Chapter 2: Back in Her Shop
The neon ‘OPEN’ sign was off, but the door was unlocked. Anaijiah stood on the sidewalk, the morning sun glaring off her Camaro’s candy-black hood, and stared at her shop. The police sticker was gone. Through the glass, she could see her world had been put back together, but not by her hands.A cold knot tightened in her stomach.She pushed inside. The familiar scents of antiseptic, ink, and her cheap, sweet perfume hung in the air, but beneath it was something foreign: a crisp, expensive cologne. Her equipment—the tattoo machines, the lash trays, the sterilizers—was arranged on the counters with a military precision she never used.It was too neat.A violation.Then she saw it. On her personal workstation, where her own tubes of ink were lined up like soldiers, lay a single black rose, its petals velvety and deep as a void. Next to it, a small, folded square of thick black paper.Her gold nails trembled slightly as she picked it up.
The handwriting was sharp, angular, undeniable.You owe me a vase.—N.
The door chime sang its tinny melody behind her.Anaijiah didn’t turn. She crumpled the note in her fist, the paper crushing with a satisfying rustle. She heard the soft click of boots on her concrete floor, the shift of air as a body filled the space behind her.
“What the fuck you want, nigga?” Anaijiah said, her voice low and ragged.She still didn’t turn. “You got your little message across. You feel big now?”
“Bigger than you, mami.” Nevaieh’s voice was a rough melody, too close. Anaijiah could feel the heat of her.“Turn around.”
Anaijiah spun. Nevaieh was there, closer than she’d anticipated, dressed in a simple black tee that stretched over the defined planes of her chest and shoulders, cargo pants, boots. Her long curly hair was pulled back, sharpening the lines of her face, the cool assessment in her eyes. She was looking at Anaijiah’s closed fist.
“You don’t like my rose?”
“I don’t like shit from you.” Anaijiah threw the crumpled note. It bounced off Nevaieh’s chest and fell to the floor.“You think this is cute? Returning my shit like Santa Claus?Fuck you.”
Nevaieh’s eyes darkened, but it wasn’t with anger. It was with a deeper, more dangerous curiosity.She took one step forward.Then another. Until the toes of her boots almost touched Anaijiah’s sneakers. Until Anaijiah had to tilt her head up just to maintain eye contact. The scent of her—clean skin, that cologne, a hint of weed—wrapped around them.
“I want to see the hands that broke my glass,” Nevaieh murmured, her gaze dropping to Anaijiah’s hands. “Up close.”
Anaijiah didn’t back up. “They’re just hands.”
“No.” Nevaieh reached out slowly, giving Anaijiah every chance to pull away. She didn’t. Nevaieh took Anaijiah’s right hand, the one that had held the vase, and unfolded the clenched fingers.Her touch was firm, calloused, shockingly warm. She turned the hand over, examining the palm, the fingers tipped in chipped gold polish. Her thumb stroked over the center of Anaijiah’s palm, a slow, deliberate circle. “These are weapons. And works of art.” She looked up, her eyes locking onto Anaijiah’s. “I want to know if they shake when they touch me.”
The challenge hung in the air, thick and suffocating.Anaijiah’s heart hammered against her ribs. She saw the rooftop again, the smirk, the control. She saw this woman’s world of silent threats and calculated moves.This was another calculation.A test.So she failed it on purpose.
She yanked her hand from Nevaieh’s grasp, but only to bring it up, to press her palm flat against Nevaieh’s sternum, over the beat of her heart. She felt the strong, steady thud beneath her hand, the heat of her through the cotton.“They don’t shake,” Anaijiah lied, her voice husky.
Nevaieh looked down at the hand on her chest, then back up. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face.She covered Anaijiah’s hand with her own, trapping it there. “Prove it.”
It wasn’t a kiss.It was a collision.
Nevaieh’s mouth came down on hers with a hunger that was all possession and no permission. It was hard, demanding, a clash of teeth and pressure. Anaijiah’s free hand flew up, not to push away, but to fist in the hair at the nape of Nevaieh’s neck, pulling her closer, deeper. A groan, low and ragged, ripped from Nevaieh’s throat and vibrated into Anaijiah’s mouth.
The world narrowed to the slick heat of tongues, the bite of a lip, the desperate sharing of breath. Nevaieh’s hands were everywhere—gripping Anaijiah’s waist, sliding up her back, tracing the outline of the sunset roses through her thin tank top. Anaijiah arched into it, into her, a wordless surrender to the fight she’d started.
Nevaieh broke the kiss, breathing hard.Her lips were swollen, her eyes black with want.“Back room. Now.”
It was an order. Anaijiah, dizzy with adrenaline and a furious lust, turned and led the way, Nevaieh’s hand firm on the small of her back. The back room was her sanctuary—a chaotic mix of supply shelves, a battered couch, her design sketches pinned to a corkboard.Nevaieh kicked the door shut with her boot.The sound echoed, a final seal.
Then she was on her. Pushing Anaijiah back against the closed door, hands caging her head, mouth devouring her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above her top.“Take this off,” Nevaieh growled against her skin.
Anaijiah shoved her back, just enough to grab the hem of her own tank top and yank it over her head.The cool air hit her skin, followed immediately by the heat of Nevaieh’s gaze. It traveled over the gold hoop in her navel, the bright peacock fanned across her thigh, the smaller tattoos that dotted her ribs. It lingered on the matching gold barbells pierced through her nipples.“Fuck,” Nevaieh breathed, a reverent curse. She bent her head, taking one taut peak into her mouth, metal and flesh, her tongue swirling hard.
Anaijiah cried out, her head thudding back against the door. Her hands scrabbled at Nevaieh’s shirt, tugging it up.“You too. Don’t be selfish.”
Nevaieh straightened, pulling the shirt off in one swift motion. Her torso was a canvas of intricate ink—saints and sinners, intricate patterns, old-school lettering across taut abdominal muscles. Her breasts were small, bound tightly in a black sports bra. Anaijiah didn’t ask. She reached for her, tracing a line of script over her ribs, then sliding her hands around to unfasten the cargo pants.Nevaieh caught her wrists. “Slow down,” she whispered, but her voice was frayed. “I’m running this.”
“The hell you are,” Anaijiah said, and twisted her hands free, popping the button on the pants, dragging the zipper down. She pushed them, along with the briefs beneath, over Nevaieh’s hips.Her cunt was a neat, trimmed triangle, already glistening. Anaijiah didn’t hesitate.She dropped to her knees on the concrete floor.
“Anaijiah—” Nevaieh’s protest was a weak gasp as Anaijiah’s mouth found her, hot and wet and purposefully sloppy. She licked a broad stripe through her folds, then curled her tongue, fucking her with it, tasting salt and musk and power. Nevaieh’s hands slammed against the door on either side of Anaijiah’s head, her whole body trembling.
“You talk too much,” Anaijiah murmured against her, then sucked her clit into her mouth, hard.Nevaieh swore, a long, filthy string of Spanish and English. Her hips jerked forward, fucking Anaijiah’s face. Anaijiah let her, reveling in the loss of control, in the sounds being torn from Nevaieh’s throat. She slid two fingers inside her, finding her tight, dripping wet. She crooked them, pumping in a relentless rhythm as her mouth worked.
Nevaieh came with a shattered cry, her body buckling, one hand tangling in Anaijiah’s curls, not pushing away, but holding on. Anaijiah rode her through it, gentling her tongue, feeling the internal pulses around her fingers until Nevaieh sagged against the door, breathing like she’d been drowned.
Before she could recover, Anaijiah stood up.Her knees ached from the concrete. Her own need was a throbbing, desperate ache between her legs. She turned Nevaieh around and pushed her toward the battered couch. “My turn.”
Nevaieh fell onto the worn cushions, her eyes heavy-lidded, watchful. She watched as Anaijiah shucked her leggings and panties, standing naked and tattooed in the dim light. She reached for her, but Anaijiah batted her hands away.“No. You watch.” She climbed over Nevaieh, straddling her thighs, but not letting her touch. She kept her eyes locked on Nevaieh’s as she touched herself. She slid her fingers through her own wetness, circling her clit, showing her.Nevaieh’s breath hitched, her hands gripping the couch cushions.
“You want this?” Anaijiah taunted, her voice shaking with the effort of control. “This what you came for?”
“Yes,” Nevaieh hissed, her composure gone, burned away by lust. “Fuck yes.”
Anaijiah lowered herself slowly, guiding Nevaieh’s hand down, forcing her fingers to replace her own. “Then take it.”
Nevaieh’s fingers, thick and skilled, plunged into her without finesse. Anaijiah moaned, a broken sound, as they filled her. Nevaieh sat up, wrapping her other arm around Anaijiah’s waist, holding her close as she fucked her with deep, punishing strokes. Her mouth found Anaijiah’s nipple again, teeth grazing the gold barbell.
“You’re so fucking wet,” Nevaieh groaned into her skin. “All that fire, and you drip for me.”
“Shut up,” Anaijiah gasped, riding her hand, her own fingers digging into Nevaieh’s shoulders.“Just fuck me, nigga. Stop talking.”
Nevaieh added a third finger, stretching her, and Anaijiah saw stars. The pace became frantic, a hard, driving rhythm that shook the couch. Nevaieh watched her face, watched her come apart.“Come on,” she urged, her voice raw. “Come on those fingers you’re so proud of.”
The orgasm ripped through Anaijiah, violent and blinding. She cried out, a sound she didn’t recognize, her body clamping down around Nevaieh’s hand as wave after wave of pure sensation crashed over her. She collapsed forward, forehead against Nevaieh’s shoulder, breathing in ragged sobs.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the smell of sex and sweat in the small room. Nevaieh slowly withdrew her hand, bringing her fingers to her mouth, tasting Anaijiah on them, her eyes never leaving Anaijiah’s face.Anaijiah, spent and vulnerable, felt the shift. The game was still on, but the board had changed.She had seen Nevaieh lose control. Nevaieh had seen her break.
Nevaieh gently moved her, laying her down on the couch beside her.She didn’t speak. She just traced the lines of the phoenix on Anaijiah’s thigh with a sticky finger, her expression unreadable.
Finally, Anaijiah found her voice, hoarse and used. “The vase is paid for.”
Nevaieh looked at her, a ghost of that old smirk touching her lips.“No, mami. The interest just started.” She stood up, pulling her clothes back on with a swift, efficient grace that felt like armor clicking back into place.“Open your shop today. You won’t have any more problems from the city.”
She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. She didn’t look back.“The rose is yours. Keep it.”
And then she was gone, the front door chiming softly in the distance.
Anaijiah lay on the couch, her body humming, the taste of Nevaieh still on her tongue. The note was crumpled on the floor out front.The black rose waited on her station. Outside, her Camaro sat in the sun, a warning she’d driven herself.She had won the skirmish. She had gotten her shop back. But as she stared at the ceiling, feeling the deep, tender ache between her legs, she knew with cold certainty that she had never been in more danger. The war had just truly begun, and the first battle had been fought inside her.
The war had just truly begun, and the first battle had been fought inside her. Anaijiah stayed on the couch until the chill from the concrete floor seeped into her bones. She dressed slowly, each piece of clothing feeling like a costume she was putting back on. The black rose on her station seemed to watch her, a velvet pupil in the room’s dim light. She left it there.
She drove home on autopilot, the memory of Nevaieh’s fingers, her mouth, the ragged sound of her own pleasure, playing on a loop. Her body felt used and alive in equal measure, a battlefield after the armies had moved on. She showered until the water ran cold, scrubbing at the smell of sex and that cologne, but the feeling of being mapped, known, invaded remained under her skin.
Sleep didn’t come. She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling of her sparse apartment, the city’s orange glow painting the walls. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the sting of Nevaieh’s teeth on her nipple, the brutal fullness of her hand. Anaijiah liked that so much. The raw possession of it, the surrender it demanded and then tore from her. She pushed the thought back, hard, burying it under visions of smashed glass and cold, calculating smiles. It was a tactic. Just another move. She repeated it until the words lost meaning.
The next morning, the shop smelled only of her. Ink, bleach, her perfume. She’d arrived early, throwing open windows to scour Nevaieh’s scent from the air. The black rose was in the trash. She was lining up her machines, her hands steady, when the door chimed. Her spine went rigid before she even turned.
It wasn’t Nevaieh. It was a young guy, maybe nineteen, with nervous eyes and a bulky paper bag. “Delivery for Anaijiah,” he mumbled, not meeting her gaze.
“From who.”
“Just said to deliver it.” He set the bag on the counter and was gone before she could ask another question.
Inside the bag was a vase. Not a replacement for the one she’d shattered. This one was smaller, delicate, blown glass in a swirl of deep blue and violet. It was beautiful. It was also undeniably a message. A peace offering that felt like a collar. Tucked beside it was a simple black card with a time and an address written in the same sharp hand. Tonight. 10 PM. A warehouse district by the river.
No request. No question.
Anaijiah’s first instinct was to smash this one too, to grind the glass into powder under her boot. She held it instead, feeling its cool, smooth surface. The fight had shifted. It was no longer about territory or protection money. It was personal, a silent tug-of-war over who owned the tremors still echoing in her blood. She put the vase on a high shelf, where it caught the light. A reminder, not a trophy.
The day bled away in a blur of clients. She applied lashes, her movements precise and automatic. She outlined a client’s tattoo, the buzz of the machine a familiar song. But her mind was in that warehouse, playing out scenarios, each one ending with Nevaieh’s hands on her again. The anticipation was a live wire in her gut, humming louder with every passing hour.
At 9:45 PM, she stood before the address. It was a converted brick warehouse, its windows dark, a single industrial door slightly ajar. Bass throbbed from within, a low, physical pulse. She pushed the door open.
The space inside was vast, shadowy, and empty except for a central pool of light. Nevaieh stood in the middle of it, under a hanging work lamp, rolling a set of knuckle-dusters over her fingers. They weren’t for show. They were worn, steel, etched with old scars. She looked up as Anaijiah entered, the light carving harsh planes into her face.
“You came.”
“You knew I would.”
Nevaieh nodded to a metal table off to the side. On it lay two sets of gloves, the kind used in MMA. “Put them on.”
Anaijiah didn’t move. “What is this?”
“You broke my property.” Nevaieh’s voice was flat, devoid of its earlier taunting warmth. “You challenged my control in front of my people. That has a cost. We can’t square that in sheets.” She slid the dusters onto her right hand, the metal clicking into place. “So we square it here. Three minutes. You stay on your feet, we’re even. The debt from the vase is cleared.”
Anaijiah laughed, a short, harsh sound that echoed. “You want to fight me? For real?”
“I want to see what you’re made of when there’s no vase to break and no couch to fuck on.” Nevaieh’s eyes were black holes. “Or you can walk out that door. And we go back to how things were. You’ll have your shop. And I’ll own a piece of every breath you take in this city.”
The choice was no choice. Walking away meant surrendering to a different kind of beating, a slow, suffocating one. Anaijiah walked to the table, picking up the gloves. They were heavy. She strapped them on, the Velcro loud in the empty space.
Nevaieh circled her. “No rules. Except the three minutes.”
The first swing came fast, a testing jab. Anaijiah slipped it, her body moving on some old Miami playground instinct. The second was a cross, meant to end things. Anaijiah blocked it, the impact jolting up her forearm. She countered with a wild hook that Nevaieh took on her shoulder, grunting.
It wasn’t elegant. It was brutal, close-quarters violence. They traded blows, the smack of leather on skin, the grunt of expelled air. Nevaieh was stronger, more technical. A fist grazed Anaijiah’s temple, sparking lights behind her eyes. She tasted blood in her mouth from a split lip.
But Anaijiah was fury. She fought with a desperate, street-corner rage, clawing past technique. She got inside, driving a knee up into Nevaieh’s thigh, then a fist into her ribs. Nevaieh’s breath left her in a pained oof. For a second, her guard dropped.
Anaijiah saw it. She swung for her jaw. Nevaieh caught her wrist, twisted it hard, and used her momentum to slam her down onto the concrete. The air blasted from Anaijiah’s lungs. Nevaieh was on top of her in an instant, a knee pressed into her sternum, the cold steel of the knuckle-dusters hovering an inch from her face.
They were both heaving, sweat and blood mingling on their skin. The three minutes had to be up. The lamp swung above them, casting dizzying shadows.
“Yield,” Nevaieh breathed, her voice ragged.
“Fuck you.”
Nevaieh’s free hand, still gloved, came down and gripped Anaijiah’s throat, not squeezing, just holding. A claim. “You fight like a demon. A stupid, beautiful demon.” The cold metal of the dusters traced a line down Anaijiah’s cheek. “You lost.”
“Then do it,” Anaijiah spat, blood spraying. “Collect your debt.”
Nevaieh stared at her, at the defiance burning even in defeat. Something in her own controlled expression fractured. The hand on Anaijiah’s throat slid up to cup her jaw, the gesture shockingly tender against the violence. She leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of Anaijiah’s ear.
“I don’t want you broken,” she whispered, her breath hot. “I want you like this. Right here.” She shifted her weight, the knee on Anaijiah’s chest easing, moving lower. Her gloved hand found the waistband of Anaijiah’s jeans, popping the button. “I want you angry.”
Anaijiah should have shoved her off. She should have spat in her face. Instead, a broken sound escaped her lips as Nevaieh’s hand, still in the rough MMA glove, pushed into her jeans, past her underwear. The material was coarse, abrasive against her sensitive flesh. It was all wrong. It was filthy.
“See?” Nevaieh murmured, watching her face as she worked her fingers through the slickness. “You’re fucking dripping for it. Even now.” She pushed two fingers inside, the textured glove creating a brutal, delicious friction. Anaijiah arched off the ground, a cry tearing from her raw throat.
It was nothing like the day before. This was punishment and reward fused together. Nevaieh fucked her with those gloved fingers on the cold, dirty concrete, her other hand pinning Anaijiah’s wrists above her head. There was no kiss, no pretense of tenderness. Just the hard, rhythmic thrusting, the smell of sweat and leather and blood, Nevaieh’s eyes locked on hers, witnessing every shattered piece of her pleasure.
“Come on,” Nevaieh urged, her own breath coming in harsh pants. “Come on this fucking glove. Show me how much you like losing.”
The orgasm hit Anaijiah like a seizure, violent and overwhelming, her body bowing against Nevaieh’s hold. She screamed, the sound echoing in the vast, empty warehouse. Nevaieh didn’t stop until the last tremor subsided, until Anaijiah lay spent and shaking beneath her.
Slowly, Nevaieh pulled her hand free. She peeled the glove off, tossing it aside. Her bare fingers, glistening, came to Anaijiah’s mouth. “Taste it,” she commanded, her voice hoarse. “Taste what you are right now.”
Anaijiah, her mind blank, her body humming, obeyed. She tasted herself, salt and iron, on Nevaieh’s skin.
Nevaieh stood up, looking down at her. She was a mess—sweaty, a bruise forming on her jaw, her knuckles raw. She looked more alive than Anaijiah had ever seen her. “The debt is clear,” she said, turning to walk away. She stopped at the edge of the light. “The vase is paid for.”
Anaijiah lay on the concrete, the cold seeping into her bones again. She heard the door shut. The silence was absolute. She stared at the hanging lamp, swaying gently. She had lost the fight. She had won something else, something far more dangerous. She had gotten exactly what she wanted, and it felt like falling into a deep, dark well with no bottom in sight.