“Alright, you have a deal. Leith, I didn’t think you had it in you; however, your adaptability is refreshing. The raw aggression, lovely as well.”
The faint outline shifts as whoever beneath the cloak of darkness claps.
“Leith, will you give the honors in telling them about our new relationship?”
“Nae.” I can’t tear my eyes away from Phelps—the man I’m now aware wasn’t my nemesis. At least, he’s unable to see me in death.
“One-word answer? What happened to ‘closing mygeggie?’ Or have we returned to the part where I talk, and you silently utilize that neglected intellect? Alright, I won’t tell them about the six mill that solidified our association.”
Around me, mybrathairsare repeating his words as if under a hag’s spell. Six mill.Six. Mill.
“Shuddup.” I give them a pointed look.
On the darkened screen, the blackmailer prattles on. “As I said from the beginning, I’ll present you with several assignments as required for your ample compensation. It’s unusual that I dole out cash first. But you followed through rather swiftly, Leith.”
“So,” I clear my throat, “Who was this man to ye?”
“Good question. My business partner—ahem—ex-business partner, sought half of every dollar I acquired. You’d think we were married. Chat soon.”
White noise channels around us. Black and white glitches across the screen. Under the hard stares of mybrathairs, I quietly vow to break every bone in my enemy’s body. This is the last time I underestimate my adversary.
Chapter 17
Chevelle
Haveyou ever spent over an hour surfing for a show to watch on Netflix, only to realize you’re not in the mood? That was me almost three hours ago. By then, Justice promised to come over with a couple of movies and a bottle of Resnov Water. When I’d mentioned her car making it up the hills, we went back and forth from there. She was convinced the clunker would make it up the hill on a wing and a prayer. Me, well, I didn’t want to rain on her parade. I know how many times I saw my momma pray when I was little. Hell, we both knew how that ended.
So, I lied.
A good, old fashioned headache never hurt nobody, so Justice wouldn’t worry too much. Now, I’m chucking all my favorite books fromDawnby Octavia Butler to Paulo Coelho’sThe Alchemistfor mindless smut.
For four years, I’ve set aside much of my life to be a mother and a wife. While I wouldn’t change it for the world, times like this remind me how I’ve put my all into what I do. And how I’m out of practice of just doingme.
“I have no life,” I mutter, heading into the kitchen. In a few minutes, I’ve set out all the ingredients for a complicated Japanese rum cocktail I created for my old employer. Michie, as well as much of his clientele, is Japanese.
It’s a complex drink with toasted wood chips, digital smoke infusers, and even a cigar. While beginning the process, I imagine the smooth, full-bodied aroma of the expensive cigars Michie selected for his bar. An old, cherished memory transports me to a place that I can’t forget no matter how much I’ve endeavored to—when my father loved us.
* * *
In a dressthat swooshed around like a bell chime, I stood at the door to the bedroom. The Eiffel Tower glowed off in the distance. I lived a pretty black princess dream. Hell, any young girl’s dream.
Dad had just returned from A La Civette. The scent of tobacco lingered in the air. Momma was running through the living room of a suite in a Paris hotel, Daddy chasing her. A sheer dress adorned her skin, but she made it look classic—the pure white distinct against her supple dark skin. Barefoot without traction, she’d slip. Daddy crouched down and scooped her high in the air, kissing her.
“Did you have to steal my cellphone?” he asked her.
“No,” she replied between laughter as he used tickles as a means to grab his phone from her hands. She’d just forbade him to bring the damn thing to dinner. We were celebrating my seventh birthday.
Holding the cellphone behind him, Dad kissed her forehead.
“You don’t play fair,” Momma replied.
He grabbed all the stemless pink roses from a vase, handed them to me, then dropped his cellphone in the water. I sputtered on my own laugh.
Dad winked. “Problem solved.”
“No, you didn’t?” She shook her head. “Look at your father,” Momma said. “Those white folks see us acting like that downstairs. They won’t know what to think!”
Dad cut her off, saying his full name as one would give a royal title. We were black royalty. He’d always said so. Money would do that for us, he said. There was no limit to the money to be made. It always seemed foreboding. He’d even said it more, as an example, when giving money away. He was a very generous man.