38. Derek’s Destiny
Trigger Warnings For This Chapter:
This chapter contains graphic violence, including physical assault and threats of harm, as well as emotionally intense scenes involving manipulation, coercion, and non-consensual drugging. There are references to physical and emotional distress, including fear of death, and moments of intense confrontation. Additionally, the chapter touches on sensitive topics related to trauma and power dynamics. Readers are encouraged to approach with care and prioritize their well-being.
ARNOLD
The smell of smoke still clung to me, the bitter stench seeping into my skin, a constant reminder of the wreckage that used to be my club. The place was nothing but a pile of charred wood and ashes now. I’d just come back from staring at the smoldering remains, like they might magically piece themselves back together if I looked long enough. Nothing left. Not even hope.
Now I sat in my dimly lit living room, the weight of it all pressing down on me, suffocating. The walls felt like they were closing in, getting tighter with every breath I took, every thought that raced through my head. It was as if the air itself had thickened, trapping me in this tomb of a house where the only sound was the occasional groan of old wood settling, and the deafening silence that followed.
My club—my uncle’s legacy, the place I swore I’d turn into something bigger, better—was gone. The flames had ripped through it like they were sent from hell itself, and by the time I got the call, it was too late. It was gone. Everything. And the worst part? I couldn’t even collect on it.
I stared at the insurance paperwork spread out on the coffee table in front of me, the words blurring together. My hands trembled as I picked up one of the documents, shaking my head in disbelief. How the hell had I been so stupid? How did I let myself get hustled into a bullshit insurance plan that didn’t cover half the shit I needed? No fire coverage. No full liability. Just the bare minimum I thought I could skate by with.
I let out a low, bitter laugh, the sound hollow in the empty room. I’d spent years building that place up, thinking I could ride the line, cut corners, keep more of the profits in my pocket. But I’d gotten too comfortable, too cocky. I thought I had it all figured out. Turns out, I didn’t know shit.
The numbers ran through my head like a sick game of Russian roulette. The money I owed, the people I had to pay off, the vultures circling. I was running out of time, out of options. And I had no idea how the hell I was going to climb out of this hole. There was no backup plan, no safety net. Just a sinking feeling in my gut and a pile of bills I couldn’t pay.
The knock at the door broke through the fog in my head. I jumped, heart pounding, staring at the door like it was a ghost. I wasn’t expecting anyone—definitely not at this hour.
“Who the fuck is it?” I barked, my voice rough from stress and lack of sleep.
“Open the door, Arnold. We need to talk.”
That voice. The kind of voice that makes your stomach twist in knots before you even hear the words. I stood, wiping my hands on my jeans, trying to steady my nerves. There wasn’t much that could make this situation worse—but the fact that someone had come knocking, in the middle of the night, didn’t sit right with me.
I cracked the door open, just enough to see if it was who I thought it was, and my blood pressure shot straight through the roof. There he was—Johnathon. The last motherfucker I wanted to see for the rest of my natural Black ass life.
“The fuck you doin’ here, man?” I asked, voice low, laced with all the venom I could muster.
Johnathon shifted on the porch, eyes darting around like a paranoid crackhead. “L-Let me in,” he stammered.
I leaned out, scanning the dark street behind him, looking for anything that might be off. Nothing. But my gut told me something was wrong. Against my better judgment, I opened the door wider, giving him a look that screamed this better be good.
“Fuck you want?” I asked, turning my back on him, already regretting letting him in.
That’s when it hit me. Literally.
Pain exploded in the back of my skull, sharp and hot, like a firecracker going off inside my head. I stumbled forward, my vision blurring as a second blow landed—this time a boot to my ribs. My head hit the floor hard, my breath knocked clean out of me, then rough hands grabbed me by the collar, dragging me across the room like I was nothing. They shoved me onto my own damn couch, my head spinning, pain throbbing in my body.
“The fuck?” I managed to get out, blinking through the haze as I looked up.
Two men stood over me, both of them wearing ski masks, the dim light barely catching the edges of their faces. One of them, though, I recognized immediately. He might’ve tried to cover it up, but I’d know that presence anywhere. D-Truth. He had long sleeves on, gloves hiding his tats, but it was him. No question. The way he carried himself, the way he moved, like he owned the room even though he hadn’t said a word yet. The shorter dude next to him? He had a gun out, aimed right at me.
And then there was Johnathon, huddled in the corner, shaking like a wet dog, hands up in surrender like the gun was pointed at him. His bitch ass was crying—tears streaming down his face like he was the one getting worked over, not me.
“You set me up, Johnathon?” I growled, forcing the words out even though every inch of my body screamed in pain.
“I—I—” Johnathon stuttered, eyes wide and wild, looking from me to D-Truth like he was caught in a trap he didn’t see coming.
“Shut the fuck up,” the gunman barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a razor, turning his attention back to me. “Told you I was coming to see you, pussy.”
Shit. It was him—the voice from the phone when I called Eden. My stomach dropped.
“What you want, man?” I asked, my voice tight, trying like hell to keep the fear from leaking out. I wasn’t about to let these bastards see me scared, even though my heart was pounding like it was about to fall out my ass.
The tall one stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes locked on me through the mask.
“Need you to come up off them Polaroids of Destiny,” he said, his voice low, dangerous, like a rattlesnake coiled and ready to strike. There was no question in his tone—just a statement, like he already knew how this was gonna play out. Like the end was already written, and I was just too slow to catch up.
My heart pounded, but I forced myself to play it cool. I straightened up, trying to ignore the sharp pain in my ribs, the throbbing in my skull that made it feel like it was about to split clean in two. But the truth was, I was rattled—more than I’d ever been. Because that voice? I’d know that voice anywhere.
That was D-Truth’s ass, no doubt. I knew it deep in my bones, the same way I knew the hook to every one of his songs. I’d had all his albums on repeat for years, memorized his flow like it was a damn mantra. But hearing that voice in real life, in this situation? That was something else entirely.
This wasn’t the charismatic, smooth-talking rapper the world loved. Nah, this was the man beneath all that—the one who’d made a name long before he ever picked up a mic. And here he was, standing in my living room, eyes cold and deadly, looking at me like he was deciding whether I was worth letting breathe another day.
“They got burned up in my club,” I said, my face a mask of calm, though my mind was screaming at me to run.
D-Truth didn’t flinch. He just stared at me, like he could smell the lie. Hell, maybe he could.
His hand shot out, thick fingers clamping around my throat like a vice. Before I could even react, he yanked me off the couch, lifting me clean off my feet like I weighed nothing. My legs kicked helplessly, boots scraping against the air as I dangled there, gasping for breath. The room spun, and I could feel the blood rushing to my head, my vision tunneling, the walls closing in. His grip tightened, and all I could think about was how I might never breathe again.
“We know for a fact those pictures weren’t in that club,” he growled, his voice low, dripping with menace. His breath was hot against my face, his grip unrelenting. “And we know you didn’t send no digital copies to nobody. That was smart. So when I let you go, you better go find them pictures—unless you want your people to find your corpse in the morning. Got it?”
I wheezed, barely able to nod, my voice strangled. “G-Got it.”
He released me like he was letting go of something hot, and I crumpled to the floor like a rag doll, coughing and gasping, my throat burning. I hit the ground hard, hands clutching my neck, fighting to catch my breath. My lungs screamed for air as I struggled to pull myself together.
“Johnathon,” the gunman barked, turning his cold gaze on him, “go help your boy!”
Johnathon opened his mouth, his voice shaking. “I don’t—”
Before he could finish, D-Truth—because it had to be him—grabbed him by the neck, his fingers digging in deep, and shoved him hard in my direction. Johnathon stumbled forward, tripping over his own feet, his eyes wide with terror.
“Get y’all asses up,” D-Truth snarled, voice cutting through the room like a razor, “and bring me my fucking pictures. Or this place is gonna go up in flames too.”
My heart stopped. Did he know? Did he know who set my club on fire? Whoever did it had fucked me over royally—wiped out my entire operation, both legal and illegal, in one night. My business? Gone. Just like that. And Lyman’s ass was sitting pretty up at Juniper PD, no help to me now.
But there wasn’t time to think. Not now. Not with a gun pointed at me and D-Truth breathing down my neck. I dragged myself to my feet, my legs shaky but moving, adrenaline taking over. I didn’t have a choice.
I started walking toward my bedroom, feeling every pair of eyes on me, their footsteps heavy as they followed. The tension was thick, the kind that made your skin prickle, knowing one wrong move could be your last. My hand shook as I reached for the door, my mind racing a mile a minute. The light flicked on behind me, casting long shadows on the walls as I headed for the closet.
Where the hell were those pictures?
“Let’s go, Hey Arnold! Lookin' like you got a football for a head for real!” the gunman chuckled, his voice dripping with mockery.
“Hey Arnold!” D-Truth chimed in, his voice thick with amusement, mimicking the cartoon like it was the funniest shit he’d ever heard.
Fuck these niggas, man. My blood boiled as I rifled through the shoeboxes in my closet, my hands shaking with frustration. I couldn’t believe Johnathon had dragged me into this mess. My head was pounding, mind racing, and I could barely remember where I’d stashed the damn Polaroids. Probably high as hell when I hid 'em, thinking I was slick. Now, I was scrambling, sweating, and praying I didn’t come up empty.
“Hurry the fuck up!” D-Truth growled, his patience thinning like a razor’s edge. I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head, every second ticking by like a countdown to my own execution.
“And didn’t I tell you to help his ass?” D-Truth barked, shoving Johnathon into the closet. The dumbass stumbled forward, his face slamming against the wall with a sickening thud.
“Ah! My tooth!” Johnathon squealed, clutching his mouth, blood spilling from his lip. He sounded like a child who’d just gotten his first whooping—pathetic and scared.
I stopped for a second, looking at his sorry ass on the floor. This motherfucker. The urge to just leave him there and let him rot crept up, but I didn’t have the luxury of standing still. Not with D-Truth and his goon looming over me, breathing down my neck.
“Man, get the fuck up,” I muttered under my breath, pushing past him as I tore through more boxes, my frustration mounting. My palms were sweaty, my fingers fumbling with lids and paper, every second feeling like a noose tightening around my throat.
The light overhead flickered, casting eerie shadows over the room. I could feel the walls closing in, the pressure suffocating. The gunman shifted, his presence heavy, and I knew he wasn’t gonna wait much longer. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, a frantic rhythm that matched the panic clawing at my gut.
Finally, my fingers brushed against something familiar. I yanked out the envelope, my breath catching in my throat. The Polaroids. I felt a sick twist of relief—and dread.
I turned, locking eyes with D-Truth’s masked figure. The room felt like it was spinning, the weight of everything crashing down at once. I wasn’t sure how this was gonna play out, but I knew one thing: I had the pictures, and they had the power.
“How do I know you ain’t gonna kill me after I give you these?” I asked facing him, my voice tight, my grip tightening around the envelope like it was my only lifeline. It was the only leverage I had left.
D-Truth’s eyes narrowed, the tension between us thick as the stench of fear in the air. He stepped forward, closing the distance between us with a slow, deliberate swagger that made my pulse jackhammer in my chest.
“Just know for sure you’ll be dead if you don’t give ‘em to me,” he said, his voice low, calm, like he was telling me the weather. But there was venom behind it, a promise I knew he’d keep. “Matter of fact —”
Before I could even process the threat, he snatched the envelope out of my hands like it was nothing—like I wasn’t even holding on. My fingers flinched, but the truth hit me hard. Fuck. This wasn’t just a rapper playing tough. D-Truth was a real gangster, the kind you didn’t cross. His reputation in Juniper was practically legend—the kind of legend that involved too many broken bones and a dude who almost didn’t make it home from some party he got beat half to death at. Even back then, before he blew up, people whispered about the ass-whippings he handed out like they were souvenirs.
I never thought I’d end up on the wrong side of D-Truth’s reputation, but here I was. I’d pushed my luck too far, and now it was snapping back hard. Regret hit me like a punch. I should’ve stayed away from Destiny back in college, but I didn’t. Back then, everyone knew she used to be with D-Truth, and being with her felt like standing in his shoes.
It was an ego thing. A lot of us thought like that—young, dumb, chasing clout. Her choosing me back then? It made me feel like I was on his level. But now? That same decision was coming back to bite me.
Messing with Destiny might’ve made me feel like somebody back then, but now it was making me feel like a dead man walking.
I watched as D-Truth tore open the envelope, flipping through the Polaroids like he was checking receipts. My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out the sound of everything else, but then I saw movement. The gunman. He raised his piece, leveling it right at me, his eyes cold and unblinking behind the ski mask.
My throat tightened, every muscle in my body coiled with fear. The kind of fear that digs into your bones, that reminds you how close you are to the edge of life and death. I couldn’t move. I was frozen, watching the barrel of that gun like it was the last thing I’d ever see.
D-Truth kept flipping through the pictures, silent. My leverage was gone, snatched away in the blink of an eye. Now it was all about whether D-Truth decided to let me walk—or leave me bleeding on the floor of my own damn house.
The gunman didn’t flinch. The barrel of his piece stayed locked on me, steady as a heartbeat.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. The room seemed to close in on me, the air thick like it was pressing down on my chest. Every second felt like it stretched into forever. I was trapped, and both of us knew it.
D-Truth let out a long, slow sigh, the sound like a fuse burning down to the explosion.
“What did you do to her to get her to take these?” he asked, his voice low, but dangerous—like a storm building on the horizon.
I froze, the weight of his question settling in my gut like a lead bullet. I knew the answer was about to fuck me six ways to Sunday.
D-Truth’s fingers flicked through the Polaroids like they were burning his hands. He stopped on one, staring hard. “Look at her fucking eyes,” he said, his voice shaking just a little. “That’s not her... That’s not my…” He trailed off, shaking his head, the disbelief cutting through his usual cold demeanor.
D-Truth stared at the Polaroids like they were burning a hole straight through his soul, his jaw clenched so tight I could hear the teeth grinding from across the room. His whole body was tense, like a predator about to strike, the kind of quiet rage that made you sweat even in the coldest room.
The gunman beside him hadn’t moved an inch, but his eyes kept flicking between me and D-Truth, like he knew something was brewing beneath the surface, something that could explode any second. He was waiting, watching, ready to move if it came to that.
“He asked you a question, football head,” the gunman snapped, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. It was sharp, cold, breaking the silence but not the pressure that hung in the room like a storm cloud.
D-Truth didn’t look at me, didn’t say a word. He just kept flipping through those pictures, his hands steady but his eyes burning with something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I could feel the danger rising, like the moment just before lightning strikes.
I gulped again, my throat dry as sandpaper, my mind racing for any lie, something, anything that might save my ass. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to break through my chest. “She... she wanted to—” I started, stammering, but the words felt like acid on my tongue, and I barely got the lie out before I saw it coming—his rage.
“I—I—” My voice cracked, my mouth moving faster than my brain. “I asked her to pose for me... she liked to do that sometimes.” The lie spilled out, weak and hollow, but it was all I had.
D-Truth’s eyes snapped up from the pictures, and in that moment, I knew I’d said the wrong thing.
The lie wasn’t gonna save me. If anything, it was digging my grave faster.
D-Truth’s hand shot up, ripping the mask off his face in one fluid motion, and there he was, his eyes burning into mine, full of raw fury. In the next breath, he snatched the gun from his homeboy’s grip and lunged at me. His hand wrapped around my throat like a steel vise, lifting me clean off the floor, and he slammed me against the wall so hard the drywall cracked.
Before I could even process what was happening, he jammed the barrel of the gun in my mouth, the cold metal clanging against my teeth. My breath caught, panic shooting through me like electricity.
“What did you do to her, Arnold?” he growled, his face inches from mine, his voice a low, menacing rumble. His breath was on my face, and his eyes, dark and furious, bored into mine like he was trying to rip the truth out of me.
I tried to speak, tried to answer, but the gun in my mouth made it impossible. All that came out was a choked, muffled sound as I struggled to breathe, the cold metal pressing against my tongue. I could taste the gunpowder, the bitter metallic tang filling my mouth as he tightened his grip on my throat.
He wanted me to see his face? Yeah, I was a goner.
The realization hit me like a freight train, cold and hard. D-Truth wasn’t hiding anymore—he was laying it all out. That mask wasn’t about anonymity; it was about control. And now that it was off, there was no turning back. He wasn’t just here to scare me. Nah, this was a message. He wanted me to know exactly who was about to pull the trigger, and why.
The look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. I wasn’t getting out of this. My stomach dropped, and for the first time, I felt the cold grip of death creeping in.
D-Truth’s homeboy stepped forward, laying a hand on his shoulder, but it didn’t matter. There was murder in D-Truth’s eyes, raw and burning, the kind you didn’t talk down from.
“He can’t answer you like that,” he said, his voice calm, as if this was just another day in the office.
D-Truth’s eyes flicked between him and me, the rage still simmering just beneath the surface. He hesitated, then yanked the gun out of my mouth, his grip loosening on my neck just enough for me to suck in a ragged breath. My throat was raw, burning, but at least I could breathe again.
“You used to make her something to drink,” D-Truth said, his voice quiet but deadly, like a loaded gun cocked and ready to fire.
Fuck. She told him that? My stomach dropped, and I closed my eyes, the cold truth settling in my bones. I was dead. Maybe not right this second, but I wasn’t leaving this room alive. Not after this. Might as well be honest.
“She said she’d just gotten out of a bad situation a few months prior,” I muttered, my voice low, the tremble crawling into my words no matter how hard I tried to steady it. My throat felt tight, like the truth was choking me on the way out. “Didn’t want to get physical with me. So... I’d give her something to loosen her up when she’d come over.” I paused, the weight of what I was about to admit settling in like concrete. “It was the only way she’d let me hit but, it was just that one t—”
I barely had time to blink before D-Truth’s fist crashed into my face. I didn’t see it coming, didn’t have time to brace for it. One second, I was talking, the next, I was tasting blood. My whole face exploded in pain, my nose leaking like a busted faucet. Got damn, it felt like he shattered my whole skull in one hit.
“Fuck!” I groaned, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor. My head was spinning, my vision blurry as I wiped my face with the back of my hand, looking around the room like a cornered animal searching for an escape. But there was none.
Then bam! Another hit. And another. My head snapped back like I was stuck in a pinball machine, his fists landing on me from every angle, making my face feel like it was molded from clay. I could barely keep track of where the punches were coming from—it was all a blur of pain and blood.
The motherfucker was relentless, pounding me like he was auditioning for the role of Mike Tyson in his biopic, not spitting verses. I tried to brace myself, tried to find my balance, but every blow knocked me further off center, like I was getting tossed around in a storm. He finally stopped, leaving me crumpled on the floor, my head swimming, my ribs on fire.
I lay there, trying to get my bearings, the taste of copper heavy in my mouth. My body was wrecked, every inch of me aching, but the worst part? The humiliation. D-Truth had just reminded me who was in charge—who had all the power—and all I could do was sit there and take it.
Why was this nigga rapping? I thought, my mind dazed as I tried to piece it all together. He should be a damn UFC fighter.
I blinked, forcing my eyes to focus as I tried to push myself off the floor, but my body wasn’t ready to cooperate. All I could do was breathe through the pain and hope that the beating was over—for now.
I glanced at the gunman, then at Johnathon, but neither of them moved a muscle. Johnathon was still hunched over, trying to stop the bleeding from his own nose, useless as ever.
Then I heard it—the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. My head snapped up, and there he was, D-Truth, standing over me with the gun pointed right at my face. The cold barrel gleamed in the low light, steady as a stone, while the world around me spun out of control.
My heart raced, slamming against my chest as the reality hit me. This was it. No more threats, no more words. The only thing between me and death was the pressure of his finger on that trigger. My entire life, everything I thought I was, everything I thought I could be—none of that mattered anymore.
“D-Truth...” I croaked, my voice barely a whisper. But there was no mercy in his eyes. Only rage. The kind of rage you can’t come back from.
Time seemed to slow down, the seconds stretching out, every breath a struggle. The only thing I could think about was whether I’d even have time to feel the bullet when it hit.
I dropped to all fours, the weight of my fear crashing down on me like an avalanche. My hands trembled, and I could barely choke out the words. “I’m sorry... Tell Destiny I’m sorry...” The tears spilled out, burning hot against my cheeks. I knew, deep down, that this was it. The way D-Truth looked at me, eyes black as night, empty of anything but cold rage—it was the look of a man who had already decided my fate.
“I was fucked up back then,” I sobbed, the desperation thick in my voice, clinging to whatever shred of mercy I thought might be left. But there was none. Not for me.
D-Truth stood over me, his shadow swallowing the room. “How did you find out her secret? When you drugged her? Huh?” he asked, his voice like a death sentence.
I shook my head, a bitter chuckle escaping my lips. It was almost funny, in a twisted way. “I don’t know her secret,” I confessed, my voice raw, broken. “I don’t know what it is.”
He tilted his head, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You told Eden you were going to go to the police and ruin Destiny. Said you knew what she was hiding.”
“She never told me,” I blurted out, the panic rising in my chest. “She just... she told me one night when she was... under the influence... that she was a bad person, that she’d done something so bad she could go to jail. But she never said what it was. I tried to get it out of her, I swear. But she just giggled... then she passed out.”
D-Truth’s gaze hardened, his silence deafening.
“On everything, man, she never told me what it was,” I pleaded, my voice shaking, heart racing like I was already feeling the bullet tear through my skin. “I just said that shit to Eden to scare her, to make her fall in line. I knew I had the pictures, so I figured...”
My voice trailed off, the truth hanging in the air like a noose. I looked up at him, hoping—praying—that somehow this confession would save me. But the darkness in his eyes didn’t waver. There was no forgiveness there, no understanding. Just the cold, hard reality of what I’d done.
The gun still hovered in his hand, steady, unwavering. I was on my hands and knees, pleading for my life, but I could see it—he’d already made up his mind.
Before I could even gather my breath again, I heard Johnathon’s trembling voice cut through the thick silence. “Dear Lord... sweet Jesus, please... please save us,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, his words shaky like he was trying to hold his soul together with prayer.
He was standing off to the side, his whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm. His hands were clasped together, eyes squeezed shut, as if the harder he prayed, the quicker God might swoop down and snatch him from this nightmare. Sweat poured down his face, dripping onto his shirt, soaking through like he’d just run a marathon.
“Jesus, Jesus, please,” Johnathon mumbled, his voice cracking. “I-I don’t wanna die... Lord, please, I’m beggin’ you...”
D-Truth shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass, the anger in his eyes shifting for just a moment, like he couldn’t believe the pathetic sight in front of him.
“Shut the fuck up, Johnathon,” the gunman growled, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. Johnathon flinched, his knees buckling as he stumbled back against the wall, his hands still shaking.
But Johnathon didn’t stop. His prayers poured out of him, louder now, his voice cracking with panic, each word more frantic than the last. “Please, God... don’t let us die like this. Don’t let me die here! I’ll change, I swear! I’ll do better, I’ll—”
D-Truth’s patience snapped like a brittle wire. “If you don’t shut the fuck up,” he growled, not even bothering to look at Johnathon, keeping his eyes and gun trained on me, “I’ll send you on the express train to meet the big man upstairs myself.”
Johnathon whimpered, his voice choking off into a pitiful sob as he shrank back, his hands trembling, but the prayers stopped. Fear hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Every nerve in my body was on fire, waiting for the bullet, waiting for the sound of the gunshot that would split the silence and end everything.
D-Truth stood over us like a God of war, eyes cold and unblinking, the gun heavy in his hand, poised to deliver final judgment. My heart pounded in my chest, a relentless hammering that echoed in the stillness. It was as if time itself had frozen, the air so thick with tension that even the walls seemed to hold their breath.
Then the shorter, pudgy one, standing just behind D-Truth, stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. His face was a mask of disdain as he looked down at us, shaking his head like we weren’t even worth his time.
“These niggas out here doing amateur hour,” he said, his voice laced with disgust, each word dripping with contempt. He glanced at D-Truth, his lip curling into a sneer. “He ain’t even worth the bullet.”
I was sure those words meant nothing. They felt like smoke in the wind, empty and drifting. D-Truth had already made up his mind—I could see it in the cold finality in his eyes. It was over for me.
My family would find me dead in my own bedroom, and D-Truth would get away with it, just because of who he was. He probably had a clean-up crew waiting outside, ready to whisk away my body like I never existed. A missing poster with my face plastered on it would be the only trace I’d leave behind. Either way, the ending was the same—I was done.
No matter what I said, no matter how I begged, it wouldn’t change a thing. His decision had been made long before he stepped into my house. And maybe... maybe I deserved it. Maybe every bad choice, every selfish move had led me right to this moment, staring down the barrel of my own regret.
I could feel the weight of it all pressing down on me—my sins, my failures, everything I’d done to get here. And now? Now it was catching up to me, and I was powerless to stop it.
D-Truth crouched down in front of me, so close I could smell the sweat on him, the sharp tang of gunmetal filling the space between us. The gun hung loosely in his hand, swaying just inches from my face like it was teasing me, daring me to make a move.
His eyes locked onto mine, dark and unreadable, but burning with that quiet, dangerous rage I knew all too well. He didn’t speak for a long moment, just stared, sizing me up, the weight of his presence pressing down on me like a lead blanket. I thought he might pull the trigger just to watch me suffer. But instead, he let out a slow breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the lowlife standing in front of him.
“You’re a real piece of shit, Arnold,” D-Truth growled, his voice low but laced with venom, each word sliding under my skin like a blade. “Thought you could extort Destiny—play her like she was some weak little girl, drag Eden into your fucked-up game. All for what? A hundred grand? I wipe my ass with that. Could’ve tossed it to you as a tip at a night out at your club if you’d asked nice. But instead, you thought you could threaten my woman, hang that secret over her head like a noose.”
He leaned in closer, his face inches from mine, his eyes dark, cold, and full of the kind of rage that made your blood run cold. “You don’t even know what the secret is, but you were ready to destroy her life for a little pocket change. That’s who you are, Arnold. All greed, no spine.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch out like a blade before his voice dropped even lower, dangerous, like thunder rumbling just before the storm hits. “And the pictures?” His words came out slow, deliberate, each syllable dripping with menace. “You were really gonna put her out there like that? Humiliate her? For what? So you could puff up your chest and tell people you used to fuck D-Truth’s wife? When she doesn’t even remember because you drugged her to get it.”
“That’s rape, Arnold,” D-Truth said, his voice steady but dripping with barely controlled fury, his eyes locked on me, unblinking. I could feel every syllable, like a punch to the gut, winding me, making it harder to stay standing. “You took advantage of her... no consent. And she don’t even know. How the fuck am I supposed to tell her that?” His words hit like a hammer to my chest, each one landing harder than the last, until I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
He paused, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the tension in his neck, his fists trembling at his sides like he was holding back the urge to tear me apart. “She’s been through enough already,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion now, the struggle clear. “One more fucking thing I gotta protect her from…”
His words faltered for just a heartbeat, like he was battling with something inside, but then that darkness returned. Cold. Unforgiving. “But that’s why you needed your ass beat at minimum,” D-Truth growled, his voice low, vibrating with a barely contained rage. “You don’t even deserve this bullet... too easy.” He paused, his gaze unflinching as the weight of what he was saying sank into the room like lead.
“I should slice your fucking throat,” he continued, his words sharper than any blade, “gut you like the animal you are.”
The finality in his tone was ice-cold, not a threat but a promise. It was like he had already carried out the sentence in his mind, already seen me bleed out on the floor, and was just letting the moment stretch before making his move. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. Just a raw, deadly certainty.
The disgust in his eyes was so strong it made my skin crawl. He looked at me like I was something beneath him, something rotten, something that needed to be erased.
“Who the fuck raised you?” His words were sharp, each one designed to cut deeper than the last, stripping away any last bit of dignity I had. “I think I’d be doing the whole world a favor by ending you right here. I know the women in Westonberry and Juniper would be better off with your ass gone.”
My throat tightened, my breath catching in my chest, but I couldn’t respond. There was nothing I could say. No defense, no excuse that would save me from the truth of what I’d done.
“And Eden?” D-Truth’s voice flared with a fresh wave of anger, rising like a storm about to break. His eyes flashed with fury, sparks ready to ignite. “You dragged her into this too. Used her like a pawn in your twisted little game. She trusted you, Johnathon, and you turned that into something ugly, handed her off to this sick motherfucker.”
He shot me a look of pure disgust before turning back to Johnathon, who was trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. “You’re lucky she didn’t get hurt worse than she did. If she had?” D-Truth’s voice dropped low, the menace in it unmistakable, like the calm right before the lightning strikes.
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room, his gaze hard as stone, unflinching. “We wouldn’t even be having this conversation right now,” he said, his voice cold, matter-of-fact. “You’d already be dead.”
I felt Johnathon trembling beside me, but I didn’t dare look at him. He was probably praying to whatever god would listen, hoping D-Truth would show mercy. But mercy wasn’t something you could expect from a man like him, not after what we’d done.
“I love Destiny,” D-Truth said, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “And that’s the only reason you’re still breathing. You and this coward over here,” he nodded toward Johnathon, who let out another whimper. “I love her enough to let y’all walk out of here tonight. But if you ever—ever—try to hurt her again, or if you even think about bringing up that secret, I swear on everything I love, I will not hesitate to end you. Both of you.”
D-Truth’s eyes flicked back and forth between me and Johnathon, his voice low and dangerous as he continued, “You speak one word about tonight, and it’s over. You breathe about what happened here, and I’ll send people for you. No warnings, no mercy. You won’t see it coming, and when it does, you’ll know it’s me. I’m not hiding.”
He stood up, straightening to his full height, the gun still in his hand but now hanging loosely by his side. He paused, letting the silence stretch out, his eyes hard and unflinching. “If either of you even so much as look at her, think about hurting her, I won’t just come for you. I’ll come for everyone you care about.”
I swallowed hard, the gravity of his threat sinking in like a lead weight in my chest. This wasn’t a warning—it was a death sentence, postponed only by his love for Destiny. I could feel Johnathon shaking beside me, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but neither of us dared speak.
“Now get the fuck out of here,” D-Truth said, his voice sharp and final, like a judge laying down a sentence. “Before I change my mind.”
I blinked through the blood and sweat dripping into my eyes, the words catching in my throat. “This—this my house,” I stammered, barely able to get the sentence out.
A slow, demonic smile crept across D-Truth’s face, something dark and twisted in the way his eyes lit up. “Oh right,” he said, glancing around the room like he’d just remembered where he was. He gestured toward the door with a casual wave of his hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves out. Thanks for having us over.”
He took a few steps toward the door, but stopped short, turning back with a smirk that sent a chill down my spine. “Oh yeah,” he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “make sure you cop my new album when it drops. It’s gonna be fire... like your club.” He winked, that cruel smile still stretched across his face.
The gunman next to him let out this deep, ugly laugh, like it was the funniest shit he’d ever heard. Both of them stood there for a moment, soaking it all in—me and Johnathon laid out on the floor, beaten, broken, bleeding in our own piss and fear. They watched us like predators watching prey that had no chance of escape, amused by the wreckage they’d caused.
I thought maybe this was my chance to stand, to try and crawl my way out of this mess, but before I could even gather myself, a boot smashed into my face, hard and fast, snapping my head back like I’d been hit by a damn sledgehammer.
“Holy fuck!” I screamed, knowing I’d just lost a couple of teeth. My mouth was throbbing, blood dripping through my fingers.
“That’s for Eden, pussy!” the fat one spat, his voice dripping with contempt. And then, literally, he spit on me while I was down there, holding my face, trying to keep the pain from swallowing me whole. The warm spit landed on my cheek, mixing with the blood, and all I could do was lie there, humiliated, broken.
“Johnathon,” D-Truth said, his voice low, almost a growl. “You got off easy tonight. Looks like God really was on your side.”
As they started to leave, D-Truth’s homeboy couldn’t resist one last dig. “Later, football head!” he called out from the living room, the taunt echoing through the house as they walked out, their laughter still bouncing off the walls.
And then, silence.
I stayed there on the floor, too weak to move, my face throbbing from the beating and my pride shattered beyond repair. Johnathon lay beside me, whimpering like a kicked dog, his hands still shaking. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and the acrid stench of our own piss, fear clinging to the room like a fog we couldn’t escape.
The worst part wasn’t the beating. It wasn’t the threats. It was knowing that they’d let us live... for now. But D-Truth had made one thing crystal clear—our lives were hanging by a thread, frayed and fragile. And any moment, any misstep, that thread would snap, and when it did, there’d be no second chances, no mercy.
The real weight of what had just happened crashed down on me. We weren’t just beaten—we were marked.
That door might’ve closed behind them, but I knew it was only a matter of time before it swung open again. And when it did, there wouldn’t be any more warnings.
Only more blood.