Gianna's Grit | ✓

VII: We Need to Talk

GIANNA

I threw the tangerine dress onto the carpet and scoffed at my closet of choices.

"I need to go shopping," I stated for the thousandth time before I just grabbed a pile of clothes and began working through it.

By the time I was finished packing, I'd developed different categories. I had organized my clothing based on what type it was, then I also had a trash or donate pile as well. I organized my clothing appropriately when placing them back inside the closet. Did it need to be done right this minute? No. Did I desperately need a distraction?

Hell yes.

I then returned to my donate and trash piles just to make sure that there was nothing I still wanted. I picked up a ratty old jersey Brielle's boyfriend must have left when I let her stay there for a weekend while I was off in Vegas with Mister Sinn.

I sent her a quick message and threw the item into my hamper for a later wash. I honestly had no idea how to launder that thing, "Google knows all."

I set my donate pile in one chair and my trash pile in the other while simultaneously yawning. I decided to just finish it all off when I was fully rested.

I was zipping up my bag when I heard the familiar sound of my front door closing. It wasn't just a click either, it was a full-on slam.

I rushed for the softball bat under my bed, knowing my gun was abandoned in the front room. I slowly approached the doorway of my bedroom, poised and ready to smack the hell out of my unknown intruder.

How'd they even get in? I live in a high rise.

The hallway was dark, and I half expected the action before it came even though it still scared the shit out of me.

A hand clamped over my mouth and I was thrown against a wall, which caused me to lose my grip on my bat. The person kicked it away before flicking on the lights.

King looked down at me, gun drawn, "I told you not to leave the Cove, ma."

The memory of him aiming at me in aunt Philly's living room came back to me. That same fear for my life overcame my nerves, and I kicked him in the balls with all of my might by instinct. He doubled over and I kicked him in the crown of his head. As he rolled around, I reached my bat and smacked him hard on the back before dashing for my purse.

He threw the bat at my legs, making me fall and sprawl all of my purse's items out on the tile.

If I survive, whatever shit guards had this shift tonight are getting their asses beat.

He yanked me by the shoulder, turning me around so that we met eyes and our guns almost clashed.

We were both aiming for the others head; one shot.

I panted as King's eyes shifted from my gun to my eyes. Then he looked almost.. proud?

He grabbed my gun wielding wrist and yanked me to my feet, bringing me against his chest, "Get your shit."

He wrenched my weapon from my hands, and stopped me from retrieving my bat as I passed it.

"Don't play any games, Gianna," he said lowly. "We both know how that will end."

I concluded that we both knew he was right about that one, and retrieved my phone and luggage instead. I weighed calling the cops, but knew that I'd be dead and he'd be gone before they ever arrived.

Besides, the security here obviously sucks ass.

I returned to the kitchen to see him fisting my purse by the hem rather than the straps. Though he'd picked up all of my belongings, I still rushed up and snatched the bag from him, "Be careful you ass, this bag is worth a lot of money!"

He snatched me up by my arm, "Does it look like I give a fuck about your bag, Gianna?"

I shook my head in sudden childish shame and gave a low, "No."

He cursed and shockingly made me grab some sneakers, "You can't wear heels all the goddamn time."

I scoffed but obeyed, grabbing my heels and stuffing them in my bag anyway.

"Is that what you're wearing?" He eyed me.

I huffed, "Do you just want me to show you my closet and be your Barbie doll or what?"

I'd chosen a simple outfit. Am oversized and flowing long sleeve and some not-too-high shorts.

"I wasn't exactly planning on going back out tonight," I added sharply.

He narrowed his eyes, "We gotta talk."

Just like that, he'd switched off. King grabbed me by my forearm and dragged me out of my flat. Neither of us said a word as he tucked both of our guns away under his black sweatshirt while on the elevator.

He shoved me into the passenger seat of a surprisingly sleek black Mercedes, which I bit my lip to keep from complimenting. I was a car girl; Saul often told me I'd gotten that from my father.

"You don't have to be so rough all the time," I sourly reminded him as I threw my luggage into the backseat. "My back is killing me."

He only drove off, "You didn't get where I am by being nice to everybody, ma."