She brushed her hair, watching her hazel eyes, her wide lips, and her creamy dark complexion. The card lay on the vanity: John P. Fletcher. She put on the white dress she had laid out on her bed. She opened her purse, slid in the compact Ruger, silver with a black handgrip, and walked slowly to the corner . . .
Jack had been living the good life for a long while but still hadn’t made it out of the day to day dealings his position demanded of him . . .
Featured: Black Interest
- The White House
- A Simple Distance
- The Game Don’t Change
- Coming Up Hot: Eight New Poets from the Caribbean
- The Lost Treasures of R&B: A D Hunter Mystery
- Home: Social Essays
- The Duppy
- The Lunatic
- Nowhere Is a Place
- Scars of the Soul Are Why Kids Wear Bandages When They Don’t Have Bruises
- The Spring Thrills Digit