Chapter 16
Theo O'Keefe
It’s not that I feel guilty, but Jamal running around Detroit at night, alone, isn’t helping anyone. We’re in a business section of the city, but most are closed, and the streetlights do a poor job of lighting the pavement.
He’s right; I shouldn’t have run my mouth without proper backup. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had proper backup. That would require more friends than a lesbian bullied by her parents.
The fucker starts sprinting, and I follow with Brant trailing behind me.
“No one needs you,” I hiss at him.
“No one wants you,” he retorts, and the insult hits its mark. This isn’t the time to soul-search; it’s about making amends. Helping Jamal get the gum out is the least I can do.
I hang back as Jamal gets a few items at a corner store. Brant goes in after him, and they argue. Brant points to me, and Jamal levels me with a glare expressing he wants me dead. Join the club and get to the back of the line.
I’m impressed with Jamal’s shady skills. He doesn’t fight us about being alone, then hops in a rideshare and speeds off before I can open the car door.
Brant and I don’t speak as we run to our hotel. Mr. Dimon stops us in the lobby, asking about the bruise on Brant’s face. At the front desk, I tell the clerk we have a family emergency and I need Jamal’s room number. The guy’s a hockey fan, so he knows I’m Jamal’s stepbrother and even gives me a key. Sucker.
As Mr. Dimon lectures Brant, I make a mad dash for the elevators. Mr. Dimon can bitch at me later.
I pound on Jamal’s door, but he doesn’t open it. “I’m coming in. Fair warning.” I listen for footsteps but don’t hear them, so I unlock the door.
“I don’t have a view where I can reach it.” His voice echoes in the bathroom.
My greedy eyes drink in a half-naked Jamal contorted in front of the bathroom mirror. His abs are engaged and create ripples in his dark skin. It’s incomprehensibly difficult to look away.
“How did you get in here?” he demands.
“Family emergency.” I lean against the doorframe as if my heart isn’t racing, fearing he’ll kick me out. “Need help?”
“No,” he snaps, and turns his back to me, but then he can’t see the gum.
His anger is addictive because I’m the only one he shows his true self to.
“Baby, let him help you,” a pretty Black woman says on a video call.
Fury radiates through me, but I beat it back. It’s none of my business if she calls him baby and he says he’s gay. She can call him baby all day, for all I care. I step closer.
“This won’t be easy, and a second set of hands could make a huge difference,” she coaxes. “If he’s a dick, bring him over when you get home. I’ll take care of him.” She smirks. “I’m Jada.”
“Only because I can’t see what I’m doing,” Jamal huffs, and I’m across the room before he changes his mind. The bathroom has double sinks, and I contemplate laying my suit jacket on the counter but hang it on a hook on the back of the door.
Jamal shakes his head, but his lips turn up, and my belly jumps to my throat, flips over, and crashes into my internal organs. His smile is better than a hot shower after a cold practice. Fuck. I’m losing my mind.
“What? It’s a custom fit,” I say indignantly, nodding to my jacket.
“Okay, sweetie,” Jada says, and I realize she’s talking to me. “Dip your fingers in the peanut butter. Apply liberally to the gum.” I do as she says, and a hunk of it squishes in my fingers.
“Got it,” I say proudly and hold up the offending gum. Mission accomplished.
“Sweetie, that was step one. Find a hotel washrag to wipe it off. Make sure there’s no gum on your fingers.”
As I’m cleaning off my fingers, there’s a knock on his door.
“King? It’s Mr. Dimon, please open the door.”
Jamal eyes his dress shirt but opts to drape a towel over his shoulders as he takes his phone to answer the door.
