“Do you all have any more of today’s papers?”
I was off to a late start this morning. Ishmael had taken off before the sun rose. I cut out of the door around eight. Around seven was when I noticed he hadn’t touched a pot or skillet in the kitchen. The jug of orange juice we’d had delivered with the rest of the groceries was still unopened.
Feeding Ishmael was my first order of business. Meeting Maylei was my second. Malachi and Mercer would be under the same roof for the better part of the morning, visiting Pops. I was looking forward to squeezing baby cheeks and being surrounded by Chemistry’s love although it wasn’t him expressing it. Mercer, Malachi, Makai, and Milo all represented parts of Chemistry that I loved.
“Over there,” the cashier pointed toward the stand near the door.
I slid a twenty dollar bill across the counter.
“Keep the change,” I told her.
The building Ishmael’s office was housed in had the best smoke shop in all of Berkeley. I blamed him for introducing me to the smoked turkey, egg, and cheese taco. I grabbed the bag that held three of them. One for me and one for Ishmael. The third one was for anyone inside of his personal space when I entered with food, just in case their stomachs were touching their back as well.
“Thank you!”
I fixed my eyes on the stand with a single issue of Berkeley news left. As I approached, the bell of the small shop rang. The customer was headed in the same direction. I picked my pace, managing to snatch the paper from the wire rack just before the fragile old man was able to take his sixth step.
Sorry, grandaddy.
I tucked the publication under my arm and exited. My feet didn’t stop moving when I entered the lobby, when the metal detector notified the staff of the Glocks I was toting, or as the news reporters beckoned for my attention.
Their presence was unnerving. There was no reason for them to be here. There were still four days until the election and there wasn’t a press conference scheduled. Ishmael didn’t give a damn about being in front of cameras right now. He wanted to be in front of the people. His people. The people he was running for.
Inside the elevator, I removed the paper from my arm. The weekend anticipation had me on edge. Silently, I studied the front page article. Every part of my body numbed.
My heart slammed against my chest as I read the headline. Every muscle in my face contracted.
MAYOR HOPEFUL: SECRET BABY?
Ping.
The elevator doors opened. My Prada heels collided with the floor. I marched into the office that I’d spent more time at in the last two weeks than I had at my own residence, in a city I saw more of than Clarke since I’d met the man I was in pursuit of.
“Good mor–”
“Morning.”
“Good morn–”
“Um– Royce– One second. He’s in–” Matte stuttered, stepping in front of Ishmael’s office door.
“I don’t give a fuck what he’s in. Step aside before I shampoo your greasy ass bob with these tacos.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Stepping aside, she lifted both hands. With a roll of my eyes, I pushed the door open.
“We’re no longer confident in your ability to bring this thing home, Grayson. This is the second sc–”
Conversation halted.
Two men sat in front of Ishmael’s desk. I recognized them instantly.
“Your confidence in his ability to bring this thing home has been lost, meanwhile, you were confident enough to pair that midnight blue suit jacket with those black slacks? I am confident you will find a better optometrist in the future. And– Caldwell,” I chuckled, placing the brown paper bag on the counter.
“How confident are you that the powder your assistant scores from your favorite dealer on 31st and Sabers isn’t laced with the big F? How confident are you that your next toot won’t be your last? How confident are you that your nose will be able to withstand even three more years of your addiction? Not a hair inside of it has survived. You’re working on the nostrils next?”
Ishmael’s sigh was the only thing heard around the room. All eyes were on me. My eyes were on Ishmael.
