Page 30 of The Fire We Make

Joy woke up early and spent extra time at the gym that morning. Mel had graciously rolled out of bed to accompany her, a welcomed stress reliever. She was one of the only people who could keep up with her in the ring, and having an opponent that moved and hit back was exactly what Joy needed to clear her mind, and burn some excess energy before her first day at her new job.

The gym was packed with people practicing self defense or just getting a workout in. They all paused when the television playing the news piqued their interest.

“In other news, law enforcement are still investigating the gruesome murders of Perry Mack and Mitchell Jenkins at The Sapphire Lounge and Nightclub two weekends ago. At this time there are no suspects.”

“Tuh,” Tisha, one of the women in the self defense group, scoffed. “I say they stop looking and let the motherfuckas rest in hell.”

Joy turned to her. “You know them?”

Tisha nodded, taking a sip of her water. “Perry is my cousin’s baby daddy. Or was. He put his hands on her so bad, she had to move to Philly just to keep him from killing her and even then, he didn’t stop until she got a new man that whooped his ass for coming around. He swore he was untouchable because he worked for the Black Mafia.”

“Of course,” Nia, Mr. Johnson’s daughter, scoffed. “Bitch ass niggas like him always think they’re a big dog until a real one shows up.”

“Have you seen the pictures of his face?” Tisha asked. “It looks like the biggest dog showed up and showed the fuck out.”

That earned a chuckle from Joy and cackles from the rest of the women.

At least something good came from that night, Joy thought.

Two good things, a little voice in her head reminded her.

The hazel eyed man from the roof’s face appeared in her mind’s eye with that sexy smirk of his and onyx skin but Joy pushed it away. She had more pressing things to worry about today.

Joy felt Mel’s questioning gaze searing the side of her face. Her cousin didn’t dare voice the accusation but their conversation was stifled for the rest of the morning.

Mellowed and showered, Joy got ready for her day in silence. She paid extra attention to her hair, finger coiling the strands meticulously, ensuring maximum definition. The sweet scent of the vanilla and honey curl cream pleased her senses and not for the first time since she’d left home, she thought of her mother.

Beauty was a ritual Michelle Thibodeaux taught Joy to take pride in from a young age. It was Michelle’s sister who continued the lessons when Joy’s mother wasn’t there. Joy soaked up the teachings from her aunt who, despite everything Byron had her doing, was determined to ensure Joy maintained her femininity.

She taught her how to cover bruises with color correctors and concealer and how to behave at a dinner table with Byron’s allies.

What started off as small pockets of normalcy in a world that seemed to have flipped upside down, eventually became another layer to the armor that had been placed on her.

She was proficient in hand to hand combat in 6 inch stilettos and was taught how to slit a throat without leaving any traces on her couture.

Joy pulled her old jewelry from the back of the closet—the few pieces she'd managed to keep from home—along with the new wardrobe she and Mel had spent an entire weekend putting together. She'd had to rebuild it all from scratch. Piece by piece.

Joy chose her outfit for the day, preparing for the battle ahead.

Her pencil skirt and pumps served as armor.

The pantyhose and pearls were a costume she donned to disarm her opponents.

The kind of danger she harbored was entwined in her DNA and required layers and layers to remain hidden.

The daughter of a gangster and a debutante, Joy felt naked if she left the house without her pistol or her earrings.

The bracelet she clasped around her wrist held the Greek letters of her sorority dangling from it and the large ring she slipped on her middle finger had the seal of her top 20 ranked Alma Mater pressed into the gold.

As the cold metal of the jewelry kissed her skin and the height of the sling back heels stretched her calves, Joy smiled. She was starting to look like herself again. Feel like herself again. Not the monster her father had cultivated and cast aside, but the weapon.

The asset.

The queen.

In a little over an hour, Joy was presentable and pleased with her appearance, so she grabbed her tote bag and headed downstairs.

In the kitchen, she munched on toast and boiled eggs to put something on her stomach as she waited for her coffee to brew.