Chapter 7 Zuri
zuri
. . .
Iworked extra days after the Christmas rush to pay for a last-minute gift. But what else?
That man tried to tickle my funny bone one afternoon, writing on the blackboard outside the French doors.
Today’s special: Fake Dating Big Country—comes with fries.
He better be glad I erased the blackboard while bickering with him about “false advertising” before women saw it.
They’d devour every drop of his fine behind.
Besides, I’d already learned the super long complicated name of the Creole fries: Les Frites Don’t Miss. Overkill.
Two evenings after Christmas, a group of old biddies had a book discussion. Montana had rolled up his sleeves to serve their table so I could have a longer break than usual. Except, he magically looked as natural as a six-four grizzly while carrying sweet teas.
Boy, please. On day one, he took those plates from me with the swagger of Gordon Ramsay and Bobby Flay’s love child. Almost gave him all my tips!
He kept looking at the booth where I drank my Bayou Breeze Lemonade next to Darius. Probably wished I felt sorry enough to date his ass. Fake date that is.
Joke was on him. A granny, in a hearing aid, loudly asked, “So … you still single, Biggg Country?”
I nearly dropped my spoonful of jambalaya. Turned my head away from this mess and scrubbed my fingers through Darius’s twisties, pretending not to be interested.
“Mom!” My son swatted my hand and focused on his coloring books.
Unable to redirect my attention for too long, I looked again. Montana placed plates in front of them. Instead of digging in, they grinned, staring at him like he came with three sides and a biscuit.
One chimed in, palm pressed against his bicep. “Since the Dodgers got rid of you, I’ll take you home tonight, Big Country.”
The chocolate cougars started shouting over each other. “No! My social security check―”
“Uhn! Uhn! I got SSA and survivor’s ben—”
“Ladies, chill!” Montana rushed to put their food down and turned away, cussing under his breath.
I grinned, the same sly smirk the old lady crew seemed to favor, while his long stride brought him to my booth. One of them cut her eyes at me, slicing her cornbread with a butter knife. The nerve!
He slid into the seat next to me.
“Hey,” I smiled. “Some gifts magically appeared right inside my apartment door on Christmas Eve.” My head tilted.
“Which makes me wonder—if you’re so congenial with management, maybe they could return my cleaning deposit.
” Ever since I cried in front of him at Chuck E.
Cheese, we chatted like old friends, and he didn’t even mutter about holding me against my will.
“How was Little Dude’s holiday?” Montana asked. “You know, you foul for not coming to Christmas dinner. My momma invited you.”
Did you?
“Big Country,” a woman hollered, “I need more sugah, bébé!”
“It’s on the table, woman!” he shouted, over their mess.
They laughed. “We heard about the Dodgers dropping you. We gone cash all our checks on the first, Big Country. We got you, bébé!”
Montana groaned that he wasn’t dropped.
I gently shoulder-checked him. “This too shall pass.”
“It will when you fake date me.” He leaned in, and our thighs grazed. Mine soft. His massive, muscular. My pulse kicked up. My brain screamed, Focus!, but every part of me wanted to melt into him.
A slow grin curled my lips as my fingers grazed over his powerful thigh, letting my palm rest on the muscles bulging beneath. His heat made it impossible not to linger.
“Tell me about this phony date,” I asked, voice soft, teasing. Yeah. Let me taste the anticipation before you do me like every woman you burned.
He leaned close, voice lower and playful, that New Orleans drawl wrapped around me. Warm and buttery. “Chère … we start dinner somewhere fancy, music low. Wine. A walk down the river after. Then … who knows? Maybe we keep the night going, see how far we push this fake story.”
Mm-hmm. That damn charismatic glint in his eyes teased my insides.
Things would get real. Focus, Zuri. Weed out the butterflies.
Play along. As heat and desire simmered, I pretended to consider it.
“Sounds enticing.” My palm squeezed his thigh.
“Then what? Do you talk me into that dessert I keep pretending I don’t want? ”
“Exactly, Journey. Lemme make the fake part feel real?”
My voice dropped to a salacious low. “Hear me out, Big Country. We can get more sympathy from the Dodgers if we”—I let that part linger, palm brushing another inch upward—“pair you with a chocolate cougar seated over there. The age difference, thirty …”
“Five.” Montana rolled his eyes, then chuckled under his breath. “Stop clowning me, girl.”
“So, thirty-five and eighty-nine …” or ninety-eight, no clue. “That will get you back in baseball’s good graces.” I slapped his thigh hard enough that I assaulted myself. A million tiny razors pricked my palms.
“Journey …” He teased my alias as if he could coax me out of my stubborn ways.
Inside, I burned hot. Desperate to hear him call me Zuri—finally.
And breathless. This man stole the air from my lungs.
But no, I’d use humor to fight his manipulative ass.
You’re just another Edwin. Even so, at least the age gap wasn’t as extreme, and Montana didn’t dangle my career hopes like a carrot out of reach.
But similarly, he had money, power, and around here, he commanded respect.
I shook those intrusive thoughts from my head, continuing my teasing.
“Listen.” I wagged a finger, voice mock-serious.
“Old folks are living longer these days. Advances in medicines, and all.” After he grunted, I chuckled again.
“Okay, my medical acumen aside, you’d have the Dodger Stadium glittering like Snowy Mountains.
A bunch of snowy-haired women at … do you have more games? ”
“Nah.” He shook his head, but it didn’t conceal the smile on his face.
My heart warmed. I wanted this—friendship with the legend. “Oh, poor Big Country. No more games this season. Listen, don’t decline my suggestion just yet. Grandma with the hip replacement might outlive your entire ego.”
Montana snaked his arm around my waist. His mouth nipped at the shell of my ear in a way that didn’t leave me laughing anymore. My stomach softened into jelly. “You done clowning me, chère? You know that ain’t fair.”
“Oh, it’s more than fair,” I whispered, letting my eyes flick up to his mock innocence. “It’s called self-preservation. You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Montana.”
He laughed, that deep, rough rumble sliding over my skin, and my body ached, craving the release only he could give.
Montana’s gaze dropped heavy on me, a dark expression hotter than candle wax over bare skin. His mouth curved at the edges. “What should I do with the cake, Journey?”
I needed to scoot my hot tail right on over with those grannies. Sit next to the woman who wanted to cut me with her butter knife. “You can’t have this cake, Big Country. Never, ever.” My finish held a teasing lilt, melodic and shady as ever. Did I feel it? Nope.
Montana pulled his arm away. A relentless sigh heaved from his sultry lips, then the world returned. We’d been flirting inches away from my son.
After a beat, he replied, “Funny. I let you walk me into that, Journey.”
Before I could pat myself on the back, Darius dropped a crayon onto the coloring page. “My momma don’t wanna walk with you. She said you have large hands.”
I snorted into my lemonade, choking. My baby didn’t get what walking into meant.
Montana pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. “Lil’ Dude, why you gotta treat me like that. I taught you to catch.”
Darius muttered about his new toys at home, then returned to his coloring book.
I laughed again, wiping another stray tear. “See? Even my baby knows I shouldn’t sign up for your mess.”
“It’s not … mess. You just closed off.” The faintest twitch of a muscle worked right above that beard my fingers wanted to drag down. Ugh. The only feelings he had forced blood to flow away from his brain. But me? I cared.
My tone softened. “Okay. You can sorta guess my background, which means I’ve taken the Hippocratic oath.
Respect. Confidentiality.” Be vulnerable with me.
I shrugged, as if my demeanor spoke to a weight greater than the fear of letting another man in.
My voice betrayed me, with a shallow crack. “S-See? I’m open.”
“You, open?” Montana’s eyes locked on mine. Heat in them. Enough heat to melt chocolate. My gaze needed to tear away, but his mouth curved into a grin—framed by that beard. “Haven’t seen you open, Journey.”
Lord, help me. Montana made me forget all about the jambalaya on my plate. I pressed his bicep. Steel beneath my palm, pure steel and fire. “Move, Montana. My break is over.”
The other night, I gave myself third-degree burns playing with fire. Now I was avoiding that six-foot-four inferno like potato salad after someone’s boogie auntie snuck in raisins and diced pickles.
It had been this thing we do. He was borderline witty; I was borderline a pilot without a license. No flight manifest. No clearance. No clue how to land from the high of him.
A knock pulled me out of my musings. Uh, Zuri. You’re thinking of him again.
I rolled over in bed after an afternoon nap and wondered if he’d saved his endorsement deal. He’d flown to LA yesterday after begging me to go too.
Still thinking of him, girl.
I rubbed my face and wandered around my dark, tiny apartment.
Another knock rattled the door. I winced at the bright peephole glow and cracked it open.
“Thought you offered to watch Darius.” I gave Shanice the full up-and-down.
Although implied, I decided not to add “for free.” I’d worked six days straight.
She had also watched Darius for pay during my shifts.
She and her seventy-three-year-old grandma, who swore she was thirty-seven.
They double-teamed him and her daughter while Shanice got her degree online in medical billing.
I gave her a once-over. Her sequined dress screamed Friday night. “You look cute.”
Shanice wriggled her ombré eyebrows. “We ‘bout to pass a good time. Ring in the New Year like the Saints gone win the next Super Bowl!”
“When we are included in a sentence, there’s an expectation—”
“Ugh, don’t get white girl on me.”
I palmed my forehead. Lawd. Montana had tried me with the Isley Brothers reference. Growing up foster didn’t mean I wasn’t Black. It made me more colorful than Skittles and Starburst put together. Strengthened me, too, when I spoke up during residency to get noticed.
And you did. Now you’re on the run with the adorable by-product of said residency.
“Free dinner!” she sang.
Mm-hmm. The melody gave scammer energy.
Hours later, she’d buttered me up and shoved me into a strapless dress I prayed I didn’t sneeze in. Now, I walked toward a neon sign for a … bar.
And not just any bar.
A spot in Marigny, with black-polished brick walls and bright-pink, ornate wrought-iron decor. A sign near the door promoted their private events.
What kind?
Speed dating—?
Girl, is your mind on Montana?
No, I told myself. Yes, I had a split personality within the walls of my mind. If I kept busy, my little turncoat brain couldn’t—
Oh, no. It did.
I blinked away the image of Montana’s attractive face and continued to read the poster. Oh, seminars. They hosted 401(k) seminars.
Hands on my shoulders, Shanice wheeled me inside as if she’d strapped me to a standing wheelchair at a psych hospital. “We ain’t here for that, Inspector Journey.”
“I’m leaving at the stroke of midnight.”
“Okay, I get it. You’ll turn into a pumpkin.”
“No. New Year is a tradition for me and my pumpkin.” I missed my baby.
She dragged me across hardwood floors to a shiny leather booth, blessed with shea butter. Ugh. The disturbingly spotless bar didn’t overstimulate my anxiety and keep my mind from … trouble.
Montana’s brother. The son Virginia prayed would get a job stood at the bar. Next to him, grinning like he’d barred the windows to prevent my escape, was the man himself. Big Country.
I cut my eyes at Shanice.
No, she didn’t.
Yes, she did. She’d thrown me into a lion’s den of poor decisions. And according to National Geographic, eye contact with a predator encouraged pursuit. I was tired of poking the king of the jungle with silly jokes. Would devoured be such a bad way to go?