Page 89 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

I whipped around, pinning him with a glare. “I told you no, Amai. We are not hiring some random stranger off a payroll to raise our baby.”

“She wouldn’t be raising her. She’d be assisting,” he countered. “Your mama is sixty-one years old. She don’t need to be running up and down these stairs, carrying an infant and changing blowouts while you at the hospital and I’m at the docks.”

“My mama raised four daughters by herself,” I said, grabbing my stethoscope and sliding it into my scrub pocket. “She told you three times she wants to watch Tru. My family takes care of our own.”

“And I’m telling you your mama needs a damn break!” Amai raised his voice, shouting toward the open bedroom door that led down to the main foyer. “Mama D! Tell this girl you too old to be running a daycare!”

From all the way downstairs in the kitchen, Mama’s voice floated up the stairwell, crystal clear and full of bass.

“Amai, if you don’t shut your loud-ass mouth up in that woman’s ear! Ain’t no strange white woman from Metairie coming in this house to touch my grandbaby! I said I got her, and I meant it!”

I turned to Amai and raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You hear that?”

Amai walked over to the banister and leaned over the rail. “I’m trying to look out for you!”

Mama stepped into the downstairs hallway holding a freshly washed baby bottle, looked up at him, sucked her teeth so loud it echoed against the crown molding, and waved him off with her dishtowel before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Amai shook his head, rubbing his temples, but the small grin pulling at the corner of his lips gave him away. “Y’all women are gonna put me in an early grave.”

“You love it,” I said, walking up and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Watch my baby until I get home. And make sure you’re ready by seven tonight.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he murmured, his hand catching my waist for one last squeeze. “Just make sure you come home hungry.”

By seven o’clock that evening, the heavy hospital smell of hand sanitizer and sterile gauze had been scrubbed completely off my skin.

I stood in front of the vanity, putting on a pair of gold bamboo hoop earrings. I’d chosen a fitted ribbed knit midi dress in a deep rust color—stretchy enough to flatter the new curves of my postpartum hips, with a scoop neckline that showed just enough cleavage without screaming for attention. I slipped into a pair of low-block nude heels, applied a fresh layer of brown lip liner and butter gloss, and spritzed vanilla bourbon perfume along my collarbones.

When I walked downstairs, Amai was standing in the foyer, talking softly to mama, who was rocking a sleeping Trumai in her arms.

He wasn’t wearing a suit. For the first time in weeks, he had on dark-wash designer denim, a crisp black heavyweight t-shirt that showed off the ink on his forearms, fresh white retro Jordans, and a simple solid gold chain resting against his chest. He looked like the finest man in the city—not a mob boss, not a street legend, just a handsome Black man waiting for his woman.

His eyes swept over me from head to toe, and he gave a low whistle under his breath. “Damn, baby.”

“Watch your mouth in front of the child,” Mama scolded him playfully, shifting Tru onto her shoulder. She looked at me and smiled, her eyes soft. “You look beautiful, Truth. Now get out of here and go have a good time. Don’t call me every twenty minutes asking if she took the bottle, neither. I know how to feed a baby.”

“She likes to be burped every two ounces, Ma,” I reminded her, leaning down to kiss Tru’s soft, sweet-smelling forehead.

“Truth, go,” she ordered, waving us toward the door.

Amai laughed, took my hand, and led me out into the warm New Orleans night.

Instead of taking one of his armored SUVs, he pulled out his classic ’71 Chevelle SS—midnight black with a burgundy leather interior. The rumble of the engine vibrated through the floorboards as we crossed town, the humid breeze from the cracked windows whipping through my hair.

“Where are we going?” I asked, looking out at the city lights.

“Somewhere you ain’t been in a long time,” he said, keeping one hand on the steering wheel and resting the other firmly on my bare thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles against the ribbed fabric of my dress.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled down an unpaved gravel alley tucked behind an industrial stretch off the border of St. Bernard Parish and New Orleans East. There was no sign, no velvet rope, and no valet. Just a beat-up neon sign shaped like a saxophone glowing red in the window of an old brick warehouse, and two dozen cars parked haphazardly along the weeds.

My jaw dropped. “No, you didn’t.”

“Chalmette’s Juke Joint,” Amai said, cutting the engine. “Priest told me they moved the spot out here two weeks ago.”

I looked at him in total shock. Chalmette’s was local folklore. It was the infamous underground blues club that changed locations every six months to keep the city inspectors and the tourists from ruining the vibe. People from out of town swore it was an urban legend—the ‘disappearing club’ of New Orleans—but if you were from the city, you knew somebody who knew the promoter, and you got the text when the doors opened. I hadn’t been to one of their pop-ups since before I married Phillip.

“How did you even know about this?” I asked.

“You mentioned it before,” he said simply, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You said before all the bullshit started, you used to love going to hole-in-the-wall spots where the music was loud and the food was greasy. I listen when you talk, Truth.”