Dark Alarms

My grandma used to tell me, "You boys drivin' too My grandma used to tell me, "You boys drivin' too fast." Okay I ghost ride the whip with the door wide open. Ghost ride the whip with the door wide open.

LAMONT LAID IN his bed staring at the ceiling as he smoked his blunt. The house was quiet beside the sounds from the fan that sat in the corner of his bedroom. The smell of weed flowed through the air.

Thoughts of his childhood best friend Danté, filled his mind. He was murdered about a year ago and Lamont blamed himself for it every day. What was supposed to be a simple basketball game, turned into a nightmare in the blink of an eye.

Lamont had a temper on him, the simplest thing could set him off easily, and that was his problem. He couldn't let shit go without resorting to violence. Don't call him a liar neither, that would really piss him off.

"Alright cough up the money my nigga, we won fair and square." Dante laughed as he held his hand out waiting for one of the opponents from the other team to place the money in it.

"Man, ain't nobody said we was playin' for money." Tyrell from the other team spoke.

Lamont furrowed his brows "The fuck you mean? We agreed on a hundred dollars to whoever won before we started.

Tyrell smirked as he wiped the sweat from his head.

One of the other players started laughing, which Lamont didn't find anything funny. What the hell was he laughing for? He didn't hear a joke. If one was told, it damn sure wasn't funny.

It was 90 degrees in Chicago, the sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in sight. Dante was too hot to be bothered with them. He didn't care about the money as much as Lamont did, he was just ready to go.

"Lamont it ain't even that serious, let's go." Dante said as he began to grab his things.

"Nah, I don't play when it comes to money, these nigga's lost and aint tryin' to pay me what's owed."

"Nigga fuck you and your money. We ain't shake on that shit." Dre said, "Better listen to your friend over there."

Lamont didn't take too lightly to what Dre said. At this point he was being threatened, and they weren't trying to cough up the money he was rightfully owed.

Dante kept a close eye on Tyrell, he was reaching into his bag for far too long. He knew he had a gun. "Lamont chill out forreal." Dante told him but Lamont was trying to hear what Dante was saying.

"Nigga, run me my money before I beat yo ass."  Lamont barked. Dre looked back at Tyrell giving him a small nod before looking back at Lamont.

 Dante's heart started racing he knew exactly what was happening, Lamont was oblivious to what was going on, he just kept running his mouth.

"Alright nigga you win; Tyrell go ahead and give him the money." Dre ordered, never taking his eyes off Lamont.

Tyrell pulled his hand out of his bag, instead of money he pulled out a gun. Lamont's eyes grew wide, before he could even react, he heard the gunshots go off. He fell to the ground trying to avoid being hit.

Lamont thought he had been shot but, when he opened his eyes, he didn't see any blood or feel any pain. He looked over in Dante's direction to make sure he was alright and there he laid in a pool of his own blood.

When Tyrell pulled the gun out, he initially aimed for Lamont, but he quickly switched his aim to Dante.

Lamont ran over to his friend, he placed two fingers on the side of his neck to see if there was a pulse. There wasn't. Blood was pouring from his mouth, his eyes were still open, he looked as though he had just seen a ghost.

"Dante wake up."  Lamont called to him, a lump forming in his throat. "Wake up man! I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

"I'm sorry." Lamont sat up, tears rolling down his cheeks as he thought about his friend "Damn it, Dante." He cursed to himself.

Lamont took another hit of his blunt before putting it out and saving the rest for later. He went onto his bathroom turning the water on in the sink and letting it run until it turned warm.

Once it was the temperature he liked, he cupped his hands in the sink letting them fill with water before splashing it on his face.

He grabbed a towel from the rack and patted his skin dry, then stared into the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot—part weed, part grief. He looked exhausted. No sleep, just a carousel of memories he couldn't get off of. Every time he closed his eyes; he was back there—the night Dante was murdered.

It didn't matter how many women he slept with. Didn't matter how many blunts he rolled.

Nothing worked.

The flashback kept coming. Dante kept coming, like he was haunting him. Like he wasn't ready to let go either.

"Get your shit together Lamont." He said to his reflection, his voice low and hoarse. He looked down at the orange bottle on the edge of the sink—the antidepressants the doctor prescribed after Dante's death. He picked it up, reading the label, rolling it between his fingers.

He hadn't taken a single pill. They'd just sat there for weeks, collecting dust.

"I don't need this shit. I'm not fuckin' depressed." Lamont tossed the bottle into the trash bin and walked back into his bedroom.

Weed was easier. Felt realer.

He could handle that.

A Glock rested on the nightstand next to a neatly stacked pile of cash. Cold steel and crumpled bills— Lamont's version of security.

After Dante was killed, he didn't waste time. He got the gun the same week. It wasn't about feeling safe— it was about getting even.

Tyrell and Dre hadn't shown their faces at that basketball court since the night it went down. Lamont had driven past a few times, just in case, eyes scanning every shadow, every figure with a hoodie. But nothing. No leads. No slips. Just silence.

Still, that didn't stop him from keeping the Glock close, sometimes in his waistband. Sometimes under his pillow. Always within reach.

He didn't care how long it took.

Revenge wasn't an if. It was a when.

Lamont grabbed the Glock from the nightstand and tucked it into the waist of his jeans, the cold metal pressing against his skin.  He couldn't sit around any longer. Laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, letting thoughts of Dante chew through him—it wasn't helping.

He needed air. Movement. Something.

He pulled the hoodie over his head, yanking the hood low over his face. The fabric muffled his senses just enough to keep him grounded.

Before stepping out, he double checked the lock on his door—habit now. Couldn't trust anyone, not even in broad daylight.

Click. Secure.

He exhaled through his nose and stepped out into the street.

The sun was blinding. Lamont squinted as he stepped off the curb, lifting his hand to shield his eyes. After spending a full week locked inside, the sunlight felt hostile—like it was punishing him for coming back into the world. His head throbbed slightly from the sudden brightness, but he kept it moving.

He didn't have a destination in mind. His feet just carried him.

Eventually, he figured he might as well stop by his barbershop, see what was going on, maybe feel normal for a second. Driving felt like too much, so he decided to walk. It wasn't far— five minutes tops.

The neighborhood hadn't changed much. Same cracks in the pavement. Same slow- moving cars crawling past like they were watching something. Same people. Almost.

As he reached the corner near the barbershop, he was greeted by a familiar face—the homeless man that hung around from time to time.

"You wouldn't happen to have any spare change so I can get me something to eat would you?" The man asked, his voice rough but polite, eyes sicken with wear.

Lamont paused. His hand instinctively went to his pocket—not for money, but for the gun.

He caught himself.

Relax, man.

He blinked, clearing his head.

"I don't keep cash on me." Lamont lied.

Truth was, he always kept a few loose bills in his pocket.

He just didn't like giving money to the homeless—figured most of them would spend it on drugs anyway. Normally, he'd offer to buy them food himself, maybe drop off a sandwich or something from the corner store.

But not today.

He didn't feel like doing charity work, not with his head already so clouded.

The man nodded, not offended, just disappointed in that quiet, defeated way people get when they've heard "no" too many times.

Lamont kept walking, eyes forward, leaving the man behind without a second glance. The city had a way of numbing you. After a while, you stopped flinching.

Lamont walked into his business, the familiar scent of aftershave, talc, and clippers in the air. Business was slow—typical for a Monday. Only two chairs were filled. One barber scrolling on his phone. The other mid fade on a kid.

The sound hit Lamont's nerves instantly.

A little boy sat squirming in the chair mouth wide open, tears pouring like someone stole his favorite toy. His mother stood beside him, crouched low, trying every soft patient word she could to calm him down. But it wasn't working.

Lamont stood near the back, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"Yo," he called out, voice cutting through the crying, "if you can't get him to calm down, then yall gotta leave."

The woman looked up at him like he just slapped her. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. She was clearly shocked, but Lamont barely registered it.

What he did register, though, was how fine she was. Carmel brown skin that looked like it'd been kissed by the sun. Full lips. Long black hair that she wore a purple scarf over. She wasn't wearing makeup, but she didn't need to.

 "Who are you?" She snapped, raising an eyebrow.

Lamont blinked realizing how harsh me might've sounded.

"I own this place," he said, tone flattening out, hands lowering to his sides. "Lamont."

She looked him over, eyes narrowing slightly. Her expression said Don't try me, but her body stayed calm, protective of her son, planted but poised.

"Well, Lamont," she said with bite in her voice, he's four. He's scared."

Lamont sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. The screaming wasn't helping with his already frayed nerves. But something about her confidence made him slow down a little.

"You could've warned him it would be loud." He muttered.

"Chill Lamont," Anthony said from behind the chair, calmly adjusting the boy's head. "The boy has autism. She comes in here all the time."

Lamont raised an eyebrow. He glanced at the woman. She was kneeling besides her son, whispering to him, trying to sooth him. Her patience was steady, her hands gentle.

Lamont had owned this shop for years. Then again, he hadn't exactly been around much this past year--not since Dante got killed.

That explained it.

The woman glanced up and caught Lamont staring. She scoffed and looked away, clearly unimpressed.

Lamont looked down at the register instead, brushing off the tension. He flipped it open and started counting the cash inside, trying to distract himself. The rhythmic click of the bills and coins helped settle his nerves.

Eventually, the screaming died down. The boy was quiet now, drinking from a Juicebox and swinging his feet like nothing ever happened

The shop was now quiet beside the buzzing from the hair clippers.

"So when are you gonna be coming back full time, the guys miss you." Anthony said breaking the silence.

"Still not sure yet. I'm working on it though." Lamont responded.

Everyone that worked at the shop knew about what happened to Dante, they were all really worried about Lamont, especially since he blamed himself for what happened.

Lamont and Dante were practically brothers. They been through so much shit together growing up. They were inseparable, you didn't see one without the other and if you did, something was wrong.

They even opened the barbershop together about two years before he died. That was part of the reason why Lamont barely came around anymore. It wasn't the same without Dante around telling his corny ass jokes or hitting on all the fine women that came in with their kids.

He was a sucka for women with kids.

Lamont felt a lump rising in his throat, but he quickly swallowed it down. He wasn't about to fall apart in the middle of his own damn shop.

'I needa smoke." he mumbled and pushed the door open, stepping into the sunlight.

The heat hit him immediately, and he squinted against the brightness. The sun was way too damn aggressive for someone who hadn't left his apartment in almost a week.

He leaned against the wall just outside the shop, reaching into his hoodie pocket. he pulled out a half smoked blunt, lit it, and took a long drag. The familiar burn settled his nerves almost instantly.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket with his free hand, unlocking it and going straight to his contacts. He scrolled past names--most of them people he hadn't talked to in months--until he laned on one: Miami

He tapped her name and brought the phone to his ear, eyes scanning the street out of habit. You never knew who might be watching.

The phone rang twice before she answered, her voice already sharp

"What do you want, Lamont."

He took another hit, held it in, the exhaled slowly "Come see me tonight. I need to relieve some stress."

There was a pause from the other end. He could picture her now-- laying on her bed, staring at her ceiling, probably rolling her eyes and weighing her pride against what her body wanted.

Miami had been clear from the beginning that she wanted more than just a situationship. But Lamont? He'd shut that shit down early.

Told her it was just sex. Nothing more. No promises. No expectations.

And she agreed.

Still... she caught feelings. Probably because Lamont didn't do casual like most dudes. He fucked you like he loved you--deep, intense, like you were the only woman in the world.

That was the problem.

It always got messy.

The line stayed quiet a moment longer, then she finally said, "You only call me when you wanna fuck."

Lamont smirked. "Ain't like you don't enjoy it."

Another pause. This time he could hear her shifting around, maybe sitting up, maybe thinking it over.

"You're lucky I ain't got nothin' goin' on tonight," she said.

"I know."

Click. She hung up first. She always did that--to remind him she wasn't pressed. But Lamont knew better. He took one last pull from his blunt, flicked the roach into the street, and exhaled a cloud of smoke that felt heavier than usual.

He pushed himself off the wall and stepped back into the barbershop.

The energy inside had shifted. It was quieter. The boy was sitting on his mother's lap now, relaxed and chewing on the end of a fruit snack. She was scrolling through her phone, but her eyes lifted when Lamont walked back in.

He met her gaze, just for a second, then looked away.

"Everything cool?" Anthony asked, glancing over.

"Yeah. Just needed to breathe," Lamont muttered, settling back behind the counter.

The woman stood and adjusted Hakeem's hoodie, ready to go. She walked up to the register.

"How much?" she asked.

"Don't worry about it." Lamont said not looking up.

"Excuse me?"

"It's on the house."

She gave him a long look, trying to read him. "Why?"

"'Cause I was an asshole earlier. My bad."

She didn't smile but her tone softened. "You were but thanks."

The boy tugged at her shirt. "Can we get fries?"

"Maybe," she said, brushing his curls out of his face. She turned back to Lamont "You always this charming to customers?"

Lamont looked up at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Only the pretty ones."

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the hint of a smirk before she turned to leave.

As the door closed behind them, Anthony shot him a look. "Don't even start."

Lamont leaned on the counter, watching the spot where she'd just been standing.

"I wasn't gonna," he said.

But he was already thinking about her.

The sun was starting to dip by the time Lamont made it back to his apartment. The heat clung to the stairwell as he climbed up, each step feeling heavier than the last. He unlocked the door, stepped inside and was instantly greeted by the stale scent of weed and old cologne.

He kicked off his sneakers, tossed his hoodie on the couch, and went straight for the kitchen. There wasn't much in the fridge— some takeout containers he should've thrown out days ago, two bottles of water, and a leftover sandwich. He grabbed one of the waters and cracked it open, gulping it down until the bottle was empty.

The silence was thick in his apartment. No tv. No music. Just him and his thoughts.

He pulled out his phone, checking the time. 8:43 p.m.

Miami would be here soon.

He walked in the bathroom, flicked the light on, and stared at himself in the mirror again. Same tired eyes. Same restless expression. He splashed some water on his face, then brushed his teeth.

He didn't care about impressing her.

Back in the bedroom, he grabbed a hoodie off the floor, gave it a quick sniff and tossed it aside. He pulled on a clean T-shirt instead, then sat on the bed, resting his gun on the nightstand. His eyes lingered on it for a moment.

He thought about Dante again. How fast it went left.

His jaw tightened.

Before the thoughts could spiral, there was a knock at the door.

Not a light knock either. Three firm taps.

Lamont stood up, ran his hands down the front of his hoodie and went to answer it.

There she was. Long braids pulled back into a ponytail, crop top showing just enough to tempt, leggings hugging every curve like they were painted on. She smelled like she bathed in cocoa butter and sin.

"Damn." He muttered, stepping aside to let her in.

She gave a once over and raised an eyebrow. "You cleaned your place just for me?"

Lamont smirked "Hell no."

She walked in like she owned the place, kicked off her slides, and headed straight for his bedroom. Like always.

"Don't act like you aint miss me." She called out over her shoulder.

Lamont closed the door, locking it "I didn't."

She laughed once, low and knowing. "That blunt you smoked says otherwise. "

By the time he made it back to his bedroom, she was already stretched across his bed, scrolling through her phone, like this was just another night.

But Lamont could feel it, it wasn't.

Something was different, he just didn't know what yet.

Miami didn't even look up when Lamont stepped into the room, she just kept scrolling, like this wasn't his bed that she was sprawled across, like she didn't just walk in here like she belonged.

He watched her for a second, the way her body moved with every breath, the way her hips curved just right, and the way her mouth just sat slightly parted, like she was waiting to be kissed or challenged.

"You comfortable?" He asked, low tone.

"Always." She said without looking up. "Why, you finally gonna ask me to stay the night?"

Lamont smirked but didn't answer. He stepped closer, the floor creaking beneath his socks, and he sat on the edge of the bed. Her scent wrapped around him like smoke. Sweet. Familiar. Dangerous.

She finally set her phone down and rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. "What's up with you?"

He shrugged "Same shit."

Miami studied him, her eyes softer now. "You don't look like you sleep."

"I don't."

"You still havin' them dreams?"

Lamont didn't answer right away. He leaned back on his elbows and stared at the ceiling like maybe the truth was hiding up there.

"They ain't dreams," he finally said "They're flashbacks."

She reached out, her fingers brushing against his arm, light but steady. "You ever think about talkin' to somebody?"

"I'm talkin' to you right now," he said glancing at her.

"You know what I mean."

Lamont sat up fully, her touch lingering on his skin like a phantom. "Nah. I don't talk to strangers about shit they ain't went through. That's a waste of time."

Miami nodded slowly, like she got it. And maybe she did. She wasn't just some chick he called when he was horny—he knew that. She knew it too. Even. If neither of them said it out loud.

"Then let me help." She said barely above a whisper.

Her hand slid down his chest, not urgent, not lustful—just close. Warm. Real. Lamont's heart thudded in his chest, but he leaned into it. He leaned into her.

Their lips met slow. No rush. No games. Just that quiet moment of understanding.

But it didn't stay soft for long.

The kiss deepened, turned hungrier, like all the pain and confusion he carried found the only way it could release. Miami matched him, kiss for kiss, hand for hand, until they were tangled in each other— clothes being tugged, breaths catching, skin meeting skin.

He kissed her like he needed her.

She kissed him like she wanted to fix him.

But when it was over and their bodies lay pressed together, sweat cooling between them, Lamont stared at the ceiling again.

And whispered "I still see him."

Miami didn't say anything right away, just reached for his hand under the blanket and held it tight.

"I know," she whispered "I know."