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)
Ugh. His arms should be wrapped around me tonight.
Zuri, stop torturing your—
The video flashed another image of him hugging a boy with a bald head and a gray tint beneath excited eyes. What disease did the kid have?
“Can’t sleep?” Virginia called from the doorway behind me.
I gasped, tucking the phone beneath my hip to cut the illumination.
“Yeah, I caught you. Come. I stash the ammo in the living room.”
I rolled over and whispered, “Ammo? Like ammunition … bullets.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Are we going hunting? I was not shooting Peter Cottontail. I slipped from beneath the blankets, pulled on the silk, but not too revealing, robe that Montana had gotten me when I came to help him. Oh man, I hoped nobody had broken into our place. That bossy Dodger hadn’t let me return home. And he’d needed the help …
Okay, he made me forget my obligations. Sorta. I had intended to leave almost everything anyway.
As I closed the bedroom door behind me, my head tilted.
Wait. How’d Darius get Brody? The brontosaur’s fuzzy head tucked beneath Darius’s cheek as he held it close.
I pushed the door shut and entered the living room. Virginia sat on a plush, chocolate-brown couch, photo album in hand.
“Hey, uh, Darius has his dino.”
“Chère, I’d’ve broke the news at breakfast. Shanice called. You got robbed.”
“What? We had nothing to steal.”
“Zuri, stay here.”
“I—”
“You’re staying put, chil’.” She patted my thigh. “Toys were left. A little clothing. Peaches gone take you shopping.”
“But—”
“It ain’t coming out your paycheck. You’re doing me a favor. Chère, I put you on a platter with some rosemary—just like my sister loves, coz she was complaining. I hadn’t gone shopping with her in a while.” Virginia chuckled softly. “Genèse took Darius to buy a few things.”
“Really?”
“My niece might not be the nicest. The bébé’s competitive streak still going strong after she married! Loves the little ones, though. Anyway, she got him a few items. Nothing much.” Ah, code for the girl hadn’t showed me up. “I gave him a few of Elijah’s clothes. Maddy never stopped buying for mon angel.”
“Thanks.” My appreciation came out a scarce whisper.
Virginia put the old, crinkly-edged album in my lap. It smelled of faint lemon cleaner.
She opened to the middle, where a CD cover sat behind a plastic sleeve.
“Padon,” she said, “wrong book.”
“Southern Silk,” I murmured. Two women stood back-to-back on the cover, their smiles coy enough to start rumors. Jheri curls fell across the thickest eyebrows and over earth-toned eyeshadow. Their shoulders glistened, a brown sugar glow as they clutched microphones.
The background paid homage to the late ’80s. Purple sunset. Gold shimmery bold cursive—Southern Silk. Just not as bold as the women.
I threw my head back, wheezing a laugh. “Miss Virginia, you were more famous than Big Country!”
She cut her eyes at me, lips twitching to hide a smile. “Pff. Famous? Maybe—if you count Soul Train. But that name. Non, non!”
I felt the same twist in my gut—what it represented. Superiority and … and … glimpses of the Montana I cared for clouded my mental dig. “That’s Peaches? You look ready to out-sing Anita Baker.”
Nostalgia softened her eyes. “Might’ve been too cute, chère. One night”—her chin lifted, proud and playful—“we shanté back up for Anita herself.”
“Wow. So, is Peaches’ real name, Georgia?” I asked since Virginia’s name was a state and so were her sons.
“Winner, winner chicken pot pie!” Virginia sounded like she’d just won a domino game.
Yuck. I tried to sound intrigued, but she gave me a Creole clapback. “You haven’t had my chicken pot pie, Zuri.”
I scrambled to figure out how to fix things with her son. “Does Montana like it? Does he have a favorite dish …” that tastes better? I cleared my throat.
“Smart—real smart! You plan to conquer him with food? We can save leaking blackmail baby photos”—she winked—“for another time. Chère, I got images that’ll make the boy hide in the bayou.”
Oh, the ammo! “Hmmm, let’s save those. His anger is justified.” In short order, I shared every detail. Embarrassing Montana, muddying Washington’s squeaky-clean image, bringing her worst days to light.
I finished the story and waited for her to send us packing. Virginia chuckled, bumping her shoulder against mine. “We’ll practice his favorite dish tomorrow.”
I studied her. Was this woman real? I thanked her, and we sat together for a little while longer.
In bed again, my mind wandered to Montana. I lay there, craving his nonsense. His friendship. His macho “Big Country dominates women in the bed every night, but I’m a softy on Sundays.”
Cute, until my brain hit rewind, and I fell into OG trauma. That night in New York, when I murdered a man in my apartment.
montana
. . .
Two mornings later, my doorbell rang. I opened both doors—necessary when you wanted to appear open while someone got real with you. The arrogant smirk that tugged at my lips fell at the sight of the wrong woman. I mean, Adelle was fine, but she wasn’t Zuri-level fine. She didn’t make me fall for her mind. Could she tell a joke? Could she satiate the ache that came crawling—