Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Tate’s phone had been going off since he sat down at the table.
Rodney had called three times. Then another call from a number he didn't recognize, with a Richmond-area code.
He'd been at the casino since four. He was up thirty thousand on the blackjack table, and he had a rule about his phone: when the cards were running right, he didn't break concentration for anything that couldn’t wait.
Everything could wait.
He silenced it and played another hand.
By ten, he had won fifty thousand, and the game had shifted. A new dealer normally signaled that the cards were about to turn. He cashed out while still ahead, which was rare for him, and stood in the casino parking lot, Atlanta's night surrounding him, his phone in hand.
Eleven missed calls.
Rodney. The unknown number. Zena twice. Rodney again.
He called the unknown number first because it had called him the most.
A woman picked up.
“Tate… this Meka.” She said in a somber tone.
“Wassup Meka?”
“I’m just calling to let you know that somebody killed Rodney… that shit caught up to him.”
The words arrived in the right order, but his brain kept refusing to assemble them into their meaning.
“What do you mean?”
“Shit bad. We gotta give him a closed casket funeral. I’m giving you a warning...Don’t come back to Richmond. I’m moving RJ and me down to Dinwiddie with my family.”
Tate closed his eyes. “I don’t know what to say, Meka…”
“I just want to let you know what happened.” Meka paused. “You think you can send us some money?”
“Yeah. Let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you. I will keep you updated with everything.”
He stood in the casino parking lot for a long time after he hung up the phone.
His brother is dead.
He should call Zena and go home, or sit somewhere quiet and let himself feel whatever was stirring in his chest. The feeling wasn't quite grief yet, because grief required accepting what had happened, and he wasn't mentally prepared to do that.
Instead, he got in his car and drove to the club.
The club was packed, which was exactly what he needed. Packed meant noise and movement, enough chaos to drown out his own thoughts.
Forty minutes and four drinks later, he was still anchored to the bar.
He told himself he wasn't drunk. He was just far enough from sober that the reality didn’t hurt anymore.
Throughout the night, he drifted onto the floor, danced with a few women without fully registering their faces.
He checked his phone twice, saw Zena's name, and shoved it back in his pocket.
He'd call her later. He'd figure out what to say then.
Right now, he just needed to stay submerged in the noise.
Then there was the girl in the red heels.
She had been hovering in his orbit for hours. She was good-looking. Curvaceous in the specific way that made his dick hard.
When the lights came up and the crowd started moving toward the exits, she followed him out.
"Ayee, handsome."
Tate turned around.
She shifted her weight, balancing on her stilettos, looking up at him with seductive eyes.
"Where you about to go?"
"Head home… I got a girl," he said. He always said it. It was the flag he waved.
"And I got a man." She stepped forward, bridging the gap between them.
Her hand drifted down, finding him through his pants, and he stood there, letting it, telling himself it was just one night. Just a temporary anesthesia to get through the next few hours without having to be inside his head.
Denial was comfortable. He'd lived in it most of his life.
Ten minutes later, they were in the back seat of his car.
The windows were fogged. Tate was pumping furiously into her from behind.
She was loud, gripping his shoulders, moaning in the dark.
In the rush of it all, the thought of a condom never crossed his mind.
When he felt his nut rising, he pulled out, groaning as he came on her back.
He looked around his car until he spotted an old T-shirt stuffed under the driver’s seat. He used it to wipe himself off, then handed it to her.
He let out a ragged sigh, falling back into the seat. “So, what’s yo’ name?”
The girl let out a giggle. “You should have asked before you fucked me, but it’s Valentina. And yours?”
“Damien,” he lied seamlessly. He had zero intentions of ever crossing paths with her again.
“Well, Damien... this was fun, but I have to head home before my man starts calling. I’ll see you around, I guess.” She got out of his car and slipped into the night.
Afterward, he sat in the back seat, looking at the Atlanta skyline.
He didn't move for a while.
The thing in his chest was still there. He'd thought the sex would help. It only distracted him.
He pulled out his phone and pulled up Zena's name on the screen.
He typed sorry,
Tate
Sorry, got caught up. Heading home soon.
sent it.
He pressed his forehead to the steering wheel for exactly thirty seconds. He let himself have that moment of grief. Then he sat up, started the engine, and drove away.
He'd tell Zena about Rodney tomorrow. Or the day after. He'd find the right way to say it, a simplified version she could digest. As he drove, the reality surfaced again that Rodney was gone and was nothing he could do about it.
Three days later, he was in a soul food restaurant on the east side of Atlanta, across from Zena, not eating his food, with his phone face down on the table because every time it rang, it sent another piece of his life crumbling down.
She was talking about the label. About Velvet, who had been taking up more of the label's attention and sitting in on her sessions. About going independent. About feeling like she was on a shelf. He was listening and not listening at the same time.
“Just finish up the album, Zena. You don’t want to make a permanent decision off temporary emotions.”
Zena moved her fork through her salad. “This isn’t a temporary feeling, Tate.” She pursed her lips. “You know what…never mind.”
He knew he wasn't giving her what she needed. He didn't have anything left to give right now.
He started to respond, but a voice said, "Princess," and he looked up, and his stomach dropped straight through the floor.
The girl from the parking lot.
Standing at her table in a different outfit and shoes, with the same face, she somehow had a connection to Zena that made what he'd done three nights ago feel impossible to forget, turning it into something he had to live with.
"Hey, girl," Velvet said, looking at Zena. "What are you doing all the way over on this side of town?"
He kept a neutral expression. That was his skill. He stared at his phone as if it were the most fascinating object in the room, let the surrounding conversation unfold, and silently endured the pain of realizing just how small Atlanta truly was.
"This is Tate, my boyfriend," Zena said.
Velvet looked at him. She narrowed her eyes, then she smirked.
"It's nice to finally meet you," she said. "You look so familiar. Are you from Atlanta?”
This bitch
He kept his voice flat. "Nah, I'm from Richmond."
She smiled. The smile said everything her words didn't.
When she left with her bag of food and her red heels clicking on the tile, he exhaled. He stared down at the table, thought about Rodney, and then that night.
He'd dug this hole himself.
He just hadn't figured out yet how deep it was going to get.