Page 23 of Our Mother's Sons

“Willing to end a chapter in my life that is the worst in my book.”

He swerved around a box truck and pushed the pedal to the metal.

“No need to thank me. I ain’t do shit. Now, when I kill that nigga for you. I’ll take a thank you. I have you know I take my thank you’s from pretty women in the form of fellatio.”

My cheeks warmed as I laughed. He joined in on it, too.

“Real shit. I ain’t had a nut since you put the Harlem shake on a nigga.”

Slapping his arm, he leaned into the door, trying to dodge me.

“No cap. But aye, check on the food back there. I think I knocked the shit over. When I smoke, ima need that.”

Turning in my seat, I noticed that he’d indeed knocked over the food. Once I sat it upright, a doll, half-drank bottle, and a pamper had my heart rate accelerating.

“You have a daughter?”

I asked as I turned back around. There was so much shit that Dutton had done to me and certain things gave me anxiety like anything baby related. I tried not to freak out around him because I did want to end my night with his dick down my throat. I didn’t remember seeing any baby stuff the first time I came over, but then again, I was so drunk and freaked out, as he and my cousin called it, that I hadn’t paid attention to the details.

“Yeah. I’d just secured a babysitter and was headed to let my stylist braid my hair. My grandma gone fuck me up when I come back with the same head. Unless you can braid?”

“Even though I have all this thick hair, I’m afraid I can’t. All I know how to do is wash and go.”

Baela could do a little something, but the hair bug had never bitten me.

“How old is your daughter?” I swallowed, trying to calm my nerves.

“She, uh. A couple months.”

My head snapped in his direction as he turned into his gigantic, modern beach home, which was breathtaking.

“You don’t know how old your daughter is? If I were her mama I would kick your ass,” I half joked.

“Shit she close to a year. That’s all that matters anyway. All that month to month shit is for the doctors and white folks.”

“It’s not,” I giggled.

“Fuck yeah it is. Muhfuckas walking around talking about their kid is twenty-nine months. Kid be damn near old enough to pay taxes and they putting months behind their age. Shit so stupid.”

I couldn’t lie; I hated it when people did that, too. Once the child hit the eleven-month mark, it was pretty much over for the numbered months.

“Will her mom mind that I’m in your front seat?” I had to toss out there. Bad enough, I didn’t know the man’s name. I didn’t need to be jumping a taken man’s bones. Plus, bitches didn’t play about their baby daddies.

“She ain’t got no mama,” he licked his lips.

“We accepting applications though. For the good kind. The ones that put her kids first. We ain’t fucking with deadbeats.”

Everything he’d said went in one ear and out the next. He was too fine for his own good. Shit.

He parked behind a tan Lamborghini, and I realized it had been the one we spotted outside Neiman’s that day. His driveway had at least seven cars in it, not to mention a six-car garage. I spotted the car he took me home in weeks ago, and my second heartbeat thudded.

“Uh, do you mind if we go on the beach?”

The first time I came here, we’d spent our time in the bedroom, but I wanted to explore his backyard this time.

“Hell yeah. The sun going down so I’m with it. Come on.”

He hopped out of the car, grabbed the food, and then grabbed my hand. We went into his home and even though it was spotless and looked like something I expected a very paid celebrity to live in with the high ceilings, chandeliers, expensive furniture and marble floors, I noticed a walkie, a few boxes of pampers and there was Similac on the counter in the kitchen along with bottles drying on a rack. He’d bought extra, so he put the rest of the food away, leaving our plates out, and then went through the kitchen to the laundry room to grab towels. When he removed his socks and hoodie, I drooled at the sight of his tatted arms in his wife-beater. I could see his chiseled chest through the thin fabric. I slid my feet out of my sandals, not wanting them to break by fighting against the sand while silently praying the sand wouldn’t be too hot on my feet. He was walking through his home while I followed like a love-sick puppy. I couldn’t imagine living in a house like this and walking around like everything was normal. Living like this was far from normal; it was a blessing. I wouldn’t ever leave the house.

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