Chapter 1
Marcus
Ilooked at the woman sleeping peacefully beside me.
Jackie.
My arm was numb, and I had to figure out how to get out of her bed without waking her up.
Slowly, carefully, I eased my arm from under her back. She moaned in her sleep and shifted position. I froze and waited. As I held my breath, she rolled onto her side, away from me.
Hallelujah.
My arm was free but tingling. I flexed my fingers and then slowly sat up, keeping an eye on her to make sure I didn’t wake her from her sleep.
I moved quietly through the bedroom, gathering my clothes from the trail we had left between the closed door and the bed. My jeans were on the chair in the corner, and my shirt crumpled in a pile on top of my shoes at the foot of the bed. Somehow, one of my socks ended up next to the nightstand. I almost didn’t see it because it was black.
I dressed quietly, glancing at her sleeping form every now and then. She had auburn hair and light brown skin. We had agreat night after meeting at The Flight Club, where my Alpha Phi Alpha brothers and I hung out every month. She was beautiful and funny, but I had to get out of there because I knew what would happen.
She’d invite me to stay for breakfast, and over breakfast she’d ask a bunch of questions. Nothing out of the ordinary—just the type of questions you would ask someone you had recently slept with. But I wouldn’t have the answers she wanted. I wasn’t looking for anything serious, and most of the time, that’s what women expected when they let you inside their bodies.
So it was better for me to go, slipping away in the early morning before she woke up.
I found a napkin inside my jacket pocket and scribbled a note:Thanks for a great time. Take care. — Romeo
I cringed. I never knew what message to leave but hated ducking out without a word and used my line name as a cover.
I slipped out of the room and eased the door shut. My shoes barely made a sound as I walked across her hardwood floors to the front door. I let myself out, making sure to turn the lock on the inside before shutting the door.
Once outside, I breathed easier and relaxed. In the crisp, early morning spring air, I checked my phone on the way to my blue Toyota Rav4. Last night, my frat brother Jashaun had texted me a link about upcoming zoning changes and followed up this morning with additional information. Since he worked for the city, he was always giving me the heads up about what was coming down the pike in local real estate, which was very helpful in my work as an agent.
I hit him back real quick and then climbed behind the wheel. I drove through the city that I’d been living in since I graduated from Prairieview University eleven years ago. My plan had been to find an entry-level corporate job and work my wayup to executive one day. After only a few months, I realized that wasn’t the path for me.
A couple of years later, I earned my real estate license, and for the past five years, I had been in the top one percent of real estate agents in the state, closing millions of dollars’ worth of deals every month.
As I neared my condo, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen, but it could’ve been an old client calling with a referral or some other type of business, so I answered.
“Marcus Hayes,” I said.
“Hello, Mr. Hayes. My name is Julia Richmond,” a pleasant-sounding female voice said.
“Hello, Ms. Richmond. How can I help you?” My mind was already on breakfast. After I went home, I planned to walk to the café near my place and have coffee and a sausage, egg, and cheese bagel—my weekend ritual—before heading into the real estate office.
“I work for Safe Harbor Child Advocacy, a non-profit organization that partners with CPS. I’m calling about Brandon and Stacey Mitchell.”
My stomach tightened as I slowed to a stop at a red light. Brandon Mitchell was my best friend. Stacey was his wife.
“Did something happen?” The question came out steady, but I gripped the steering wheel as fear enveloped me.
“I’m very sorry to inform you, Mr. Hayes, that Brandon and Stacey were involved in an accident three nights ago. A drunk driver hit them head-on, and they were both pronounced dead at the scene.”
What?
My heart stopped. Brandon and Stacey were dead? I must not have heard her correctly. I talked to Brandon on Monday, and last week I was at his house helping him put up curtainrods because Stacey threatened to divorce him if he didn’t get it done.
My lungs stopped working.
The woman with the pleasant voice continued speaking, explaining something about not suffering, but I heard her words in a haze. My brain hadn’t moved on from the devastating information that my friends were dead.
