Learned Reactions

by Jayce Ellis

  “I don’t get to do happy things on this bench very often. Most of what I do involves some manner of divorcing people, or figuring out a deceased person’s estate, or deciding on disputes. Adoptions are one of the best parts of my job, because it’s a joyous occasion. It’s family choosing each other, choosing to love one another, choosing to make a go of it. So much of what happens in life is happenstance, is coincidental. Marriage and adoption are choices, and I see the love emanating around this bench. I’m glad you found each other, and I’m glad you’ve chosen each other. I urge you to remind yourselves often of this moment, of your family and friends supporting you on this journey, and hold tight to it when times are difficult, which they will be.” He cleared his throat and continued. “It is this court’s supreme honor to grant the adoption petition of Carlton Monroe and Deion Jones-Monroe, of Olivia Stiles.” He banged the gavel, and the courtroom applauded.

  Olivia burst into tears and turned into Deion’s chest. He smiled down at her, soft and serene, and it was everything Carlton could have wished for.

  This was his family. Found, and chosen, and he couldn’t ask for anything more.

  * * *

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  Acknowledgments

  So many people helped make this book what it is. Special thanks go out to Lisa Lin and Maarika Sterling, who pulled me back from the brink, made sure I stayed on task, and reminded me of all the reasons I wanted to write this story in the first place. Thank you both so much.

  To my accountability and support group: Irette Patterson, Gigi Thomas, Jacinda Sable, and Adele Buck. Thank you for keeping me focused during the numerous times I wanted to do anything but this, and for listening to me whine more times than I care to admit. Love you guys!

  Mackenzie: I routinely tell people you’re a rock star, but the comments and suggestions you made for this manuscript elevated it beyond what I could have imagined. Thank you for not giving up on me or this book.

  About the Author

  Jayce Ellis started writing as a child (just ask the poor sixth-graders forced to listen to her hand-written cozy mystery), then made the tragic mistake of letting the real world interfere for the next two decades. When she finally returned to her first love (her husband and two turtles, Chompers and Desi, remain locked in an eternal battle for second), she’d transitioned from mystery to romance, and there she’s found her true passion.

  Jayce writes about people a bit like her: Black and queer and striving to find the good in a world fixated on the bad. She prefers her angst low and her characters hot—a term encompassing all shapes, sizes, and complexions.

  There may be a hint of irony in Jayce’s day job as a family law attorney, but she soothes herself in worlds where people communicate and find a way to work things out and reach a real and true HEA, even if there’s rarely a neat, tidy little bow wrapping everything else up. Because really, where’s the fun in that?

  www.authorjayceellis.com

  Jeremiah Stewart’s sexuality is no one’s business.

  Not that he’s hiding it. When—if—he finds the right

  one, he’ll absolutely introduce him to Mom.

  But a late-night brush with a sexy stranger

  in too much lip gloss has him rethinking

  nearly everything...

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  Jeremiah

  by Jayce Ellis!

  Chapter One

  Jeremiah

  I parked my car at the entrance of the strip club and let the engine idle, checking my phone one more time before I tossed it in the glove compartment and heaved out a breath. Chucky was probably the only guy, gay or straight, who could get me here, on my day off no less, on a humid as fuck Friday night in DC. Talking ’bout he had something to discuss, but not over the phone. Like we were in high school or some shit.

  Across the parking lot, I got my hand stamped, paid the entrance fee and exchanged two twenties and a ten for fifty ones. The bulk made me distinctly uncomfortable, even though it wasn’t a lot of money and would be on a stage or in a thong before long. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself for the onslaught and stepped inside.

  It took a second before my eyes adjusted. Low lights dotted the booths and the bar, but multicolored strobe lights accentuated the center stage. The other two stages, to the left and right of the bar, weren’t in use, and the place wasn’t really about it yet. It was only nine, but at eleven one of the local DJs showed up and folks would wild out. By God’s grace I would be home sleep by then.

  I scanned the crowd, looking past the jacket-but-no-tie, buttons-undone, after-work crowd, past the giggling first-time-in-a-strip-club girls, past the old men prowling and the young ones flexing, trying to spot this six-foot-three-inch dreadlocked man in a suit who should’ve been posted up by the main stage. I reached for my phone and came up empty, of course. Never mind that then.

  The crowd parted, and I found him. And his girl. Ronnie to Chucky, Veronica to everyone else. Her presence explained a lot, namely why Chucky wasn’t front and center and halfway to broke by now. I schooled my face and walked over to where they sat, alone in a corner booth easily meant for six.

  “Jeremiah Stewart!” Chucky yelled once I got close. “My man, what’s good?” He stood and gave me a half-hug, whispered, “I’ll explain later,” then sat down and looped an arm over Veronica’s shoulder.

  “Everything’s solid,” I replied, then plastered on a smile. “How’re you tonight, Veronica?”

  Veronica uncrossed her legs, reached for a glass of what smelled like a super fruity white wine, then sat back again, taking just enough time to push her weave to the side before settling into her man. She took a sip before “Hello, Jeremiah” forced its way past her lips.

  Chucky speared me with a look over her head. That me and Veronica weren’t tight was an understatement, but that’s what happened when you speculated to your friends about your man’s sexuality because his boy was gay, and never bothered to just fucking ask him. I’d cussed her all the way out, but that was years ago and we’d learned to keep it civil for Chucky’s sake. This level of dismissiveness was out of character, even for her. But I shut up and sat back, ignoring the squeak of the leather, slightly sticky even with the air conditioning, and watched the action.

  The prime moneymakers didn’t come on until later, but no lie, baby girl on top of the pole was doing the damn thing. She was hanging from a horizontal bar at the ceiling, upside down in the splits. A crowd had gathered, and she did a pull-up in that position, flipped around, holding herself on the stage pole with just her arms, and slid to the ground. I, and just about everyone else there, jumped in applause. Dollar bills littered the stage like roses thrown at a king.

  “She trying to take all my money,” I said, fishing out my stack. I appreciated the skill, even if I didn’t get down like that. Chucky stood, stopped to do whatever nonverbal thing he and Veronica did, then followed me.

  I pushed through the crowd to the semicircular platform, added some more ones to the pile and waited for Chucky to do the same, then went for the bar. I needed a drink.

  We both ordered and were silent until they came. Then Chucky spoke before I could. “Look, man, I’m sorry about Ronnie. She’s not feeling great and asked to come with.” I opened my mouth, but he kept going. “And she didn’t want to hear it when I offered to cancel and meet you later.” His shoulders stiffened and he cracked his neck. Something else was up, but then he smiled. That fake as fuck one he used when he didn’t want folks scared of the big B
lack man. “But yo, what’s up with you? You looked hella tense when you walked in.”

  Sometimes I hated that about Chucky. He could be drunk as hell, attention focused elsewhere, and still be the sharpest fucker in the room. Even when I knew he was hiding something.

  “We had a company meeting today.” On my off day. Always on my off day.

  “And...?”

  “They’re merging with HealthNet and exploring ‘cost-reduction methods.’” Man, the euphemisms businesses came up with.

  “So...layoffs?”

  “Pretty much.” I plunked my glass down too hard and froze at the clink of the tumbler against the bar top. But nothing broke and I blew out deep, then downed the drink in one swallow.

  Chucky cringed. My sentiments exactly. “Shit, man, you’ve been there how long?”

  “Ten years almost. Feel like I’m too old to be starting over, you know?” Blood thumped in my ear and I was tempted to take my own pulse.

  Chucky hummed and ordered another drink. I tried not to drink too much on my “weekends,” but what the hell. I ordered another too, and he kept going.

  “Okay, but folks been trying to tap you to move on for a few years now. Teaching, supervising, you name it. It’s not like it’d be hard for you to find something.”

  My boy Will, who drove the truck at work, said the same thing. He was hype about the idea, telling me to explore new opportunities and whatever, but I wasn’t down for the cause of change like that.

  “Maybe,” I finally said. “But that shit ain’t easy for me like it is you.” I’m not the fearless one went unsaid.

  Chucky watched me, drinking slowly, but didn’t speak. Time to turn this shit around. “I thought you wanted to talk. What’s going on?”

  Chucky smiled in that slow, Southern boy style he’d perfected, which I found funny because his ass hailed from Washington—the state, not the capital. He twirled his glass, peeped behind him at Veronica, then back to me, and looked almost embarrassed. This big old three hundred pounds of all muscle motherfucker damn near blushing like one of Snow White’s dwarves. If he could blush. Which he couldn’t.

  “Ronnie’s pregnant.”

  I choked. Coughed until my eyes watered and Chucky pounded me on the back with that fat fist of his. “Damn,” I said when I was breathing again. “Wasn’t ready for that. She happy? You happy? Why the fuck is she drinking?” The paramedic in me didn’t have off hours.

  Chucky laughed, big and loud enough to turn heads. “It’s not alcohol. Sparkling white grape juice or something.”

  I pressed my lips together to hold in my smart-ass response, then Chucky’s eyes bugged out in front of me and I turned. A new dancer was there, on the ground, her ass in my face, gyrating her cheeks in time to the beat of the song. That should have been illegal it was so good.

  The muffled sound behind me had to be Chucky biting his fist. I laughed and pulled out some ones for her, tossing them on her lower back. She smiled sweetly, winked, did an elaborate body roll, and moved on to the next customer.

  Someone jostled me, fighting for space at the bar, and I stifled my groan. The crowd had thickened, folks ready to get right for the weekend. I turned away from the stage and spied Veronica immediately. And felt bad that she was sitting by herself. Wasn’t that some shit.

  “For real, though, you happy about the baby?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, man, I am. Nervous as hell, but happy.” His voice wobbled, imperceptible to anyone not listening for it, and I looked over. Chucky wasn’t even watching the stage.

  “You sure nothing else is going on?” That sounded more loaded than I’d intended, but I never pretended to be an eloquent drinker.

  He was silent for another second before he shook himself and smirked. Yeah, he was hiding something. “Sure I’m sure. Let’s get back.” He took off in that direction, me following behind.

  “You guys seem to be enjoying yourselves,” Veronica said when we returned, her voice as sweet as my auntie’s sweet potato pie. And just like that pie, nothing with that much sugar could be good for you.

  I opened my mouth, ready to say something smart, and remembered she was expecting. And shut up. I heard Moms’s voice in my ear, berating me for acting a fool, and I grabbed a handful of peanuts. They were about as salty as Veronica’s attitude, but they kept me quiet.

  It fucked me up, how Chucky bitched about Veronica damn near every time we kicked it, then acted like some Beyhive stan when she was around. The way he tried to put on like things were perfect but let his guard slip around me. I knew it was typical—Will did the same thing about his wife Teresa at work, but it left me cold.

  It wasn’t just them. In thirty-six years, I couldn’t think of anyone who didn’t talk shit about their partners, spouses, significant others, whatever, but then kiss every ounce of their asses in public. Hell, my sister had bitched about her husband the whole way down the damn aisle. And he wondered why I stayed side-eyeing him. Moms had tried to tell me for years that people needed an ear to vent so things would be solid at home, and yeah, I got that. But if I couldn’t deal with those issues with the person, what was I doing with them?

  I shook my head at the direction my thoughts were going. It was time to go. I tried to come up with a legit excuse to leave, but Chucky set his drink down and stood. “Gotta hit the john.”

  Jackass.

  I watched him walk away, and Veronica and I shifted farther apart. I couldn’t leave until he returned, so I sighed and leaned back, trying to let the crowd, thick enough that I could barely see the platform, blur my thoughts. I was close to saying fuck it and getting another drink when a lovely young woman approached our table. “Dance?”

  “Absolutely,” I said before Veronica could argue. Which may have been a dick move, but my ability to give two shits had evaporated with my mood.

  The girl beamed and cleared our table before climbing on.

  I looked at Veronica, expecting to see a look of dismay, disgust, whatever on her face. Instead, she tilted her head and gave me the classic Black woman Oh, really? look, rolled her eyes, and beamed at the dancer. The woman’s friend joined her, and when we didn’t object, got down to the business of grinding each other. Veronica danced on the couch and threw ones at the girls and looked nothing like the uptight bougie chick I’d known for three years.

  Chucky came out of the bathroom and took in the scene, first bobbing his head, then scowling when some dude stepped to Veronica. He stormed through the crowd like a fullback ready to lay someone out for the score, and that was my cue to bounce. I had my jacket on before he reached us and tossed some money on the table for the ladies. The man scurried like the rats DC kept traps out for, and I smirked.

  Chucky sat and pulled Veronica close, whispering something in her ear that made her shake her head then laugh. Whatever all that was, I hoped I didn’t have nine more months of it. I dapped him up, nodded at her, and walked to the entrance. A group was coming in, so I moved to the side.

  A quick glance over my shoulder and I saw Chucky kissing Veronica like she was fucking precious. Something in my chest tightened before I could shake it free and get gone.

  * * *

  My skin was still tingly, almost clammy, when I climbed in the car, and the blast of air, hot before it went ice cold, turned those tingles to goose bumps. I turned the air down and peeled out of the lot. The drive home was short, a good thing because, especially out here, pedestrians and their general disregard for streetlights and stop signs made driving a lesson in defensiveness. And at this time of the year, people got real reckless. The Fourth was one of the worst days to work because some fools didn’t believe the warnings applied to them when they set off their next round of fireworks. I’d avoided being on call for years, but my luck had run out.

  I parked in the garage under my complex and went to the elevator bank. I wanted to go straight to my apartment, bu
t I hadn’t checked mail in a few days so I made a pit stop in the lobby. Overbright fluorescent lights nearly blinded me after hours in “mood” lighting, and I shook my head to clear the spots. Mr. Johnson was working the front desk, and he smiled when he saw me. He still had a full head of hair, while my ass kept mine at fade level because that receding hairline was starting to kick in. I had no idea how long he’d worked here, but he was everybody’s gentle grandfather/uncle/Jiminy Cricket. He never raised his voice, and he never took anyone’s shit. I wanted to be like him when I grew up.

  “Hey, son, how’s it going? Been too long.”

  I smiled at the endearment. He was right. “It’s hanging, old man. What you been up to?”

  His eyes gleamed at the familiar refrain. “Same old, same old. Me and the missus doing real well.”

  Muriel was as much a fixture as her husband. She baked cookies and brought them ’round to the residents at the holidays, which was both the sweetest and the weirdest thing to me. My family was all about the annual get-togethers and requisite Sunday dinners, but we weren’t real good at that whole spreading joy ministry.

  His voice dropped, got serious. “You’re thinking real hard there. I can’t imagine that frown is from the junk mail you holding.”

  And he never missed a thing. “Job stuff, mostly. A lot going on I got to think about.” That I wasn’t remotely ready to contemplate even as I felt the proverbial train ready to run me down.

  Johnson nodded, then waited. He was good for that. Stay silent and maybe I’ll keep talking. Not tonight, sir. His mouth tipped up, like he knew what I was doing, and a short puff of air escaped. “Well, you know what they say. Luck favors the prepared. So get ready.”

  I chuckled. He and Auntie were forever telling me that. “Ready for what?”

  “Anything. Gotta be ready for anything.”