Slowly, he exhaled, smoke passing from his mouth intomine, his eyes on me the whole time. I held it until the burn in my chest won and I had to turn my head to let it go.
When I turned back, he kissed me, giving me the chance to pull away if I wanted to. I didn’t. It lasted long enough to mean something without either of us making it more than it was.
He leaned back in the chair, the blunt resting between his fingers. “In another life,” he murmured, “we’d be together.”
“Hm.” I took the blunt from him and hit it once before stubbing it out. Neither of us needed to be too far gone. I still had a flight to catch.
“You going to see him when you go home?” he asked, rubbing my thigh absentmindedly.
“Who?” I asked, knowing damn well who he was referring to.
“Your boy.”
I traced my fingers over the Gotham Reapers patch on his jacket. “You jealous?”
“Curious.”
I laughed bitterly. “Doubt it. He hates me.”
CJ cocked his head and picked up his cup, taking a long sip before handing it to me.
“I don’t think anyone could hate you,” he said finally.
I rolled my eyes, took a sip and handed it back. “You don’t even know me for real, CJ.”
He set the cup down and slid his hand under my jacket, drawing me close until my body was nearly flush against his. He smelled like fresh soap and skin. His lips found my neck. “I know what you’ve shown me,” he said softly.
His mouth moved lower, to the hollow of my throat, and my breath hitched when he nipped me lightly—my back arching before he soothed the spot with another kiss. Buzzing from the weed and alcohol, my body hummed with need, dampnessgrowing between my thighs. I shifted in his lap and wrapped my arms around his shoulders.
When I looked CJ up a few months after disappearing, he only asked if Fontaine would be a problem.
“I don’t need that nigga trying to knock my head off again,” he’d said.
It was a fair question, given how Fontaine acted when we first met.
But Fontaine knew the best and worst parts of me—knew I was fucking mess and had come back for me anyway. That wasn’t something I took lightly, even if I was actively running from it. I’d convinced myself that I was better off alone. The life I led didn’t have room for real attachments, let alone romance.
So, I buried it. Buried him. But I was learning that feelings like that don’t go away. They just go quiet, sitting low like a simmer you forget.
CJ was a good friend. A good lover. But he wasn’t mine.
“You’re a runner, Nai. You ran.”
I closed my eyes, hating that his words cut deeper than I wanted to admit.
“He might be mad at you,” CJ continued, his lips moving against my skin down toward my collarbone. I found myself moving against his growing hardness. “But he doesn’t hate you.” His voice dropped lower. “You just broke that nigga’s heart is all.”
He pressed a soft kiss to my jaw, like he was trying to soothe the sting of his words.
I sat back and looked at him. “And what about you?” I asked. “Is this where you tell me I broke your heart too?”
A low chuckle moved through him as he shook his head. “Never that.” He held my gaze, something honest sitting behind his eyes. “But if I let you, you might.”
2 /FONTAINE JACKSON
Money letout an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So, this nigga’s a scammer?”
We were in his office with a pile of documents spread across the desk between us. I’d just laid out how an investor, Bruno Conklin, had quietly signed part of the title away to a retail building to a shell company he owned.
