The Stepbrother 2: Noah

Noah-

I was going to kick Jason's ass.

He had made my wife cry.

I couldn't believe he had stooped so low as to lie about cancer.

I thought, of all our family, he was the most well-balanced. I knew he did all types of kinky shit, but he usually kept that private. How in the hell had his lifestyle gotten so out of hand that he was bribing women to go away? I wanted answers. Unfortunately, despite my persistent calls, he wouldn’t answer, and I suspected we wouldn’t be seeing him for a while. Jason was known for his disappearing acts, even more so than my wife.

My heart kicked up at the word wife.

I wanted to smile, thinking about how I had managed to marry the love of my life, but I kept my expression neutral, not wanting Creed to direct her anger towards me.

She’d been crying for a while, mumbling under her breath.

"Are you alright? Are you sure you'd rather not go home?" I asked, adjusting in my seat to get a better view of her.

We were parked outside the Pinellas County Jail in visitor parking.

I thought it would have been a better idea to stay away from the family, but she wanted to see her daddy, and I wouldn’t deprive her of that.

Troy was about to be bailed out and would be exiting the jail any moment.

"Yes, I'm fucking alright," she snapped, then frowned.

"I feel like I want to cry and scream all at the same time.

Is this what pregnancy will be like for the full nine months?" She sniffed, looking so sad that I wished I could carry the baby for her.

"I don’t know, Creed, but we’ll find the best doctors and get your questions answered," I reassured her.

She turned to stare at me, and for a moment, we just looked at each other.

I could stare at her forever, mesmerized by her beauty.

Finally, she moved, taking my hand in hers, which I allowed.

I yelped when her teeth pressed into my ring finger, right above the knuckle.

I quickly snatched my hand back.

There were teeth marks. Creed’s little chipmunk teeth hurt. If she kept biting me, I would start returning the favor.

"Why did you do that?" I asked, my eyebrows raised in surprise.

She frowned.

"Because everything feels surreal, like a dream.

I needed to know it was real."

"Most people just pinch themselves in these situations, not take a chunk out of their husband’s fucking finger, Creed."

She rolled her eyes.

"It’s always 'husband this' or 'wife that.' You’re really enjoying our fake marriage, aren't you, fake husband?"

Frowning, I reached out and gently caressed her soft cheek with the back of my hand, traced her lips with my fingertip, and gripped her throat just enough to get her attention.

"Do I feel fake to you?" I squeezed.

She chewed her bottom lip, her eyes lowered as I massaged her right breast.

"Answer me, Creed," I insisted, squeezing her neck harder.

She shook her head no.

My hand traveled down the curve of her hip.

But our moment was interrupted by the shouts of "Troy, Troy, Troy." About thirty feet away, the paparazzi were suddenly going wild.

The lawyers I’d hired, one of Tampa's best firms, escorted Troy beyond the jail gates.

He could have been picked up inside, but they wanted to sway public opinion and pressure Devon and the county prosecutors into dropping further charges.

Absent were his usual jeans and graphic t-shirt that made him look youthful.

Instead, he wore orange sweats and a white t-shirt, resembling the clothing they gave inmates. He looked haggard, a stark contrast to his usual appearance. Scarlett stood at his side, her sultry curves hidden behind a maxi dress.

A car cranked nearby, drawing my attention.

I watched as Maine and our mother backed out of a parking space a few spaces down.

I could see trouble written all over their faces.

"Why is your mother here?" Creed asked, panic in her voice, amplifying my disdain for my mother.

"You stay in the car.

I'm going to see what’s happening," I said.

"I'm not staying in the car," she barked, stepping out before I could stop her.

I dropped my head to the steering wheel. "Fuck!"

Barefoot, in her wedding dress, and pregnant, she half-walked, half-jogged away from the car.

I hurried after her.

We reached the crowd just in time to hear Tiffany accuse Troy of child trafficking.

"He paid me to relinquish my parental rights, then launched a campaign to paint me as a deadbeat mother.

He and his wife are no better than the people who buy and sell kids on the black market," she alleged.

She was crying and even dressed the part of grieving mother in a demure black dress. The fact that Maine was at her side pissed me off more. After all Scarlett had done for us...

The crowd was in a frenzy and too thick for us to approach our parents.

Nobody noticed us as we watched Scarlett lunge at Tiffany, grabbing her hair and swinging her like a ragdoll.

It was like Scarlett was blinded by her rage and couldn't see the police officers, jail security, and paparazzi.

This was going to be an entire other mess to clean up. I ran my hands over my head. Then I felt Creed's nails dig into my arm. Turning to her, I saw her double over, the smell of vomit filling the air. I bent down to hold her hair as she violently dry heaved.

Tears streaked her face, and her eyes were bloodshot.

It was all too much.

Lifting her up bridal style, I carried her back to the car and laid her in the backseat.

I knew what I had to do. I drove directly to the airport, bought her clothes from an airport store, helped her clean up, and then booked a flight to Atlanta. Creed remained silent throughout it all. She said she wanted to go home. I was taking her home. I was determined to protect my wife and unborn child from our family's fuckery. Even if that meant we would have nothing to do with them until they became an asset rather than a burden.

I turned to stare at my beautiful wife.

She was dressed in all black, wearing a black ruffled button-up shirt and a pencil skirt that was so tight it molded to her like a second skin.

Her hair was in a slicked-back bun, her pretty face absent of makeup, but there was determination painting her features, giving her a glow.

She looked ready to command some shit.

She tilted her head to stare at me, then shook it.

“You wanted to come here today.

Don’t make me regret allowing you.”

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 they rap 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 because the 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.

Or you’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.