“Like... like the old school CIA?”
He stopped and looked down at me, his face reflecting his disgust.
“We wouldn't ever be as dirty and underhanded as no CIA,” he proclaimed.
I rolled my eyes. “If you existed.”
“Exactly.”
My cousins were making little, teasing sounds—laughs, "oohs," little traitorous comments.
“Put me down!” I hissed.
“No.”
“This is embarrassing.”
“I don’t care.”
As Targen carried me past my male relatives who had thankfully cleared the bar before he got all murderish, Ajani spoke. “Take care of her.”
My husband nodded once. “Always.”
Juvie fell into step beside us. “I just wanna say, this was a beautiful family meeting. Very healing. Very Black. Very illegal enterprise-affirming,” he said.
“Shut up, Juvie,” I muttered into Targen’s shoulder.
He laughed. “A’ight, Theory of Evolution. But tell yo' husband to stop walking into bars killing people. Working men just want to relax with a drink.”
“I only killed one,” Targen said.
“You know what? That’s growth,” Juvie replied solemnly. “But ay, I'm really walking you out because we in the proletariat wanna let you know that another fucking cleanup—plus my guy Mikhail already arranged for cameras to be wiped—you gon' really have to fight Maxim this time, by the way. Anyway, all that means this labor union really about to be established.”
“Julien—” Targen started.
He stopped as Mikhail raised a fist and said, “Yes, we can.”
That got me laughing so hard I cried and prayed I didn't pee a little.
By the time we reached the door, my annoyance was almost gone. The liquor, the advice, the feel of his arms, the steady beat of his heart against my cheek—it all got to me.
“Targen.”
“Yeah,milaya?”
I swallowed. “They said not to give up on my marriage.”
He didn't stop, but I felt something change in him anyway.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And what you say?”
I looked up at him, at the scarred, perfect face of my difficult, dangerous husband.
“I told 'em I cared about you and I sometimes wanna jump your bones, which you already know, so don’t start smiling like that.”
