Jordan’s phone rang. She held it to her ear. No hi or hello. “I told you I’d consider representing you. Your calling every few hours isn’t helping. If my firm takes your case, we’ll need a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer.”
“A what? I don’t have that kind of money!” Donovan exclaimed.
Liar. More like he believed under the circumstances she should represent him for free. Perhaps she would’ve if he hadn’t acted as though they were going to get married and have a baby, while he knew he didn’t want to marry or impregnate her. Or if he hadn’t used her for sex. Or toyed with her emotions. Or if he hadn’t faded to black and stopped responding to her calls and texts after she’d given him an ultimatum.
“Bye, Donovan,” Jordan said. Ending the conversation, she announced to the group, “I’m blocking him the way he did me. There.”
“Damn,” Kingston said. “You a boss. The man’s son was killed, Jordan. By a white female cop. You have to take his case.”
Changing the subject, Jordan said, “I’ve drafted the rules for our online dating. E-mailing them to each of you right now. Done.”
“Chancelor, you need to find a different app.” Jordan opened the document and read aloud, “ ‘Each person will create at least one profile. Establish and share your relationship goals with the group. Go out on at least one date a week. Text a photo of your date, along with their full name, cell number, turn on your location while you’re on the date, and text your group partner when you get home.’ I got Kingston. Victoria, you’re with Chancelor.”
Levi approached the table, refilled Jordan’s and Victoria’s glasses. Handed a snifter to Kingston and one to Chancelor. “Jordan, what you need is for a man to stuff you with good dick and a baby. Ain’t no grown person doing all that.”
A lot of people went wrong with dating apps because they didn’t have goals or regulations. “Victoria, you start. What do you want to accomplish?”
Victoria sipped her wine, then answered, “The Lord knows my heart.”
Jordan sighed. “Fine. I’m the only one taking this seriously.”
“Too seriously,” Kingston added. “Levi is right. We’re adults.”
“Okay, but can we at least pair up for some checks and balances?” Jordan inquired. Knowing she’d failed to get anyone’s buy-in the first time, if no one agreed, she’d let it go.
Levi stood behind the bar. “Damn, girl. That’s what’s wrong with females. Y’all have too many damn rules. My Queen don’t trip.”
“Anymore?” Victoria added.
Jordan understood what it felt like to compromise herself behind closed doors. She was strong in public, but she’d had a few private weak and embarrassing moments trying to hold on to Donovan.
A man dressed in a brown suit, white shirt, and hard-sole shoes burst through the door. Scanned the bar. Rushed over to Jordan.
Kingston quickly stood in front of Jordan. “Hey, bruh. Back up. I’m not going to tell you twice.”
“What, Donovan?” Jordan slowly placed the rim of her goblet to her lips, then tilted the glass up. Her eyes focused on Kingston’s back as she remained seated.
“Oh, that’s him. Sorry for your loss, man.” Kingston returned to his seat.
Donovan opened a gym bag, removed a white envelope, slammed a stack of $100 bills on the table in front of Jordan. He said, “Here’s ten thousand dollars. I promise to get you the rest as soon as possible. This should be enough to get you started. I demand justice for my son.” Donovan shouted as though he was announcing it to everyone in the bar. “Anne Whitehall is a killer cop and she deserves to be behind bars! Not on administrative leave!”
Atlanta was an eclectic community. No one in the bar reacted to Donovan’s outburst, including Levi and everyone at her table.
Donovan’s owning a chain of boutique hotels made him rich, not famous. Picking up the money, Jordan handed it back to Donovan. “It’s not just me who would be working your case. I have partners. If we are going to represent you, I need fifty thousand dollars. That’s nonnegotiable. I’m sorry about your son, but this is business.”
How quickly men forgot their asshole behavior when dating. Donovan started out making plans, showing up on time, offering to do things around her home. Then he downgraded to coming over after midnight. Departing two or three hours later. He went from texting her back right away to responding a day or sometimes two later. Two days had stretched out fifteen months. And now he had the audacity to make demands of her.
Why should she care about him? One thing Atlanta was not short on was lawyers.
“Damn, Jordan! Fine.” Donovan shoved the money in his bag, then took a step back. “The hell with your acting as though we never dated.”
“We didn’t,” Jordan said. “Now please leave. I’m trying to be polite.”
The group at the table stared back and forth between Jordan and Donovan.
Levi approached the table. “Is there a problem, man? The lady said leave, and she asked you to leave now. I’m not asking. I’m telling you to get the fuck out. Or get knocked the fuck out.”
Kingston stood, then nodded in agreement. “Now, bruh.”
CHAPTER 18
Chancelor
“I’m originally from Austin, Arkansas. Where’re you from?”
Chancelor asked.
Getting to know a new female, Chancelor increased the volume on the Bluetooth, which was in his ear. He sat in his car with the rear passenger door open. His feet were on the grass.
Every day she proved him right. Parked a half mile away, he flew his drone over Tracy’s house. Chancelor zoomed in on her driveway. Melvin had arrived with a large bouquet of yellow roses. Tracy opened the door, grabbed the bouquet by the stems, let Melvin in, then kissed him before closing the door.
“Yuck!” Chancelor said prior to her response.
“Yuck, what?” the female asked.
“Oh, nothing. Just saw something repulsive,” he replied.
Why hadn’t he thought to send Tracy flowers after he’d kicked snaggletoothed Melvin in the face. That kiss was supposed to be his. Chancelor had a few more days before Sunday service. Fingering his controller, he did a 360-degree lap around the house to every open window to see where Melvin had disappeared. There were laws that prohibited flying drones within the city limits, but the chances of his getting shot down by the government were slim.
“Born and raised in the ATL. I have one opening in my weekly schedule. You cool with Tuesday date nights?” she asked.
Exactly how many men were being inducted into Tracy’s little sponsorship program? One day some dude was going to pay her back. Was the home security alarm he saw throughout her place real or a deterrent?
“Ho,” he said to the chick on the phone.
“What’s wrong with black men? Why I gotta be a ‘ho’?” she questioned.
Having met Tracy at church, the dating app he was on started to feel like an extension of Hope for All Church. Based on the behavior of the pastor and first lady, he might have to start calling the tabernacle, “Whores for All.”
Why in the hell was the chick on the phone upset? Chancelor emphasized, “Don’t you mean ho-tation?”
“Monday and Thursday after I get off from working a nine-to-five, I have night classes. I’m getting my master’s. Wednesday, Bible study. Friday and Saturday, I do in-home care. And Sunday, I’m at church most of the day,” she lamented.
“Charge it to my heads,” he said, thinking of Victoria.
Victoria was a one-man whore. Jordan was waiting to get back on the ho stroll, trying to drag everyone else on her sinner’s mission.
Blame it on Tracy, he thought, tempted to lower the drone to Tracy’s bedroom window. “I apologize. You didn’t deserve that. Since I’ve been in Atlanta, so many women are schemers. I’ve heard about how y’all rotate men on a schedule. I gave my last girlfriend three grand in the first three weeks because her mother died,” he paused, then added, “But she didn’t tell me her mom had died
. . . again. And wait. Her mom is now among the living.”
Laughter exploded in his ear. “If you’re feeling less generous, my cell phone bill is due. All I need is sixty dollars.” She continued laughing.
Wasn’t shit funny. Chancelor had labored intensively to assist start-up companies with marketing and advertising. He worked long hours for his money. Terminating the call, he programmed his drone to return to home base. He dialed another female that had sent him her number.
“Hello?” she answered, sounding sweet.
“Hi, this is Chancelor from CF,” he said.
“Well, hello, Chancelor. I like your pro—”
Interrupting, Chancelor said, “The only thing I’m paying for is food.”
“Praise the Lord, you are a child of God. Of course, you won’t be expecting any gratuities. When and where would you like to meet?” The smile in her tone was evident.
Unlocking his trunk, he put the drone and the remote inside. Closed it, then sat in the driver’s seat. Chancelor wondered if Melvin’s dick was inside of Tracy’s pussy.
“You seem dickstracted. Have a nice evening, Chancelor,” girl two said, ending the call.
The first chick might be the type of woman he needed. He called her. Soon as she answered, he said, “It’s Tuesday. How’s seven o’clock? Capital Grille, Buckhead. I’ll order you an Uber roundtrip. Or if you prefer not to give me your address, I can reimburse you when you arrive. And your name—”
Softly she said, “Shanita Williams.”
Sha who? Sha what? Aw, hell no, Chancelor thought. What was he getting himself into? With a name like that, she was probably putting out pussy every Tuesday. However, he was tired of jacking off.
“On second thought,” he said, “let’s go to Harold’s. You like fried chicken, right?”
CHAPTER 19
Kingston
Living in Atlanta felt better when Monet cared about him being gone. His wife had become the despondent one.
Each day Theodore gave Kingston a reason to file for a divorce. But what would his family, friends, and fans think of him if he told them he was bisexual? That was his new truth. Maybe. There was a sure way to find out.
Getting out of the Lyft, Kingston told the driver, “Pull up to the code box.” He entered the digits. The gate to his house in Columbia, Maryland, opened. “Drop me off at the front door.”
Kingston retrieved two backpacks—one pink, the other purple—off the seat, then shut the rear passenger door. He stared up at the home he’d bought, trying to figure out how any woman living in luxury could be depressed.
Standing on the top step, he realized almost three months had passed since he’d seen her face, hugged his girls, or kissed his mother-in-law on the cheek. Something inside of him felt strange. Perhaps he should return to the hotel, collect his baggage, head to the airport, hop back on his chartered jet, and return to Atlanta.
Kingston sat on the swing bench on his porch. Looking at his front lawn, he wondered if he’d ever be comfortable with himself. Being black was hard. Being a black man in America was harder. The odds of him being anything other than an athlete were against him. He didn’t want to be an entrepreneur, a businessman working for a company, a coach, or a family man.
If he could do anything outside of basketball, Kingston didn’t know what else he was great at. A good husband? Nah, he was an awesome provider. The perfect dad? He wasn’t close to his girls. Honestly, he didn’t know his children very well. He definitely wasn’t the perfect son. He failed at that. He’d heard that men marry into their wife’s lifestyle. For him, that wasn’t true.
Kingston had traveled too far to avoid the inevitable. Pressing his thumb against the keypad, his fingerprint registered, and the light flashed green. Kingston heard the familiar click. Slowly he placed his palm on the oak wood, then nudged. He quietly closed the door behind him, glanced around the foyer, holding a backpack in each hand.
The one thing Kingston didn’t have concern regarding was another man in his bed with Monet. He wished he could give her the same assurance.
Monet appeared from the kitchen area. “Put your hands up, motherfucker!” Monet shouted, pointing a .45 Glock at his head.
The backpacks dangled high in the air before falling to the floor. “Don’t shoot! It’s me!”
“Shit!” Securing the safety on the gun, Monet held her left hand over her heart, then said, “Damn, Kingston. You can’t pop up on us like this. I didn’t know who was coming in here unannounced.”
The way she’d aimed at his face, he felt his wife might have wanted a justifiable reason to commit homicide. She had to have seen on the home monitor that it was him. “Baby! Girls! Daddy’s home!” Kingston shouted, hiding the gifts behind the sofa in the living room, before sitting in a high-backed white leather chair to admire his wife.
Monet wore jean shorts that barely covered her cheeks, a fitted white tank top with no bra, her hair was in a high ponytail the way he liked it. She wore big hoop earrings and ruby-red lipstick.
It was six o’clock in the evening. Sniffing the aroma of good cooking, he smiled at his wife. He hadn’t had a tasty home-cooked meal since he’d left her.
“Daddy! Daddy!” the girls shouted, running toward him.
Israel sat on his left thigh. Nairobi on his right. They hugged his neck and planted kisses on his cheeks.
Monet sarcastically said, “Oh, hey, Kingston. I see you have the girls’ backpacks. Where’s my gift?” Not awaiting a response, she went directly to the kitchen.
Israel stared her dad in the eyes. “Really?”
Kingston told his girls, “Go watch television. I’ll be upstairs in a minute.”
Soon as Nairobi opened her mouth, Kingston spoke with authority. “Now. Both of you.”
Entering his kitchen, he asked his wife, “You’re not happy to see me?”
“Of course I am, but I run this household,” she said, then shouted, “Girls! Come down.” Monet opened the refrigerator, asked him, “You hungry? Or thirsty?”
Kingston was confused. About his wife, not about his appetite for his wife. “Yes, I’m famished.” For food, he knew, but wouldn’t dare say.
Nairobi ran to her dad, wrapped her arms around his waist. “I miss you, Daddy. Before you made us go upstairs, I wanted to ask you where’s my cell phone?”
“And our backpacks?” Israel questioned with a hint of an attitude.
Looking at Monet, slowly she moved her head side-to-side. Kingston dug deep into his pocket. Handed his girls five $100 bills each. “Daddy loves you.”
Monet quietly stirred the pot while staring at him. Having his daughters present might be the only thing keeping his wife from cursing him out. Monet turned her back to him. Suddenly the room became cold.
Kingston picked up Nairobi. He lowered his cheek toward Israel. “Give Daddy a kiss.”
“How long are you here for, Daddy?” Nairobi asked, hugging his neck.
Easing her to her feet, Kingston didn’t answer. Monet didn’t look over her shoulder at him.
“Girls, go read for twenty minutes,” Monet said with her back to them.
Pretending to hold a cell to her ear, Nairobi tilted her head, then stared at her dad. “When is Grandma getting off of vacation?” Nairobi questioned her mother.
Israel added, “Yeah, she’s been gone forever. We miss her,” motioning as though she’d placed a backpack over her shoulders.
A couple of days past two weeks was how long he’d been living at the Airbnb with Theodore. Kingston knew that Monet was aware that Mama-T was not vacationing. Mama-T was at her home less than five minutes away.
Whatever had happened between his mother-in-law and his wife wasn’t his fault. Kingston retrieved his cell from his pocket, then messaged Mama-T, I’m in Columbia at the house, come by. My girls want to see you.
Are you spending the night with her? I didn’t fly with you to Columbus to stay in this fancy Baltimore hotel by myself. Don’t make me come get my—, Th
eodore messaged.
Kingston approached Monet. “Do you want me here?” he asked in front of their girls. Putting his arms around her waist, he kissed the top of her head.
“Mommy, say yes,” Nairobi excitedly said.
Monet looked at the girls. If they’d gone upstairs to do as she’d told them, they’d almost be finished. She knew how to get the girls out of sight. “Get your backpacks from behind the sofa and take them to your room.”
Israel’s and Nairobi’s eyes widened. They raced to the living room.
“Thank you, Daddy!” Israel shouted.
“Oh, my gosh! I finally got a phone! Thanks, Dad!” Nairobi screamed.
“Up. Now,” Monet said, then added, “Or I’m taking everything.”
The girls vanished immediately.
Shuffling to the left without giving him eye contact, Monet flatly replied, “It’s your house, Kingston.”
“I know that, but the way you’re acting, it doesn’t feel that way. You want me to leave?” he asked.
Monet remained silent.
“I hear ya. It’s cool. Why don’t I give you your space.” Kingston moved closer to the living room.
He needed his wife to fight for him like Theodore had done. Kingston needed to be needed.
Monet picked up a butcher’s knife, sliced an eggplant into strips, layered them inside of a clear plastic container, poured marinade on top, then placed it in the refrigerator.
Kingston pressed his lips together. Watched his wife stir the pot again. “Monet.”
He’d feel better if she’d curse him. Slap his face. Cry. Something.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he told her.
Monet didn’t acknowledge him.
CHAPTER 20
Monet
No mention of finding them a home. No conversation about when he’d planned to relocate them to Atlanta. And she was supposed to be happy to see him?
Monet turned off the burner, poured a glass of red wine, positioned the bottle within arm’s reach. Sitting at the island, she inhaled Kingston’s cologne. The loudest voice she heard was inside her head. What happened to the man she married?
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