“Wish in one hand, shit in the other. See which one fills up first.”
A long time ago, my granny told me that shit. I’d just received the bad news that I’d gotten cut from the freshman football team because I was too slow. It was just one of many sayings she’d toss into the air as if it made perfect sense. Except, it didn’t make sense to me then because my world consisted of food, school, and sports. At the time, I thought she’d been sneaking sips of the gin she’d kept in her bedside drawer.
Once I’d figured it out, though, my life changed. I could either spend all day wishing I’d made the team or I could work my ass off to make it a reality. I chose to run every morning until I increased my speed. I threw away the junk food and lost twenty pounds. I cut grass and raked leaves so that I could pay for a personal trainer. And I attended every football game and studied the plays. The next year, I made the team.
Since then, I’d built my life with my granny’s words playing on repeat in my head. I considered myself successful—money in the bank, investments, property, good health. My bar was a focal point in my town, the hottest bar in area. Tourists and Wellspringers had put Brook’s Pub on the map. Not bad for a small town man who’d lost both parents before turning eight. I would continue to do my thing, too. Because whenever I wanted something? I worked for it, I planned for it, I pursued it.
So… What the hell was I thinking?
Ronnie had arrived at the bar, stunning in every way. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I hadn’t even bothered to hide my perusal. Not when she’d winked at me as she strolled toward her siblings. Not when she’d tipped her head at me after I’d personally delivered her a glass of champagne. Not when she’d turned every single muthafucka away who’d tried to holla. And definitely not when she’d blessed me with a knowing smile when the DJ played her favorite song, which also happened to bemyfavorite, “You Gots To Chill” by EPMD.
The party was lit, but I didn’t give a fuck. Wellspring was home. The people here? Family. Yet, the only thing, the only person I wanted to be with tonight washer. I knew what I wanted. I’d known for a long time. Tonight, an opportunity had presented itself. Despite the amount of people there, the countless questions from my staff, and the many requests from other guests, I’d managed to end up right next to Ronnie just before the countdown started. I was ready, aimed, and I fuckin’ misfired. How the hell did my lips connect with her forehead and not her full mouth?Shit.
“Um, sir!”
Ouch. “Damn, Brooklyn.” I rubbed my forehead where she’d thumped the hell out of me. “What the hell was that for?” And why didn’t I notice she was still beside me and not on the other side of the bar with her husband and siblings?
Brooklyn rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand in my face. “You’re not this stupid, Juke. But youarea punk.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Veronica!” Brooklyn raised her hands, mimicking a choke-hold. “I would shake your ass if I had the strength to make a difference. Or to make you fall.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Because no matter what was going on in my life, Brooklyn could always make me laugh. It’d been that way since we were in elementary school.
“Seriously, Juke.” Brooklyn finished her glass of water. “My sister is hot as hell.”
Ronnie was always beautiful, but tonight, she looked almost ethereal. Too perfect for this town or even this world. Definitely, for me. That tight ass dress, those legs, the hint of skin that begged me to reach out and touch her, made me want to drop to my knees and surrender. And that had been the plan. Until I’d choked. Now, she was gone and I was standing there watching her bless these other niggas with her smile.
“Don’t you think I know that?” I grumbled.
“You heard her. She wants you.”
I thought about Ronnie’s confession to Brooklyn. I’d definitely be down for anything that involved her throwing herself on my dick. But it was more than that.
There was something about Veronica Wells. From the moment she’d entered my bar with Bryson, I was intrigued. Because, damn, she was fine as hell. But she was also smart and funny and sweet. We’d bonded over music, more specifically hip-hop. The commonalities didn’t end with EPMD or Eric B. & Rakim either. Right there at her favorite barstool, we’d talked about our childhoods, politics, sports, and food. And every time I heard aRonnie Story, I wanted to know more. Soon, I started looking forward to her visits—her smile, her scent…That ass.
“The girl was waiting for you to make your move,” Brooklyn continued, “and you choked with a damn forehead kiss and a dopey smile. Ugh!” She thumped me again.
That shit hurt.
“Like you were her uncle or something,” she added. “No, like you were her brother. What’s the problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.” I lied. Therewasa problem, one that I didn’t necessarily want to talk about tonight. Not yet.
Brooklyn arched a brow and pressed her pointed nail against my nose. “Bullshit.”
“Cut that shit out,” I grumbled, pushing her hand away from my face.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
I never could lie to her. “You’re not.”
Folding her arms across her chest, Brooklyn said, “Okay, then. What happened?”
Sighing, I pulled Brooklyn toward my private booth. Because we had to be alone for this conversation. The last thing I wanted was to be fodder for Wellspring’s morning gossip.
“Sit,” I ordered.
