“Face-to-face as promised, Ms. Atkins,” he said when he saw her. “Y’all all settled? You need me to hit you back later?”
She shook her head. “No, I just put them down. They’re sleeping.”
“So, we doing this Grey’s thing or what?” he asked.
“Over FaceTime, Ahmeek?” she shrieked. “You won’t know what’s going on. It’s sweet of you to try, though. To keep your word.”
“You want to see my face when I’m talking to you. You call the plays, Mo,” he said. His phone was in an awkward position, sitting in his lap so he could drive and speak at the same time.
“Ahmeek, get off the phone before you die,” she said. “I’d rather you be alive for me to give you a hard time.”
The smile that broke across his stern face elicited one from her. “A’ight, Mo. Yo, thanks for the memories. The zoo. The little people hanging all over me. The pretty girl spending all my bread on henna and face paint…”
“I told you I would pay!” she protested.
“Never that,” he shot back. “Sleep well, Ms. Atkins.”
“I will. Be safe, Meek.” She didn’t know where he was going or what he was about to get into, but if he was still in the same business as he had been in two years ago, then he needed to be reminded. He needed to be prayed for. God, please keep him safe. Her heart sank to her stomach, because when did Ahmeek become the nigga she prayed for? Morgan’s gut churned.
Her finger lingered before she pressed End, but he disconnected the call. Morgan flopped down on her bed and then let her back fall against her mattress. Eyes to the ceiling, head in the clouds, Morgan felt herself turning into a dreamer again. Morgan felt herself veering toward a danger zone, and she was speeding toward disaster.
11
The heart of a woman was like the ocean, so deep and full of caverns, where treasure lay in wait. It took a brave person to try to excavate those hidden places, to explore those depths, and Morgan could feel Ahmeek traversing troubled waters, trying to discover her riches. His charm was unintentional. It was natural for him to bleed charm onto women. It was as natural as breathing to him, and Morgan could feel the agonizing attraction sparking inside her. Her phone rang, and she answered it so quickly she didn’t bother to screen the call.
“I need to talk to you…,” she said, the words rushing out in a breathy jumble as if she were tired, running. Because she was. She was running from this feeling, from the butterflies that filled her at just the idea that he was on the other line. Just the thought that the sixty seconds that had passed since they’d hung up had unbearable for him too.
“I need to talk to you too, beautiful. I’ve been thinking about talking to you all day.”
Morgan frowned as she pulled her face away from the phone, looking at it, checking the name on her screen.
“Bash…” A sigh of disappointment left her lips.
“I just wanted to call and tell you good night,” he said. “I’m going to try to get over there soon. Wrapping up a few things at Cambridge, and then I’ll be free to travel.”
“Yeah, of course. No rush,” she said.
His voice and the making of plans and such reminded her that she belonged to someone. She had a life, and a man, and he had a plan for her life, an itinerary for her to follow. A ready-made royal family for her to join.
“I love you, Morgan,” he said.
“You too,” she answered. Always you too. Never I love you too, because she didn’t want to lie. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him, but the type of love Bash was expecting, she couldn’t reciprocate. She wouldn’t ever be able to.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. He was gone before Morgan could say more, but he had brought her back down to reality.
Morgan turned off her phone, showered, and then put on a satin black robe before getting comfortable in bed. After a long day of adulting, it felt great to rest her body, but her mind wouldn’t comply. Seeing Ahmeek handle her children with such ease, seeing his gangster soften almost to putty when dealing with them, made Morgan emotional. They didn’t even belong to him, and the interaction was breathtaking. She wondered what life could have been like if Messiah were still alive. If he were in their children’s lives. He had been so damaged that she didn’t know if he had the capability of being a father. She had thought so, but after discovering his truths, she truly didn’t know at all. Everything happens for a reason. If he was supposed to be here, he would be here. He was no good for me. He wanted to hurt me. God, how could he have wanted to hurt me when all I wanted to do was love him? I was such a fool.
The television played, but it was watching Morgan because she couldn’t focus. Two hours of overthinking was torture, and sleep was a joke … she hadn’t slept in years. The unexpected knock at her door pulled her to her feet. The clock shone that it was close to midnight, and she sat up in bed, slightly alarmed. She hustled to the door before the sound could wake her twins. Eye to the peephole, her breath caught in her chest. She opened the door.
“So, you think you no longer need permission to pull up, huh?” she asked, unable to keep up the resting bitch face that would make him think she was serious. Her heart lightened at the sight of Ahmeek.
“Nah, I don’t think that, Mo,” he said. He gripped a greasy paper bag in his hand. It smelled divine.
“Did you handle your business? Livi, I think it was?” she asked.
Ahmeek licked that bottom lip and put his free hand behind his neck, rubbing, like the question was stressful, like his answer was important.
“I wouldn’t leave you to handle that, Morgan,” he said.
“I mean, you don’t owe me no explanations. We’re friends. I get it. You have a life. You have women. People who need you,” she said.
“Morgan. Am I with them or am I standing here in front of you right now with shrimp fried rice, extra egg, extra shrimp—but only if the shrimp are deveined; otherwise, make it veggie fried?”
Morgan’s eyes sparkled in amusement at the recanting of her difficult food order.
“How the hell do you remember the craziest stuff about me?” She laughed.
“You ordered it every Friday night. We had pizza. You had Chinese. I remember, Morgan. Now, you gon’ let me in or what?”
She stepped to the side, and he slid past her, body so close to hers that Morgan couldn’t breathe. He stopped directly in front of her, looking down at her.
“Your bourgeoise ass.” He snickered. She pushed past him playfully, and he closed the door before following her to the kitchen.
“I’ll grab plates and forks. We can eat in my room. Grey’s is already on,” she said.
Meek sat on the floor at the foot of her bed, back leaned against the mattress. Morgan climbed onto the comforter, belly down, putting her head at the end near his shoulder.
He opened one of the origami-type boxes and opened the chopsticks, breaking them apart, then passing them over his shoulder. He passed her food off next and then dug into his own meal. She leaned over his shoulder, reaching for his box.
“Nigga, gone. My shrimp got veins, greedy ass,” he said, laughing.
Morgan hollered in laughter. “Give me some, stingy!” she shouted as she reached farther, falling off the bed and into him.
He chuckled as she held her stomach in hilarity. His baritone hopped around as he laughed too and that smile. White teeth. Chocolate skin. The kindest eyes she’d ever seen. Morgan felt a level of comfort that surpassed any she had ever felt before. Ahmeek was normally stoic, serious—glowering, even—but when it was just the two of them, he was playful. He was lighthearted, and she wondered who else had seen him this way.
“Here, man,” he groaned, passing his pint of rice.
She smiled wide and stuck out her tongue, then dug her chopsticks into his carton.
“So fucking spoiled,” he mocked, shaking his head.
She smirked. “People find it hard to tell me no.”
“Soft niggas. I’ma tell your ass no often j
ust so you remember what the fuck it sounds like,” Ahmeek fussed.
“Then why am I eating your food right now?” she asked, frowning in curiosity.
“Because you’re a fucking bully. You practically broke my damn shoulder diving for that box,” he answered, laughing while wiping a hand across his bearded face and wrapping four fingers behind his neck.
Morgan laughed, such a carefree sound. She hadn’t found a reason to laugh this hard in years. Who could laugh when it hurt so bad, but here she was laughing and shit?
“Here, boy. You should learn to share,” she added, folding her legs Indian-style and sitting beside him. He scooped a bite of the rice and held it up to her mouth. Morgan opened up, then nudged him with her shoulders. Meek scoffed, shaking his head before taking a bite for himself.
She pressed Play on the remote control, leaned against him, grabbed her food, and then sighed as she got lost in a fake world. They ate, and Morgan cleared the mess away, rushing to the kitchen so she didn’t miss a second of a show she’d seen at least three times already. She returned and grabbed all the pillows off her bed, making a pallet of discomfort right there on the floor.
He propped one hand behind his head, and Morgan lay in front of him because he was bigger and he would block her view. No hands, no touching. Just a friend to take some of the loneliness away. A friend who accepted who she was. A friend who didn’t try to change her.
* * *
“Thank you so much, Meek, for coming back today and for the zoo and just being great,” she said, smiling as she swept her hair behind her ear. “It just gets so fucking lonely sometimes.”
“It’s never a problem, Mo,” he replied. “I can’t believe you have kids. Seeing you today with them, in mom mode and shit. Like I’ve seen you all glammed up, I’ve even seen you in your school vibe, but man, seeing you with them. You’re a good mother, Mo.” He rubbed the top of his head, his thick eyebrows lifting in admiration while a chocolate hand traveled down his wavy head … he did all this before rolling those dark orbs back to her. “Are you happy?” He paused, and she dropped her stare, digging into her food, mixing it around. “With that cornball-ass nigga?”
Mo shrugged. “Nothing feels extreme with him. No highs or lows … just average … I’m coasting in the middle lane.” Her words trailed, and her mind wandered to a time when every day of her life had been intensified. When she had given 100 percent of herself. She no longer did that. She would never do that again. She didn’t trust anyone enough to ever give them all of her. That’s how you ended up hurt. She wouldn’t invite heartbreak a second time around. Bash loved her more than she would ever love him. It gave her the advantage in their relationship. She wasn’t susceptible to heartbreak when it came to him.
“You ain’t average, though, Mo. By far. I know that’s the father of your kids and all, no disrespect…”
Her heart seized in her chest. It was one of the moments that she knew would come. She had anticipated it since the day Yara and Messari were born. To tell the truth or to lie. Bash had been by her side for the past two years. He was the only father her babies knew. They went to him when they cried. Smiled at him when he entered a room. He was good to them and for her. He was safe, and Morgan couldn’t let anything get in the way of that. It was the smart choice, the sure bet. She couldn’t blow up her entire world by admitting that the twins were Messiah’s flesh and blood. She wasn’t lying. She was omitting, and she would have to be comfortable with that.
“None taken,” Mo whispered, still avoiding his gaze because looking in Meek’s eyes made her feel transparent. She couldn’t tell him that Messiah was the father of her twins. She couldn’t tell anyone. Bash was making a legitimate woman out of her. He loved her. His family had accepted her. They were helping her get through school and setting her up for the future. They were supporting her. She had to keep up the façade. Let the world think he was the father and that they were in love. She loved him, but in love … Mo would never allow herself to be submerged in something as deep as love ever again. It wasn’t Bash’s fault. That injury had come before he had. It cut deep. She had almost drowned in love before, so she was afraid to swim in its depths again.
“Press Play,” he said, lifting one side of those dark lips, revealing white teeth that broke through a lazy smile. On rare occasions when Meek allowed his guard to lower and he blessed a room with a smile, his eyes sparkled, and Mo got lost. It felt like she was gazing at stars. A hood star, but still something beautiful all the same. It was just the effect he had on women. All women from little girls to grannies. He was naturally charming—seductive, even—and Morgan shook her head. She grabbed the remote and started the show, grateful that he no longer felt the need to talk.
As the late-night hours ticked away, silence took over the room. Too tired to joke, they focused on the show. Morgan was all in. One show played after the next. She didn’t realize how late it was until she heard Ahmeek snoring lightly behind her. She sat up and turned to find him sleeping, one arm propped against his forehead, lips slightly parted. She flipped her hair out of her face as her heart sank into her stomach. It never failed. This hour of night made her sick. Every night. For the past two years. It was the Messiah shift. The time of day she had carved out for him while they were together. The sun never saw them together. She had school. He had the block. But when the moon traded places with the sun’s rays, Messiah used to push one hundred down the freeway to get to her. She worked him for an entire eight-hour shift, and he wouldn’t leave until dawn. They had made love in those midnight hours not just physically but mentally, emotionally; they had figured out how to manifest love, and it had felt so pure … until one day it proved poisonous. Fraudulent, even. Morgan’s eyes prickled as she pushed up from the floor, covering her mouth so that her sobs wouldn’t escape. Every night. Like clockwork, she cried. She rushed into the hallway, pulling her bedroom door closed before leaning against it in angst. She pushed forward, peeking in on her twins, eyes leaking unstoppable tears, before heading to her living room. Morgan pushed her couch backward, making a space in the center of her floor, directly in front of the mirror. She had to get this out. She had to dance this out. This pain. It was crippling her. Shaky hands pulled her iPhone from her back pocket, and she connected it to her Bluetooth speaker.
Play.
The soft melody filled the room. Summer Walker. She stood in the middle of the room and tilted her neck backward until her eyes met the ceiling and tears cascaded down the sides of her face, pooling in her ears.
Honestly … Honestly, I’m tryna stay focused
Morgan’s body moved. Eyes still to the ceiling as she gripped at the hem of her satin robe and moved it, pulling it as she moved her hips, slowly … a seductress … a show woman.
Morgan’s body glazed over the beat, sensually, like she had composed it herself. The mirror in front of her was her audience, and she was seducing the crowd as her hands moved over her body, ending at her hips. The way she rolled with the music was passionate like she had a point to prove. Slow. Methodic. A little off beat because Mo just couldn’t catch it like everyone else caught. She rode it differently. No other dancer processed music the way Mo did, and it made her better than everyone else. She felt her tears on her face and didn’t even bother to wipe them. They only replenished anyway. She had been crying for years. She danced them away in the middle of the night because it was the only time she could do so without Bash judging her.
Give it to me like you need it, baby
Want you to hear me screaming, heavy breathing, I don’t need a reason, baby
She saw Meek emerge from the bedroom. He stopped in the hallway, gripping the header of the doorframe. He lingered there, and Mo kept dancing. Kept crying. He had already seen her, so why stop? She couldn’t if she’d wanted to.
Her face was destroyed, emotion painting the torture that she felt on the inside onto her features. She was so damned sad, so angry, so lonely. The worse she felt, the better she danced. Her
choreo was otherworldly. The way she put one move in front of the other, connecting a sequence so unique it explained the story of her heart without words. She was art. The way her body moved was like a paintbrush over canvas. Morgan painted a pretty picture just with her presence, but when she felt the beat in her bones and danced, she became a masterpiece. She bounced slightly, lowering to the floor. She prowled slowly across the hardwood floor as the song changed and a sultry voice sang about shame. Mo was an expert at that. Shame. Being ashamed. Those silent sentiments raining down her face as she came to the base of him, coming up on her knees, fingertips climbing his body, until she was on her feet.
You see right through me
You see through the smile
You see straight through me
He looked down at her, and she placed her hands on his chest and dug her forehead in the center of it, crying. Meek kept his hands where they were, above his head, gripping the header. They were safe there. They couldn’t disrespect there.
“Mo,” he whispered.
“Don’t say anything, Ahmeek!” she cried. “Just shh.”
Meek looked down at her. He was struggling to keep this thing friendly, to keep it about her, but she was so fucking pretty, so alluring … putting need into the atmosphere, a need he was more than capable of filling, but he was fighting the urge because she didn’t belong to him.
“Yo, we can’t,” he said.
“I know.” Morgan barely whispered the words as she clung to him, gripping the T-shirt he wore. Her heart raced, and he brought his hands down to cup her face, swiping his thumbs across her cheeks like windshield wipers to clear the pain. Anxiety tightened her stomach, and guilt forced her eyes closed. Meek was her friend. Meek was his friend. They couldn’t take it there. They shouldn’t, but she was so lonely, and he was here, dripping in danger and aggression, with a tablespoon of finesse. God, Meek was a legend in the city, and the power, the authority, the influence … it called to her. She was made by a hustler, bred by a hustler, no way was she supposed to be with anyone other than a hustler. It was in her DNA. Like Raven Atkins and Justine before her, Morgan was purposed to sit on the throne beside a king. Trust fund money didn’t spend the same; Morgan wanted to blow a bag. She now wished she had sent Meek home. Proximity made them vulnerable. They couldn’t be regulars in each other’s lives because lines would get blurred. They were already blurred. Morgan was crossing all types of boundaries, but Meek smelled so good, he looked even better, and he made her heart race.
Butterfly Page 10
