The Night of Seven by Nadia Siddiqui (each kindness read aloud .TXT) 📗

do something terrible to him. And yet, “Alright, arms out, guy. You know the drill?”

Stefan absolutely does not know the drill.

“You put your hands out so I can pat you down, make sure that you ain’t no narc...that you ain’t pulling some shit coming in here, you know?”

Stefan nods, attempting to convince himself that this is no different than going through airport security and being “randomly selected” by a TSA agent. That it’s the same principle and attempts to move the same way, though his movements are a little too stiff, a little too nervous, and he can’t seem to stop them.

“Breath, guy, so long as you ain’t a narc, you ain’t got nothing to worry about, alright?”

Stefan nods as the man pats him down briskly, pausing when he hits the thick envelope under Stefan’s sweater. The man raises an eyebrow and when Stefan goes to answer, the man stops him. “Not out here, you ninny.” The man rolls his eyes. “Go on up.”

As if on cue, the door buzzes, and the man pulls the door open and holds it that way until Stefan is inside. Stefan can only hope that it’s abundantly obvious which apartment he is supposed to be heading into because he doesn’t think he can survive the nerves of attempting to ask that man a second question.

The walls seem just about as miserable as the rest of the building; the old wallpaper is cracked and peeling. The corners are lifting up, and it seems that there is more water damage than ceiling tile left between the working light fixtures and the broken ones. This building should be condemned. It's no wonder that he would be directed to a building like this to do the work that he's been asked to do today. Stefan follows the only sounds of life that he can find until he comes to a cracked open doorway. He can hear the television playing in the background; the static on it seems louder than the actual volume, but he knocks anyway. He doesn't want to assume that just because it's open means that he has an open invitation or anything. These are not the sorts of people that somebody wants to cross.

“Get your ass in here.”

Swallowing hard, Stefan heads inside as he is commanded, his body just barely keeping from trembling.

“Damn, you’re really fucking tall.”

What a strange greeting. Stefan nods because he doesn't know what else he is supposed to do with a comment like that. Agreeing with such an obvious statement feels like it might be stupid. The man that walks around the corner is probably no more than five foot six on a good day. His torso is shirtless, and his pants are slung low on narrow hips. That was one trend that Stefan never got behind, even on his worst days. He never could wear his pants that low. He didn't like the breeze on his ass, and he certainly didn't understand the purpose of wearing a belt whenever you have to hold your pants up the whole time anyway with your hands, not that he's going to say any such thing to him. He can't even think of the words to greet him properly.

“So, you’re Jamal’s friend?”

Friend was as good of a term as any, Stefan supposes, so he nods.

“What, your mouth don’t work? You don't know how to talk?”

Like cold water splashed on his face, Stefan shakes his head. “I don't know what to say… I’ve never done this before.”

“Yeah, no shit, that was fucking obvious.'' The man's torso is covered in more tattoos than Stefan can make out. The ink is pigmented in black against equally dark skin. “So what do you want a gun for anyway?”

Reflexively, Stefan looks back over his shoulder as if somebody might be somehow scandalized by the topic that they are discussing. The tattooed man laughs. “Chill, man, chill; ain’t nobody going to hurt you. You like a damn rabbit. That’s what I’m gonna call you now. Rabbit boy. Jumping all over the place.”

Stefan disagrees strongly, but he says nothing. Instead, he chooses to answer the other question instead. “Protection.”

“Protection from what?”

Stefan pauses; he doesn’t want to say. The tattooed man stops laughing, his face shifting to something serious in that half-second. “What, you too good to talk to me?”

Stefan looks scandalized. “No! It's not that…”

“Chill, rabbit, I’m fucking with you, rabbit boy. So you too good to talk to me, but you ain’t good enough to go about buying a gun the legal way? Don't tell me a rabbit like you has a record that would go preventing such a thing now.”

Stefan doesn't want to answer. “I wouldn't know where to buy one...don't want people asking questions.”

“Well, you get caught with an unregistered piece, and they're gonna do a hell of a lot more than question you, you know that, right?”

Stefan swallows hard but nods.

“Now, do I need to tell you that you get stupid enough to tell anybody where you got this...and something real nasty is gonna happen to you...or can your imagination fill in the rest for me, rabbit boy?”

Stefan nearly trembles, but he shakes his head. He knows. He has heard more than a handful of stories about people who tell stories about the wrong sort of people. Stefan used to be one of those people, such a very, very long time ago. Perhaps he and the tattoo man might have been friends, partners maybe, once upon a time. “No. I won't.”

“I know you won't. You’ll be a good little rabbit, won't you?”

Stefan swallows the last of his pride and nods.

“Good. You got my money?”

Stefan nods and pulls out the envelope from his jacket and extends his hand out toward the tattooed man, who accepts it and tears open the top. His thumb brushes over the bills