“You’ll be there.” The walls were coming down brick by brick and I was trying not to stare at the progress like a contractor watching his own renovation.
We talked for another hour about everything and nothing. Her medspa plans. The casino opening. She told me about thelittle brother she recently reconnected with and the baby he had on the way.
She laughed twice—real ones, belly ones, roller rink ones—and each one felt like I’d unlocked a level in a game I didn’t know I was playing.
I excused myself to grab another round at the bar because the waitress was swamped and I wasn’t about to let the momentum die waiting for a refill. After I paid for the drinks, I turned around and that’s when I saw the nigga.
This nigga was in his late 30s or early 40s, with a stocky build and scraggly beard with gray strands. That nigga was walking up to my booth with an expression that had absolutely nothing friendly in it. He stopped in front of Mehar and said something I couldn’t hear. But I could see her body change, spine straight, jaw locked, hand drifting toward her purse. I knew that movement. That was her reaching for steel.
Then he grabbed her arm.
I left both drinks on the bar.
By the time I got to the booth his voice was loud enough for the whole lounge to hear.
“—think I wouldn’t find you? My brother is in a wheelchair because of you, you lying bitch?—”
“Get your hand off me,” Mehar said. Voice steady but her eyes were on fire. “Lucian, I’m warning you?—”
“You’re warning ME?” He yanked her arm hard enough that she slid toward the edge of the booth. “Ahmad can’t walk because of what you did, and you’re out here in a little dress living your best?—”
I pulled that nigga around and I hit him so hard in the mouth that his ancestors felt it. His head snapped back and he stumbled into the table behind us, sending wine glasses flying. The couple at that table damn near dove out the way like it was an action movie.
Lucian caught himself and charged at me, which was bold. I’ll give him that. Brave as hell. Also stupid as hell because he was about four inches shorter than me and running on pure emotion while I was running on trained precision. I sidestepped him easy, grabbed the back of his jacket, and used his own momentum to redirect his face directly into the booth cushion. He bounced off the leather and hit the floor like a sack of laundry.
“Stay down, bro.”
He did not stay down. Got up swinging, caught me with a wild hook that grazed my jaw. Now I was annoyed. That graze was gonna leave a mark and this was a Tom Ford suit and I was on a date with a woman who was already hard enough to impress without me showing up looking like I’d been in a bar fight. Which I was. But still.
I grabbed him by his shirt collar with both hands, lifted him slightly off his feet—just enough for him to feel the helplessness—and sat his ass down in the booth like a toddler being put in a booster seat at Applebee’s.
“Sit. Down.”
He tried to get up. I pushed him back.
“I said sit.”
Tried again. Pushed him again. Harder this time.
“Bro, we can do this all night. I got time and you clearly don’t got hands, so the math ain’t in your favor.”
He finally stayed. I leaned over him with my hands on the booth behind his head, close enough that he could smell the Banks Reserve on my breath and see in my eyes that I was not the nigga to play with tonight or any other night.
“You put your hands on my woman in front of me. In public. I don’t give a fuck who Ahmad is. I don’t give a fuck what his situation is. What I know is that you grabbed her. And if you ever grab her again—if you look in her direction, breathe in herdirection, or so much as Google her fuckin’ name—I will find you. And this little lounge beatdown gon’ feel like a Swedish massage compared to what happens next.”
His lip was bleeding and his eyes were wide and he’d finally stopped trying to be a hero.
“Now apologize to the nice couple whose wine you spilled.”
“What?”
“The couple behind you. You knocked their shit over when your face introduced itself to their table. Apologize. Right now.”
He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Then he looked at the couple, an older Black couple who were standing there holding their napkins with expressions that said they were horrified but also kind of entertained.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Louder. With some bass in your voice. You a grown ass man.”
