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)
She should’ve laughed. For one, that booty broke her fall. Two? I didn’t finish the adage with tiny ears around. Three? I also helped break her fall. At least I tried, but her foot swept upward and caught me by surprise.
Journey slugged my arm.
My smile widened.
“If you laugh—” Her attempted threat was cute.
“Hey, Mommy, play nice. You hit him in the boobie.”
“Chest,” Journey sighed. “But I hit him in the arm. Okay? Please call him Montana, Baby.”
I climbed to my feet and helped her up, yanking her toward me. As her lips bounced off my chest, I claimed the small of her back and held her close. When her eyes went wide, I said, “That was for hitting me. See, Darius? Mommy and I made up.”
“So, you’ll stay?” Another voice, familiar and the reason I’d hounded Journey, spoke from near the door.
Momma … She and Peaches were as different as light and day. But she had her reasons for begging them to stay.
“Miss Virginia, may I finish my shift in the kitchen?” Journey asked. “The dishwasher seemed to be behind. I could help him. You’ll pay me for a full eight-hour shift … this evening?”
A tear fell, and Momma swiped it away. “Of course.”
I turned my attention to Journey. You made my momma cry. You lied to her face. You ain’t going nowhere.
But when I didn’t verbally declare war on the courageous woman, relief dropped her shoulders. That outrageous wig—what had Darius called it? Puppy—hid more than her real hair.
Before she could pass, I strolled out of the room. In the hallway, I said, “Momma, I’ll reschedule our dinner date in Maine.” She’d drown her sorrows in garlic butter and fresh lobster rolls. Just not today. Nah, they didn’t do it like we did here in NOLA. But Momma would need a good meal and cry if Little Dude disappeared forever.
I stepped out and sent a text to the Four Brothers’ group.
BIG COUNTRY: Rain check.
Before I could even shove my cellphone into my jeans, comments vibrated my palm.
I needed to grab a clean shirt, a shower, and maybe swing back for a to-go plate, coz I was gonna watch Journey all night.
Leaving?
Who was leaving?
Definitely not her and Little Dude.
Didn’t get that shirt. My land sat outside of Covington. Peaceful and abundant. I liked it that way. Driving took an hour, and I didn’t want to risk Journey escaping.
Instead, I got cornered in the French Quarter by a vet who grew up with Momma. I should’ve driven to The Shops at Canal Place for a shirt. Couldn’t disrespect a hungry soldier or someone who could handle a cello. This dude was both. We grabbed burgers and chatted until the sun sank on Jackson Square, painting the Quarter in gold and shadow. The detour cost me hours.
After texting Auntie Peaches for Journey’s home address, I found myself in the wrong ward. I squeezed my Escalade behind Journey’s car near rundown apartments. I hoped nobody else owned a broke-down, purple Nissan Versa. One already got the block looking like a crackhead yard sale. She’d parked in front of a post. With my SUV behind her, my decision stood. No escape.
“Or you trigger her coz you hate the sight of Momma’s tears,” I mumbled, scratching the back of my neck.
Had her baby’s father put hands on her? Had she run away from Darius’s pop?
I squinted at the text in the streetlight, just to be sure Peaches ran me the correct address. I pushed the seat back, letting the engine run, the air conditioning the only peace I’d have this abnormally hot December evening, and waited.
After a while, my manager called. LaShawn had this ’90s Whoopi Goldberg demeanor, and her crusty cigarette voice always meant business. “Babineaux, Nike wants to meet with me next week. I’d thought we’d have until after Christmas. They are serious.”
“What about me?”
She took a drag. “I squeezed you out, so you won’t say something stubborn. Why cost you Nike? That’s messing with my money.”
“Understood. Keep me posted, LaShawn. How are the kids?”
“Dangling on their mother’s last nerve. Whatchu think?” Then she muttered motha, motha … “Hey, Montana?”
“What?” My brow lifted.
“You know a single mother out in Louisiana?”
My eyes landed on a nasty apartment door that wouldn’t stop anyone from getting in. “Maybe.”
“What about a cross-eyed single momma? Better yet, one leg—”
“Damn, LaShawn. I hired you when I was a rookie because of your wild thinking.”
“Here you go! Find you a disabled, single momma. Fake date her. People will respect you for that. We need public sympathy. You threatened a man’s life. He didn’t press charges.”
“So the situation will die down. I ain’t dating—”
“Montana! I’m worried. Families are your bread and butter. That’s like Dwayne Johnson kicking a kid in the raisins while hyping up his silly ass movies.”
“See what I can do.” I hung up and pinched the bridge of my nose. Then I called my brother from another mother.