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“And who’s going to tell them? You? The same nigga who went along with it because you figured it would keep us together? Makai, I could really ruin your life for decades. Guaranteed. You really don’t want to go here over assumptions and jealousy. Please just leave. I have to work in a few hours, and if I’m not in the shower in the next few hours, shit’s going to get real around here.”

He stands there for a moment like an idiot, burning a hole through me with a murderous glare. I’m unaffected by his eyes but heavily annoyed by his presence. I throw a sassy look right back at him, doubling down on my need for him to leave. Followed closely by me pointing towards the door.

“Go, Makai,” I demand again, meaner than the last time. I’m gripping the knife even tighter, just in case he decides his ears can’t work. If they don’t, I have a way to make his ear holes wider.

Just saying.

“Yeah, aight. I’ll see you again soon, Syren,” he sneers, inching towards the front door, “Damien and Morgan, huh?”

“Yup,” I make matters even worse for his confidence, “And trust me I had a really good time getting to know them. Bye now.”

Despite his grumbling and pouting, Makai finally leaves. A trail of weed smoke follows him straight through the door like it's his shadow. A tremendous weight lifts from my shoulders in an instant, leaving me in the center of the room releasing sighs of relief. I’m more relieved for him, honestly. That could’ve gotten ugly quick. I give it a second before walking over to my center window, glancing out to make sure he’s actually gone. I can’t see his car from my view, which is always a good sign. Knowing him though, I’ll need to keep my guard up more than before. Since he’s half-ninja all of a sudden. My worry alleviates enough for me to go about my day as planned, heading back into my bedroom, knife still in tow.

Once there, I retrieve my bag from the ground, placing it on my bed instead. I take one long look down at the knife, tracing its sharp edges with my middle finger. A sinful smile warms across my face, leaning down to kiss its blade, before finally placing it back in its original spot. I

shyly glance from side to side as if there’s an abundance of witnesses around, remembering again how brutal things became the last time it was in my hands. I can still smell the blood. I can still hear his wallowing cries every time it went deep inside his gut. Hopefully it doesn’t have to come back out to play again.

Hopefully.

Arguing with his dumbass only makes my shower longer. I’m in there practically long enough to fade my skin, washing away the stench of all his bullshit. Even after I’ve completely scrubbed my body twice, I stay in, thinking over life. Morgan and Damien. Makai. My sister. My past.

Life in general. Everything is so damn chaotic. I can’t even watch two people fuck each other’s brains out without my stalker ass ex berating me about it. Crazy work.

I’m really trying hard not to rid myself of him for good. Especially considering he’s just in his feelings about us. Understandably. I’m the best he’s ever had. Physically, mentally, and sexually. I’ve been around since he graduated from briefs to boxers. Hell, I was the one who even gave him the name of his smoke shop. Of course that’s hard to just forget. The problem is, he’s starting to become a problem for me. And I don’t like problems. Life has given me enough of those as is. So, something has to give when it comes to us. Really, really soon too. I can’t have him fucking things up for me. Again.

Everything on my mind follows me from the shower back into my bedroom. My A.C. has my entire body shaking like I just skinny-dipped in a snowstorm. After drying off enough, I glisten my body in Fenty body cream from the neck down to my toes. Smelling so good, I’d fuck myself. Twice.

My eyes are barely still open as I toss on a T-shirt and panties, climbing into bed quicker than it takes stars to reach the sky. I rub my feet together with my phone right in my face like I’m going blind. My only form of social media is TikTok. I don’t use Facebook. My hatred for Twitter started as soon as it changed the name its momma gave it. Snapchat used to be my obsession until niggas started getting weird on there, sending me pictures of their tiny and often times, ugly Vienna sausages.

So, it’s just me, my videos and I.

Even though my account looks more like I’m borrowing it. My page is completely hollow, outside of a few reposts. I rarely post videos myself. And it’s probably for the better that it stays that way. I’d rather not expose myself too much. I’ve got people clocking my moves too much already. I’ll leave the influencer stuff to Sajai. That’s more of her vibe. My focus isn’t on being famous, like her. My focus at the moment is on Morgan. I like her channel the most. Since we’ve met, I’ve probably been on her page about ten times. Okay, that’s crazy. More like fifteen.

I’m back like I never left, checking to see if she’s posted anything new. Maybe about me. There’s no updated videos yet, so I just rewatch old ones instead. That was the plan, at least, until Sajai halts the proceedings with a random Facetime. Speak of the Devil in L.A. Calling me at the most random times seems to be her vibe too. Normally, I’d just ignore her and call her back later. This call seems different though. Like if I don’t answer, I’ll regret it later.

I let out a sound of irritation, forcing myself to smile with my finger on the answer icon. She shows up on the screen in bed just like me, wrapped in a red blanket. To the world, we look just alike enough to fool the naked eye. With the exception of her Kim Possible-esque orange hair and a curved scar sitting under her left eye, caused by a biking accident when she was nine. She went through many years of me calling her “Left Eye the Second” because of that. Otherwise, we’re practically twins, despite me being younger.

“Hi,” I grumble into the phone, disappointed in cutting my Morgan stalking short.

“Well, hello to you too, little sister,” she says in her raspy voice, waving sarcastically.

“You know this is my bedtime, right?”

“If it is, you’d already be sleeping. Right?”

Ugh, she’s always been good at that. Matching my wit with heavier loads of sass.

“Touche, I suppose, smartass. Nah, but I’m actually just getting into bed.” “Yeah? Why? Had to work late or something?”

“Um, you can say that.” My eyes are dancing away. “Were you working or working on some dick, sis?”

“I…girl, mind your business.”

She cackles into the speaker like a talk show host trying to butter up her guest.

“Oop, see, I knew I was calling for a reason,” she quickly transitions into a more comfortable position, “Give me the deets. Is it a guy I know? And does the name rhyme with JaMai?”

Figures she’d ask about him. For some reason, she loved the nigga more than I did. If she had her way, I’d be married to him.