Chapter Sixteen
Yasmen
I’m dreading this phone call. My last conversation with Josiah was awkward as hell. I’m cringing, thinking of how Vashti probably relayed our encounter.
“No time like the present,” I mutter, pulling my cell phone from the side pocket of my yoga pants and dialing.
“Yas, hey,” Josiah says, picking up on the first ring, but sounding like I only have half his attention. “What’s up?”
“Um, are you busy? If you’re in the middle of—”
“Hold on.” There’s silence for a few seconds before I hear a door close on the other end. “Sorry. I was out in the dining room. I’m in the office now. You need something?”
“I’m going out tonight, and I thought I’d be fine leaving the kids because Clint and Brock would be home, but Brock has a work thing they have to attend so—”
“I can come over, or the kids can come to my place. Whatever.”
“Well, it’s a school night, and I’ll have to take them in the morning, so maybe just pop in to check on ’em here? Deja’s old enough. I just…you know what I mean?”
“It’s not a problem. I’ll swing by. Another girls’ night out? A birthday?”
For some reason, I hadn’t expected him to ask. He hasn’t demonstrated much curiosity about my social life in the past, what there was of it.
“No, actually”—I walk into the kitchen and take a high stool at the counter—“I have a date.”
The silence that follows is how a cigar must feel inside a humidor. Complete quiet sealed in an airtight box.
“A date.” It sounds like he’s testing the word for its authenticity. “Wow. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Mark Lancaster.”
“Figures,” he says, the word riding a derisive breath.
“What do you mean,figures?”
“Come on, Yas. Dude’s up on you every time he comes around. He hasn’t tried to hide it.”
“Maybe I like bold. I don’t have to wonder where I stand or what he wants.”
“And what do you think he wants?”
“A date. Obviously.”
“With guys like him, nothing’s ever obvious.”
“Guys like him? I need you to elaborate because I’m not sure what you—”
“Rich guys, Yas. Privileged men used to getting what they want whenever they want all the time.”
“Some might argue, considering the car you drive, the neighborhood you live in, the clothes you wear, and the cash you drop on sneakers without blinking, that you’re a rich guy yourself.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You mean white?”
“No. That’s not what I mean. I don’t want to get in your business—”
“And yet, I’m getting a definite all-up-in-my-business vibe when I have been very careful to stay the hell out of yours.”