Nothing to Lose But You

The first thing Malik Bennett learned about handcuffs was that they were just as cold as the people who judged you the moment they were on. The second was that nobody gave a damn about your side of the story once they had enough evidence to tell it for you.

“That shit ain't mine.” Detective Monroe never looked up. Malik leaned forward until the chain attached to the table restricted his movement.

“I said that shit ain't mine.”

“Oh, I heard you.”

“Then why the fuck are we still sitting here?” That got her attention. Det. Monroe slowly raised her eyes from the folder. Not angry. Not intimidated. Tired. Like Malik was the fourth lying man she'd dealt with today and was ready to go home. She reached inside the folder and spread out the photograph evidence one by one. A black duffel bag. Number two evidence marker. Stacks of cash. Number three evidence marker. A Glock. Two burner phones. Then the BODY. Malik eyes stopped scanning.

“Still not yours?” Detective Monroe glared.

“I've never seen that man in my life.”

“Interesting.”

“What the fuck is interesting about a dead man?”

Det. Monroe tapped the picture of the duffel bag. “We found all of this in your storage unit.” Malik hissed. “My what?”

“Your storage unit. Can you hear me now?”

“I don't have a storage unit.” She slid a document across the table. Malik scanned the document in disbelief. “His name, address, birthday, and signature. “What the fuck!” Malik stared at it again, then laughed. Not because anything was funny. Sometimes life gets so disrespectful that laughing is the only thing standing between you and flipping fucking a table.

“That ain't my signature.” Malik roared. Det. Monroe sat back.

“No?”

“Do I look fucking unsure?”

“Well, from where I’m sitting,” She glanced at his wrists. “You look like a man with limited options.” Malik's jaw tightened.

“You know what? Call my lawyer.”

“Sure, you're entitled to one.”

“Good. Conversation over.”

Det. Monroe regathered the evidence photographs. Then she stopped. “Oh. Almost forgot.” One last photograph landed in front of him. Malik's stomach dropped. Sloane. Beautiful fucking Sloane. She was standing by a tree in a fitted crimson dress with gold sandals on, laughing at something beyond the camera. Long black hair. Gold hoops. Brown skin glowing underneath the tree lights. Malik knew the picture he’d taken.

“Where is she?” Malik questioned.

“Who?” Det. Monroe studied him.

“Don't do that shit.”

“Do what?”

“Where the fuck is Sloane?” Det. Monroe's expression barely shifted. But Malik caught it. “Malik...who is Sloane?” He stared at her. “Are you fucking serious? You just gave me her picture.” Malik said boldly. “We have a picture of a woman.” Det. Monroe said without confirming the identity. “Yeah, that's Sloane Carter.” Det. Monroe tilted her head but said nothing. Something cold crawled down Malik's back. Malik began mumbling under his breath. Det. Monroe tapped the table, signaling her patience had reached its capacity for nonsense.

“Go pick her ass up. She did this.”

“What exactly did she do, Malik?”

“All of it!” His voice cracked against the walls. “She put that shit there. She had access to my information. My apartment. My—” Det. Monroe stood, adjusting her coat. “How, Malik?” Malik stopped. “How what, Detective?” Det. Monroe placed both hands on the table, leaning towards Malik. “How did a woman you've known for less than four days get enough access to your personal information to open a storage unit in your name?” Silence. Malik looked at Sloane's picture like the answer would bleed through.

Four days. Ninety-two hours. That's all the time Malik has spent being with Sloane Carter. And suddenly Malik understood how fucking stupid that sounded. His wallet, apartment, phone, car, and laptop. But not passwords, because those were way more important to lose than anything else, or did he?

“Malik?” Det. Monroe broke his mental deep dive.

“She did this! I swear it!” Det. Monroe closed the folder.

“Your attorney will be here soon.”

“I didn't kill anybody.” Malik plea. Det. Monroe turned for the door, “I believe that's what your attorney is coming to discuss.” Malik stared helplessly, “Detective.” Her hand stopped on the door. “Sloane set me up.” Det. Monroe looked back at him. Not with disbelief. Something worse. Pity. “Then I suggest you start thinking about why a woman you've known for ninety-two hours had enough access to your life to make it look like you did.” The door closed. Malik sat alone. His eyes dropped to Sloane's photograph. Beautiful woman. Soft skin and lips. Harmless even to a fly. He stared at her until he remembered the first thing she'd ever said to him. The warning. Because that's exactly what it had been. He just thought she was flirting.

“I don't date men with something to lose.” Malik nearly choked on his drink. Sloane didn't laugh, which only made him laugh harder. He'd known her for approximately thirteen minutes. And she'd already managed to become the most interesting person in his world. Malik raised a brow. “You serious?” “Very.” Sloane lifted her pussy supreme martini and took a slow, seductive sip. “Men with something to lose are too cautious. They think about their careers, reputations, houses, credit scores, and family. Everything has consequences with them.” Malik turned toward her.

“And that's a bad thing?”

“It's a boring thing.”

He grinned. “So, what do you date?”

“Cavaliers.”

“Meaning?”

“Men who aren't scared to live.”

Malik liked that answer because it sounded suspiciously like something he'd said about himself. At thirty-six, he had no wife, no children, no mortgage, and nobody waiting at home to question his decisions. He made good money consulting, rented a luxury apartment downtown, and had spent most of his adult life confusing independence with invincibility. “That makes me the right man for you.” Sloane's eyes traveled over him before meeting his again. “I believe I did.” She smiled, and Malik should've recognized the difference between a woman being impressed and a woman confirming information. Instead, he ordered another drink. “Kev, let me get another white heat and pussy supreme martini for the lady.” Malik grabbed the drinks, and handed Sloane hers.

“To having nothing to lose.” Malik lifted his drink. Sloane touched her glass against his. “Nothing at all.”

Three hours later, she was inside his apartment. By morning, Sloane knew where Malik kept his wallet because she'd ordered breakfast while he showered. She knew his phone passcode because he'd asked her to change the song while he was cooking. She knew where his laptop was because he'd let her use it to check an email after her phone mysteriously died. When a package she'd supposedly redirected showed up at his door with her name and his address, Malik questioned that too for about thirty seconds. “Shoes,” she said, carrying the tan box toward his bedroom. “You redirected shoes to a man's house you just met?” Sloane glanced over her shoulder. “Would you prefer drugs?” Malik laughed. There went that question. By the second night, she had driven his car to pick up dinner because Malik had been drinking. By the third, she'd borrowed his corporate card after claiming her bank froze hers over fraudulent activity, but she returned everything every single time. That was what made all these transactions feel safe. Sloane never stole anything Malik could immediately notice. She just learned where everything was. Darius, Malik’s best friend, spent days trying to get ahold of Malik. Malik returned Darius’s call and agreed to meet up.

“You know her last name?” Darius questioned.

“Carter.”

“Where she work?”

“Consulting.”

Darius stared at him across the restaurant table. “Doing what?”

“Business shit.”

“What company?”

Malik frowned. “Why the fuck is you questioning me?” “Because you've spent three days with a woman and somehow know absolutely nothing about her.” Darius brows furrowed. “I know enough.” Darius leaned back. “That's usually what people say right before they find out they didn't know shit.” Malik dismissed him with a middle finger. That was the thing about warnings. They rarely arrived sounding profound. Sometimes they sounded like your irritating-ass friend asking too many damn questions you felt were none of their business. On the fourth night, Sloane stood in Malik's bedroom wearing his white button-down while he searched the closet for a jacket. “I’ve been here for three days so far, and you really think you have nothing to lose?” she asked. Malik glanced at her through the mirror. “We've been over this, no.” She smiled. “I've been thinking about it.”

“That sounds dangerous.” Malik continues.

“It usually is.”

Malik laughed and turned back toward the closet. “I got money. I can make more. Apartment's rented. Car's replaceable. Job pisses me off anyway. What exactly am I supposed to be scared of losing?” Sloane walked behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Nothing, apparently.” He caught her eyes in the mirror. For one second, something about her expression made him uncomfortable. Not angry. Not cold. Almost curious. Like she was looking at an experiment. “You good?” Sloane smiled and kissed his shoulder. “Perfect.” His phone rang from the kitchen. “Darius,” Malik groaned and walked out to answer it. Sloane waited until his footsteps disappeared before opening the bottom dresser drawer. Passport. Social Security card. Old checkbook. Corporate documents. She shook her head slowly. “Nothing to lose.” She pulled out her phone and took three pictures. Malik returned before she could close the drawer. “What are you doing?” Sloane didn't jump. Didn't panic. She looked down at his documents and then back at him.

“Looking for my earring.”

“In my paperwork?”

“It fell when I took my dress off.”

Malik stared at her when the feeling crept in again. Small, uncomfortable, and inconvenient. His mind offered him a question, but his ego answered it. Sloane walked toward him, slipped both arms around his neck, and kissed him. The question died exactly where she knew it would. Six hours later, she was gone. So was the brown box. Malik woke to an empty apartment and one text.

Had fun. Don't overthink it. He didn't, which cost him the most important thing.

Four days later, Malik sat handcuffed to a metal table, wishing he'd overthought every fucking thing. The interrogation-room door opened. Detective Monroe walked back inside holding another folder. Malik straightened immediately.

“My lawyer here?”

“Soon.”

“Then what do you want?”

Det. Monroe didn't sit. She placed five photographs beside Sloane's. The photos were of a different woman, same face. Malik stared at it. The name wasn't Sloane Carter. Simone Ellis, Mary Smith, Carrie White, Julia Green, and Helena Brown.

“What the fuck is this?”

“The woman in your photograph.”

“No. Her name is Sloane.”

“According to you.” Det. Monroe placed another document down. “Simone Ellis died eleven months ago.” Malik's face went blank.

“What? How?”

“Car accident. In Georgia.”

“No.” He looked from the license to Sloane's photograph and back again.

“The woman you knew wasn't Simone either.”

“Then who the fuck is she?”

“We don't know.” For the first time since Malik entered the room, Detective Monroe didn't look irritated with him. She looked concerned. “That storage unit was rented seventy-six hours ago. Surveillance shows someone entering twice. Hoodie, glasses, face covered. Your identification opened the account. Your corporate card paid for it. Your phone number authenticated it.” Malik felt the room shrinking. “The body?” Det. Monroe paused.

“That's why you need your lawyer.”

“Who is he?”

“A man named Terrence Cole.”

Malik shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“That doesn't matter. The evidence that points to you does.” Det. Monroe slid one final photograph across the table. Terrence stood beside Sloane. Except she wasn't dressed like the woman Malik knew. No fitted dress. No gold hoops. No seductive smile. She looked ordinary. Happy. And very much in love. Malik stared at the photograph until his stomach turned.

“When was this taken?”

“Eight months ago.”

“Who is she to him?”

Det. Monroe's eyes stayed on Malik. “His wife.” Malik stopped breathing. A phone began ringing somewhere outside the room. Once. Twice. Det. Monroe collected the documents, but Malik snatched Sloane's photograph before she could seize it. “She chose me that night.” Det. Monroe looked down at him. “What?” “She fucking chose me during the conversation.” And finally, Malik understood. The lounge hadn't been chance. The conversation hadn't been chemistry. Even that ridiculous opening line wasn’t flirting. It was a damn interview. Sloane didn’t want a man with nothing to lose. She needed one stupid motherfucker to believe her bullshit. Because a man who thinks nothing matters doesn't protect much. Not his information. Not his boundaries. Not his judgment. Especially not his damn self. Malik looked down at the handcuffs. He had spent years bragging about having nothing to lose because it made him feel fearless. Turns out he had plenty. His name. His freedom. His future. His life. He just hadn't considered any of it valuable until somebody else decided to spend it.

Detective Monroe reached for the photograph. Malik released it. As she walked toward the door, he looked at the evidence scattered across the table and whispered the only truth he'd managed to tell all night. “That bitch played me.” Det. Monroe stopped. “No, Malik.” She looked back at him. “She studied you.” The door opened, and another officer came in to escort Malik to processing.