In my mind, New York still had me by the throat.
The man hadn’t stepped away from my son’s crib. Instead, he stood, spine to me. Between my child and me. Tried to assure me that Dr. Heine wanted us to come home.
Us.
Bull.
He’d spun on me …
“Journey?” Montana’s questioning tone brought me to the present.
My eyes swept around the disarray. Small mahogany tables were tossed aside. A chair lay shattered near a trampled banquette. I almost picked up one of the peach-colored throw pillows scattered on the floor. Wanted to hug it to myself and find comfort, but my mind was all confusion and chaos. Had these guys been … hired? “I gotta get home.”
Montana sighed as if he knew every tender R&B love song created wouldn’t relax me. “Lemme call first, okay? See how he’s doing?”
I dug through my purse, frantic. The restaurant pen fell to the ground. A tube of lip gloss. The old flip phone tumbled.
Montana caught it. Without a lock, he said, “I’ll call Shanice.”
Through anxious hollowed breaths and while rubbing my palms on the front of my bodycon dress, I said, “If she doesn’t answer?—”
“I’ll call my brothers. We’ll call the police. Everyone within a thirty-mile—” He blinked, and someone laughed from behind his large frame.
Montana staggered into me. Hot stickiness washed over my fingers. A copper scent I knew well suffocated me. “No, no, no … Montana?”
He dropped to his knees, chuckled. Actually chuckled.
“This is some bulls—” He gasped through clenched teeth.
Wedged in his ribs sat the knife I brought to a fight where he wanted to teach these kids a lesson.
With him on his knees, my eyes clashed with the assailant. PTSD hadn’t allowed me to understand Montana then, but now I did. This kid stood just tall enough to meet me eye to eye. Thighs skinnier than mine. Asmediumhoodie. Was he even fifteen yet? Chin held high, his eyes challenged me in the moonlight.
Montana growled.
The kid’s hard demeanor landed on my friend. The vengeful mask fell. He rubbed a hand over his shocked face, then ran. The kid thrust the French doors open. The glass panels slammed against the brick and shattered.
Montana reached behind him.
“Don’t!” I stopped him from removing the knife.
I called 911. As Montana knelt, panting through his mouth, he asked for my phone.
“What?” I said, ending the call with dispatch. I’d also asked her to send a unit to Shanice’s apartment.
“Your phone,” he repeated, brown skin fading to a distant gray. “Dial Ten. Gimme—gimme the phone.”
Once Tennessee answered, I blurted, “Your brother—” I cleared my throat to stop it from cracking. “Montana needs to speak with you.”
“What’s wrong?” Tennessee’s worried voice echoed as I passed the phone.
“Get to Journey’s place. Protect Darius.”
“Bruh, what the?—”
“Do. It.” Montana’s voice was sharper than a blade. He let the phone drop from his hand.
I slipped to my knees, my medical training kicking in. He took my hand, his grip strong yet mindful, as if trying to avoid crushing my fingers like a pistachio.
