Page 45 of The Stepbrother 2: Noah

I reached out and ran a thumb across her soft lips, then wiped a stray eyelash from her cheek. “Thank you for allowing me,” I smirked. Truth was, I told her I was coming, then listened to her tell me all the reasons I shouldn't, and in the end, I told her I was coming. And here I was.

She glared back, slapping my hand away. “I’m serious. I don’t need you doing the he-man shit your crazy ass is good at. I don’t need you saving me. Behind those doors,” she pointed, “voices will be raised, and threats might be made. I work with volatile individuals. Don’t let them trigger you into thinking you need to protect me. I carry my protection on me.” She patted the purse she was holding, “and know how to handle it, just like my daddy taught me. In here, I’m not your wife. I’m HNIC.” She declared.

My eyebrow rose at her acronym.

She nodded, “Yes. Head nigga because these niggas signed to this label, Black, Brown, or White, don’t respect bitches and pussies. they fuck them and discard them. It’s 90% males on my roster, from some of the worst places in the US. God-daddy didn’t deal with posers. These men have done and do what theyrap about. If I go in here and lose their respect because my husband, a white boy at that, feels he needs to step up and defend me, I’ll never gain it back. So back down your unhinged alpha man when you feel him about to take over and let me handle what goes on in my company.”

I raised my hand in my defense. “I’ll let you handle it all.” I was half lying. I would let her deal with what I saw fit. I had read about the controversies going on behind the record label's doors when Lil Compton was still alive. There was infighting, backstabbing. One artist had actually put a hit out on Lil Compton for parting ways with him and was now in prison doing twenty-five years for conspiracy to commit murder. That wouldn’t be happening to Creed. That's why I came. If the first day didn't go smoothly, she was about to spend the next eight months away from the office.

Her phone rang. She looked at it, then turned it in my direction. It was her mother. She had been calling back to back since we left. They hadn’t known we’d been at the jail until our pictures started popping up in news feeds and on social media. The cat was out of the bag. The world now knew Creed and I were married.

Creed frowned and pressed end. We had agreed we weren’t talking to them and going back to work. It was either-or.

“She’ll get the hint eventually,” I said.

Creed sighed, then tapped on the window. The SUV door opened, and she slid out as I exited the vehicle and met her at the double doors that led into her record label. Pulling them open, I let her walk in.

"Welcome to Death Row," she threw over her shoulder, then laughed before heading to the elevator. I was confused becausethe label she ran was called Compton Ave. I found out later why she said what she said.

Biting back a scowl, I watched rapper 727 size Creed up. She was giving a PowerPoint presentation about his record sales. He wasn’t even discreet about how he eyed her. He’d barely flicked me a glance when he and his manager entered, but his eyes stayed glued to Creed's thighs, ass, or hips. I couldn’t blame him. She had so many appealing parts. I found every inch of her 'fine as fuck,' as she would say. When he licked his lips seductively at her, I had to tilt my water bottle to my mouth and take a long gulp, remembering what Creed had said earlier to keep from saying something.

The guy he introduced as his manager—I couldn’t remember his name—tapped him on the shoulder to grab his attention. He whispered something in 727’s ear. 727, or Montae Jenkins, nodded, his wicks—as Creed called them—bouncing around his head as he interrupted her. “So forget all that. When is my new album coming out? I need my advance.”

Creed took a deep breath before turning to face him. The smile on her face was one hundred percent fake. “We already talked about this a few days ago. When this album meets expectations. You haven’t yet paid the label back.”

She triggered him. They started arguing back and forth. “I won’t go on stage tonight. Fuck you and this record label,” he stabbed her finger into the conference table.

Creed had told me he was a handful. This was the third handful of the day, and she had two more artists to meet.

"Then I'll sue your ass, take your fucking dunks and them platinum teeth you left at home, and send you back to Jordan Park."

"I made y'all a lot of money,” he rebutted.

“If you consider being in debt a lot of money,” she spat, without raising her voice again, only arching her eyebrows upward.

“Bitch, you better—” 727 started.

Calling her a bitch put a sour taste in my mouth. I couldn’t help myself. I interrupted. “Watch how you talk to my wife.” I leaned further back into the office chair. The table and 727’s chair scraped as he stood. Why were so many angry rappers so small? Napoleon complex maybe? He couldn’t have been more than 5’8, one hundred seventy pounds. I wanted to punch him in his trachea, but I also wanted to make a point that he would not forget.

"And if I don’t?” he huffed, cocking his head. Creed and his manager were both speaking, but I couldn’t hear anything above the blood rushing in my ears. As soon as he entered my space, I grabbed him by the collar of his Gucci shirt. The entire conference room was made of glass. I slammed his head into a panel with one hand. My other hand had a firm grip on the Desert Eagle that was pointed at his manager. “I will toss your ass out this fucking window and won’t see a day in prison for it because you're a fucking malcontent, and everybody will know you deserved it. So lower your voice and watch your fucking tone, or next time we have a talk like this, you’ll meet the fucking concrete below.” I was so angry. Who did he think he fucking was? She was the one giving him the opportunities.

Creed pulled me away from him. He and his manager left the room in a hurry. She stared at me in disbelief. “What in the hell, Noah? Did you snort insanity before you came in here?”

I shook my head. “This is not going to work, Creed. We’re going to have an evil child if you stay here, fussing and fighting. Oryou’ll stroke out. High blood pressure during pregnancy and gestational diabetes run in your family. You don’t need this.”

Her eyebrows were on her forehead. “How do you know these things about my family’s medical history?”

"I called your grandmother, but that’s beside the point. Get your stuff, and let's go."

She hesitated. I cut my eyes at her. "I can embarrass you and carry you out?" She rolled her eyes before going to do what I said.

Creed-

Noah had me sitting between his spread legs, my back to his sweat-slicked chest. He was using two thick fingers, tracing slow, deliberate circles around my clit while his free hand played with my titties. This was too much, I thought as I coasted into another orgasm.

A breathless “Oh…” escaped my lips. “I’m cumming,” I panted, my legs shaking.

His fingers sped up. “Baby, thank you for cumming for me again,” he praised, talking me through my orgasm.

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