Chapter 3 Noa
Three loud knocks shook my front door and my peace, making me drop my paintbrush onto the tray.
“Who the hell?” I whispered, my heartbeat climbing like it always did when I was home alone and wasn’t expecting company.
Teagan was off today. Between her nursing rotations and three-hour pharmacology labs, Teagan barely had time to eat let alone babysit my flare-ups, but she still managed.
Today, she had an exam, so I was on my own.
I backed away from my canvas, grabbing my can of pepper spray just as the pounding sounded again.
Who the hell bangs on a disabled woman’s door like the cops?
I rolled toward the door, gripping my wheels tight, mentally preparing to curse someone smooth out.
If they caught a blast of pepper spray in the face, then that was on them.
I craned my neck to peek through the narrow side window since trying to reach the peephole was useless from my chair.
Immediately, a tall man appeared. He was standing on my porch in a black hoodie, cargo pants, and boots.
His skin looked like desert sand under the sunlight, and a small gold stud sparkled in one ear.
His afro was trimmed neatly and freshly sponged.
I gazed at him, confused. What was this fine man doing on my doorstep?
I read his hoodie. Northside Rebuild went across it in bold, white letters.
I froze. It had been several weeks since Teagan had applied, and I hadn’t even gotten confirmation that they had accepted me into the program. Now, some man, looking like he walked out of a J. Cole music video, was standing on my doorstep with a clipboard.
“Can I help you?” I sucked in a breath, cracking the door open just two inches.
“I’m with Northside Rebuild,” he said, voice low. “Here to assess the place.”
“You’re here from Northside?” I blinked. “You’re unannounced.”
“You need wider doors, lower counters… right? Didn’t think kindness had to call ahead.” He arched an eyebrow as if my comment irritated him. He’s rude.
“Uh,… yeah, it does.” I glanced behind me. The house wasn’t ready for strangers. I wasn’t ready.
“I’m just here to check what needs to be done before we approve the repairs. Won’t take long.”
I hesitated. It wasn’t his attitude or the fact that he was here unannounced.
It was the idea of someone stepping into my mess.
Seeing what I’d patched, what I couldn’t fix.
How’d I been living the past four years.
It was embarrassing. Teagan’s voice echoed in my head.
Stop doing everything alone, Noa. You need this. I exhaled and opened the door wider.
“Come in.” I sighed. He stepped inside without a word, scanning the room like he was used to appraising things, not in a nosy way, just quick and efficient. He didn’t force a smile. There was no pity in his eyes. It was the first thing I liked about him.
“Where’s the worst of it?” he asked, turning back to me.
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t you think introductions come before inspections?”
He smirked and then grinned, showing all thirty-two teeth and dripping arrogance.
“You already opened the door. Bit late to ask who I am, don’t you think?”
Wow. Rude. And kind of fine as fuck.
“I’d still like to know who’s in my house,” I snapped.
“JaQuade,” he said simply, like it was enough.
That name clicked immediately, and my eyes widened, connecting the face to the name.
“Wait… JaQuade? As in Quae Lo?”
“Used to be.”
Oh, my God! I couldn’t stop staring. Quae Lo was the hometown hero, the first rapper out of Azalea County to get signed.
He looked… different, older than the last time I saw him in a video.
He was more fit. His slender frame was replaced with muscles and wide shoulders.
He had a beard now, too. It had been years since he got locked up.
I didn’t keep up with celebrity gossip, but everyone in the city remembered when he got sentenced.
It was a whole mess. Local rapper accused of attempted murder.
And now he was here, standing in my living room, talking about widening my doorways like everything was normal.
“What?” he asked, catching my stare.
“Nothing.” I turned my chair around fast, annoyed at myself for being so obvious. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Kitchen’s to the left. That door’s too narrow. I get stuck there damn near every day.”
“Mhm,” he muttered, following behind. “You live here alone?”
“Is that on the checklist, or are you just nosy?”
“Damn,” he muttered, scribbling something on a clipboard. “You real defensive.”
“And you’re real rude.”
That made him glance at me, something almost like a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t need me to be sweet. You need your house fixed.”
I hated that he was right. And I hated how something about the way he talked to me without babying me, without walking on eggshells, had a fire brewing in my chest.
“You’re right. Kitchen counter’s too high. I have to lean halfway out of this chair to reach anything.”
“I’ll note it.” He didn’t argue, didn’t offer any sympathy, just wrote my concerns.
By the time he finished walking through the house, we’d exchanged more snippy comments and passive-aggressive silence than most people did in a week.
And yet, when he turned to leave, I almost asked when he’d be back.
“Alright,” he said, heading toward the front door. “I’ll submit the assessment. Someone’ll call you. No more unannounced popups.”
I leaned back in my chair, staring at him.
“Are you going to be the one making the repairs?”
He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Depends. You gonna cuss me out again?”
“If you knock like that again, maybe.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He chuckled before closing the door. I sat there, staring at the closed door. Quae Lo had just left my house. I rolled back over to my canvas and grabbed my phone off the counter. Curiosity was getting the best of me. Opening my search engine, I typed in his name.
It only took a second for all his information to be plastered on my screen.
JaQuade Washington. Quae Lo. One multi-platinum hit single.
Several underground mixtapes. A fan tried to snatch his chain after a club concert, and Quae Lo shot him.
Arrest. Trial. Gone. According to the internet, he was released on parole two months ago.
There were no interviews, no new music, nothing about how he was now living his life.
I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or impressed.
He was moving forward. A lot of men in his predicament would be too prideful to get a regular nine-to-five after experiencing super stardom, but he wasn’t.
I stared at his pictures. Damn, he was fine, and I was already looking forward to when he’d be back.
“Alexa, play Quae Lo,” I called, grabbing my paintbrush and trying to lose myself in the deep, navy-blue paint I was spreading across my canvas.
The speakers filled with the upbeat, gritty intro to “Hands on Me.” This wasn’t his big hit single, but an old, local classic before the world knew him.
His voice was smooth and gritty, sailing through the room like smoke, latching onto my skin, and making it hard to focus.
I barely found my rhythm before another knock hit my door. It was softer this time. I cursed the part of me that was hoping it was Quae Lo coming back. I rolled over and swung the door open without thinking or taking a second glance.
“Did you forget something—” I stopped short.
Here he was again. I looked up at Shawn standing in the doorway like a bad habit I couldn’t kick.
Tall, dark skin, fine, and full of the same swagger that used to have me breathless.
He held up a takeout bag from my favorite chicken restaurant in one hand, like he knew I wouldn’t close the door on his face if he fed me.
“Hey, no,” he said. “Brought you something to eat.” He stepped inside without waiting for permission.
Of course. That was the thing about Shawn.
He was so entitled. He never asked, just stepped in and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek before I could protest. I stared at him as he made his way through my house, caught in the rhythm of something I hadn’t quite broken yet.
He didn’t ask about my day or how I was feeling.
He placed the bag on the counter like a checkmark on a list, then walked straight to my bedroom as if he belonged there.
I closed my eyes and inhaled. Old Noa would’ve called him out, cursed him out, and slammed the door. But I wasn’t her anymore, not fully. Not yet.
“You need to call first!”
“I wanted to surprise you,” he replied, already kicking off his shoes. I followed behind him, rolling into the room slower than I needed to.
“You’re painting more,” he stated as he unzipped his jacket and tossed it aside.
“Trying to.”
“Your work should be in a museum,” he said, voice low and unbothered, as always. “You know, I always enjoyed watching you paint.” He moved closer to me, his cologne brushing against my nose before his hands grazed my body. His compliments used to mean something; now they just felt empty.
“I missed you.” His hands found my waist. The way he lifted me from my chair always felt like charity work, and I hated that.