“Young pup?” Tennessee shook his head, dragging himself into his apartment.
Washington typed on a laptop, and I still had a couple more bites left.
Tennessee sniffed and pulled his NOFD shirt over his head. “You treat life like a damn side hustle. You’ll end up in a back-alley, and Momma?—”
“Don’t,” Texas growled, “bring up Momma. You act like you on Washington’s level.”
“I ain’t in this,” Wash murmured, typing paused.
“Well, you ain’t no Big Country, Tex,” Tennessee said.
“Rich coming from somebody who flipped crawfish tails on Jackson Square for charity. You and your firefighter friends, y’all’s the charity.”
Tennessee snarled, “We know how I make money. How you get that ride?”
“It’s a Charger.” Texas chuckled.
“Who you stay with?” his twin asked.
True. Tennessee was the only one keeping our brother in check. But right now? I had finished breakfast, so I wasn’t worried about the mess Texas was trying to get into. “Wash, you got a connect with the Feds?”
He nodded slowly.
“I want this handled.” Before I handled it my way.
zuri
. . .
Aweek later, Cheetos stains blemished the contract Montana and I had signed. I should’ve trashed the paper. I trusted Montana. He’d told me that Washington would look into Edwin and the cartel connect—and left out the dead guy angle. He’d also paid me cash for our days in Paris … not that my heart had wanted the money. But I kept the paper anyway. Kept me sane.
“What am I gonna do?” I murmured, brushing off the orange crumbs and folding the paper again to shove it back into my purse, resting on the kitchen table.
Darius rushed over, packs of Gushers falling from his greedy little hands. “Here, Mommy.”
Something wasn’t right. He was too tiny to be on National Geographic’sTo Catch a Smuggler.
“Darius,” Miss Virginia sighed. “You went behindMémère’sback?” She bent low to pick up another yellow fruit snack wrapper.
“Darius,” I snapped, “Why would you do that?” My son’s bottom lip dribbled harder than a backpack while the past came quick.
“Darius, it’s stealing!” I shouted what foster parents had yelled at me about food that sat out. An apple inside a bowl? A hardcandy in a jar? I was hungry but told I “stole” from a place I thought was my home.
“Padon,bébé.” Montana strolled into the kitchen.When did he arrive?“Lil’ man just alil’hungrier than usual. Darius, just two packs for you and one for me, your momma, andMémère.”
“Two.” My son piped up, his glassy eyes now shone with happiness.
“Yes, now you head out withMémère.” He nodded to his momma, who took Darius by the hand and led him out.
“What’s wrong,bébé?” Montana sat next to me.
I tried to force a smile I didn’t feel. PTSD and foster care flashed in my eyes, then I shared how foster care shaped me. The five-minute remix. “They wanted checks. I sorta needed a home, but at least nobody tried anything sick. So, you know, small victories. I never wanted to go hard on my son. It just slipped out.” Elbows propped on the table, I cradled my head in my hands.
“I get it. It’s gonna take work, like not hating on your 3X head.”
“Don’t start.”
“Just apologize to Little Dude, it’ll be fine.” Montana comforted me a moment longer before an impatient Darius came running back.
