Page 29 of Crash: Love in Scrubs
I nodded, pulling out my phone to finish the florist order I’d started earlier, red roses, mini carnations, white Asiatic lilies, Peruvian lilies, baby’s breath, and greenery. Elegant but not too much.
“That’s perfect,” Winnie said, peeking at my screen. “She’ll love those. Shows effort without screamingtry-hard.”
“Good. I want to get this right.”
“Just be yourself. The confident, smooth-talking man she’s already falling for and can’t stop talking about, but you did not hear that from me.”
“Anything else I should know?”
Winnie paused. “She’s gonna test you. Not on purpose. It’s her way of protecting herself. Don’t take it personal.”
“I’m already handling that.”
And I was.
LT was gonna have to keep it cute with me and save that bossy shit for the firehouse. Because I was coming for her, and I wasn’t letting up until she stopped being scared of liking a man who didn’t play about his life, his peace, or his people.
Never had.
“And one more thing, but I’m sure you know this, Samaj is her heart. You mess with that boy, it’s a wrap. But if you treat him right, you’ll have her loyalty and respect forever.”
“That was already a given. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She brushed me off, unclipped the cape, and I checked myself out in the mirror. Clean cut. Sharp beard. Ready.
“You killed this shit, Winnie. And I appreciate the intel.”
“Just don’t make me regret it. And when you marry my girl, I’d better be in the wedding.”
I laughed, pulling out my wallet. “When, not if.”
I left her a generous tip and dipped, feeling more locked in than ever. Winnie just confirmed what I already knew, Sametra was it. I had to show her she was worth fighting for.
I timed my cut perfectly. By the time I got home, I hopped in the shower, pulled my outfit together, and heard my phone buzz on the counter.
LT: I love them. So perfect.
I was already wearing her down. But I smiled that she loved them. That’s exactly what I wanted.
Tonight, I went with Tom Ford Oud Wood, rich, smoky, with just enough spice to leave an impression. I’d seen the way she looked at me at the hospital, how her nose flared just a little when I leaned in too close. She knew how I smelled. But I wanted her to remember it. I wanted it on her clothes, and it stuck in her thoughts for days.
I kept it casual, but I always put that shit on fresh Jordan 1s, dark jeans ripped just enough at the knees, a fitted black long-sleeved tee that clung to my chest and arms just right, showing the work I’d put in and the ink I usually kept tucked under scrubs. I threw on my red leather jacket and layered a gold chain over my shirt.
This wasn’t Dr. Holloway. This was Malik, the man behind the credentials. The son Yolanda Holloway, raised to handle business, be smart, get out the hood, but never forget where he came from. Butler Terrace was a jungle, and not everyone made it out. But my mama meant it when she said I had to keep my head on straight, or she’d take that motherfucker off. I kept my nose clean, but a project baby would always be a project baby. I was never going to be ashamed of where I came from.
I headed into the garage and uncovered my motorcycle, wiping it down with a clean cloth. I didn’t get on it often anymore, between work and my mom’s constant worry about me riding, but it was a toy I played with from time to time. The matte black Ducati Diavel sat there like a sleeping beast. Loud, fast, and just my speed.
I hoped Sametra didn’t freak out, but when you talked about adrenaline, there was nothing like a motorcycle burning rubber at a light. Plus, I wanted to slowly get her comfortable trusting herself again. Even more than that I wanted her to trust me. PTSD wasn’t easy, and it never really went away. But Ididn’t want her doubting herself or her abilities because of one accident.
Tonight was about showing her she could still feel that rush without the fear.
When I made it to Sametra’s, I slid my helmet under my arm and made my way to the door. I wasn’t nervous, I didn’t do nerves, but I was charged up. Anticipating. My girl had that energy about her, that soft-but-stern presence that made a man want to do right and do damage all at once.
I knocked on the door and held my breath, hoping she didn’t freak out about the bike. When she opened the door, I stepped back, bit my lip, and extended my hand to twirl her around.
“Damn, baby.”
She was so fucking beautiful it hurt. Black capri leggings hugged every curve, giving a perfect outline of her shape, and the black bandeau top showed off her toned shoulders and the intricate tattoo that covered her entire back. The ink was gorgeous, some kind of floral design that wrapped around her spine, and it made me want to trace every line with my tongue. The little heeled sandal she wore that exposed French-tipped toes had me imagining myself nibbling on her ankle while they rested on my shoulders. Her hair was so beautiful in a ponytail with curls flowing from it.
