CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JACKIE
Jackie hadn’t been “outside” in over a year.
Everything was the same, the lights, the noise, the people.
But Jackie wasn’t. Once upon a time, outside was her playground.
Jackie Brown was a name, a face, and a vibe.
People knew her, loved her. She could walk into any spot in the city and feel the whole room shift, like gravity itself was in on the secret.
But after the shit Marcus pulled, the streets were talking.
Nobody ever addressed it directly—at least not to her face.
But Jackie wasn’t stupid. She heard the whispers, even when she tried not to.
And truth be told, outside didn’t hit the same anymore.
It would’ve been easy to blame everything on Marcus, but that wasn’t the whole of it. Jackie found herself going through a bit of a metamorphosis. She was growing and evolving in ways she never thought she would. She still liked to be out, still liked a good time—but her idea of fun had changed.
At thirty-five, standing on couches, drunk, screaming fuck my baby daddy into somebody’s camera wasn’t in her spirit anymore.
Jackie wanted peace, not spectacle. Somewhere she could breathe easy, sip something smooth, and listen to Victoria Monet in a dimly lit lounge instead of tussling with a young bitch over a hookah.
Now, stepping back into it felt like wearing a pair of shoes that didn’t fit anymore.
Her feet hurt because she hadn’t worn heels this high in a year.
The dress was a lot shorter, and tighter—than she remembered.
Sure, she was snatched, and the body was bodying.
But the dress felt like a straitjacket. On top of that, she was hungry, cold, and would’ve much rather been in her Walmart muumuu—titties hanging, a sleeve of Oreos on her lap, sippin’ her Stella, and scrolling through Danielle Allen’s latest. But no.
Here she was. Outside. With half the goddamn city.
And to make matters worse? Kormia had the damn Isley Brothers waiting on them.
Old men in linen suits, Stacy Adams, gold chains, and Kangols, waving at them like they’d just spotted their long-lost girlfriends at a cabaret.
Jackie tugged at the hem of her corset dress, heat creeping up her neck.
“I know you fuckin’ lying. You did not drag me out my house to party with the Five Heartbeats. ”
“Bitch, hush,” Kormia shot back, waving her hand like she was offended.
“These old niggas got money, businesses, pensions, and paid-off mortgages.”
“As they should,” Jackie said flatly. “Mia, they are retirees.”
“Well, we here now,” Kormia said, shrugging like it was no big deal.
“And as you can see, the shit look like a movie in here tonight.”
“A horror movie,” Jackie muttered, watching as Kormia waved to one of the older men on the low. She followed her cousin’s line of sight and immediately grimaced.
“Mia, don’t tell me you be letting that old-ass man fuck on you?”
“Girl—no, but he is starting to get impatient,” Kormia confessed.
“I had to tell him I’d go back to the telly with him tonight, so he’d finish payin’ for my new pedicure spas at the salon.” Jackie’s face did that thing where it tried to settle between disgust and disbelief. “You gon’ do it?” she asked, blunt.
“Do what?” Kormia blinked.
“Give Morgan Freeman some coochie,” Jackie deadpanned, growing more annoyed by the second. “Hell no,” Kormia said—and then, like this was business as usual, pulled a small amber bottle from her bag. Jackie snatched the bottle, eyeing it like it might bite. “Girl, what the fuck is this?”
“It’s cannabis oil,” Kormia said, nodding like a pharmacist. “One of my clients gave it to me. Had me rub it into her hands after I did her set a few weeks ago, and baby—she was knocked out at my station for like an hour.” Jackie stared at her, then back at the bottle, shaking her head.
“Mia. This is not cannabis oil. It’s CBD oil. All this gon’ do is soothe his arthritis.”
Kormia snatched it back, rolling her eyes as she tucked it in her bag.
“Arthritis or not, he taking his old ass to sleep, and I’m leaving with my pussy in my panties where it belongs.
” Jackie just shook her head, making a mental note to swipe that oil from Kormia before her silly ass gave that man a rash—or worse, an allergic reaction.
“Look,” Kormia said, straightening her dress and scanning the section again.
“One of them old niggas is a pilot, the other owns a few restaurants in D.C., and the third’s a professor at Georgetown.
They all divorced, kids grown, just looking for company, not sex.
I been finessing Cleo’s old ass for months, and I ain’t so much as kissed him. ” She gave Jackie a pointed look.
“You just said your radiators keep going out, and you need a hot water heater. You better act like you know.” Jackie bit her lip, halfway ready to admit Kormia had a point.
Maybe some free dinners and a bill paid wasn’t the worst trade-off.
Then she heard it. That voice. Loud, familiar, and messy as hell.
“I know that ain’t Jackie… Jackie Brown!
” Calvin shouted over the music. Jackie froze.
Her heart sank before she even turned around.
Out of all the nights, in all the damn places, it had to be this one.
He was grinning wide, yelling across the lounge like he had a mic in his hand, a half-empty bottle of Henny dangling from his fingers.
They hadn’t even made it to their damn section yet, and already the night was going left.
Then it happened. Two of the old heads started yelling Kormia’s name, waving them over like long-lost kin.
The third just sat back down, readers perched on his nose, squinting at the menu like it was a crossword puzzle.
Jackie’s stomach dropped. She had never wanted to disappear so bad in her life.
Kormia forced a smile, lifting a weak little wave, but Jackie could tell she was lowkey embarrassed—even if she’d never admit it.
That’s when Calvin caught it. His grin spread slow, eyes lighting up like he’d just been handed a cup of hot tea.
“Well, well, well,” he called out over the music.
“What in the Seeking Arrangements is goin’s on over here?”
Jackie closed her eyes, wishing the floor would open up.
“Shut up, Cal,” she groaned, covering her face.
Calvin threw his hands up in mock surrender, still smirking.
“Look, work ain’t honest, but it pays the bills,” he laughed, glancing at Kormia before nodding toward the section of old heads.
Kormia crossed her arms, then rolled her eyes.
“Boy, fuck you—they our cousins,” she lied without missing a beat.
“You mean clients,” he shot back, still laughing as she flipped him the finger.
Then he stumbled closer, leaning on Jackie—heavy, unsteady, and smelling like he’d bathed in that bottle of Henny he was holding.
Jackie tensed, trying to push him off. “Sis, I ain’t gon’ hold you, I’m on as fuck,” he said, words slurring.
“Jamil just turned twenty-one, so we celebrating.”
“Well, your ass need to celebrate sitting down,” she shot back, steadying him as he leaned on her more. Before she could move, he buried his face in her neck. “Damn, you smell good,” he murmured, brushing the ticklish spot just below her ear. Jackie jerked and laughed, swatting at him. “Cal, stop!”
“Where your drunk ass even sitting?” she asked, glancing behind her.
That’s when she saw him. Cash. Leaning back like he owned the place, his expression guarded with Zambia practically glued to his side.
Najee sat nearby, looking like he was about to dose off any second now.
And Newdy stood stone-faced in the corner, nursing a bottle of water and watching everyone.
Jackie tried to shoot Kormia a help-me look, but she was already in their section.
Menu in hand, giving the bottle girls their marching orders and looking like a Bonafide sugar baby.
“Fuck,” Jackie muttered, trying to pull free, but it was useless.
Cal was drunk as hell and could barely stand, let alone walk across the room without her help.
So, against her better judgment, Jackie escorted him back over there.
The closer they got to the section, the heavier the air felt.
It wasn’t just the bass, or the smoke, or the scent of weed hanging thick in the air.
Jackie could feel it. The weight of eyes on her. Cash’s eyes.
When Jackie finally made it over to Jamil’s section, it looked like a damn movie.
The space was massive, half the club, easy.
They were deep too. Beards and bitches everywhere.
Bottles stacked on ice, champagne towers, food spreads, and sparklers going off like fireworks.
But none of that mattered to Jackie. All she wanted was to get Cal’s drunk ass off her and request an Uber immediately.
She’d had enough “outside” for one night.
She felt it before she even looked up—that quiet, burning stare that made her skin hum.
When she finally turned her head, there he was. Cash. Watching her.
Zambia was curled up next to him, all smiles and lip gloss, whispering something in his ear. But he wasn’t listening. He didn’t even pretend to. His gaze was locked on Jackie.
“Sis, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you,” Cal mumbled as Jackie guided him to the couch, lowering his tall, sloppy ass between Newdy and Jamil. The minute he hit the seat, he reached for her wrist and tugged. “Jackieeee,” he slurred, grinning up at her.
“Come sit with me real quick, damn!” She tried to laugh it off. “Boy, you drunk.”
“Drunk in love,” he sang, pulling harder, words tripping over each other. Calvin leaned back, laughing loud enough to turn heads. “C’mon, Jackie, sit down, stop actin’ brand new.”
“Bye Cal I have to—” she said, but before she could finish, he grabbed her by the wrist again and pulled.
“Cal!” she snapped, trying to keep her balance, as she landed halfway in his lap.
Which caused her dress to ride up higher.
“Boy, what the hell are you doing?” she hissed, tugging her dress down, but he just laughed, arms locking around her waist. “Cal Im fucking serious,” she said through clenched teeth, trying to stand, when he grabbed at her again before she spoke.
“I said let me fucking go!” Her voice sliced through the music.
Heads turned. Calvin froze, blinking slow, then let her go, palms up.
“Aight, damn. My fault, Jack. I was just playing.” His apology slurred, words tumbling out in pieces.
Jackie shot to her feet, dress still clinging to her thighs.
She was too busy brushing herself off to notice Zambia’s smirk at first. Then it came, sweet, sharp, and loud enough for the whole table to hear.
“He probably thought she was a stripper,” Zambia said, smiling like she didn’t mean harm.
“That dress leaves very little to the imagination.”
The table erupted into laughter, the ugly kind. Forced and Cruel.
Jackie froze, throat tightening. Cash didn’t laugh.
But he didn’t stop it either. He just sat there, that detached stare fixed on her like he wanted to say something—but refused to open his mouth.
Jackie’s heart hammered in her chest. She finally looked up, eyes locking with his.
“You gon’ let that bitch say that about me, Cassius?
” The words hit the section like a slap.
Zambia tilted her head, feigning innocence.
“What did I even say?” Her girlfriends giggled, throwing little side comments between sips of champagne.
Jackie ignored them. Her focus stayed on Cash.
His silence burned hotter than any insult.
He just sat there, jaw tight, tapping the rim of his glass like he couldn’t wait for her to disappear.
“You right,” Jackie muttered, voice flat, almost calm.
Zambia’s laughter followed. “See? Babe, I’m behaving” she joked facing Cash.
Jackie was prepared to walk away, and let this little bitch be great.
Then she thought better of it, as she neared the bucket of champagne and paused.
Her hand brushed the edge of the table. She didn’t think; she just moved.
With one clean swing, her bag clipped the ice bucket.
It toppled, sending a rush of cold water and ice straight into Zambia’s, and her home girl’s lap.
The section erupted in Gasps. Screams. Chaos.
“Oh my God!” one of them shrieked, jumping up.
Zambia stood drenched, eyes wide, voice dripping venom.
“You fucking bitch!” Jackie smiled, slow and deliberate.
“My bad,” she said coolly, eyes cutting back to Cash.
“Guess I forgot to leave a little to the imagination.” Then she exited the section and headed straight to the bar.