I frowned. We hadn’t talked since our argument, and yeah—I should’ve hit her up. But between my pride and the bullshit with Marcus and Kyree, I hadn’t gotten around to it. Nairobi was finally able to set up a private party so she could plant the bugs in Kyree’s house, and Fontaine installed an incognito tracking app on his phone under the guise of a software upgrade.
When the phone rang again, I picked up.
“What’s wrong with Jasmine?”
“You still beefin’ with her?” Jelani asked.
“We’re not beefin’.”
“So you talked to her?”
I blew air through my cheeks and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Lani, you ‘bout to piss me off. Did something happen to her?”
“Monica said somebody fucked her car up… slashed her tires and busted her windows,” he said.
My blood ran cold. I held up a hand to Clyde. “Hold up.”
Clyde froze, his clippers buzzing in the air.
“When was this?” I asked.
“The other night, when she got off work. She’s not hurt or nothin’, but Monica said she sounded real shook—like she was crying and shit.”
“Why she ain’t call me?” I muttered, more to myself than him.
“‘Cause you too busy sulking about her ex being the opps.”
“Whatever, nigga.”
“I’m lying?” he shot back. “Go check on your girl, man.” He hung up.
I flipped my phone face down on my thigh and rubbed my jaw.
Who the fuck would want to come for Jasmine like that? Did she call the cops? How’d she get home if Monica didn’t help her?
Clyde brushed hair clippings from my neck. “Uh oh. What’s the problem?”
“I’m good,” I muttered, rolling my shoulders.
He snorted. “Nigga, I’ve known you my whole life. When you get to tappin’ your foot like that, some shit is up.”
I looked down, not realizing my foot was bouncing.
“Just some shit with my girl,” I said. Jasmine wasn’t technically mine—yet—but Clyde didn’t need the details.
“Hm,” he pulled the cape off. “You fucked up?”
“Why you assume I’m in the wrong?” I stood, pulling out a few bills.
“‘Cause I’m a man. And most of the time, we be fucking up,” he chuckled as he took the money.
He was right—this was partly on me. If I’d just called Jasmine, we probably would’ve squashed all this. But I didn’t. And now she was out here dealing with this shit on her own.
“Look,” Clyde said, reaching for a broom. “I don’t know what happened, but as your one married homie? Call her and work it out. That is, if you actually give a fuck. If you don’t?” He shrugged. “Plenty of fine-ass women in the city.”
“Aight, ol’ Master Yoda ass,” I said. He laughed and called over his next client.
I sat in my car for a good five minutes before deciding to call Jasmine. When she didn’t answer, I called again.
