“How the hell you gonna take care of that?”
“There’s somebody out there who owes me…”
“Two million dollars?” he mutters to himself. “Somebody out there owes you two million dollars, sweet pea? What the hell you got yourself into? You already worrying me to death, and we just getting acquainted.”
I lift my cheek, staring back at the ceiling. “I told you I’ve lived a lot of lives…but I think this is the best one because I think I finally found the one my mama’s been trying to get me to. I can’t even remember how many days it’s been since I came home because I finally stopped counting silly things. Can you believe that?”
I turn to look at him and find him sound asleep.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
RICH
Jazzy’s looks different,but feels exactly the same as it did when I walked through its doors ten years ago. The inside still smells like years of stale cigarette smoke, and somehow, during the time I’ve been away, the bar stools got smaller.
I shift around on the hard stool, glancing down at my feet touching the floor.
Thursdays ain’t never been a money-making day for the old bar, so all the TVs play different things—NFL highlights, Channel 13 News, and the Lockwood boys’ first basketball game of the season. Blues plays at a pitch that’s loud enough for me to still hear the lyrics but low enough to hear the crack of thunder clapping outside from the rain that’s been falling since yesterday.
“You good?” the bartender asks, glancing at me over her shoulder while drying a glass.
“I’m good, Mel.”
She gives me a close-lipped smile and sets the glass next to the last six she dried since I’ve been here.
She told me her name was Melanie…or Melody. I can’t remember. The only part that stuck in my brain was “Mel,” but she didn’t mind because she already knew who I was as soon as I gave her my card to open a tab.
“My daddy hangs out at Lucky’s. He talks about you all the time,” she said, setting a coaster in front of me and smiling at my empty ring finger. “He says I need to bring home a good son-in-law like you.”
I take a swig of the Jack she poured me while avoiding her gaze as she turns around to wave at her co-worker walking past the bar.
My dick wouldn’t even twitch while she gaited back and forth in front of me in a cropped Lockwood Lions shirt and jean shorts that cuffed the bottom of her brown ass because she ain’t wearing a pair of bougie heels I can’t pronounce the name of, or some dainty dress I can sneak my hands under. And the vanilla scent in her long braids just makes me crave lavender.
So, I’m just waiting foritto pass like Senior said—the cravings, the night sweats, the stomachaches, and the low murmurs of Slim’s voice in my head throughout the day. I’m waiting to grow the pair of nuts that’ll help me relock that part of my brain she picked open. I’m waiting for the ball of fire in my stomach to fizzle out, but it rages on, burning my insides and making me down anything I can to stop it.
“You want another?” Mel asks, pointing to my glass.
I glance at it.
I don’t even remember downing the rest of my drink.
She tosses her towel down, walking my way and leaning over the bar. That vanilla scent lingers between us, and I squint at her face, searching for a pair of deep dimples in her cheeks, but there ain’t any.
She smiles bigger at me.
Her teeth are fake. There’s no gap to give them character, and she bleached their natural color away.
“You okay?” she asks. “I would threaten to cut you off, but you don’t talk enough for me to know if you’re actually drunk or not.”
I swallow a hiccup. “You know how to make a French 75?”
“A French 75?” Her tiny nose wrinkles. “You expecting somebody?”
I reach into my pocket, pull out a crumpled hundred-dollar bill, and push it toward her.
She glances at it. “You already have a tab open…and it’s only fifteen dollars.”
