Zaire smirked. “Who that?”
“Brent,” she muttered. “And don’t start.”
Zaire ignored that.
Brent walked over. “Well look who decided to step out.”
Meadow plastered on a polite smile. “Hey Brent.”
He looked cute and on a regular night when Zaire didn’t exist, he looked great. But standing next to Zaire, Brent justdidn’t compare. His presence didn’t shake her in a way that made her want to double check that she looked good.
Zaire cut in, tone smooth and disrespectful in the most charming hood way. “You sell?”
Brent blinked. “Sell what?”
“Weed, cuh.”
Zaire was from the slums and he could spot a lame ass dealer a mile away. In Juniper, Brent was probably revered as a better man…a man with funds. But where Zaire was from, Brent would be nothing but a nigga making just enough money.
Brent looked him up and down. “You the golfer right?”
The small town talked and Zaire’s name had floated around.
Zaire shrugged. “Sometimes. You got somethin’ or not?”
Brent smirked. “I might.”
“Cool.” Zaire nodded toward the back booth. “Let’s do business, then.”
Meadow grabbed his sleeve. “What are you doing?”
“Handling something… Relax, baby.” Zaire winked.
Brent nodded toward the table he came from. “Y’all can sit with me... I’m in town to make a few drops.”
Meadow shook her head. “We’re good.”
Zaire’s grin sharpened. “Nah, let’s go. I wanna see this through.”
Meadow whispered under her breath, “Lord give me strength.”
Brent smirked because he heard it but loved a challenge too.
Zaire followed Brent with a slow swagger, Meadow trailing behind, already knowing this night was about to get complicated in a way she did not have the patience for.
Brent’s table sat in the back, lit by neon beer signs and the glow from the jukebox that hadn’t worked since 2017 but still looked important.
Zaire slid into the booth like he was good anywhere he went. Meadow sat beside him, inside the booth. She was sandwiched between the two of them but she sat closer to Zaire than Brent.
Brent clocked it.
Zaire knew he clocked it.
But nobody said anything.
Brent pulled a small vacuum-sealed pouch from his jacket. “This good. Came straight from the city.”
Zaire nodded, took the pouch, cracked it open and inhaled. “It’s straight. You got cigars or you expecting me to ask the bartender for paper?”
