Page 6 of The Perfect Verse
“Fuck, you did that shit again.”
“Did what?” He grinned, holding back a laugh.
“You know. Got me in here working the fuck out of these Twelve Steps.”
She chuckled, pointing her beautifully manicured index finger toward him. Despite her rather tomboy presentation, Kaleela was a stickler for clean, manicured fingernails and toenails. Any bitch she fucked with had to be clean, which included freshly manicured nails on her hands and feet.
“Naw, I’m just listening.” He feigned confusion before he broke character and laughed.
“Ugh, you play too damn much.”
Kaleela wanted to smack the shit out of his high-yellow ass. He was just as melanin-challenged as she was, rocking a full beard with dark eyes and bushy eyebrows. He was tall and lean with tattoos cast on his arms, even a few on his face. Said he’d never remove them, as they were a part of his recovery. She also appreciated that, even though he was the CEO and founder of one of the largest residential treatment programs, he remained relatable, as he wore casual street clothing, finishing off his look with a Rolex watch he’d gifted himself after five years of being clean.
“Well, I don’t have all day. What’s the actual assignment?”
“Finally, we are getting somewhere.” He clapped his hands once, then rubbed them together excitedly.
“What’s your ‘why’ for living? I don’t want superficial shit like the obvious. I want you to think about what you want to be known for, years after you’re gone, the possible legacy you leave behind outside of all that K Smooth bullshit.”
She issued a cheeky grin. “The streets gave me that shit, not me.”
“The streets also can’t protect you from you. Follow my lead now. Trust me. There’s nothing like being free in the real world but still locked up in your mind,” he relayed, lightly tapping the side of his temple. “Do that, and come and see me when you’re done. I’ll give you until the end of the month.”
“I guess. Anything else?”
“Yeah, keep coming back.”
She nodded her head. The challenge, however, was whether she was ready to dig deeper and do the work. She was terrified, and he knew it. He just prayed she’d push through.
Chapter 4
Verse Four
Heading home, Kaleela could barely see. She left Shawn’s, even more confused than she was when she entered his office. Her eyes pooled with tears, falling each time she blinked. To quiet the noise in her head that urged her to drink, she turned on the radio.
As karma would have it, Donovan’s latest single, “My Baddest Bitch”, blared through her speakers. It was filled with lyrical hints that spoke of Chaney, how she held his heart like no other woman could, even wore emotional battle scars only he could heal.
She immediately picked up her cellphone to call her sister as a distraction, when she saw a text notification from Scooter. She tossed her cellphone in the passenger seat, her chest heaving. She had no time for savior complex antics or his smiling face, definitely not when he sat with the enemy day in and day out. No, she didn’t need saving. She needed a damn drink.
“Fuck it.”
She took a sharp left then whipped into the parking lot where a liquor store was. It was in the same parking lot near the localWalmart that opened twenty-four hours. The lot wasn’t full but full enough, which meant she needed to carry her gun.
Once out and in her wheelchair, she eyed two boys that were hiding behind the trunk of a car close to where she was parked. When she eased up on them, they stopped. From their bucked eyes and labored breathing, she knew they were spooked after contemplating committing some kind of crime. What bothered her the most was they were kids, both easily under ten years old.
“What the hell are you two bad asses doing out here? It’s late as fuck. I should call the law on y’all,” she snarled, hoping to scare them.
She’d do no such thing. In fact, she wished someone gave a fuck about her when she was out late in the parking lot of store that was frequented by lowlifes.
“W—who me?” the darker, older boy stammered.
She could see his ashen skin and dirty clothes, even his scraped arms from probably sleeping on the ground. He looked to be about seven, maybe eight, with uncombed and somewhat matted hair. It was probably from lack of shampooing and cutting for weeks, maybe months.
“You and you.” She looked at the other boy who had a frown on his face with tiny, clenched fists.
After taking a closer look, she could tell they were siblings. The mean one appeared to be older with sandy-brown, curlier hair yet had that same ashen skin and dirty clothes as the younger one. It was like a flashback of the days when she and Shonasia went to scout out trash bins behind restaurants and grocery stores.
“But why? We ain’t done nothing,” the younger one softly complained, his eyes tearing up. He looked up at his brother, whose lips remained tightly pinched. “We just wanted some?—”
