“Yeah. He found God after pops got killed. Put his money into this place, became a preacher, and started a megachurch.”
I caught the bitter edge in his voice. “You don’t approve?”
He took a sip of his sweet tea. “I mean… I’m in no place to judge. But a megachurch is just a different kind of hustle to me. He’s just legally hustling for God—selling hope instead of bricks.”
Ms. Marlene appeared at our table with two plates that looked like they belonged in a food magazine—fried chicken, mac and cheese, greens, and thick slices of cornbread fresh from the oven.
“Here y’all go,” she said, eyes twinkling. Ms. Marlene was gorgeous, full-figured, with smooth toffee colored skin that glowed, and her gray hair was pin-curled under a net. I knew Rodney didn’t play about her.
“Thank you. This looks too good,” I said, smiling.
“Appreciate you, Ms. Marlene,” Cash added, slipping her a folded stack of money.
She swatted at his hand. “Boy, you know better—this on the house. Don’t even start with that.”
“Put it toward the next folks in line,” he said, tucking the money into her apron pocket before she could argue.
I watched him, amused. “You’re… interesting.”
Cash raised an eyebrow as he unrolled his silverware. “That supposed to mean something?”
“I’m saying,” I replied, unwrapping my own. “I’ve seen you pistol-whip a grown man, but Ms. Marlene out here treating you like her favorite nephew.”
“Didn’t I tell you I contain multitudes, shorty?” he winked, biting into his chicken.
I grabbed a wing, and my eyes nearly rolled back. It was juicy and perfectly seasoned. We ate in silence, which was how you know the food was good.
“Jasmine?”
I froze, chicken halfway to my mouth. My eyes swept the crowded restaurant and landed on a tall brown-skinned man weaving through the tables toward us. He was brolic, like he spent every waking moment in the gym, and his long locs were pulled up into a neat bun.
Cash tensed across from me, setting his fork down. “You know him?” he asked under his breath, eyes narrowing.
“I—uh…” I squinted at the man and pursed my lips. “I don’t think so.”
The man grinned as he approached and let out a low chuckle. “My bad, ma. It’s been a minute.” His voice had that unmistakable Queens accent. “Marcus.”
Oh shit.
Marcus freaking Stokes. He was supposed to be doing twenty years upstate on a RICO. We broke up a few months before he got locked up, and I hadn’t heard from him since I told him to stop hounding me from prison.
I stood slowly. “Marcus,” I breathed, forcing a smile as he pulled me into a hug, lifting me off the floor like I weighed nothing.
I laughed, startled. “Damn—okay!”
“It’s really good to see you, Juicy,” he murmured in my ear. I shifted uncomfortably, moving his hand off me as it crept dangerously close to my ass.
Marcus was no longer the scrawny boy from Jamaica, Queens, who used to drive me around in his beat-up Civic. The man in front of me had definitely leveled up. He’d never been a flashy guy, but here he was iced out—a thick Cuban link around his neck and a big-faced Rolex on his wrist. It didn’t match the man I remembered. And it wasn’t just the clothes—his whole vibe felt… off. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but his energy felt darker. Shit was weird.
He never used to leave New York unless it was to visit family in Trinidad. The nigga didn’t even fuck with soul food because he didn’t grow up eating it. So what the hell was he doing in a soul food spot in Georgia of all places, grinning like he came in here all the time?
“I didn’t know you were out,” I said, stepping back. My mind was racing. I needed to hit up Amber. Did she know?
“Charges got tossed a few months ago on a technicality,” he said with a dimpled grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m down here making some moves. Handling a little business—you know how it go.” My skin crawled as his gaze dragged down my body, like he was undressing me. “Still fine as hell, I see.”
Cash cleared his throat loudly behind me.
I turned, suddenly remembering that I wasn’t alone. “Shit! Sorry. Marcus, this is my friend, Cash. Cash, Marcus. We used to?—”
