Chapter 2
montana
. . .
But I’d never got told to step off by a woman.
I hadn’t called Journey the wrong name. Didn’t ask her to reach into the nightstand for breakfast menus the morning after, because Big Country was bone tired and also had forgotten her name.
Yeah, I told my hookups, my treat. Enjoy yourselves.
That always went well. Got them to ghost me, quick.
But if Journey wanted to introduce herself by running, who was I to complain? Would I let her disappear?
Nah. Not Big Country.
She was hotter than fried chicken and Auntie Peaches’ Sweet-Thang Yams. Gorgeous. Curves that apron couldn’t hide. Plush, smirking lips, sharp and no-nonsense, like she wanted to cut and kiss me with them.
When I laid eyes on her, I swear I hadn’t seen past brown skin—warm as sunbaked pecans—and her complexion caught the light before the door closed. She had these watchful eyes, like she expected the world to steal from her if she blinked too long.
When her eyes met mine, though?
That hardness melted, and she glowed—caramel warming in the pan. Soft. Rich. Pulling me in.
But her beauty came with scars, forged in fire. The kind that made a dude want to learn every shade of her.
Was Big Country the staying type, though? Nah.
Shaking my head, I headed to the back. Since Momma and Peaches ran the place, it didn’t seem right for me to claim the leather chair opposite the black obsidian table. I sat in a fluffy chair. “Ridiculous.” Pink fur itched my forearms.
I pulled out my phone, torturing myself, and added to the view count of an LA-based online gossip site. I’d watched this video countless times. And every single time? They dragged me.
Yeah, they dragged all two hundred and thirty-nine pounds, six foot four of my Black ass. Spike Lee would give them props. The team incorporated a catchy sequence of footage: my rise, fall, and their disses.
“Big Country … Big Country …” That name—the nickname hollered at me since I got stuffed after eating half a roast beef po’boy and still thought I was grown—blared from my iPhone screen.
The clip segued from a crowd, almost seventy thousand deep at the Los Angeles Dodgers stadium on the night me and my boys won the World Series, to an after-party video. I’d shoved a man. A little shove.
Dude flew across the table as I shouted, “Get the hell outta my face before I kill you, bruh.”
I cut off the news segment where the gossip commentator chewed me out for forgetting to be a role model.
Over ten years in MLB, and I’d financed community centers from here to the streets of LA.
Visited kids with cancer. Not for face time, though.
I still kept up with those struggling or learning to survive. Now this?
Should I have pushed the dude?
Damn straight.
Should I have threatened his life?
Hell, yeah.
Just not with opportunistics around. The video paused. A FaceTime flashed.
With the press of a button, my brothers’ faces popped up.
Washington, the eldest, strolled down the steps of the Juvenile Court Building in New Orleans.
The judge’s bald head reflected the sun.
Based on the mirror's reflection, Texas and Tennessee worked out in Ten’s apartment’s gym.
The twins were identical, except the oldest had dreads, and Ten wore cornrows.
“Momma said you showed up. What’s going on?” Washington asked, and he stopped walking. A button chirped, probably to that Bentley he bought after his divorce.
“What’s up with y’all not telling me about Sweet Cheeks?” I cut in.
Ten laughed. “You met Journey?”
“Calm down, young’un, I saw her first.” Texas elbowed him.
“Don’t matter,” his twin snapped. “Your sketchy, unemployed ass would need to fight her little man for the remote.”
“Big Country, your ego might not survive if she don’t fall for you,” Washington said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “But hey … women make surprising choices every day.”
I lifted a brow. “You interested?”
“No.”
Forgive me for asking. “Drinks?”
“Your treat,” Texas said, not asking. “You didn’t come home for Thanksgiving. You’ve been hiding in that mansion, sulking since the Dodgers dropped you.”
“Funny. It’s a suspension.” For who knows how long. Guggenheim Management still hadn’t decided because of the holidays. “If my bank couldn’t eat you alive, I’d let you pay. T&T, scrub y’all asses. Can’t be caught on the media. Y’all look like you can’t spell soap.”
“Ha!” Tennessee shoulder-checked his mirror image. “That’s Tex. He can’t spell job either.”
“I got mon—”
I clicked the Off button, cutting into Texas’s retort. I bet Washington also hung up. As a judge, he recused himself from Texas’s foolishness by the time he ended up in juvey. I roughed a hand over my beard, wondering who helped my younger brother stay on track these days.
On the phone, the video remained paused.
Momma entered, closing the door behind her. “Boy, give that video no mind, you hear me?” Before I could speak, she transitioned to Kouri-Vini—literally repeating everything she just said in Louisiana Creole—cadence much deeper than the “proper talk” she reserved for the restaurant.
“Yes, ma’am, I hear you,” I mumbled, as she sat in the other pink fur chair beside me. “I came home to take my momma out to dinner.”
She waved a hand. “I eat here for free, cher.”
“Or we can go by private jet wherever you like.”
Fiddling with the fluffy armrest hairs, she asked, “Y’know who’d love that scenario?”
“Any woman alive. How I’ma get rid of ‘em?” My entire body, muscles and all, trembled at that idea.
“Hush! You too big to fear love. So, I suppose I gotta say, leave the girl alone. She’s special.”
“You right,” I agreed, rubbing my jaw. “Journey’s beautiful. Check her though, she almost undressed me in front of women and children.”
Momma chuckled, swatting my arm. “You a lie! Just leave Journey alone. She meant non harm. She stays stuck in her head.”
“True.” I pawed my jaw, deliberating. “There’s intelligence behind those eyes.”
“She got that sweetness, make you wanna … but O wi, she got some salé too.”
Salt? What was this? Women talk?
“Oh? You not feeling me the way I need, non. So, leave her be.”
“Momma …” My eyes warmed over, puppy-dog soft. But Big Country, the gremlin living in my chest, kicked my ribcage and yelled, She can have her peace once WE get a piece.
Yeah. I was willing. Him? Reckless.
“Regard that there stapler?” Momma jutted her chin across the desk.
“Dang, ma. Cruel.” I took her hand and helped her up. “For that, we flying by jet to dinner. I got reservations at your favorite lobster place in Maine.”
“Tonight? I don’t know …” Reluctance and giddiness softened her voice. I loved repaying Momma. Wished she’d let me do more, though.
Never understood how she’d thought any of her boys would give her less than everything. Four boys. Four hearts would’ve moved the world for her without hesitation. She just loved the simple things in life.
Me and Momma started out of the office and were halfway through the dining area when a tiny voice spoke. I glanced down.
“Hey, little dude, I almost tripped on you.” I crouched, scanning the room for the kids’ parents.
The kid’s twisties jumped as he bounced in light-up shoes. Ah, nervous and too afraid to ask for my autograph. It happened all the time.
The kid shouted, “I said, They have bibs here!”
My brow’s raised, while his high-pitched voice made people turn toward us. “Uh, little dude, I don’t need a—”
“You got food on your boobies.”
Journey rushed from the kitchen, scurrying around as if she expected Genèse’s purse to sprout legs and walk off. I’d told my cousin to move that leather “mortgage with handles” after Journey had tripped over it. Then I promised her a new purse for Christmas. Just didn’t mention a brand.
“Chest,” Journey said, heat exploding up her face as she slid dishes onto a table a few rows over. “It’s his chest, baby.” Her eyes flashed toward me, as if apologizing again for being the reason I had peach cobbler all over my shirt.
“Boobies,” the kid insisted louder. A blue light flashed as he stomped a foot.
Baby?
I stared at my momma. I know you didn’t.
Momma had threatened me to keep my distance.
Could’ve saved the office supplies by saying the queen with all that junk in the trunk already had a car seat strapped in.
A kid? That baggage would’ve gotten Momma’s point across real quick.
Did one of my brothers mention a kid on the phone?
They’d said, little man. Should’ve paid more attention instead of focusing on who called dibs.
Wait. Journey told me she was a celibate nun. Nuns didn’t have children!
I held out my hand to the kid. “Show me where to get a bib, Little Dude.”
“You gimme ice cream?” Excitement lit his face at the proposal he’d made.
“Of co—”
“It’s Darius. Not dude.” Journey sauntered forward. She looked damn good, hips sashaying with each step. She took Darius’s hand from mine and turned to my momma. “Sorry, Ms. Virginia, this isn’t gonna pan out.”
“You just moved into your place, Journey.” Momma lowered her voice.
“No. We … rented a place for a couple nights.” Her eyes dropped to the mahogany floors. Did she just lie? Straight. In. Momma’s. Face? Ain’t enough switches in the bayou and all the swamps combined.
Why though?
“Mommy,” Darius frowned, “you said—”
Journey yanked him onto her hip, shutting him up with a raspberry at his neck. “Talk later, honey.”
My gut clenched. Did Momma have a solid reason why I shouldn’t enjoy Journey’s company a time or two?
Was Journey on the run—
A nasty cough echoed across the room. Desperate and wheezing.
Journey kissed Little Dude’s forehead. As I started toward the commotion, she deposited him into my arms. Her stare warned me not to move a muscle. Then she ran toward the choking customer.