“No—”
“Girl Energy. Adorable.”
Snark activated. “Awe. Adorable? Thanks,Boss Man.”
His deep-set eyes scanned me. “You an Atlanta Braves fan?”
“I’m a fan of nuns. Celibate nuns.” I shifted in my Mary Janes. “No shirt. Got it. Anyway, I’m your employee. I’ll stay outta your lane.”Stay outta mine.
I strutted away with all the sass I could muster. And yes, I glanced back. Montana’s smolder would boost my ego for a decade. Might warm my bed until my son graduated from high school or Edwin found us.
montana
. . .
I’d been heckled by New York Yankees’ fans, chewed out by my manager, and blasted across ESPN. Ever since November 1st, I’d been criticized by every other major media outlet in Los Angeles for the stunt I pulled at my World Series after-party.
But I’d never got told to step off by a woman. I hadn’t called Journey the wrong name. Didn’t ask her to reach into the nightstand for breakfast menus the morning after, because Big Country was bone tiredand alsohad forgotten her name. Yeah, I told my hookups, my treat. Enjoy yourselves. That always went well. Got them to ghost me, quick.
But if Journey wanted to introduce herself by running, who was I to complain? Would I let her disappear?
Nah. Not Big Country.
She was hotter than fried chicken and Auntie Peaches’ Sweet-Thang Yams. Gorgeous. Curves that apron couldn’t hide. Plush, smirking lips, sharp and no-nonsense, like she wanted to cut and kiss me with them.
When I laid eyes on her, I swear I hadn’t seen past brown skin—warm as sunbaked pecans—and her complexion caught the lightbefore the door closed. She had these watchful eyes, like she expected the world to steal from her if she blinked too long.
When her eyes met mine, though?
That hardness melted, and she glowed—caramel warming in the pan. Soft. Rich. Pulling me in.
But her beauty came with scars, forged in fire. The kind that made a dude want to learn every shade of her.
Was Big Country the staying type, though?Nah.
Shaking my head, I headed to the back. Since Momma and Peaches ran the place, it didn’t seem right for me to claim the leather chair opposite the black obsidian table. I sat in a fluffy chair. “Ridiculous.” Pink fur itched my forearms.
I pulled out my phone, torturing myself, and added to the view count of an LA-based online gossip site. I’d watched this video countless times. And every single time? They dragged me.
Yeah, they dragged all two hundred and thirty-nine pounds, six foot four of my Black ass. Spike Lee would give them props. The team incorporated a catchy sequence of footage: my rise, fall, andtheirdisses.
“Big Country … Big Country …” That name—the nickname hollered at me since I got stuffed after eating half a roast beef po’boy and still thought I was grown—blared from my iPhone screen. The clip segued from a crowd, almost seventy thousand deep at the Los Angeles Dodgers stadium on the night me and my boys won the World Series, to an after-party video. I’d shoved a man. A little shove.
Dude flew across the table as I shouted, “Get the hell outta my face before I kill you, bruh.”
I cut off the news segment where the gossip commentator chewed me out for forgetting to be a role model. Over ten years in MLB, and I’d financed community centers from here to the streets of LA. Visited kids with cancer. Not for face time, though. I still kept up with those struggling or learning to survive. Now this?
Should I have pushed the dude?
Damn straight.
Should I have threatened his life?
Hell, yeah.
Just not withopportunisticsaround. The video paused. A FaceTime flashed.
With the press of a button, my brothers’ faces popped up. Washington, the eldest, strolled down the steps of the Juvenile Court Building in New Orleans. The judge’s bald head reflected the sun. Based on the mirror's reflection, Texas and Tennessee worked out in Ten’s apartment’s gym. The twins were identical, except the oldest had dreads, and Ten wore cornrows.
