I looked up from the bowl of pancake batter I’d been whisking, my arm aching slightly from the repetitive circular motion. The metal whisk clinked against the ceramic bowl — a rhythmic sound that had become almost meditative over the past few minutes.
Romelo was leaning against the doorway, one shoulder pressed into the frame, his phone in his hand. The morning light streaming through the window caught the diamonds in his watch, making them glint with every small movement of his wrist.
He looked good.
Too good for someone who’d shot himself in the head just days ago.
The white bandage on his forehead was smaller now — less dramatic than the gauze the doctor had wrapped around it — but it was still there. A visual reminder of how unhinged he could be when pushed.
“Not yet, it’s probably another shipment delay,” I said slowly, setting the whisk down and wiping my hands on the kitchentowel draped over my shoulder. “But I kept getting shipment delays. It kept bouncing back because of my address. Was I supposed to use your address or mine?”
My address.
The apartment I hadn’t seen in weeks. The life I’d been living before Romelo turned everything upside down.
I wondered if my landlord had started eviction proceedings yet. Probably. I was behind on rent — way behind. Not that it mattered anymore. I had more money now than I’d ever seen in my life, all tucked away in neat stacks inside Romelo’s safe.
Blood money.
Pussy money.
Whatever you wanted to call it.
“Should I take take another one,” I added, my voice trailing off.
Busy being held captive, I thought, but didn’t say.
“Speaking of,” I continued, forcing brightness into my tone, “I need to go to the DMV so I can get my license renewed. It expired on my birthday two months ago.”
Romelo’s birthday gift to me had been freedom to leave the house for a few hours.
How romantic.
“I’ll pull some strings so you can get your license quicker than they take.”
Of course he had a plug.
Romelo had plugs for everything — legal documents, weapons, drugs, you name it. It was almost impressive how deep his connections ran.
“Did Trecee tell you that she invited me to Turks and Caicos with her?” I asked, testing the waters.
Romelo looked up from his phone, one eyebrow lifting. He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward me, his Nike slides shuffling softly across the tile.
“Ain’t no pressure,” he said, voice easy. “I want you to come too.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him. “I want you there.”
My heart kicked up — an involuntary reaction every time he got too close. Like my nervous system hadn’t gotten the memo I was supposed to be guarded around him.
“I thought it was a couples trip,” I said, my voice smaller than I meant it to be. “I’ll be third-wheeling and looking crazy. Thanks, but no thanks. Fuck all that.”
The mental image of being trapped on an island with Romelo and Trecee twisted my stomach. That was a disaster waiting to happen. Somebody would end up dead — probably me.
Romelo reached out and tucked a loose curl behind my ear. His fingers lingered, brushing my cheek. The tenderness of it messed with my chest, tightening something I didn’t want tightened.
“You really think I’m about to spend a whole trip with just her?” he asked, his voice lowering. “Nah. I need you there, Juicy.”
