Page 124 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

I’m a cold-hearted bitch on a bench, hat brim low enough to throw shade across my face, sunglasses swallowing my cheekbones, collar up on my trench coat, The New York Times opened wide in front of my face.

Every so often, I flip a page, mostly to hide my busted mouth.

Celie’s excitement shakes pigeons out of a tree as she walks up. “Caaaliii, tomorrow babyyy! Woo, we gone!”

A wide grin’s plastered across her face,

arm pumping in the air.

I can’t grin back.

Smiling literally hurts.

And I’m too fucked up over Andrew.

She strolls over and stands in front of me, casting a tall shadow. “What happened now?” Her face falls dead. “Don’t even start. If Sunset Decay pulled out, I’m still goin’ to Cali. Period.”

I lower the newspaper,

fold it,

and lay it in my lap.

“Take a seat.”

Her eyes roll, but she drops down beside me, smelling like her perfume. That Carolina Herrera Good Girl shit she always wears.

I keep my gaze on the fountain, the pigeons, anywhere that’s not at her. “Did you get what I asked for?”

“Yeah. One hot model on reserve for tonight, and one full-coverage kit—the good shit.” She hands over the color-correcting palette. “And a side’a you actin’ mad sketchy. What’s your deal? What’s this about?”

I breathe in, tasting the fountain spray in the air, and turn to face her, sliding off the large shades. I tilt my face so the sun lays its rays across the split lip, the bruise blooming under my cheekbone.

She jerks back, hand against her chest.

“Ohhh, nah, nah. Girl, what the fuck is that?” Then she leans back in, examining it. “This got somethin’ to do with Six-Point-Five? You finally give head or somethin’? What—the dick fight back?”

I pull the brim of my hat lower and slide my glasses back on. “Sunday night. Giants game. Draft Room got wild. I’m not discussin’ it.”

Sitting taller, I straighten the collar around my neck. “You’re here ‘cause there’s a matter that needs your attention.”

Her brow pops. “Ohhh, this hood business now?” She slings one arm over the bench. “We talkin’ Hoodlum Shit, or we goin’ Bronx on someone's ass? Tell me we runnin’ up on this motherfucker who did this to your face.”

If I tell her the real reason for this meeting right now, she’s going to unload a pile of assumptions, teasing, tell me how completely stupid I am for this man.

I push my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose with one finger. “You and the model. Midnight tonight. At this location.”

I slide the note into her palm.

“Don’t open it ‘til I’m gone.”

Before I’ve finished the last word,

she tears it open.

“The Clover?”

The question knifes the air, the pigeons flapping from a tree behind her.