“I’m sorry for knocking over your drinks.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” I straightened up and adjusted my cufflinks because at this point it was tradition. I turned to the bartender, “Put their next round on my tab. And get my man here some ice for his lip. He’s had a rough night.”
He nodded, fighting a smile so hard his face was shaking.
I turned back to Lucian. “Get out. And tell AhmadIsaid what’s up.”
He slid out of the booth, touched his busted lip, looked at Mehar one more time—she stared back at him with an expression cold enough to freeze the Potomac in July—and walked out of the lounge without another word.
I looked at Mehar. “You good?”
“We need to leave.” Her voice was flat and controlled. I couldn’t read what was underneath it and that bothered me more than the fight did.
I settled the tab, tipped the bartender extra for the show, and we walked out. The valet already had the Maybach pulled around because the staff at The Parlor knew my car and knew to have it ready. Good people.
“That was your ex’s brother, huh?”
“Yep. But I didn’t need you to do that.” She turned on me, eyes blazing, and there it was. Not gratitude. Not relief. Rage. “I had it handled. I was reaching for my blade when you came over there playing hero. I am not a damsel in distress. I don’t need you to save me. I don’t need anyone to save me.”
“Girl, calm the fuck down. You would’ve needed to pull out your gun to handle him. And if you did that with all those witnesses, you’d be in prison.”
“I’m not some…”
“I don’t give a fuck what you say. I’ll never be the type to sit back and let some nigga put his hands on a woman I’m with. So, fix ya face and let it go. Thank me, shit.”
“I’m not thanking you! This is what you men do. You step in when…”
“I ain’t listenin’ to all that. I’m sorry that happened or congratulations. I ain’t no bitch and you not gon tell me who the fuck I beat for getting rough for a woman. I know you got all your shit. You angry or whatever. You got your traumas. But you don’t dictate what a man like I do. So thank me for making sure you didn’t have to break a sweat. And fix ya damn face,” I was stern with her.
The valet pulled up.I opened her door. She looked at me for a second like she was calculating whether to get in or walk home in heels, and then she got in and slammed the door hard enough to rattle my windows. And I paid a lot of money for those windows.
I got in. Started the car. Pulled onto the street.
Silence filled the car until the air felt thick. She was staring out the passenger window with her arms crossed and I was gripping the steering wheel trying to figure out how I went from having the best date of my life to being in the doghouse for defending her honor.
But I didn’t say any of that. The silence was doing its own thing and I was trying to let it play out.
I turned onto her street and pulled up to her building and put the car in park.
She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the door. Didn’t unbuckle her seatbelt. Just sat there with her arms crossed and her eyes on the windshield and something working behind her face that I couldn’t name.
Then she spoke.
“Thank you. Don’t go home yet.”
23
MEHAR
I don’t know why I said it. The words left my mouth before my brain approved them, and once they were out there was no pulling them back. Don’t go home yet. Four words that changed the entire temperature of the car and the entire trajectory of whatever this thing between us was becoming.
He didn’t say anything. Just looked at me. And I looked back and neither of us blinked and the silence in the Maybach shifted from heavy to electric.
“You sure?” he asked. No cockiness. No smirk. Just a man making sure.
“I said what I said.”
He turned off the engine.
