“Why try to be better? You could’ve stayed in that life. Made money. Had power.”
He laughed, but it lacked humor, because she was confused; there was no past tense in the money, power, and respect he held.
“Not on no cocky shit, I still hold the power. I could make a phone call today and have niggas suited and booted to step just off the strength. Again, I’m cool on that. And the money, I got plenty of that.”
“But things changed, though.”
He grinned at her observant ass.
“Robin got knocked, and I had to take on raising Monroe. She’s already without her father. And as a journalist, you know real power is building a life that lets you put your people on.” He leaned forward. “And I want that. I’m almost forty. Fuck I look like running with them young niggas when this shit here today and gone tomorrow.”
She understood that more than he knew. The need for permanence. The fear that it could all disappear.
“That’s why you’re so pressed about me staying,” she said quietly.
“People die or get locked up or choose the streets over everything else, every day.” His voice was rough. “So yeah and no. I’m pressed about you staying because for once, I want the woman I choose to choose me back.”
She fell silent. She wanted to say something—anything—, but the words stalled in her throat.
“How old are you, Ken?”
“31. You?”
“37, no kids, no wife, a few folks I fuck with, a big dick and a smile that drives these hoes wild.”
He joked, making her snort with laughter.
“I didn’t even ask all that, but noted.”
“I thought you wanted to know. Finish your food,” he said, standing. “I’m gonna clean up.”
She did, watching him move around her kitchen, washing the pot, putting things away. He’d been here all day. Showed up without being asked. Made her food. Stayed even when she told him to leave.
When she finished eating, he took her bowl without a word and washed it too.
“You staying the night?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“On my couch.”
“Unless you want me in your bed.” He smirked. “But I don’t think you’re ready for that.”
“Cocky.”
“Honest.” He dried his hands on the dish towel. “And realistic. You’re sick. I’m not leaving you alone. End of discussion. Plus, the house is quiet as shit with Monroe at Georgie’s.”
“I can’t wait to meet her. I bet she’s sweet.”
“She’s spoiled rotten, but she is sweet. Better kid than Robin and me. We were hell, shit still can be.” He paused. “She’s fourteen, got her own mind about everything.”
“Fourteen’s a tough age.”
“Tell me about it. One day she’s my little homie, next day she's rolling her eyes at everything I say.” He shook his head, but there was affection in it. “Got a mouth on her like her granny, but she got her head on straight.”
“Sounds like she takes after her uncle, too.”
“Yeah, unfortunately.” He smirked. “She definitely got the Pracher attitude. But she’s good. Doing her thing in school, staying out of trouble. That’s all I can ask for.”
