In These Streets

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In These Streets Page 19

by Shelly Ellis


  Jamal felt sick to his stomach. His heart was racing.

  “Can I continue to rely on your cooperation? I’m willing to accept your word on it.”

  “Y-yes, sir,” Jamal replied, “you can . . . can depend on me.”

  “Good. I’m glad we understand each other. And you never know, there could be a benefit in the end for you in all of this.” He slapped his desk. “I’m glad we had this conversation, but I really have some work I need to finish and a few more phone calls I have to make.”

  “Uh, sure. Sure. I should be heading home anyway. I’ll let you get to your work.” Jamal pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He began to walk toward the closed door. His legs were unsteady with each step he took.

  “Oh, and Sinclair!” the mayor called out as he tugged the door open. “Learn to use a little more stealth when you’re asking questions. It’s not enough to be smart. You need to learn to be cunning, too, if you really plan to have a future in this world.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamal whispered.

  * * *

  Jamal’s drive home was a trying one. He almost clipped a car while changing lanes and barely missed hitting a pedestrian who had stepped into the crosswalk just as he was about to make a right-hand turn.

  “You almost killed me!” the woman screamed and Jamal held up his hands and mouthed “Sorry” at her through his windshield. She gave him a sneer and kept walking.

  He was distracted during the entire drive. His mind kept harkening back to his conversation with the mayor.

  Though Mayor Johnson had claimed he wasn’t threatening him, that’s exactly what the older man had done. He had basically told Jamal that his life would be in danger if he decided to do anything with the info he had gathered. So would Bridget’s.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Derrick had warned him to quit, to walk away when he still had the chance. Why hadn’t he listened?

  As Jamal stepped through his front door, shut it behind him, and dropped his keys in the ceramic bowl in their entry way, he heard the sound of laughter. It was Bridget’s.

  “Oh, come on! That’s cheating,” she said between giggles.

  “No, it’s not!” a familiar male voice answered. “I’m just better at it than you are.”

  Jamal closed his eyes and silently groused. Bridget’s ex, Blake, was here. Of course that bastard psychically knew the worst possible day to show up at their apartment. Jamal wasn’t in the mood to put up with Blake or any of his bullshit.

  He yanked off his suit jacket and strode down the hall into their kitchen where he found Bridget standing at the kitchen island with a wineglass in her hand. Blake was sitting on one of the stools with a half-filled glass at his elbow. They were both huddled over Bridget’s iPad.

  “Oh, honey, you’re home!” she said, looking up from the screen and grinning ear-to-ear. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

  “I can see that,” Jamal replied dryly as he loosened the knot in his tie and walked toward them.

  “Blake was in town this weekend and decided to stop by. We were wasting time on the goofiest app game until you got home.”

  “You’re only calling it goofy because you’re losing,” Blake chided before sipping white wine from his glass and tapping the iPad screen.

  “Anyway,” Bridget said, playfully slapping Blake’s shoulder, “he wants to take us out to dinner at this new Greek place downtown I’ve been wanting to try for months. We have to leave here in the next fifteen minutes to make our reservations.”

  “My treat, bro! It’s my way of saying thanks for you guys taking me to that Creole place with Bridge’s parents last month.”

  “I appreciate that, Blake, but . . . uh . . . not tonight. I’m beat. I had a . . . a pretty rough day. Sorry, but I’m gonna have to skip dinner.”

  “I understand.” Blake shrugged. “Well, maybe you and me could go, Bridge. No point in the reservations going to waste. I’m sure Sinclair won’t mind—would you, Sinclair?”

  Actually, I would mind, Jamal thought. I’ve had the worst fucking evening and I’d like to talk to my girlfriend about it.

  But he didn’t say the words aloud. He didn’t want to come off like the overbearing boyfriend. Instead, he turned to Bridget, hoping that she would pick up on the mental vibes he was sending her way, hoping she would pick up on the fact that he needed her desperately at that moment.

  “It’s up to you, sweetheart,” he said, trying to sound casual. “I won’t hold you back if you really want to go.”

  He watched as Bridget glanced between him and Blake. “Well, okay, I’ll go to dinner. But only because you already made the reservation. I just won’t stay out that late.”

  “Why? Is it a school night?” Blake asked with a snicker.

  She set down her wineglass, walked around the counter, and stood in front of Jamal. “Thanks for being such a great guy, sweetie!”

  “No problem,” he whispered.

  She looped her arms around his neck, rose to the balls of her feet, and gave him a quick peck. “I’ll bring you back some baklava.” She then released him and turned to look at Blake. “Guess we better head out.”

  “Guess so,” he said with a nod before finishing the last of his wine.

  “Bye, honey,” Bridget called as she grabbed her coat off the back of one of the stools and strolled toward the front door.

  “Catch you later, bro,” Blake said, slapping Jamal hard on his back, making his jaw clench.

  Chapter 22

  Derrick

  “Are you ready?” Morgan asked, poking her head into Derrick’s office.

  “Yeah,” Derrick called back, glancing at her over his laptop screen, “just give me a couple more minutes to finish up. I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby.”

  She nodded before disappearing back into the hall. He could hear her receding footsteps and the squeak of tennis shoes from the boys who ran up and down the corridor. Most of them were headed to the courtyard to hang out with their friends or play ball, or they were on their way downstairs to the cafeteria to get in line for dinner.

  Derrick and Morgan were about to grab dinner themselves.

  They had dinner at least twice a week now, walking to one of the local carry-outs or driving to a restaurant or bar downtown. They’d started doing it after he’d stayed and worked late one night. Metro delays had left Morgan stranded at the office, too.

  “Might as well grab something to eat if we’re stuck here. Or am I being inappropriate again?” she had chided playfully.

  The truth was he liked having dinner with Morgan. He liked her easy conversation and how she made him laugh.

  It was an alternative to what it was like to eat dinner with Melissa nowadays—when they did manage to eat dinner together. Most of the time he ate alone at the dinner table or in front of the television while she ate in their home office, grading papers or going over her lesson plans while handing over bits of food to Brownie.

  He suspected hiding in her office was her excuse to avoid having to eat dinner with him in silence. After a while, he started to eat dinner before he got home so he could avoid the whole awkward situation. At least, when he ate dinner with Morgan, he wasn’t eating alone.

  Derrick finished the last email and shut down his laptop. When the screen went black, he rose to his feet, grabbed his satchel, and walked toward his office door. He stepped into the hall and noticed one of the boys walking past. He recognized the young man’s lanky build and his confident gait.

  “Hey, Cole!” he called out and the young man turned around to look at him.

  “Oh, hey, Mr. Derrick!” Cole said, halting in his steps.

  Cole was only a few inches shorter than Derrick but had to weigh about fifty pounds less. Maybe he would fill out in the future, but for now he was all bones and wiry muscle. Derrick still marveled at the fact that Cole had bucked to Tory, who had to be about two hundred pounds of pure muscle, in order to defend Morgan.

  “How�
�s it going, Cole?”

  “It’s all good. No complaints.” Cole shrugged.

  They both stared at one another awkwardly.

  Since the fight in Morgan’s workshop class and since Morgan had told him about Cole’s status among the other boys, Derrick had been keeping a closer eye on the newest addition to the Institute. He had asked Cole’s other teachers how he was doing in his classes, and they all said he was doing fine.

  “He’s a smart kid. Everybody likes him,” the English instructor had told Derrick only last week.

  Derrick observed how the other boys behaved around Cole, and while it was true that Cole seemed to command respect from most, if not all, of the other boys at the Institute, Derrick still couldn’t find anything so out of the ordinary about it that it warranted his intervention.

  He was just a well-liked kid.

  “Where you headed?” Derrick now asked him.

  “To get in the dinner line,” Cole said, pointing to the stairwell. “I heard they’re serving corndogs tonight. I was trying to get down there early before they run out.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I was gonna head out and grab some dinner, too. Mind if I walk down with you?”

  Cole shook his head. “Nah, I don’t mind.”

  They walked to the end of the hall and Cole pushed open the stairwell door. He took the lead and Derrick brought up the rear as they walked down the stairs to the floor below.

  “So how are things going for you, Cole? Settling in okay here?”

  Cole nodded absently. “Yeah, everyone’s cool. I thought coming here might suck, but it’s better than I thought it would be. Everybody here seems chill. Well . . .” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at Derrick. “Almost everybody.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about your run-in with Tory.”

  “It’s nothin’. He didn’t scare me none. Besides, I wasn’t going to stand by and let him disrespect Miss Owens like that. She don’t deserve that shit . . . I mean, stuff,” the young man quickly corrected.

  Derrick eyed him as they reached the next landing. “Sounds like you think highly of Miss Owens. She’s your favorite teacher here?”

  “Oh, yeah! She told me she could help me apply for colleges next year if I wanted. Miss Owens is straight up dope!”

  Derrick fought back a smile, amused to realize the young man seemed to be just a bit smitten with his workshop teacher.

  He watched as Cole shoved open the lower level steel door. They emerged into another hallway. At one end was the lobby. At the other end was a small cafeteria where the smell of tonight’s dinner wafted toward them.

  “Hey, Derrick! There you are,” Morgan said, turning away from the waiting desk and smiling at him. “Hey, Cole!”

  Cole didn’t respond to her greeting. Instead, he frowned and glanced at Derrick. “You’re going to dinner with Miss Owens?”

  Derrick nodded. When the young man’s unnerved expression didn’t budge, he raised his brows. “Is that a problem?”

  “Nah, it ain’t a problem.” Cole swallowed, making his protruding Adam’s apple bob in his skinny neck. “Just make sure you treat her right, okay?”

  Now Derrick was frowning. He opened his mouth to respond, to tell Cole that he and Morgan were just coworkers. They weren’t dating. But Cole abruptly turned around and headed in the opposite direction to the cafeteria. His easy, self-assured stroll was gone. His posture looked stiff. His head was bowed.

  Morgan walked toward Derrick. “What’s up with Cole? He looked pissed for some reason. Did something happen?”

  Derrick turned to her. “Not much. I told him you and I were headed out to dinner.”

  “And that made him mad?”

  “I think he has a crush on you.”

  “What?” She looked at the young man again and laughed. “No! He’s just a sweet kid. I told him I’d help him apply for college next year if he wanted.”

  “If you say so, Miss Owens,” he murmured as they walked back toward the lobby, making her punch his shoulder playfully.

  * * *

  A half hour later, Derrick strolled into a noisy sports bar in Northwest, holding open the glass door for Morgan as she stepped in front of him.

  “Why thank you, sir,” she said, pausing to tug off her jacket.

  They were immediately met by a waitress who ushered them to one of the high boys along the far-right wall.

  Considering Derrick had never heard of this place before, he was surprised to see how crowded it was. The voices of all the patrons even eclipsed the rock music playing on the restaurant’s speakers.

  “It got a profile or a good review in the Washington Post or somethin’, I think,” Morgan explained after climbing onto her stool and throwing her jacket over the back. “Anyway, the last time I was here, the food was bomb so I wanted to come back.”

  He nodded as he looked over the menu. “I can’t vouch for the taste but it sounds good based on what I’m seeing here.”

  They ordered their meals soon after and fell into a familiar and easy conversation that he was quickly getting used to falling into with Morgan. They talked about the boys at the Institute, her class, and the petty drama among some of the instructors. They even talked about the basketball season.

  He noticed they studiously avoided any conversation about Melissa or Morgan’s ex. They hadn’t agreed not to talk about them but for some reason their names never came up. It was a relief, actually. He was tired of complaining about how bad his relationship with Melissa had gotten lately; it was nice to talk to someone who didn’t know her and seemed to have no interest in hearing more about her.

  When their food arrived at the table, they quickly dug in. They’d ordered a platter with an assortment of buffalo wings. He’d also gotten a basket of nachos while Morgan had ordered fried pickles. As he watched her eat the pickles, closing her eyes and moaning in almost orgasmic delight, he grimaced.

  “I’m glad you like them, but those fried pickles look nasty as hell,” he said, reaching for his beer.

  “Don’t judge until you’ve walked in my shoes!” She shoved the basket of pickles toward him. “Go ahead. Take a bite.”

  “Hell naw!”

  “Oh, come on! How do you know that you don’t like it if you don’t try it?”

  “I don’t need to jump off a building to know I won’t like hitting the ground,” he replied sarcastically before taking a drink.

  She laughed, making her pretty face light up. It was almost arresting, seeing her smile like that.

  “Derrick, are you really comparing eating a damn fried pickle to jumping off a building?”

  “Both seem the same amount of crazy.” He shrugged and reached for one of the wings sitting in the plastic basket at the center of their table. He took a bite. “Why not compare ’em?” he asked between chews, licking the sauce off his lips.

  “Come on, just try it!”

  He shook his head and took another bite of chicken wing. “Nope.”

  “How about if I dip it in some Ranch?” she asked, dunking it into one of the plastic cups.

  “That makes it worse.”

  “Come on!” she said, playfully waving the fried pickle in front of his face. He tried to shove it away but she did it again, smearing Ranch dressing on his lips. She started to cackle and he couldn’t help but laugh too as he grabbed her hand, trying to wrestle the pickle away from her.

  “Dee,” he heard someone say behind him.

  He turned, still grinning, and looked over his shoulder to find Mr. Theo standing behind him, staring at him quizzically.

  Derrick’s grin withered at the sight of Melissa’s father.

  The older man’s eyes shifted from Derrick to Morgan who was still holding a pickle to Derrick’s mouth.

  “Hey!” Derrick said, dropping Morgan’s wrist like it was on fire. He quickly reached for one of the table napkins so he could wipe the dressing smeared on his bottom lip. He then hopped off his stool. “Uh, hey, how are you doing, Mr. Theo?”
r />   He embraced him stiffly.

  “I’m . . . doing okay. Me and Lucas were just grabbing something to eat,” Mr. Theo said. His gaze still lingered on Morgan. He broke it to point off into the distance at one of the booths across the restaurant. “Lucas was in the mood for some buffalo wings.”

  “This is a good place get them,” Morgan volunteered. “They’re really good here. I’d recommend the blackberry jalapeño wings.”

  “Is that so?” Mr. Theo asked, staring at her again with unmasked interest.

  “Uh, this is Morgan. She’s the new woodshop instructor at the Institute,” Derrick muttered, feeling embarrassed for some reason, like Mr. Theo had caught him in the middle of doing something wrong or unseemly. But he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He and Morgan were simply eating dinner—that’s it.

  Nothing wrong with that, he told himself.

  “Morgan, this is Mr. Theo Stone. He used to be director of Boys’ Institute before I came on board.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, leaping to her feet, offering her hand for a shake. “Oh, man! It’s so good to meet you! Derrick has told me so much about you.”

  “Has he now?” Mr. Theo asked, shaking her hand and giving a side glance at Derrick. “Well, what did he say?”

  “He said you had a big influence on him. He’s worried he can’t fill your shoes, but I told him he’s got nothing to worry about,” she said, rubbing Derrick’s shoulder and gazing up at him. “He’s a good guy. Stuff like this comes to him naturally.”

  “Yeah, Dee is definitely a good guy—an honest one, too,” Mr. Theo said.

  At those words, Derrick blanched a little.

  Was Mr. Theo calling him out, right in front of Morgan? She knew she was talking to Derrick’s mentor, but Derrick had neglected to mention that Mr. Theo was also his fiancée’s father. All of Morgan’s smiling and touching couldn’t be making the best impression on the older man. It had to be leading him to the wrong conclusion about what was going on between Derrick and her.

 

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