7. Malik
SATURDAY
I walked into Precision Cutz, ready to finalize the last thing I needed to do before my first date with Sametra tonight.
I had already picked up my laundry, excited to get casket sharp for her.
My mind was all over the place when it came to her.
I wanted to push, hell, I wanted to pull up, plant my flag, make her my woman, and dare a motherfucker to say otherwise.
But I didn’t, I couldn’t, not with Sametra.
Her feistiness and strength were what I enjoyed about her most. I wanted to take care of her, handle what she needed without overpowering her and robbing her of her independence. A nigga didn’t rock like that.
I was raised by a strong woman, physically, emotionally, and mentally. Yolanda Holloway would run drills with me in the yard and then bake chocolate chip cookies from scratch later. I needed the mother of my kids to be the same way. Strong and soft in all the right places. My kids deserved that.
“Malik,” a voice called, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I looked up from my phone. A tall, pretty woman with a fresh, low cut stood in front of me, smirking like she knew me already.
“I’m Winnie, so I’ll be taking care of you.” My barber normally came to me, but due to a family emergency, he’d had me set up with his top barber.
“You know me?” I asked, sliding into her chair.
“I know of you, Dr. Holloway.” She snapped the cape around my neck. “I’m LT’s best friend.”
That caught my attention. I smiled, running my fingers through my beard, thinking of her friends knowing the nickname I’d given her.
“Word?”
“Yep. Nice to finally put a face to the group chat,” she teased, making me grin. My baby had me in the group chat? I felt like I’d made varsity or some shit.
“Okay, Winnie. Gon ‘head and give me the speech. I fuck with your girl, so get it over with. I’m tryna be around.”
“Oh, I see why she likes you,” she laughed, lining me up.
“Straight shooter. Alright, here it is, I’ve watched her raise my nephew by herself, work herself damn near to death, and still show up for everybody.
She deserves someone who treats her like she’s somebody.
It’s been a minute since she’d even looked at a man, let alone entertained one.
If you’re not serious, don’t play. If you want her, stand on that or stay the hell away. ”
I met her eyes in the mirror. “I got nothing but good intentions for Sametra. I knew the minute I saw her.”
“Good. Because she’s been through enough.
She doesn’t need any more confusion.” Winnie continued to cut my hair and cleaned me up as we talked.
“But if you’re really about her, you should know, she’s worth every bit of effort.
She’s so funny and kind. People are just naturally attracted to her light. ”
“I’m already knowing. I’m sure you know I’m taking her out tonight. Any tips? What’s my baby like? Flowers, chocolate, what?”
“You one smooth-talking-ass nigga,” she said with a grin. “My friend might be in trouble.”
“Only the good kind,” I winked.
Yeah, Sametra was in trouble. I had plans to turn her out. Then to move her and my son in shortly after. She always laughed when I claimed her and Samaj, but it was real. They were my people now. I’d go too hard behind them, and I didn’t even care that the first date hadn’t popped off yet.
I was starting to understand what my mom meant about being half gone. My ass wasn’t halfway; I was already in orbit. Sametra woke something up in me. My heart said stand the fuck up, and I listened.
“She’s a sour candy girl. Chocolate’s cool, but not her go-to. She loves a little adrenaline. Likes Thai, Chinese, that gyro spot on Federal Ave. But really? She’ll love anything that’s thoughtful. She’s the around-the-way girl people write songs about.”
“Flowers?”
“She likes them. But florist only, not gas station or grocery store shit. And don’t drag it with a giant arrangement. Keep it cute, thoughtful.”
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 screaming try-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 I didn’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.
“You look incredible,” I said, still holding her hand from the spin. “You ready for tonight?”
She gave me a slow once-over and clocked the motorcycle behind me. “Is that what we’re riding?”
“You scared?” I asked, tugging her gently toward me.
She locked the door behind her and turned, eyes bouncing between me and the bike. “Promise I’m safe with you. Because I want to ride so bad, but you know…”
“I know,” I nodded. “It’s exactly why we’re doing this and not something else. You don’t move in fear. I see that in you. So don’t let it hold you now. Get that muthafucka in check so you can live.”