Romeo (Single Dad Society #3)

Chapter 1

Marcus

Ilooked at the woman sleeping peacefully beside me.

Jackie.

My arm was numb, and I had to figure out how to get out of her bed without waking her up.

Slowly, carefully, I eased my arm from under her back. She moaned in her sleep and shifted position. I froze and waited. As I held my breath, she rolled onto her side, away from me.

Hallelujah.

My arm was free but tingling. I flexed my fingers and then slowly sat up, keeping an eye on her to make sure I didn’t wake her from her sleep.

I moved quietly through the bedroom, gathering my clothes from the trail we had left between the closed door and the bed.

My jeans were on the chair in the corner, and my shirt crumpled in a pile on top of my shoes at the foot of the bed.

Somehow, one of my socks ended up next to the nightstand.

I almost didn’t see it because it was black.

I dressed quietly, glancing at her sleeping form every now and then.

She had auburn hair and light brown skin.

We had a great night after meeting at The Flight Club, where my Alpha Phi Alpha brothers and I hung out every month.

She was beautiful and funny, but I had to get out of there because I knew what would happen.

She’d invite me to stay for breakfast, and over breakfast she’d ask a bunch of questions.

Nothing out of the ordinary—just the type of questions you would ask someone you had recently slept with.

But I wouldn’t have the answers she wanted.

I wasn’t looking for anything serious, and most of the time, that’s what women expected when they let you inside their bodies.

So it was better for me to go, slipping away in the early morning before she woke up.

I found a napkin inside my jacket pocket and scribbled a note: Thanks for a great time. Take care. — Romeo

I cringed. I never knew what message to leave but hated ducking out without a word and used my line name as a cover.

I slipped out of the room and eased the door shut. My shoes barely made a sound as I walked across her hardwood floors to the front door. I let myself out, making sure to turn the lock on the inside before shutting the door.

Once outside, I breathed easier and relaxed.

In the crisp, early morning spring air, I checked my phone on the way to my blue Toyota Rav4.

Last night, my frat brother Jashaun had texted me a link about upcoming zoning changes and followed up this morning with additional information.

Since he worked for the city, he was always giving me the heads up about what was coming down the pike in local real estate, which was very helpful in my work as an agent.

I hit him back real quick and then climbed behind the wheel.

I drove through the city that I’d been living in since I graduated from Prairieview University eleven years ago.

My plan had been to find an entry-level corporate job and work my way up to executive one day.

After only a few months, I realized that wasn’t the path for me.

A couple of years later, I earned my real estate license, and for the past five years, I had been in the top one percent of real estate agents in the state, closing millions of dollars’ worth of deals every month.

As I neared my condo, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen, but it could’ve been an old client calling with a referral or some other type of business, so I answered.

“Marcus Hayes,” I said.

“Hello, Mr. Hayes. My name is Julia Richmond,” a pleasant-sounding female voice said.

“Hello, Ms. Richmond. How can I help you?” My mind was already on breakfast. After I went home, I planned to walk to the café near my place and have coffee and a sausage, egg, and cheese bagel—my weekend ritual—before heading into the real estate office.

“I work for Safe Harbor Child Advocacy, a non-profit organization that partners with CPS. I’m calling about Brandon and Stacey Mitchell.”

My stomach tightened as I slowed to a stop at a red light. Brandon Mitchell was my best friend. Stacey was his wife.

“Did something happen?” The question came out steady, but I gripped the steering wheel as fear enveloped me.

“I’m very sorry to inform you, Mr. Hayes, that Brandon and Stacey were involved in an accident three nights ago. A drunk driver hit them head-on, and they were both pronounced dead at the scene.”

What?

My heart stopped. Brandon and Stacey were dead? I must not have heard her correctly. I talked to Brandon on Monday, and last week I was at his house helping him put up curtain rods because Stacey threatened to divorce him if he didn’t get it done.

My lungs stopped working.

The woman with the pleasant voice continued speaking, explaining something about not suffering, but I heard her words in a haze. My brain hadn’t moved on from the devastating information that my friends were dead.

Dead.

“Mr. Hayes? Are you there?”

I snapped out of my temporary coma. At the same time, the driver behind me honked his horn irritably.

I swallowed and pressed the accelerator. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“The reason I’m calling is because of my role as a child advocate.

The Mitchells have a son, Noah, and he’s been with the babysitter this entire time.

Because he was left without a legal guardian unexpectedly, CPS was notified,” she explained gently.

“I was assigned to Noah’s case. My job is to monitor his transition into your care and make sure he has access to grief and trauma services while we sort out his family situation. ”

“Brandon and Stacey don’t have family here,” I said in a robotic voice.

“So we’ve come to learn. Brandon does have a sister who is willing to take the boy. She lives in Tennessee. The babysitter is unable to keep him long-term, so until his aunt can get here—”

“Where is he?” I pulled over, parking in an empty slot at the front of my building. Poor Noah. I can’t imagine what he must be feeling.

“As I said, he’s with the babysitter. Would you like the address?”

“Yes.”

He was probably with Mrs. Patterson. I knew her name but not where she lived. I pulled out the same pen I had used earlier to write the note to Jackie.

She gave me the address, and my hand shook the entire time I wrote down the information.

“Are you able to pick him up today?”

“Yeah, I can get him. I’ll leave right now.”

“That’s good. Mr. Hayes—”

“Call me Marcus,” I said automatically—something I did often in my line of work to put clients at ease. Being formal implied distance between us. Using first names created the sense that we were working on the house sale or purchase together as a team.

“Marcus,” the pleasant voice said. “I want you to know that I’m here if you need assistance navigating the resources available for you and Noah.

My role as an advocate means I’ll be checking in periodically to see how you’re managing and make sure Noah is doing well too.

Once you’re settled, please give me a call in the next day or two so we can meet.

I’d like to do an evaluation and discuss next steps. ”

We talked for a few more minutes, and then I ended the call. Though I told her I would leave right away, I didn’t. I sat there, letting the tragedy sink in. My best friend and his wife were gone, and now I was responsible for a seven-year-old kid who was waiting for someone to come get him.

I was Noah’s godfather and had said yes when Brandon asked me to be his guardian should anything happen to him and Stacey.

But deep down, I never thought anything would actually happen to them.

Now, sitting in the car with the engine off and the morning sun climbing higher in the sky, the reality of the situation was setting in.

I had agreed to be responsible for a child. A grieving, traumatized human being who had lost both of his parents.

I had a two-bedroom condo and a job that sometimes required me to work nights and weekends, but I didn’t have to worry about anyone but myself. I couldn’t cook, and most of the time, I ate out. Anyone checking my cabinets would be appalled at the amount of unhealthy food on the shelves.

All of that would have to change, at least temporarily. I didn’t know what seven-year-olds ate, what time they were supposed to go to bed, and how the hell to talk to someone who had lost both their parents at such a young age.

I should probably get the contact information for Noah’s aunt in Tennessee. But that’s not what I did. I agreed to pick him up, and I could at least do that while I figured out what the next steps would be.

Starting the car again, I pulled into traffic, heading down the highway on my way to pick up Noah.