Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Yale
“Eventually, you’re going to have to talk to us,” Berkley said as she watched me watch them.
Eight days, that’s how long it’d been since I woke up on the plane headed back to New Mexico with women I was told I was related to and a man with whom I’d been working with for years.
A man that I learned was my damn father.
“You have questions, we probably don’t have the answers, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t valid questions. ”
“More than likely, we don’t have the answers,” Clarke agreed as she leaned back in her seat.
Her dark eyes were focused on the small piece of wood in her hand that she was craving.
At first, I thought she was doing it to annoy me, but a few hours in, I realized she just liked to keep busy and was probably trying to control something, so carving pieces of wood into different things was her way of doing that.
That small piece of wood was being carved into a house.
“The only one who probably has answers is Spelman, and that’s because she’s been with him the longest.” Berkley pointed at Spelman, who was sitting in the chair furthest from me.
Her focus was on her computer, but I could tell from the way her mouth twitched that she was listening. “What, you thought I didn’t know?”
Spelman’s head lifted, and she looked at each of us before closing her laptop and shaking her head. “I wasn’t hiding it,” Spelman answered. “You never asked, so I didn’t think it mattered.”
“How long have you been with Tulane?” Berkeley questioned.
I rested my back against the headboard of the bed and crossed my ankles.
Spelman being with Tulane the longest made me pause.
Had he raised her? Been a part of her life the entire time?
What made her so different from us to have that type of relationship?
“A few weeks,” Spelman answered. “I got into some shit and needed his help.”
“Did you know who he was?” Clarke questioned, and Spelman nodded. “So you knew he was your daddy?”
“No,” Spelman denied, then laughed softly. “He introduced himself as Mr. Joseph. He was introduced to me through one of the athletes I represent.” She stretched her legs in front of her and tapped her hands against her thighs.
“Same,” Clarke laughed. “He had me design and build a home for him.”
“Me too,” Berkley said with a nod. “He had me kill three niggas for him.”
All our attention was on her, and we waited. Berkley shrugged and continued to lean against the wall. She wasn’t supplying any more information than that. Berkley didn’t look ashamed, or the least bit phased by her declaration.
“I designed the necklaces you all are wearing,” I finally said once the silence was too much. I noticed the necklaces the first night I was here. The small initials with their birthstones had taken me a few days to make.
“Ah, so she does speak,” Berkley laughed. “I was wondering what your voice sounded like.” She pulled some money out of her pocket and walked across the room to hand it to Clarke. “Looks like you were right.”
Clarke took the money and pushed it into the front pocket of her dress shirt.
I raised my brow, and she smiled, then went back to working on her piece.
“We bet to see how long it would take you to speak finally. Berkeley had you down for day one, Spelman for day five. I knew it would be today. You’re stubborn but nosey as hell.
You’ve been watching us for a week.” She looked up shyly and smiled.
“All we had to do was get you interested in something you wanted to talk about. Jewelry is your go-to.”
“Sports is Spelman’s and building shit is Clarke’s,” Berkeley said, coming to sit next to me on the couch across from my bed.
“And you?” I asked.
“The mind,” she yawned, tapping the side of her head. “Been that way since I was a kid, which is probably why I went into psychology.”
“Yet, you killed three niggas for Tulane,” I replied, and she shook her head. “Oh, you were joking?”
“Nope,” she denied with a laugh. “I did kill three niggas a few months back, but it wasn’t for Tulane.”
“Who was it for then?” Clarke asked.
Berkeley and Spelman shared a look before Spelman opened her laptop and started typing. Berkeley laughed softly, then shrugged her shoulders.
“Doesn’t matter,” Berkeley replied. I watched the two of them for a few minutes before I gave up. They had their secrets, just like I had mine. “Alright, so let’s start discussing why we were brought together.”
“According to Tulane, it’s for our protection,” Spelman said without looking up from her laptop. “He had a meeting with the St. Thomass and Stones.”
“The Stones?” I questioned her, and she nodded. “Which Stone?”
“All of them,” Spelman answered. “The parents and sons.” She looked up at me and tapped her index finger against her chin. “Amethyst is your boyfriend, right?”
“No,” I laughed even though it wasn’t shit funny.
“He was my best friend, and we were trying to figure out what we were doing, but then my husband died, and he disappeared.” I rolled my eyes, then rested the back of my head on the headboard and sighed.
“I buried my husband, mourned what I thought was a decent marriage even though I found out I was tricked into said marriage because I thought I was protecting Amethyst because I agreed to marry Grant to pay off a debt from an accident were I thought I killed a woman and lost the race so I was down too much damn money even to think.”
“Umm, wait pause, what the fuck did you just say?” Berkeley laughed.
I lifted my head to see them all looking at me with their mouths wide open.
I’d literally dropped a million bombs on them and didn’t even think about it.
I didn’t know these women, yet I spilled all my secrets to them without a second thought.
There was a familiar bond that we’d developed over the last week, even though I wasn’t talking.
I’d watched them interact with each other as well as how they dealt with me.
They gave me space when I needed it, but at different times, like this one, they ended up in the same room as me.
It was like we were drawn to each other even though we were strangers.
“Which part?”
“Which part?” Berkeley laughed, then held up her hand.
She approached the bed, then made a waving motion with her hand to get me to move over, and I did.
After she climbed into bed and got comfortable, she crossed her arms and nodded.
“Alright now, I’m ready to hear this shit, start from the beginning. ”
I sighed, wiped my hand over my hair, then dropped my hands into my lap. “Eight years ago, when I was in college, I raced.”
“I stole cars,” Berkeley shrugged.
“I worked at a chop shop,” Clarke interjected as she worked on her carving. “I don’t care for driving; it’s too much going on. I get overwhelmed.”
“I put together the races,” Spelman said with a laugh.
“We all have a thing for cars?” I asked, and they nodded. “Damn.”
“We can get back to the car shit later, I want to know the backstory on the shit about a crash and killing someone,” Berkeley said, shaking her head.
For the next twenty minutes, I gave them the backstory on Amethyst and my relationship, and on my marriage—or lack thereof—with Grant. Finding out that he had kids, and how Quincy had set a trap for me to fall into.
“So, why hasn’t Amethyst killed your ex’s brother?” Berkeley asked, and I shrugged. “Sounds like he’s wasting time.” She’d laid down sometime during the story. She lifted her head and twisted her lips. “You don’t have to like it, but that’s what it sounds like to me.”
“Agreed,” Clarke said as she continued to work. “He needs to kill Grant’s brother. Then y’all will be free of the drama.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Kill the entire family then, whoever’s left. Call a family meeting, blow up the building.” Berkeley rolled out of bed and then stretched her arms over her head. “It’s not that difficult. If you want, I can do it for you?”
She looked so damn serious that I had to blink a few seconds to try to process what she was saying. “Do you happen to know someone named Xoey St. Thomas?” I couldn’t help but ask. She reminded me so much of Xoey that there was no way they couldn’t be friends, or at least, know each other.
“No, should I?” Berkeley asked with a curious expression.
“Yes,” I nodded.
“Introduce us then,” she suggested, then took the piece of wood from Clarke and closed Spelman’s laptop as she walked toward the door. “Now let’s go get something to eat. I’m hungry and feel like exploring the city a little.”
“We don’t even have a way to get around,” Clarke said as she stood.
She was the shortest of us, yet the curviest. Her dark curls framed her face, and I couldn’t help but notice how much we favored each other.
Our skin tones were similar, we wore our hair the same way, damn near the same height, and close to the same weight.
“Tulane has cars,” Berkeley shrugged. “He can either give us the keys to one, or I can steal it.” She turned around and walked backwards. She smiled proudly, and all I could do was laugh.
“And you’re a psychologist, right?” I asked, and she nodded. I looked over at Clarke and Spelman. “And what do y’all do?”
“Sports agent,” Spelman answered. Instantly, my thoughts went to Pyrite and all his teams.
“You said you met the Stone brothers?” I questioned, and she nodded. “So that means you met Pyrite? You know he owns Stone ENT and has a few teams.”
“I’m aware,” she replied. “We already have a few meetings set up. I have players that he wants, and he has an open position on his team that I want.”
“You’d work for Pyrite?” I stopped walking, which made them stop as well. If she worked for Pyrite, she’d have to live in Kansas City. Everyone on his team lived locally, and I told her that.
Spelman’s face twisted, then, just as quickly as the hesitation had appeared, it disappeared, and she shrugged. “I don’t have anything permanent, so moving isn’t something that’s a deal breaker.”
“And you said you built him a house?” I turned to Clarke, who was now carving a new piece of wood. Where the hell she got it from was beyond me.
“Yes,” she said without looking up. “He contacted me a few years ago. Said some bullshit about wanting a house for his family and didn’t have a budget. I sent him over a few designs, he fell in love with one I designed, and my team spent the next two years building it.”
“Two years?” I repeated, and she nodded. “What the hell took two years to build?”
“It wasn’t the build that was the problem, but the permits. The city kept finding bullshit excuses not to approve things.” She shrugged like it was no big deal, and to her, it probably wasn’t, but I would’ve been annoyed.
“We need to keep walking, this house is too fucking big, and I’m hungry,” Berkeley said. She linked her arms with Clarke’s, and they walked down the hallway.
“What happened with the house you built for Tulane?” I asked as they passed me.
“You’re standing in it,” she answered.
Spelman and I shared a look before we looked around the hallway.
The house was huge, with its hardwood floors, tall ceilings, and large windows.
When I first arrived, Tulane gave me the basic rundown: the house had seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and a finished basement.
I hadn’t explored beyond my bedroom, which was basically a one-bedroom apartment, the kitchen, and the living room. Now I wanted to see everything.
“You said that shit so casually,” I laughed. “This house is huge.”
“Not the biggest I’ve built,” she said with a shrug. “Not even the biggest I’ve built this year, in fact.” She looked over her shoulder at me and smirked. “The house I built for you on the beach is prettier than this one.”
“You own C’s Foundation?”
“Yep,” she nodded, then turned back around. “When you’re ready, we can go see your house.”
We walked into the kitchen to find Tulane standing at the stove, looking confused. In front of him was a rack of ribs; they looked and smelled good as hell. My stomach growled, and my mouth watered. Tulane looked over his shoulder at us, then turned back to the ribs.
“They aren’t right.” He poked at the ribs with a fork, then kissed his teeth. “Not tender enough, and they don’t smell right. Spelman, I think I forgot to do something, but I can't think of what it is.”
“We need your keys, Tulane,” Berkeley said. She let go of Clarke’s arm and leaned against the island that was in the middle of the kitchen.
“No,” he shook his head as he looked at his ribs.
“I wasn’t asking you.” She pushed off the island and then turned to face us. “Pick a color.”
“Black,” Clarke answered. “I want to take the black one.”
“Bet,” Berkeley agreed.
Tulane looked over his shoulder at us and smirked. “Don’t push your luck with me, Berkeley. You four are staying here. If you want something that’s not here, let me know, and I will go get it.”
“I want a tall, dark skin nigga, mean, a little rough around the edges, but melts every time I open my mouth, muscles, waves so deep I get sick. Country but hood, and a big dick,” Berkley said, and Tulane’s face twisted. “What’s that look for?”
“What the fuck do I look like? A dating service?”
“No, you kind of look like a deadbeat who’s been overcompensating for the past few years with his children, who didn’t know they were his children and now are stuck with us in his house, and he doesn’t know what to do,” Clarke said, looking at him.