to pay you interest.”
“For my emotional distress and the loss of my peaceful, non-bullet-holed ambiance. Yeah.”
Nevaieh’s gaze dropped to Anaijiah’s heaving chest, then back to her blazing eyes. The hunger from the shop was back, naked and unconcealed now. “Okay. Come get your payment.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command.
Nevaieh stood up, smooth and lethal. She was even taller in her own space. She didn’t wait to see if Anaijiah would follow; she simply turned and walked towards a black door almost hidden in the wall. Anaijiah, her heart hammering against her ribs, followed. The door led to a narrow, soundproofed hallway, then another door. Nevaieh’s office.
It was sparse. A large desk of dark wood. A couch. A window looking out at the city’s glow. No personal touches. Nevaieh closed the door, and the club’s thunder became a distant, mute hum.
“You got a lot of mouth for a woman standing in a room with no witnesses,” Nevaieh said, turning to face her. She unbuttoned the cuffs of her shirt, began rolling the sleeves up higher, methodical.
“You scared?” Anaijiah shot back, though the air in the room was suddenly too thin.
In two strides, Nevaieh was on her. She didn’t shove. She grabbed. One large hand fisted in Anaijiah’s curls, not yanking, but holding her head firmly in place. The other hand clamped onto her hip, fingers digging in. The pain was immediate, bright, and it shot straight to Anaijiah’s core.
“Scared?” Nevaieh breathed the word against her lips. “I’m fucking fascinated.”
Then her mouth crashed down. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claim. Hard, punishing, all teeth and demand. Anaijiah gasped into it, her hands coming up to claw at Nevaieh’s shoulders. She tasted like expensive vodka and winter. Nevaieh’s tongue pushed past her lips, exploring her mouth with a ruthless precision that made Anaijiah’s knees weak. She bit Anaijiah’s lower lip, hard enough to make her whimper, and the sound seemed to ignite something.
Nevaieh spun her around, pushing her face-first against the cold, polished surface of the desk. Anaijiah’s breath fogged the wood. Nevaieh’s body pressed against her back, solid and immovable. A hand slid from her hip, around to the front of her leopard print pants, popping the button, yanking the zipper down.
“This what you wanted?” Nevaieh’s voice was a rough scrape in her ear. “When you marched in here with your chest out and your disrespect on your tongue? You wanted me to put you in your place?”
“Fuck you,” Anaijiah panted, pushing back against her, earning a sharper dig of fingers into her hip.
“Yeah,” Nevaieh said. “You will.”
Nevaieh’s hand shoved into Anaijiah’s pants, under the lace of her panties. There was no teasing. Her fingers, calloused and strong, found her soaking wet center and pushed two inside without ceremony. Anaijiah cried out, her back arching, her nails scraping the desk.
“Shit,” Nevaieh muttered, her own breath hitching at the feeling. “You’re fucking drenched. You been thinking about this?”
“No,” Anaijiah lied, moaning as Nevaieh curled her fingers, hitting a spot that made lights burst behind her eyes.
Nevaieh pumped her fingers, hard and fast, the obscene, wet sound filling the quiet office. Her other hand kept Anaijiah pinned at the hip. She bent over, her mouth on the nape of Anaijiah’s neck, teeth grazing the skin there. “Liar. You came in here for this. To see if I’d break you.”
“You… can’t…” Anaijiah gasped, each thrust rocking her whole body.
Nevaieh added a third finger, stretching her, the burn mixing with the blinding pleasure. “Watch me.”
The climax built like a wildfire, fast and uncontrollable. It wasn’t gentle; it was a seizure of pleasure, brutal in its intensity. Anaijiah screamed, the sound raw and unfiltered, as she came violently around Nevaieh’s driving fingers. Her legs shook, and only Nevaieh’s solid grip kept her upright.
Nevaieh slowly withdrew her fingers, bringing them to her own mouth. She sucked them clean, her dark eyes locked on Anaijiah’s wrecked reflection in the window. The gesture was so filthy, so dominant, that Anaijiah felt a fresh throb between her legs.
Nevaieh turned her around. Anaijiah’s pants were around her thighs, her top disheveled, her lips swollen. Nevaieh looked her over, a predator assessing its meal. Then she unfastened her own jeans, pushing them and her boxer briefs down just enough. She was already hard, thick and impressive.
“Payment’s not done,” Nevaieh said, her voice gravel. She hoisted Anaijiah up onto the edge of the desk, knocking a ledger to the floor. She pushed Anaijiah’s knees apart, settling between them. The cold wood bit into Anaijiah’s bare ass.
There was no more talking. Nevaieh guided herself to Anaijiah’s entrance, the head nudging against her slick, swollen flesh. She didn’t push in. She waited, making Anaijiah feel the exact, daunting size of her.
“Beg,” Nevaieh commanded, her breath hot.
“Go to hell,” Anaijiah breathed.
Nevaieh slammed into her. One deep, tearing stroke that filled her completely, stole the air from her lungs. Anaijiah’s head fell back, a broken sound ripped from her throat. It hurt. It felt fucking incredible. Nevaieh didn’t give her time to adjust. She set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving Anaijiah back against the desk, her grip on Anaijiah’s thighs iron-tight.
The desk rattled with their impact. Nevaieh fucked her with a single-minded intensity, her face a mask of fierce concentration, jaw tight. Every moan she pulled from Anaijiah, every gasp, seemed to fuel her. She leaned down, capturing Anaijiah’s mouth again, swallowing her cries. Her hand found Anaijiah’s breast, pinching the gold nipple ring through the fabric, twisting.
Pain and pleasure fused into one white-hot wire. Anaijiah wrapped her legs around Nevaieh’s waist, heels digging into her back, meeting each thrust with her own. She was close again, so fast, the coil winding tighter and tighter with every brutal, perfect slide.
“That’s it,” Nevaieh grunted, her rhythm faltering for the first time. “Come on. Come for me.”
It was the ‘for me’ that did it. The possessive command. Anaijiah shattered, her orgasm a tidal wave that erased everything—the club, the bullet hole, her own name. She chanted Nevaieh’s name into her shoulder, biting down on the cotton of her shirt.
Feeling her clamp down, Nevaieh’s own control broke. She drove in deep, holding herself there as she came with a low, guttural groan, her whole body shuddering against Anaijiah’s.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint, distant pulse of the club. Nevaieh rested her forehead against Anaijiah’s shoulder, her weight heavy and warm.
Then, she pulled back, separating their bodies. She straightened her clothes with a chilling efficiency, as if flipping a switch. Anaijiah slid off the desk, legs barely functioning, pulling her own pants up with trembling hands.
Nevaieh walked to a small safe embedded in the wall, spun the dial, and pulled out a thick stack of cash. She tossed it onto the desk beside Anaijiah. It was easily five times what a new window would cost.
“For the window. And the interest,” Nevaieh said, her voice back to its cold, even tone. But her eyes, as they met Anaijiah’s, were still dark with storm clouds. “The shooters were dealt with last night. They won’t be a problem. Your block is quiet.”
Anaijiah looked from the money to Nevaieh’s impassive face. The transaction was clear. But what had just happened on the desk wasn’t a transaction. It was a war, and a ceasefire, and a beginning, all at once.
She picked up the cash, feeling its weight. She tucked it into her back pocket without counting it.
“Good,” Anaijiah said, smoothing her wild hair. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. “Now maybe I can get some work done.”
She turned and walked out of the office, her body sore, her mind racing, the scent of Nevaieh and sex clinging to her skin. The game was set. The rules were broken. And as she descended into the pounding heart of the club, every step felt like walking on a newly drawn line.