Amir turns down the corners of his mouth.
“I was taking some night classes before I won the lottery on your security detail.”
We share a grin before he sobers, shrugs.
“I took some business courses at the community college. Maybe I’ll get on the Magic Johnson tip, ya know? Bringing quality businesses to the hood, that kind of thing.”
“Hey, I’m here for that, too.” I hesitate before voicing the idea that has been unfolding in the back of my mind for a few weeks. “You could do what I’m doing, get a degree online, business or something. Between music and the stuff I want to do with Iz, I might not have much time for the businesses I’d like to see happen.”
“So, what?” Amir points the spatula he’s holding at himself. “You want me to do some black enterprise stuff or something?”
“Why not?” I ask. “You’re smart. You know how to hustle and understand the hood, know what it takes for businesses to make it there. I trust you. Who better to invest with? All you’d need is some training.”
Interest sparks behind Amir’s eyes before he looks away to open a loaf of bread.
“I’ll think about it,” he says and clears his throat. “Now back to my original question. Can I see the ring?”
I let him get away with changing the subject.
“I hate that I even told you I had it.” I grin and make no move to get it out.
“Stop being a pussy and show me the ring.”
I reach into my bag, take out the ring I’ve been carrying for the last week, and walk over to the counter where he’s still frying up heart disease in the form of meat product.
“Shiiiiiit.” He stretches the expletive out like a Slinky, obviously impressed as he takes it from my fingers. I want to take it back as soon as it leaves my hands, not because of how much it costs—though, damn, it cost a lot—it just feels like he’s holding my future in his big ol’ clumsy hands.
“If you get grease on the ring, I’m gonna—”
We hear the front door open, and Amir’s eyes go as round as plates. Bristol’s heels tap on the hardwood, the sound louder as she rounds the corner. Before I can take the ring back, Amir tosses it into the sugar canister.
“What the . . . ?” I smack the back of his head.
“I panicked!” He shrugs just as Bris enters the kitchen.
“What’s that smell?” She wrinkles her nose, distaste on her face.
She joins us at the counter, tipping up for a kiss. I try to think what acting-normal Grip would do . . . he would cup her face with both hands and kiss the hell out of her, so I do. She’s liquid against my chest and breathless by the time I’m done. She glances at Amir, smiling a little self-consciously even though he’s used to us.
“Is that what you’re wearing to the debate?” Bristol asks.
The conversation on race and mass incarceration between Iz and Clem Ford is tonight and being broadcast live from a nearby bookstore.
“Yeah.” I glance down at my narrow black slacks, gray button-up, fitted black leather jacket, and boots. “What? It looks busted?”
“No.” She frowns at her pantsuit, not even wrinkled after a full day of meetings. “The opposite—you look too good. I need to step up my game and change.”
She looks gorgeous. “You look gorgeous.”
“You have to say that.” But my compliment puts a smile on her face. “Are you going with us tonight, Amir?”
He meets my eyes over her head, and I silently shake my head and give him the finger-slitting-the-throat warning.
“Uh . . .” His eyes dart from her to me and back again. “Nah. I have. . . um . . .”
“Shit,” I offer helpfully. “He’s got shit to do tonight. Besides, the bookstore is only a few blocks away. We can easily walk. We’ll be fine.”
“There’ll be a lot of racist idiots there.” She glances uncertainly between the two of us.