Chapter 4 Montana
montana
. . .
Soft. Those sweet cheeks made us almost bounce back up. All that booty. Had to wonder if she’d been stealing the Butter Me Down Bayou Cornbread. As we lay on the ground, I flopped off her, put my hands behind my head, and sighed. “Journey, y’know what they say about a hard head.”
She should’ve laughed. For one, that booty broke her fall. Two? I didn’t finish the adage with tiny ears around. Three? I also helped break her fall. At least I tried, but her foot swept upward and caught me by surprise.
Journey slugged my arm.
My smile widened.
“If you laugh—” Her attempted threat was cute.
“Hey, Mommy, play nice. You hit him in the boobie.”
“Chest,” Journey sighed. “But I hit him in the arm. Okay? Please call him Montana, Baby.”
I climbed to my feet and helped her up, yanking her toward me. As her lips bounced off my chest, I claimed the small of her back and held her close. When her eyes went wide, I said, “That was for hitting me. See, Darius? Mommy and I made up.”
“So, you’ll stay?” Another voice, familiar and the reason I’d hounded Journey, spoke from near the door.
Momma … She and Peaches were as different as light and day. But she had her reasons for begging them to stay.
“Miss Virginia, may I finish my shift in the kitchen?” Journey asked. “The dishwasher seemed to be behind. I could help him. You’ll pay me for a full eight-hour shift … this evening?”
A tear fell, and Momma swiped it away. “Of course.”
I turned my attention to Journey. You made my momma cry. You lied to her face. You ain’t going nowhere.
But when I didn’t verbally declare war on the courageous woman, relief dropped her shoulders. That outrageous wig—what had Darius called it? Puppy—hid more than her real hair.
Before she could pass, I strolled out of the room.
In the hallway, I said, “Momma, I’ll reschedule our dinner date in Maine.
” She’d drown her sorrows in garlic butter and fresh lobster rolls.
Just not today. Nah, they didn’t do it like we did here in NOLA.
But Momma would need a good meal and cry if Little Dude disappeared forever.
I stepped out and sent a text to the Four Brothers’ group.
BIG COUNTRY: Rain check.
Before I could even shove my cellphone into my jeans, comments vibrated my palm.
I needed to grab a clean shirt, a shower, and maybe swing back for a to-go plate, coz I was gonna watch Journey all night.
Leaving?
Who was leaving?
Definitely not her and Little Dude.
Didn’t get that shirt. My land sat outside of Covington. Peaceful and abundant. I liked it that way. Driving took an hour, and I didn’t want to risk Journey escaping.
Instead, I got cornered in the French Quarter by a vet who grew up with Momma.
I should’ve driven to The Shops at Canal Place for a shirt.
Couldn’t disrespect a hungry soldier or someone who could handle a cello.
This dude was both. We grabbed burgers and chatted until the sun sank on Jackson Square, painting the Quarter in gold and shadow. The detour cost me hours.
After texting Auntie Peaches for Journey’s home address, I found myself in the wrong ward.
I squeezed my Escalade behind Journey’s car near rundown apartments.
I hoped nobody else owned a broke-down, purple Nissan Versa.
One already got the block looking like a crackhead yard sale.
She’d parked in front of a post. With my SUV behind her, my decision stood. No escape.
“Or you trigger her coz you hate the sight of Momma’s tears,” I mumbled, scratching the back of my neck.
Had her baby’s father put hands on her? Had she run away from Darius’s pop?
I squinted at the text in the streetlight, just to be sure Peaches ran me the correct address. I pushed the seat back, letting the engine run, the air conditioning the only peace I’d have this abnormally hot December evening, and waited.
After a while, my manager called. LaShawn had this ’90s Whoopi Goldberg demeanor, and her crusty cigarette voice always meant business. “Babineaux, Nike wants to meet with me next week. I’d thought we’d have until after Christmas. They are serious.”
“What about me?”
She took a drag. “I squeezed you out, so you won’t say something stubborn. Why cost you Nike? That’s messing with my money.”
“Understood. Keep me posted, LaShawn. How are the kids?”
“Dangling on their mother’s last nerve. Whatchu think?” Then she muttered motha, motha … “Hey, Montana?”
“What?” My brow lifted.
“You know a single mother out in Louisiana?”
My eyes landed on a nasty apartment door that wouldn’t stop anyone from getting in. “Maybe.”
“What about a cross-eyed single momma? Better yet, one leg—”
“Damn, LaShawn. I hired you when I was a rookie because of your wild thinking.”
“Here you go! Find you a disabled, single momma. Fake date her. People will respect you for that. We need public sympathy. You threatened a man’s life. He didn’t press charges.”
“So the situation will die down. I ain’t dating—”
“Montana! I’m worried. Families are your bread and butter. That’s like Dwayne Johnson kicking a kid in the raisins while hyping up his silly ass movies.”
“See what I can do.” I hung up and pinched the bridge of my nose. Then I called my brother from another mother.
A Scottish mother.
“Lach, you know what your manager just proposed?”
“Did LaShawn just bring up that thing about Dwayne Johnson kicking a kid in the bawbags?” Lachlan’s slight brogue ended on a chuckle.
“Yep. Does Natasha have any equally sexy single-mom friends?” His wife was Russian and Black. But as I spoke, my eyes flicked out the window, searching for the Black Queen Big Country would ask in a heartbeat. “Even half as cute. LaShawn wants me to fake date.”
“Don’t mention my love’s appearance, and I’ll ask.” He snorted.
“Alright.”
“Listen, how about you not break any hearts? I’ll go on record saying the lad came at you. The video only showed the aftermath.”
“Nah. You were at The Red Door, Lach, celebrating your marriage to the Bratva Princess. Can’t be multiple places at once.”
“Hear me out,” he began. “Would anyone contradict her family if they all agreed I wasn’t there after our win? Snitches would nap forever in the LA River. Where you thought I’d end up for proposing.”
“Damn straight. But, bruh, you’re already at your father-in-law’s mercy. I ain’t adding to it.”
Hours later, a loud slap snapped me out of my nightmare about getting kicked outta the league and the Angels being my only offer.
Sneering, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, then hit the button to sit forward. It didn’t work. Still half asleep, I pulled myself up. A smile broke off as Journey glared outside the driver’s window.
I pressed the power window switch. Jabbed it. Bruh. The keyless ignition and the dash must’ve gone dark sometime last night. Gesturing for her to step back, I opened the door.
“Really, Baby Huey, really? This flashy SUV died?”
“Relax, Sweet Cheeks. I’ll move by the time you change into your work uniform.”
She shoved a mug of coffee in my face. I raised a brow.
“Not drugged,” Journey sighed.
“Didn’t think it was.”
She smirked as if she realized she should’ve played with my head. “Drink it. Toss it. Whatever. Thanks for stalking us all night.”
“You knew I was outside and wouldn’t let me crash on the couch?”
“Don’t have one. It’s a studio. If I did, I’m sure you can figure out the answer.”
I silently concurred. We didn’t know each other. This was different … real different for Big Country. Chasing after a woman. Nah. This was for Momma.
“Keep the cup. Lemme alone, Montana!” She stomped a foot. “Move your crappy Escalade. I’m not giving you a jump.”
“Don’t need one.” I tried the coffee. Yuck! I handed it back and strode to the trunk for cables and a jump starter.
She watched.
“Go change, Journey.”
She stared at the cheap, blue cup. Eyes level with the ground, she murmured, “I’m not coming to work, Montana. You declined my offer to buy sh—”
“What that gotta do with—”
“I bet your expensive mattress sings lullabies.” She scoffed. “Hell, those MLB checks probably purchased a bed that feels like angels braided the stuffing by hand. Then you pretend to act rugged.”
“Act?” The audacity. Over here, trying to slay me in a comedy roast off.
“Boy, you, that horrible woman I found out was your cousin, and her stupid purse? Ya’ll are bougie. Don’t deny it.”
“I live a good life. But non, chère. You mistaken. I don’t lie!” All the time. “Keep your one-ply Dollar Store shirt.”
“Single-ply?” She placed her hand on her hip. “That’s for toilet paper. Forget it! Toilet is a tough one for NOLA natives.”
“First, I can say turlet!” I cleared my throat. “Toy-let. Second, I don’t even wipe my ass with one-ply no mo, bébé. I wouldn’t constitute what you’d call a shirt, as a shirt.”
“Oh, excuse me, you probably love Egyptian cotton.” Her voice went all delicious and soft. That voice? She slayed Big Country. Looked good badmouthing me. Journey won for those reasons alone. I nodded my head to what she said.
“Yep. Egyptian cotton, alright. Sea Island Cotton, bébé. That’s what my shirt was. Almost as soft as that sexy ass.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, glaring at the sky. “We’re not talking about me and sexy. I don’t want a guy, no sexy time. So, take me out of the equation. Stop playing campout, Mr. Bougie-No.”
“Bougie-No?” I busted up laughing, and she shook her head, chuckling too. “You good now, Journey?”
“Yep.” She pushed my chest. Didn’t budge me an inch. Please, she just wanted an excuse to put hands on Big Country.
She looked up at me, real serious. Her mouth pulled into a small smile—the same mouth had tried to roast my ass with some Lovie BBQ sauce. “Montana, you looked out for me. I don’t remember the last time someone cared. But I’ve gotten my last check.”
“First check.” I stared her straight in the eye. “Journey, you worked eight hours.”
“I know.”
“This ain’t no pay-by-the-hour motel. I passed by here before.
Always got a sign saying First Month and Last Month Rent.
And got the nerve to mention a cleaning fee in small print!
Your money gone, Journey.” I paused, then said, “We can get you quick cash. See, I got this thing …” She stared at me as though my forehead read Scam Likely. “Bébé, what we gotta do is fake—”
“Quick money? No thanks, Montana.” She sipped the coffee. I swear she winced because she realized she drank after me, or did she realize it tasted of bitterness, regret, and bad decisions?
My thumb jabbed the On button. The machine went to work.
As the engine roared, Journey snapped, “Why do you care?”
I pulled the contraption off, closed the engine, and got into my vehicle. Needed to take it to the nearest mechanic for a new battery. “I’ma make a pass by here. Show you a real stalker. Don’t leave town. I’ll find you, easy.”
“You can’t make me stay. This was temporary. As soon as you’re getting the battery fixed,”—she winked at the closed hood—“I will run. Packed our bags last night.”
“Bet.” I slapped my hand against the SUV’s body. “A lot of folks love for Big Country to owe them favors. A couple of calls? I’ma know the direction you fled in.” My ego took a hit. Flee? Women ran toward me. “Did you find someone to watch Darius today?”
“No.”
I held up a hand then made a quick call to Momma. Before I finished bringing her up to speed, Momma hollered, “Journey’s coming back?”
“Montana,” Journey grumbled, house shoe tapping the pavement.
Focused on the call, I replied, “Yeah. Journey needs time to secure childcare. So, we gone watch Darius. Bring Elijah’s toys.” Damn, we didn’t bring up the boy. I cleared my throat. “Would it be okay … to bring his toys?”
“Ye … yeah. I’ll stay with Darius in the office all day.” Her smile floated through the receiver. “For however many days, mon cher. Don’t matter.”
“I’ll do what you do.”
“Non.” Momma laughed, warm, rolling each syllable. “Let’s tag team Little Dude. I take over in HC&PP if issues pop up.”
“Bet.” I hung up and leaned out the side window. “Bring him. Same as yesterday. Momma—”
“Agreed to watch him. Didn’t try to eavesdrop. Miss Virginia sounds elated.” Journey’s irritated expression melted with compassion. “Who’s Elijah? Can they play together until I get childcare?”
“Nah.” I slammed the shift in reverse.
“Oh? Is he in elementary? Winter break starts Monday, I believe.”
“Journey”—my demeanor softened—“my nephew’s resting … in peace.”