Page 24 of Saint Baptiste 2

I was pathetic.

Very.

Well, not me per se. She was. Sad Girl KiKi. I didn’t do this. I was practically begging for sex. I was seething with desperation, and it had nothing to do with what he had between his legs or what he could do for me. Because the reality of it was that he couldn’t do shit for me. But keep me company. But distract me. But stop me from doing who I really wanted to do.

That magician.

Just as I was about to reduce myself to the lows of asking a man to fuck me, my integrity was saved by bright lights pulling up behind us. With a squint, I looked over my shoulder, and tried to make out the car, but I couldn’t. Lights were too bright, and I was too damn drunk.

“Expecting somebody?” Chase asked, his voice losing that subtle calmness from before. “Got a boyfriend I should know bout?”

I glanced at him, huffed, and unbuckled my seatbelt. “No.”

“Mmh,” He grunted, steady studying his rearview mirror. I noticed as he slickly reached over to the middle console for his gun. “Well, whoever just got out of their car. If it’s a guy, just know... If this ends up bad, I won’t be the one leaving in a body bag. So, I’ll ask again?—”

“Nigga, shut the fuck up,” I annoyingly interrupted, with a heavy eye roll. “Please!”

He made me nervous.

I didn’t get nervous. Not about niggas. Not when I was a single woman who did what the fuck she pleased. But, despite being single, there was this one particular nigga who thought he owned me who would see me drunk, sitting in this car, with this man, and think something of it. And I really didn’t want that. I wasn’t in that space with him.

“I’m just sayin,” Chase continued. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you baby girl.”

I took a deep breath, grabbed my purse, opened the door, and got out. Fuck it. If it was Saint, I’d rather face him head on than for him to walk up to the car and be greeted by this soft ass nigga and his gun.

But it wasn’t Saint.

It was Sienna. And she was pissed.

CHAPTER 6

SAINT

“Yeah, Jackie?” I groggily answered with my eyes closed. “It’s seven in the morning and you’ve called me?—

“Ugh! That’s how you answer your phone? Bonjou!” Every single time my cousin Jacqueline called me, she was the same. Excited. Always had too much fuckin’ energy. It was too early for that shit. “Where are your manners?”

“Good morning, Jackie,” I greeted through a sigh as I massaged my temples.

“That’s a little better,” she complained. “The email I sent you. You never got back to me on it?—”

With dipped brows, I interrupted. “Email? What email?”

She didn’t say anything. The only thing I got from her was a sigh. Good. I appreciated the brief moment of silence. I used it as an opportunity to look for the email she sent me.

The Baptiste Family Business was a very well-oiled machine. Everyone played a role. Although the women didn’t get their hands dirty, the role they played was important too. They were nurtures. They took care of us. It took me getting into this role to truly see just how valuable they were. Growing up, I only appreciated the meals and the cultural wisdom but there was a major shift once I was appointed head of the family. They oiled the machine that made sure it ran efficiently. Without them, there would be no machine.

When we went from the typical street shit, to occupying spaces Pops ‘nem never even dreamt of, it was that nurturing that kept us afloat. Eventually, it went from simple suggestions to actually giving the women positions to help the men stay on course. We didn’t need righthand men because we had them. I had Jacqueline. She was assigned to us. Samuel’s descendants. Jahad rarely used her. However, I wasn’t as polished as that nigga. Jackie for sure had her work cut out with me. She stayed busy. But... she liked it. I gave her something to do.

“What is this?” I asked, confused. “What?—

“You can’t read?” She responded, repaying my rudeness with attitude.

“I can read very fuckin’ well, Jacqueline. I’m not?—

“You’re being honored. The event is in a month and a half. You should prepare a speech. You have a fitting with the tailor Tuesday. I was thinking, something custom made? For the both of you. And?—”

“I don’t have a plus one,” I interrupted.

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