Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Why is my name in your mouth anyway?” He slid into the booth across from her.
Okay, he’d given me the green light to exit. It took everything out of me not to stop and thank him for starting a rotation with his brothers. Tennessee followed Darius and me home. He even replaced my tire. Washington arrived on the next shift. During the night, I’d taken Darius to the potty after his restless movements. I hadn’t woken up in a waterbed for quite some time. One time, he’d peed so much, hell, I thought we both suffered from uncontrollable-bladder syndrome. Anyway, I’d checked outside the window.
Why did Montana take the late shift?
Texas, with his thick, beautiful dreads, was the morning closer. He followed me to work, cooked himself breakfast—we were so not a breakfast place—and caught his momma’s flak about being unemployed.
A while later, I headed for a bathroom break when an argument erupted in the office.
“He’s suing me, LaShawn? Wash? One of y’all better speak! Ezekiel’s suing—”
Washington replied loud and clear through the speakerphone. “No, Ezekiel hasn’t filed for damages. He’s requesting an out-of-court settlement. I’m in your shoes. I feel you. Take a breath.”
“A breath?” Montana barked. “If someone else told me to breathe—they’d be Exhibit A.”
“Listen, I called with LaShawn to help her break the news. Don’t shoot the messenger. Maybe I can’t counsel you no more since I’m a judge now. Choose your words before I bill you for stress hours, little brotha. Your team’s gonna counter. Trust me.”
“Less money? He ain’t getting—”
“Montana”—Washington cut in—“your representation will request a contingency, which includes y’all in front of the cameras.”
“Sounds good,” a grating feminine voice responded. Maybe LaShawn?
“For the price, Ezekiel will get in front of cameras and admit to old beef—”
“I’ma wipe my Black ass with every dollar he ask for. Put that in front of the cameras. Coz he still ain’t getting a penny! LaShawn, tell my attorneys not to respond to no mess.”
I’d taken a rear step when the woman asked, “Whatchu thought would happen? You threatened to kill the man! This is why he didn’t press charges. Now, address the situation.”
I stepped away. That sounded bad. Who was Ezekiel, and why the hate?
In the ladies’ room, I leaned against cabinets made from antique shutters and found a video of Montana pushing a guy. My fingertip tapped the screen, scrolled back, paused, looking at facial features.
Last time I’d assessed expressions, Montana had triggered me. Triggered nerve endings. Butterflies. Desire. Today? I was all over the grainy video where Montana hit a man so hard he flipped over a table.
Still wondering how Montana and Ezekiel knew each other, I set out an appetizer for a young couple. They had looked as shocked as I did when first seeing the menu prices earlier. I said, “Good call. These are the best wings, ever. Perfect when you’re not too hungry. Basket comes with enough for three. Maybe four if you’re polite about it.”
The guy chuckled.
“Yeah,” the girl mumbled, cheeks gone red as she sipped their Swampwater Sangria.
Oops. I’d meant to help. So, my conspiratorial smirk said, I get it, girl. These prices. “You know, TikTok sensations. The prices gotta match the hype.”
“Right?” The girl cracked a smile while her guy took edible selfies.
It was strange. I was trying to commiserate, but really, I just wanted conversation. A connection. I hadn’t really had that since punching Montana’s arm. Pointless. Man didn’t even flinch.
I grinned, reminiscing on his retaliation—tugging me against his chest.
Warm hands clasped my shoulders from behind. His scent wrapped around me, curling in places that belonged to me alone. Sandalwood. Cedar. Testosterone.
“I agree.” Montana’s voice rasped near my ear. “It’s all about the hype around these parts.”
The guy’s phone clattered onto the linen table. “You- you’re Montana Babineaux!”
While Mr. Future-Best-Friend launched into a bromance moment, I exhaled into Montana’s touch. As he pulled away to sign an autograph, the warm feeling dissolved into a frigid morning mist. Cold and achy, I darted into the kitchen.
Seconds later, the door swung open. Of course. Montana strolled inside. The staff glanced between us, then hustled faster. They sensed something would boil over that had nothing to do with gumbo.
“Aren’t you avoiding me?” I blurted. Awkward Black Girl strikes again.
“That what you want, Journey?”
Ugh. Why couldn’t he call me Z—because you’re living a lie, dummy. And why ask what I wanted?
Oh … it clicked.
I’d never learned to be approachable. In the ER, bodies kept coming. Some broken. Others had flatlined in the ambulance. Before that? Foster care. Different homes, multiple personalities, which ranged from stingy to every shade of selfishness in between. I learned to avoid people. My game of avoidance backfired when Edwin slid in with his smooth lies. Now, here I was. Trying to unlearn thirty years of … me.
I glanced up at Montana, his personal phone call on my mind. My tone softened. “Can we talk?”