Judging by the way victory drained from Malachai’s eyes, he never expected another key. I guess that all-important, all-French phone call wasn’t so urgent after all. Without the espresso to his lips, I had a full view of his shocked face from across the apartment just before the door slammed behind me, and now, his pleas for me to calm down and be reasonable make it to my ears only after I’ve sprinted most of this distance to the elevator. But no apology crosses his lips, no admission or explanation as his voice gains on me about why there was a gap-toothed smile on the wall. It’s no matter, though; nothing he says now will rid my gut of the fear and rage fueling this race from the apartment to the garage. Not until I see for myself just how far he dared to go. Read more here
to have, to hold by Jamila Minnicks. Blackbird literary magazine,