CHAPTER FIFTEEN
KORMIA
Kormia had been in Newdy’s shop for ten minutes… sitting on his counter.
Lost in thought, legs swinging, covered in dirt like a goddamn kid. She wanted to be mad, but even after all that violence, all she felt was sad. Ashamed. Like a monster. And there he was, walking toward her with that same look everybody else gave her. “What?” she snapped.
“You gon’ yell too? Gimme the whole speech about being professional. About not actin’ ghetto on the block. Go ’head, get it out your system. I heard that shit already.”
“Shut up.” The way he said it, calm, low, controlled, hit harder than any shout. Kormia blinked, thrown off balance. “Excuse me?” Newdy grabbed the first-aid kit from under the counter, popped it open, and started pulling supplies out like she hadn’t said a thing. Cotton. Peroxide. Alcohol. Gauze.
He stepped closer, steady hands lifting her chin. The sting of alcohol made her hiss.
“Damn!” she yelped, jerking back. “You trying to burn my face off?”
“Hold still.”
“I said I’m good. I don’t need no fucking first aid,” she shot back, pulling away.
His hand caught her jaw, firm but not rough, holding her in place.
“Yo, stop being a brat,” he said, voice even.
“Let me clean up these cuts.” His thumb brushed across her skin, wiping away a streak of blood she hadn’t noticed.
Their eyes locked and Kormia’s heart skipped a beat.
She hated how calm he was. Hated that he could hold her like that, silent and unbothered, and still make her feel seen.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, slipping free before she could swallow them down. The scent of eucalyptus and cedar hit her nose, cool and clean, nothing like the acrylic fumes she’d been breathing all day. A low hum of jazz played softly from somewhere behind the counter.
Gold track lighting cast a warm glow against the gray concrete walls, catching on glass vases and half-finished arrangements.
Her reflection shimmered faintly in one of them, hair a mess, lip swollen, eyes glossy.
She barely recognized herself and for a second, she forgot the crowd outside.
Forgot Medina. Forgot everything but the way his hand steadied her chin and the smell of fresh-cut stems in the air.
“Fuck,” she muttered, swiping at her eyes.
Nah, I’m trippin.’ Why am I crying right now?
Newdy stood silent. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t call her dramatic.
He just watched her, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Kormia felt on display. Like he was waiting on her to say something to make it all make sense.
Which somehow, made her feel worse. “It’s just…
” Her voice wavered. “I thought me and Medina was cool. Like…solid. I even did her momma’s nails for her funeral.
” She let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t even like touching raw meat, and I did a full set on a dead woman.
I ain’t even fuck with Mrs. Marta like that.
She was mean and never tipped. But Medina ain’t want her momma going to heaven without a refill, and because she was my friend…
” Her voice dropped. “Well… I thought she was my friend.” The air felt heavier, thick with the scent of flowers and alcohol.
Kormia blinked fast, but the tears came anyway, hot and relentless streaking down her cheeks like rain on glass.
Parish’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak right away.
Kormia had mastered the art of masking her pain.
But in this moment, she didn’t even have the energy to slide the mask back on.
He reached for the gauze again, slow and deliberate—like he was giving himself a second to breathe before he opened his mouth.
When he finally spoke, his tone stayed low.
“That’s loyalty,” he said. “Even when it don’t get returned.
” Kormia’s eyes darted up. She expected him to clown her, to call her stupid for caring.
Instead, he just went back to cleaning the last cut on her temple.
“That’s the part that hurt the worst,” he added quietly.
“You do right by people, they still play in your face. But you can’t let that turn you sloppy.
You let somebody pull you out of character, they still win.
” His hand dropped from her face, knuckles brushing her chin on the way down.
For a second, neither of them moved. When he finally stepped back, Kormia let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Then he lifted her off the counter, set her down slow—hands steady, careful almost, like he knew she’d break if he wasn’t.
She just stood there, blinking through the haze of exhaustion, finally seeing him for the first time and boy was he a sight.
He was tall, about 6’2 with a flawless sienna complexion.
Locs brushed his shoulders, neat and parted clean.
Paint streaked his forearms and smudged across his cargos; the same color splattered along the front of his dark crewneck that read Toussaint’s across the chest. His hands looked rough, used to work, but the tattoos curling up his arms and neck softened the edges.
Stories in ink that suddenly peaked her interest. He gave off blue-collar energy, but the details gave him away.
Like the ten-thousand-dollar David Yurman armory-link bracelet he wore, half-hidden between an apple watch, and two rubber bands.
Or the leather Prada work boots that were covered in paint, and the Tom Ford scent clinging faintly to his skin.
Quiet flexes that didn’t need to speak. But Kormia heard them loud and clear.
And just like that, something in her shifted. It was small… but dangerous.
She dragged her gaze away, pretending to fix her shirt instead.
“Thanks,” she started, but before the word could even leave her mouth, he turned away.
Immediately packing up the first-aid kit and sliding it back under the counter.
“Close your shop,” he said without looking at her.
She was halfway out the door when his voice stopped her.
“Aye, Kormia.” She turned, facing him.
“If I find out y’all fought again—outside, inside, anywhere—” his tone was calm but final, “I’m terminating both y’all leases.
So, for your business’s sake, I hope the shit’s dead.
” Kormia wanted to argue. Wanted to throw something slick back, that would give her the last word.
But her body was sore, her heart was heavy, and she was just…
tired. “Okay,” she muttered, voice small, before heading back to her shop.
When Kormia returned to her shop, it looked like a crime scene.
Chairs were knocked over. The floor was covered in broken nail tips, lashes, and Medinas cheap ass tape-ins stuck to the tile.
She sighed, long and tired, before grabbing a broom, wiping down stations and putting things back where they belonged.
By the time she finished, her body ached, and the adrenaline that had kept her upright all this time had finally started to fade.
She stood in the middle of the salon, hands on her hips, taking it all in.
The smell of bleach, Palo Santo wood, and smudged sage hung thick in the air as proof her job was finally finished.
It was a little after eight when Kormia finally locked up and made it to her car.
The rain had started again, light but steady.
Kormia caught her reflection in her rear-view and somehow, she looked worse.
Especially the scratches on her neck, she looked like she went 12 rounds with a Thundercat.
She drove in silence, with the exception of Rihanna’s Same ole mistakes playing as the soundtrack to her fucked up day.
Windshield wipers squeaked against the windshield, as the city buzzed around her.
She stopped by the Fresh Grocer, grabbed a bottle of Stella Honey Peach, an eight-piece bag of fried chicken, a pack of Hawaiian rolls, and a pound of Aunty Saud Seafood Salad.
Comfort food. Just something to fill the silence, settle her stomach, and give her something to focus on that wasn’t the day she just had.
She pulled up to Jackie’s fifteen minutes later, and much to her surprise the door was already open.
Kormia grabbed her things and climbed the steps, her body screaming for rest.
When she pushed the door open, Jackie was on the sofa, waiting. “I was wondering when you was gon’ show up, Clarissa Shields,” Jackie said, arms crossed but eyes soft. “So I take it you heard already,” Kormia muttered, setting her bags by the door. “They sent me the video,” Jackie said, standing.
“Only reason I didn’t come down there myself. You handled shit.”
“Yeah,” Kormia sighed, as Jackie stepped closer, cupping her chin and examining her face.
“You know you can’t let your daddy see this. He will air that shop out.”
“I know,” Kormia murmured. “That’s why I was gon’ ask if I could stay here for a few days…
till these scratches heal.” “Bye, girl. You don’t have to ask,” Jackie said, heading back toward the couch.
Kormia just stood there for a moment, feeling that familiar wave of sadness, guilt, and exhaustion rise up—all mixing together until it pressed behind her eyes.
“I got us some chicken,” she said, trying to shake it off.
“And some seafood sal—” “Come here,” Jackie cut her off gently.
Kormia stared at the ceiling, trying to blink the tears back, but they fell anyway.
“Mia,” Jackie said again, softer this time.
“Come here.” Kormia crossed the room and sank onto the couch.
She kicked off her clogs and stretched out, resting her head in Jackie’s lap.
And that was it. The weight of the day hit her full force.
The adrenaline, the anger, the heartbreak—everything she’d been holding in since that first swing.
She didn’t speak. Just cried quietly while Jackie stroked her hair, slow, gentle, and familiar.
The kind of touch she didn’t grow up with, but somehow still knew what to do with anyway.
Jackie said nothing. Just rubbed slow circles into her back until her breathing began to slow, and somewhere between tears and exhaustion, a memory found her.