Chapter 13 #2
“I’m staying on your couch,” he said, turning toward the door. “You need something, holler. Otherwise, sleep.”
“Okay.”
Then he was gone, pulling her door mostly closed but leaving it cracked—close enough to hear if she called, far enough to give her privacy.
And as she settled into her pillows, she could still feel his arms around her. That shit did something to her. Her body didn’t miss a beat.
She wanted to call his ass back into the room, tell him her truth, and then get dicked down, but her eyes were already closing, the exhaustion pulling her under. And as she drifted off, part of her—the part she wouldn’t admit out loud—was glad he was staying.
Kennedi rose from her pillow, disoriented, the apartment darker than before. The TV was still on, volume low, playing a basketball game. She blinked, trying to orient herself, and realized she’d been out for hours.
The smell of food hit her, and for once, it didn’t make her stomach revolt.
She sat up slowly, stretched, and set off to find Rolani. She found him in her kitchen. Stove on, a pot simmering, and moving around like he’d been there a hundred times before.
“What are you doing?” Her voice came out rough from sleep.
He glanced back at her. “Making you soup. How you feeling?”
“Better,” she admitted, watching him work. “What time is it?”
“Almost six.”
“I can’t believe you stayed all day. Thank you, Rolani.”
He stirred whatever was in the pot, then turned the heat down. “You needed somebody to make sure you didn’t pass out and crack your head on something.” He filled a bowl with chicken and rice. “Come eat.”
On shaky legs, she made her way to the small table in her kitchen. He set the bowl in front of her. It smelled so damn good.
“It’s not gonna upset your stomach,” he said, sitting across from her. “My grandma used to make this when we were sick. Rice soaks up the broth, easy to digest.”
She took a spoonful. It was warm and salty and exactly what her body needed. “Your grandma taught you to cook?”
“Yeah. Her mindset was different. Especially for her time. She didn’t believe in all that boy this and girl that shit. If it was a skill she wanted us to learn it. I can sew a little, too.”
“Now that I gotta see.”
He leaned back in the chair, watching her eat.
Her face was bare, bonnet slipped back just enough to show the edges of her boho braids. Brown skin smooth under the kitchen light. Heart-shaped face, full lips pressed together after each careful swallow. He knew what those lips felt like, and his thoughts went straight back to that hotel room.
He wanted her. Sick or not. Attitude or not. That hadn’t changed and wasn’t changing now.
“What about your parents?”
“What about them? Giovanni and his people were more family to me than my own blood.”
She heard the weight in that. “The Southside Bad Boyz years — was that part of filling the gap?”
His jaw flexed. “You did your homework.”
“It's my job.”
“We’re not at work, though.”
“Right.”
He studied her for a long moment. “I did what I had to do to survive. Made choices I ain’t proud of.
Hurt people who probably didn’t deserve it.
Sometimes what’s necessary isn’t always what’s right.
” He shook his head. “I’m off that shit now.
Lost too many people to bullets and cells.
So now my focus is on doing my own shit. I’m legit. And I ain’t looking back.”
“I like that you still have this edge.” She wasn’t sure why she said that; she was stating a fact. “You still move like somebody who knows how to handle himself.”
“Because I do.” His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Contrary to how you try to handle me, I ain’t no soft ass nigga, Ken. I’ve done shit that would probably make you look at me differently. I’m trying to be better.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why try to be better? You could’ve stayed in that life. Made money. Had power.”
He laughed, but it lacked humor, because she was confused; there was no past tense in the money, power, and respect he held.
“Not on no cocky shit, I still hold the power. I could make a phone call today and have niggas suited and booted to step just off the strength. Again, I’m cool on that. And the money, I got plenty of that.”
“But things changed, though.”
He grinned at her observant ass.
“Robin got knocked, and I had to take on raising Monroe. She’s already without her father.
And as a journalist, you know real power is building a life that lets you put your people on.
” He leaned forward. “And I want that. I’m almost forty.
Fuck I look like running with them young niggas when this shit here today and gone tomorrow. ”
She understood that more than he knew. The need for permanence. The fear that it could all disappear.
“That’s why you’re so pressed about me staying,” she said quietly.
“People die or get locked up or choose the streets over everything else, every day.” His voice was rough. “So yeah and no. I’m pressed about you staying because for once, I want the woman I choose to choose me back.”
She fell silent. She wanted to say something—anything—, but the words stalled in her throat.
“How old are you, Ken?”
“31. You?”
“37, no kids, no wife, a few folks I fuck with, a big dick and a smile that drives these hoes wild.”
He joked, making her snort with laughter.
“I didn’t even ask all that, but noted.”
“I thought you wanted to know. Finish your food,” he said, standing. “I’m gonna clean up.”
She did, watching him move around her kitchen, washing the pot, putting things away. He’d been here all day. Showed up without being asked. Made her food. Stayed even when she told him to leave.
When she finished eating, he took her bowl without a word and washed it too.
“You staying the night?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“On my couch.”
“Unless you want me in your bed.” He smirked. “But I don’t think you’re ready for that.”
“Cocky.”
“Honest.” He dried his hands on the dish towel. “And realistic. You’re sick. I’m not leaving you alone. End of discussion. Plus, the house is quiet as shit with Monroe at Georgie’s.”
“I can’t wait to meet her. I bet she’s sweet.”
“She’s spoiled rotten, but she is sweet. Better kid than Robin and me. We were hell, shit still can be.” He paused. “She’s fourteen, got her own mind about everything.”
“Fourteen’s a tough age.”
“Tell me about it. One day she’s my little homie, next day she's rolling her eyes at everything I say.” He shook his head, but there was affection in it. “Got a mouth on her like her granny, but she got her head on straight.”
“Sounds like she takes after her uncle, too.”
“Yeah, unfortunately.” He smirked. “She definitely got the Pracher attitude. But she’s good. Doing her thing in school, staying out of trouble. That’s all I can ask for.”
Kennedi nodded, seeing a different side of him.
“You’re doing a great job with her. I’m sure,” she said quietly.
“Trying to.” He straightened. “Anyway, enough about all that. You got me in here playing housewife.”
“That couch is uncomfortable as hell. I’m getting you my good blankets and pillows.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
She didn’t doubt it.
She grabbed her spare bedding from the closet and made up the couch while he turned off the kitchen light. When she turned around, he was standing close.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For coming to take care of me today.”
“That’s what I do, Ken.” His hand came up, thumb brushing her jaw. “Somebody should’ve been showing up for you a long time ago. Since they didn’t, I’m here now.”
So she nodded and stepped back.
“Get some rest,” he said. “You look like Wanda from Holiday Heart.”
“So, a crackhead? You really know how to sweet-talk a woman.” She laughed walking off down to the hall to her bedroom.
“Get some rest,” he said. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up, listening to him shift on the couch through the cracked door. Her journal sat on the nightstand she opening it to the unfinished sentence.
Rolani is—
She picked up the pen.
Rolani is the only man who never waited for me to ask.
She closed the journal, turned off the lamp, and fell asleep to the sound of him breathing in the next room. For the first time in months, she didn’t dream about running.