Chapter 7 Shadows and Gasoline

Chapter 7

Shadows and Gasoline

The club's velvet lights dimmed as if shrinking from what was to come. Conversations thinned into murmurs, then into breaths. Something was coiling in the air, wrapping tight around necks and nerves. The tension didn't scream it slithered.

With an odd hesitation, Sophia entered the stage. Her usual spark untamed, sultry, defiant was dimmed like a flame under glass. Her soul moved behind her hips, though. Rebecca, nestled in the shadows near the back, noticed the dance was all muscle memory now. Sophia was present, but she was being pulled away by something or someone. Fred did more than just enter; he also took over space. Black leather jacket, the glint of something hard in his eyes. His steps were deliberate, the kind of walk that made men defensive and women lean in with curiosity or fear. His gaze found Sophia instantly. And hers found his.

Rebecca's heart clenched. She wasn't the jealous type, but she was the observant one and what she saw wasn't just history. It was unfinished business. Dangerous, unresolved, magnetic. Fred had the swagger of a man who'd burned bridges and lit cigarettes with the embers.

In the corner, Kelvin's one good eye tracked every shift of Sophia's weight. Normally, he'd be muttering curses or snide comments, but tonight he was still. Too still. When he finally spoke, it was low and guttural.

The phrase was Kelvin's code. A signal. A warning. It meant things were about to spiral.

He did not cause a fuss. He was the scene. like a human version of gravity. Everything rearranged around him. Fred stiffened. Rebecca's breath caught. And Sophia Sophia stopped dancing.

Their eyes met. The past between them came crashing forward like a freight train. Samuel's hand brushed the envelope Don had slipped him earlier a file marked "OP: DUSK DOLL." Inside: a photo of Sophia, a note reading, "She knows. But doesn't know she knows."

Rebecca stepped forward, drawn by instinct more than intention. But before she could reach Sophia, a shriek of laughter cracked through the tension.

Chaos incarnate, Sophia's best friend. Her body was a celebration of curves and intention, and her voice carried like an anthem. Mimi had two businesses on the same street "Mimi's Mane Magic" for the ladies, and "Blades & Fades" for the men. Both were just fronts for the real commerce: gossip, mischief, and wild stories that kept half the block entertained and the other half wary.

She barged in wearing leopard print leggings and a sheer red blouse that declared she had no time for modesty. Kelvin's eyes lit up he always lit up for Mimi. She was the only one who could exhaust him in bed and keep his secrets.

"Why's everyone acting like they at a funeral? Y'all look like ghosts just touched your wallets!" she barked, tossing her curls over her shoulder.

Sophia laughed a small, tight sound but it loosened something in the room.

Mimi rushed toward Kelvin, kissed him squarely on the mouth, and then turned to give Samuel a wink. "What? You thought I'd forget you, Sergeant Stretch?"

Albert, Samuel's half-brother and Sophia's once-secret flame, emerged from the hallway. He saw Mimi, grinned, and muttered, "Here comes the hurricane."

Behind Mimi was Rose Distill, their mutual friend and neighborhood talking drum. Rose moved from topic to topic with the vigor of a caffeine-fueled bird, always thinking she was in the know. "Sophia, your lashes uneven," Rose whispered, loud enough for half the club to hear. "And Fred? Last I heard, you were locked up with a Russian accent and a prison tattoo. Guess you missed her too much, huh?"

Everyone ignored Rose the way you ignore fire alarms during a drill hoping it's nothing, knowing it might be everything.

Fred stood. The room tensed. Mimi stood too, blocking him.

"You came in here like you own something. Let me tell you something, honey, no one owns a damn thing unless Sophia gives it. And she didn't give you back anything, now did she?"

Sophia, trembling now, took Mimi's hand.

"I need to talk to Samuel," she said.

They stepped outside. In the silence that followed, Kelvin muttered, "Clock's ticking."

Inside the alleyway, Sophia faced Samuel. Her voice cracked.

"There's something I remembered. About that night... in Marrakesh. I was intoxicated. But someone whispered to me before I blacked out. It was Fred. He told me not to trust you."

Samuel's jaw tightened.

"I know. That's why I came back."

Rebecca stared at the door through which they had vanished inside. She felt the shape of her future shifting-just as Don's final message flashed on her phone:

"Fred wasn't the target. Sophia was."

It began with silence not the kind that comforts, but the kind that hunts.

Even though the club was full of people, drinks, and low music, there was a strange chill that ran throughout it all. People glanced at one another without reason, suddenly aware of things they hadn't noticed: Sophia's distracted sway, Kelvin's eerie stillness, the creak of the door as Fred stepped in.

Sophia danced as if she were possessed. Her hips moved, but her eyes were elsewhere. Rebecca knew that look it was the gaze of someone seeing something no one else could. Every step seemed to be an unanswered question, and every beat felt off by a breath. Fred's arrival poured gasoline on quiet dread. The crowd didn't know his story, but instinct warned them: this man carried trouble like cologne. And Sophia's response was too quick. It didn't shock me. It was recognition. Maybe even regret.

In the corner, Kelvin leaned forward, one hand resting on his thigh. He watched Fred like a sniper tracks a moving target, waiting for the perfect moment. The only sound from him was the click of his tongue, followed by that cryptic command: "Let the snake dance."

Something was off. The conversation began to stall. The throats choked out early laughter. People glanced over their shoulders, sensing a tide no one could name. When Samuel entered, the air shifted again no announcement, just presence. A man who wore justice like a wound.