“Brandy?” I gasp out. “That’s who the fuck you had giggling in the background while you talked to my mama, nigga?”
“Hey, stop it. You drunk. I hear it—”
“Sh—she’s at your place?”
“Hell nah. Are you crazy? Why the fuck would I bring her into our space? You got drunk and lost your mind?”
Our.
There he goes with that “our” shit.
I choke on a hiccup before gurgling out, “Fuck you and fuck her.”
* * *
Ace
“Easy,”Brandy hisses, holding onto her seatbelt. “You’re going to get a ticket.”
“Then I’ll just pay the fucking ticket.” I slam my hand against the steering wheel, gritting my teeth at the car inching under the red light in front of us.
“Are you sure everything’s good? I heard you on the phone outside the truck at the gas sta—”
The GPS cuts into her words and I thank God for the four-minute warning it gives my nerves. I have four minutes to swallow the chaos 1942 always provides, and four minutes to convince myself that racing to a random address on the Southwest side with Brandy in my passenger seatisn’tan overreaction.
I scrape my fingers across my head.
It’s not an overreaction. Phat’s drunk. Her tweets and her voice told on her.
“Ace,” Brandy sings, gripping my forearm. “Talk to me.”
I shrug her hand off. “I’m good.”
That’s how she ended up here. She came singing in my ear, asking what my plans were for the night, like she knew I needed a place to waste time while Phat played on Earth without me. As soon as I pounded my fist on her apartment door, I knew I needed to go back home. I couldn’t talk to any woman that didn’t live on my planet, breathe my air, or understand that I always got what I wanted—even my addictions. Now she’s stuck in my passenger seat because jersey chasers were always the easiest way to waste time until they weren’t.
I ease off the gas as I come up on the street with all the telltale signs there’s a party happening—a full parking lot, loud bass, and even louder people spilling outside the entrance.
“Splashtown?” Brandy frowns, turning toward me. “I thought we were going to Whataburger?”
“Yeah... we are. I—I just need to check on somebody real quick.”
“The person you were yelling at on the phone?”
“Ye—nah. Look, just chill right here. I’ll be back.”
I pull into the first empty parking spot and hop out before Brandy can ask more, like why I’m trampling through muddy ass grass in Jordans and agonizing over Phat’s text that pops up on my phone.
Phat Girl: I’m good Aso. I’m stayin here. Go wit Brandy and I’ll leave you tf alone
Phat Girl.
That’s how she’s saved in my phone because it’s how she’s saved in Marcus’. He didn’t hesitate to send her number this morning on his way to work without me having to ask for it, all because I mentioned it’s where she’d be. Splashtown had all the men in her life in a tizzy—even him.
When I get closer to the building, my body can’t fill with anxiety at the thought of stepping foot into a party after so long. My eyes don’t even drift to the bare asses giggling and trotting past me with suggestive stares.
As soon as I make it to the entrance, the buff security guard grins, shaking his head.
“Oh, you shonuff Hollywood.” He laughs, pushing his hand out to dap me up. “The party been jumping. You fashionably late? This must be what y’all do in LA.”
