Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Brotha, it’s been years. Either do something or move on. Because frankly, I’m sick of hearin’ about it.”
I grab a ratcheting box wrench and go back to work. “Doesn’t your wife have any errands for you? Buying tampons or some shit?”
“Nah, man, had to get out of the house. Something’s going down with the sisters and I didn’t want to get caught in the crosshairs.”
“What about?”
“You know my nephew Terrell?”
I look up from the bolt I just loosened. “The one that plays QB?”
“That the one. My sister-in-law caught him with a girl in his room.”
“No shit.” My mouth curves into an unexpected smile as my mind replays all the times I snuck Maren into mine.
“Kids were only making out but the girl’s sixteen.”
“So?”
“Terrell is fourteen. Boy a straight up playa. Nyla and her sister are going crazy, calling the girl’s mother…” He shakes his head. “J junior got an earful.” He takes a long drink of his water. “Had to get out of the house before she found a way to blame me for it.”
J and Nyla have been together since we were all in high school and only grew tighter over the years. Theirs is the kind of relationship everyone envies. One to always know his mind, Jermaine put a ring on it the minute he signed with OU on a full ride scholarship and took Nyla with him. He didn’t fuck up like I did. He doesn’t have a monkey called regret riding his back.
He pauses and I know more pearls of wisdom are coming my way because for some reason every married guy thinks he’s an expert on women when in fact he’s only an expert on one woman, his own.
“You feel me?”
“No,” I answer, playing dumb.
“My fourteen-year-old nephew’s got more game than you. I say this with love––quit being chicken shit.”
I wipe my hands on a rag and slap it down. “What do you expect me to do? She hates me. Still pissed. For all I know she’s still datin’ that British dude.”
I knew seeing her would be hard. Damn near broke me last time she was in town visiting––when Rowdy’s health took a turn for the worse. She doesn’t know it but I saw her outside the hospital. Watching that dude she’s dating holding and kissing her as she cried in his arms was one of the hardest things I ever had to bear. I drove straight home and got wasted. The first time I’ve done that since she left.
“I expect you to move the fuck on. But since you and I both know you ain’t gonna do that then I expect you to beg for mercy, eat a whole mess’a shit––which she’s right to expect after what you did to her––and find out once and for all if this is done for good.”
J’s phone rings. He fishes it out of the pocket of his shorts and answers.
“Whatup…” His dark eyes scan me from head to toe. “Hmm, yeah, he alive…”
I shake my head, knowing who it is.
He pulls the phone away from his face. “Dane says answer my calls, boo…and he says you better tell her before it’s too late.”
* * *
Maren
The car pulls up to my parents’ house, a modest two-story gray farmhouse with white trim. There’s only so much frustration and humiliation I can handle in a day, and having reached my quota, I hightailed it out of Walters’ office as soon as he handed me the dead rodent, err, letter without a single glance at Noah.
Considering our history, I think I rocked it…somewhat. Kind of.
The driver deposits my bag on the front porch and leaves. I walk through the unlocked front door and head to the kitchen.
“Be, is that you? Did you remember to pick up the eggs?” my mother calls out.
Hunched over the kitchen sink with her back to me, her attention is on whatever she’s doing.
“Not Bebe.”
At the sound of my voice, my mother whips around, a smile already spreading across her face. “Maren!”
She dries her hands on a paper towel, and arms outstretched, charges me. My mother is not a small woman. At five ten and one hundred and forty-seven pounds neither am I but she beats me by a whole bunch.
In seconds I’m assaulted. My mother is a major hugger and I let her go through her full routine because it’s easier just to let her.
“It’s so good to have you home, honey.”
She rocks us side to side, squeezes me tightly before pulling away. Then holding me by the shoulders, she conducts a thorough examination of my person. I watch her sage-green eyes take a detailed inventory of everything she finds wrong.
“Are you wearing sunscreen?” Her full lips thin in disapproval. “You don’t look like you’ve been wearin’ sunscreen, Maren.”
“I’m in this house two minutes and I’m thirty going on thirteen.”