Chapter 17 #2
"Pick two,” Bryce advised, his tone carrying a harsh finality. "Like I said, this ain’t a spa; this is survival. Seven minutes from water on to water off. The water tank only holds so much. If you wanna stand in the shower and reflect on life, you can do that dry.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Better get familiar with bird baths.”
Isis rolled her eyes. “I can’t take a bath with a bird! I have allergies!”
“She’s right, though. That’s not enough time, dawg,” Adrian complained. “What if I gotta—”
“If you ain’t done in seven minutes, I’m unplugging the tank, handing you a bucket, and wishing you the best. You can warm your own damn water with a lighter and faith.”
Bryce moved on, flipping a page in his makeshift rulebook like a preacher at a pulpit, ready to dispense wisdom at Bible study.
“Rule number two… Light Patrol is real. If you leave a light on in an empty room, you owe ten push-ups or dish duty. Your choice.”
Isis glanced down at her manicured nails, her face twisting into a dramatic pout. “I can’t do either. I’ve got press-ons… and slight carpal tunnel.”
“That’s fine. You can just sit on the couch like a Victorian widow and dramatically starve while everybody else eats, ‘cause you won’t be touching a plate until your light bill is cleared.”
“This is jail!” she whined, crossing her arms.
“No,” Bryce corrected calmly, “This is freedom with rules and consequences. Now, moving on. Rule number three… we eat what we cook. No new meals. Every time we cook, that’s the stove, oven, microwave, lights, fan…
all of it. We’re not about to be in here acting like a restaurant, making four different meals ‘cause everybody is picky. Nobody’s getting special snowflake meals.
Also, you get one warm-up session per meal.
That’s it. That food lived a good life, and you had your chance.
If you still want more that day, you’d better act like your granny and eat it cold. ”
Isis twisted her face up in disgust. “Eww!” she gagged. “Who eats cold chili?”
“People who don’t wanna freeze to death,” I shot back.
Before Isis could respond with another remark, Adrian chimed in, “Well, can we all just vote that Chesteria does all of the cooking? 'Cause no offense, but last time Isis touched a stove, we unlocked a new level of ‘burnt’. Hell, the fire alarm probably called 911 by itself.”
For once—and probably out of sheer survival instinct—Bryce agreed. “I second that.”
“Excuse y’all?!” Isis shrieked in offense.
Adrian grinned. “Girl, you burnt toast in a toaster oven. That’s talentless. If you make anything in this cabin, I’m fasting in protest.” He exaggerated his gesture, placing a hand on his chest as if the mere thought of her cooking was a personal affront.
“I was distracted!” Isis tried to recover.
"By what?" I messily intervened, unable to resist. “Your reflection?”
Adrian shook his head, laughing. “Man, if you whip up anything else in here, I’m not just fasting; I’m filing a complaint with God.”
The lighthearted jab only fueled Isis’s irritation.
“Final vote... Chesteria gets first dibs on the stove. Everyone else, try not to burn the damn place down. If you do? You cook outside… on a rock… with shame," Bryce stated.
“Look, I don’t mind cooking, but I ain’t doing three meals a day for three other grown people,” I made that real clear. “If y’all were my husband and kids... different story.”
Bryce looked at me like he was visualizing the whole damn fantasy of me being barefoot in the kitchen, wearing his hoodie, cooking, while pregnant with a toddler on my hip and having an attitude.
If I’m being honest, part of my motivation behind the comment was to gauge his reaction.
Watching his expression shift from amusement to a heated admiration was exhilarating.
The other reason? I wasn’t about to be up in there, catering to Isis and Adrian like they had me on payroll.
Bryce, though? Oh, he could’ve gotten a hot breakfast on a real plate with his grits whipped with love, bacon curled just right, and eggs scrambled in coconut oil like his cholesterol mattered to me.
For lunch? A foil-wrapped delight that kept in the warmth, complete with a love note tucked inside that read “Hurry home. I miss your mouth,” with his name written elegantly in cursive on the napkin.
Dinner would be the grand affair—served hot, dining under soft lighting with slow music playing in the background, and me in nothing but high heels, a chic apron, and intentions that I didn’t feel like hiding, all while wearing his favorite scent.
“I’ll do one big one. So y’all better decide if y’all want a real dinner or a struggle breakfast. Ain’t no in between," I stated definitively, reclaiming my role as the cabin’s culinary queen.
Bryce nodded. “One big meal. Choose wisely.”
Adrian, ever the dramatist, lifted a finger. “I volunteer as tribute for the lunch struggle.”
Isis rolled her eyes, still simmering in frustration. “Y’all act like I tried to kill y’all on purpose!”
“Nobody said it was on purpose,” Bryce deadpanned, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small smile. “That’s what makes it worse.” He turned to me, a more serious note entering his voice. “But for real, Chess, if you ever want a break one day, I got you. You know I can cook.”
I smiled, giving him a small nod. “Thank you.”
Bryce continued laying down the rules, his tone firm and steady.
“Rule number four is a rule I have already mentioned, but I’ma say it louder for the slow ones. No multiple device chargers at once. Actually, only one device per person gets charged per day. So y’all better choose between your phone, laptop, or whatever the hell else you brought.”
Isis yelled like someone had snatched her lashes off. “But I have three phones!”
“Then pick your favorite one, trap Barbie,” Bryce said.
Adrian ran a hand down his face. “Shid, I got two phones too, and I got people who need to reach me.”
“Two phones?” I repeated, my eyes narrowing in mock shock.
“Yeah. Chess, you know every dope boy got at least two phones—a personal one and one for work," he explained, the casualness in his tone suggesting it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Mm-hmm. That usually applies to kingpins, cartel cousins, neighborhood pharmacists, or niggas who think they this close to a Rico case… not part-time plug runners with a limp and overdue child support."
I leveled my gaze at him.
"And if you had half a brain, you’d give your baby mama, your boss, or your main connect the number you plan to keep charged.
Then, when you get back to the city, swap the line, rotate the contacts, and keep it moving.
Burners are for business. Smart niggas keep their real life clean.
And if you need any more unsolicited advice, don’t ever put a stash in the same car you drive to your mama’s house; that’s how indictments happen. ”
Bryce looked like he wanted to laugh, Isis gawked like she was taking notes, and Adrian simply stared, a mix of respect and surprise written across his face.
I leaned back, calm as hell. “Oh, and if your trap is slow enough for you to be snowed in up here with us, maybe you need less phones and more hustle.”
Adrian’s brows lifted, clearly impressed, like he was seeing me for the first time. “Let me find out you was a trap queen turned tenure-track. Out here grading papers by day and cutting bricks at night.”
I smirked. “Let’s just say I studied more than psychology.”
“Aight,” Bryce intervened, visibly frustrated but still amused. “Phones will only be charged once a day… not two, three, and damn sure not four. Once. Make it count. And I shouldn’t have to tell y’all what will happen if you fail to abide by the rules.”
Adrian dropped his head against the couch, his humor slipping back in.
“Man, forget being in prison; this feels like a low-budget version of hell… with a snack drawer. We ain’t burning, but we definitely suffering.
This ain’t no cabin, it’s Lucifer’s lodge.
And this nigga,” he pointed at Bryce, “is the concierge with a clipboard and attitude.”
“If you’re done, pick your chore,” Bryce replied without even looking up, flipping a page in his notebook like he was reviewing some damnation schedules.
Adrian bolted upright. “Nah… I wasn’t complaining, dawg! I was just admiring your… leadership style. You know, firm, fear-inducing… real dictator-ish.”
“Admire it in silence. Rule number six, which specifically applies to Isis… since I’m sure this rule matters to her more than the rest of us."
He paused dramatically, letting the tension build, then added, “Absolutely no streaming.”
Isis blinked erratically, her mind clearly racing. “You mean, like… no Netflix?” The incredulity in her voice was unmistakable.
“None,” Bryce confirmed, his tone firm and unwavering. “No TV marathons, no binge-watching, and absolutely no ‘just one episode.’ That Wi-Fi router and TV pull more power than y’all think… especially when folks forget they're on all day, wasting energy that could keep us warm."
Isis stared at him, genuinely baffled. “This is absurd! So what are we supposed to do?! Stare at each other?! Read the Bible?! Knit?!” Her arms flailed dramatically, reflecting her agitation.
“Reading the Bible… or anything wouldn’t be such a bad suggestion for you,” Bryce fired back.
"Might learn a thing or two about patience and humility. But if you get really bored, you can talk—” He hesitated, catching himself mid-mistake.
“Actually, scratch that. Unless you talkin’ to yoself… quietly.”
Bryce walked over to the fireplace and added another log with casual menace.
“You can read, play cards, journal; hell, go outside and make snow angels in the nude, if you’re feeling particularly wild. And if all else fails, shid… go to sleep. Maybe you can dream about being somewhere warm… like a Motel 6 in Florida with roaches who don’t knock before they enter.”