Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
FRIDAY NIGHT
“Aye, Kennedi.”
She looked up from her laptop to find Mook leaning in her office doorway, shop rag slung over his shoulder.
“Ro said to come get him when you’re ready to head out. He’s in the booth.”
“He’s still painting?” She glanced at the time on her screen. 5:47 PM. “He’s been in there since lunch.”
Mook shrugged. “This is how he gets. Once he starts, he can’t stop.”
“The Cadillac?”
“Yeah. It’s looking clean, too. Candy apple.” He tapped the doorframe twice. “I’m out. Y’all have a good weekend.”
“You too, Mook.”
He disappeared down the hall, and Kennedi saved her files and closed her laptop.
She’d been at it since nine that morning—editing footage, answering emails, mapping out the next round of interviews for the docu-series.
The work was good, fulfilling in a way her old newsroom job never was, but her back was starting to ache, and the baby had been pressing on her bladder for the last hour.
She’d pulled up the footage from Rolani’s last interview three times that afternoon, trying to decide where to cut it.
He’d been talking about Idle Hands, about what the building was supposed to mean for the neighborhood, and somewhere in the middle of it he’d stopped choosing his words and just talked.
That was the moment she wanted — unguarded, the man underneath the business owner.
She’d marked the timestamp and built the whole segment around forty-five seconds of him being himself without knowing it.
The third time she watched it, she caught herself smiling at a screen.
Time to go find her man.
She grabbed her bag and headed toward the paint booth, passing through the main shop floor where a few of the guys were still finishing up.
Music played from a speaker somewhere, competing with the clang of tools and the hiss of an air compressor.
The smell of motor oil and fresh paint had become familiar over the past few months. Comforting, even.
She was still processing that she had a world with Rolani Pracher. A smile graced her face as she made it to the paint booth at the back of the shop. She peered through the big glass window and spotted her man. Silently, she watched.
Rolani worked the spray gun in long, even passes. The ’72 Cadillac that had been in the shop for three weeks was finally getting its color. Candy apple red, shining like it was still wet. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. No wasted motion. Just years of practice in every stroke.
He was wearing his respirator, coveralls unzipped to the waist with a white tank underneath, the sleeves tied around his hips. His locs were pulled back under a du-rag. Paint mist hung in the air around him.
This was the version of Rolani most people didn’t see.
Not the business owner or the investor. Not the man in meetings talking numbers with Giovanni.
This was the artist. The one who’d learned to paint cars before he learned to read a balance sheet.
The one who still got his hands dirty because he wanted to, not because he had to.
She liked this version. A lot. She loved a passionate man.
He finished a pass and stepped back to check his work. That’s when he caught her through the glass. Even with the respirator covering half his face, she could see his eyes shift when he saw her.
He held up one finger.
She nodded and leaned against the wall to wait.
A few minutes later, he emerged from the booth, pulling the respirator down around his neck and wiping his hands on a rag.
“Hey baby, how long you been standing there?” he asked, walking toward her.
“Long enough to watch you work.”
“You like that, huh?”
“I like seeing you in your element.” She shrugged. “But you’ve been at it all day.”
“I know. When I’m in there, it’s me and the car.” He tossed the rag onto a nearby workbench. “Everything else goes quiet, and sometimes I need that.”
“That’s why you still do it yourself.”
“Some things you don’t hand off.” He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the paint fumes and underneath it, him. “You ready?”
“Been ready. Mook came and got me.” She tilted her head. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going tonight.”
“You’ll see.” He leaned down and kissed her, quick but intentional, his hand finding the side of her neck. “G and Paige are meeting us there. Spirit too.”
“Spirit’s coming?”
“Paige made her. Said she’s been cooped up with her book stuff and needed to get out.” He was already stripping off the coveralls and slipping his shirt back on. “You good with that?”
“Of course. I didn’t know it was a group thing.”
“It’s a chill thing. Friday night tradition from back in the day.” He grabbed his keys from the workbench and nodded toward the back door. “Come on. You’ll see what I mean.”
The Demon was parked out back, matte black and mean; the car made noise sitting still. Kennedi had seen it in the garage at his house but hadn’t ridden in it yet. Rolani opened her door first, waited until she was settled, then came around and slid behind the wheel.
The engine turned over with a growl that vibrated through the seat.
“Show off,” she said. “What does CANT mean?” she asked, referring to his license plate.
He grinned and pulled out of the lot.
“A nigga CAN’T catch or beat her,” he said, speeding up, giving her a rush.
“Are you humble about anything?” she joked.
“Yeah, but not my cars or my racing record.”
Twenty minutes later, they turned off the main road onto a stretch of back highway with no streetlights. Kennedi had driven past this turnoff her whole life and never thought twice about it. She figured it was farmland or nothing.
It wasn’t nothing.
She heard it before she saw it. Bass thumping through the trees. The growl of engines. Then the road opened up, and the strip came into view, lit up like a block party on asphalt. Cars lined both sides—old schools on big rims, muscle cars with their hoods up, a few imports scattered in between.
People everywhere. Lawn chairs and coolers. Grills smoking. Kids running through the crowd while grown folks passed bottles and talked shit. Larry June knocked from somebody’s speakers loud enough to rattle windows.
Rolani pulled the Demon through slowly, and Kennedi watched the crowd react.
Heads turned. A few people pointed. An older man in a lawn chair raised his cup in Rolani’s direction without getting up—respect.
A group of younger guys standing near a Charger stopped their conversation to watch the Demon roll past. One of them nodded.
Another dapped up the guy next to him. Nobody ran up on the car.
Nobody shouted his name or tried to flag him down. But everybody saw him. Everybody knew.
“This is what you do on Friday nights?”
“Sometimes, I’m a simple man, baby.”
She nodded.
She’d tried running. Hadn’t worked.
Rolani parked near the fence at the far end, where Giovanni’s Hellcat and a white mustang were already posted. He killed the engine and looked at her.
“Let me know if you get uncomfortable or ready to go. I wanted to get you out of the house and office.”
“I’m fine.” She met his eyes. “I’m excited, truthfully. I’m not porcelain, Rolani.”
Something in his face shifted. “Give me a kiss.”
And she did with a smile. She was now at the space where she’d do whatever he told her, give him whatever he wanted.
He got out and came around to her side, opening her door and helping her out. His hand stayed on her lower back as they walked toward the group.
Giovanni leaned against the hood of the Hellcat, Paige tucked under his arm. Spirit sat on the hood of her Mustang, legs crossed, a drink in her hand. When they saw Rolani coming, Giovanni straightened up and the two of them dapped up, one of those handshakes that turned into a half-hug.
“What up, bruh?” Giovanni said. “Thought you got lost in the booth.”
“Almost did. That Cadillac was calling me.”
“Color down?”
“All good.”
“That’s gonna be stupid clean.” Giovanni turned to Kennedi, pulling her into a side hug. “How you feeling, sis? He taking care of you?”
“Always.”
“Better be. I taught him everything he knows.”
“Nigga,” Rolani said, already pulling a folding chair from the trunk of the Hellcat. He set it up next to the cars and gestured for Kennedi to sit. “Get off your feet, baby.”
She lowered herself into the chair, grateful. Her back had been aching for the last hour. Rolani stayed close, leaning against the hood of the Demon right next to her chair, one hand resting on her shoulder.
Paige passed her a bottle of water. “You need anything else? I got snacks in my bag. We come prepared.”
“I’m good. Thank you.” Kennedi twisted the cap off and took a long sip. “I had no idea this was out here.”
“Most people don’t,” Spirit said. “It’s been running for years. Friday night tradition. Ro and G used to tear it up out here.”
“So this is where all those reckless driving charges came from,” Kennedi said, cutting Rolani a look.
He laughed. “You keep bringing up my record.”
“I’m saying. RJ is not doing this.”
“Man, please. RJ is gonna be out here with me as soon as he can see over the dashboard.”
“Rolani, you bet not have my baby out here with a need for speed.”
“I’m playing.” He grinned down at her. “Mostly.”
She shook her head but couldn’t stop the smile. “That was different though, right?”
“Yeah. Different time, different me.” He nodded toward the strip, where two cars were lining up at the starting line. “This is for fun now. Family shit. No stakes, no beef. Just cars and people who love ‘em. Oh, and a lot of shit talking.”
A horn sounded, and the two cars launched, engines screaming, tires grabbing asphalt. The crowd erupted. Kennedi felt the vibration in her chest, watched the taillights blur down the strip until one crossed first, and the winner threw a fist out the window.