Page 6 of The Last Man on Earth
Her face falls, the first time I see her mask slip. “So that’s a no? You don’t need anything?”
“Bring me some ice.”
She nods and walks off, leaving me pissed off. It was the mention of my mother that got me. Ain't no way she could haveknown that’s a fuckin’ sore spot for me, but it don’t matter. Now she’s on my bad side.
She returns with my ice. “Please let me know when you’re ready for champagne. Or food.”
“What I’m ready for is getting my dick wet,” I say. “I ain’t had none in—“
“Mr. Newcastle, I’m going to have to ask you to please be respectful.”
I pull out my Gucci wallet.
“Respectfully, how much would it take for you to hike that dress up and ride my dick?”
I see the moment something snaps. Her eyes flash fire as she leans closer, close enough for only me to hear. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth.”
The laughter around me tells me I’m not the only one who heard that. Even Ms. Kiara is laughing.
Heat climbs up my neck. Now I'm pissed off. The disrespect is OD.
So I fire back. “If yo old ass lives long enough, I’ma be the last man standing and you gon’ be all shriveled up at Shady Pines, bitch.”
My boys’ laughter sounds meaner now, cutting instead of playful.
Ariana pivots on her heels and stalks toward cockpit, head high, every step a silentfuck you.
I watch her go, feeling something twisting in my gut. I should feel good for getting the last word, but I don’t. I just feel…small.
She didn’t deserve that.
But with the guys still laughing, I can't show no weakness at this point.
So I smirk, throw my feet up on the seat in front of me, and point to Jahir.
“Aye, turn the music up!”
Chapter 3
Ariana
I’ve dealt with megachurchpastors, hedge fund frat boys, a super famous boy band, and drunk, rowdy footballers coming home from winning a championship. But Villain and his entourage? They take the prize.
The drunker and higher they get, the more they get on my damn nerves. They keep yelling my name. Clearly they see me as their personal servant. And Villain is the worst…snapping his fingers for another drink, telling lame, vulgar jokes, leering at me while I’m trying to do my job. I’m so tempted to go to the cockpit and tattle, but I don’t. I just paste on a smile and fetch things for them. I’m opening cans. Pouring whiskey. Lighting blunts. I wanna ask if their weed-scented fingers are broken, but I clench my jaw instead. Grin and bear it.
The only saving grace is Kiara, the photographer. She’s older than them. Older than me. I figure if I’m thirty-seven, she has to be forty-five at least. Her kind eyes find mine in the midst of all the chaos, her smile warm in the cold atmosphere of disrespect these young men have created for me.
When I hand her a ginger ale, she leans close and murmurs, “Don’t let them get to you. He acts a fool, but he’s just showin’ out. He doesn’t mean it.”
I give her a nod and retreat, completely uninterested in her boy mom sensibilities. Villain and his friends are fucking assholes, and I won’t be goaded into thinking otherwise.
“Aye, you like this beat? That’s my next single.”
I stop in my tracks, turning around to face the ringleader of this ghetto circus. “It’s okay,” I say. “I typically listen to R&B.”
His face balls up. “The sample is R&B.”
I shrug. “I’m focused on doing my job right now. I don’t even hear the music. It’s not personal.”
