“Cairo…”
“Yeah?”
“We still have business. Take care of the boys. Take care of her. And allow her to do the same. If you can manage it, get her to the house. Your mother wants to talk to her about taking the girls.”
I rock my head back and forth even though he can’t see. “That’s never going to happen. She’s about to blow. I can feel it.”
“Wallace was everything to her, whether you’d like to admit that or not. Roger’s death still plays a role. All she has are those girls.”
“I know.”
“Then you know that, if she loses one more person, she will annihilateeverythingthat is this establishment. She’s a woman, son. And that whole woman scorned shit is real. Look what Elaine just did out of spite to Lorenzo. That was child’s play. Bay is a different breed. She’s her mother. She’s Roger. And whether you want to let this sink in or not, she’s Levi Wallace with one hell of an appetite for revenge.”
NINETEEN
bay
HOT ROD: Levi wants to see you.
I glanceup from my phone, immediately clashing with Hot Rod’s hazel eyes, sitting in my family room and watching ESPN highlights of whatever the fuck.
My cheeks flush, guilty, because I wonder if he knows.
If he was around and heard what Levi and I did.
I was barely able to say shit else to Levi after we fucked. He kissed my forehead, told me to behave, and left.
However, the man currently wasting space in my living room lied to me.
He said Levi was dead.
He watched me break down, almost commit an assassination, and did nothing to give me hope.
BAY: Go fuck yourself, traitor.
Hot Rod smirks over his phone with a quirked eyebrow.
HOT ROD: You know why I did it.
To protect Levi at all costs.
Even from me.
However, it still doesnothingto patch us up. I’m always working with half a story.
BAY: You don’t trust me.
HOT ROD: I trust you just fine. I just don’t trust you when you really want something and you can’t have it.
BAY: That still means you don’t trust me.
HOT ROD: Bitch at me later, patch the psycho up, and be done with this shit.
I send multiple middle finger emojis in the most mature fashion imaginable, of course, and look up to find Ozzy sitting impatiently on one of the stools at the kitchen island.
Normally, he’s calm, quiet, and nonchalant in his own way, but tonight, he’s on edge. I’ve been playing with the idea of how to ask him what’s up, but I fall flat every time our blue eyes clash.
Then I lose out on the opportunity.
