Chapter 8 Montana
montana
. . .
My eyes drank her in the second she arrived. My brother’s date led her into the bar like Silence of the Lambs. What was her name? Didn’t matter. She’d done her job and brought Journey to me.
What a sight. Journey’s strapless dress clung to her.
Smooth thighs caught the light, skin a brown sugar glow.
That wig covered her face. Man, I swore to one day snatch it clean off.
She’d chase me? Please. Not with them lil’ shrimp appetizer legs.
I’d have her spinning in them heels, talking about, “Montana, give it back!”
Then I’d do what any gentleman with good sense and bad intentions would do. Wrap that wig up real careful in a bonnet and tell her we had a real date tonight. Not some fake help-me-clean-up-my-mess date. Nah. A date.
Me, her, that hair I planned to thread around my knuckles. I’d whisper, You can keep the wig, bébé. But this right here? I’d caress her scalp with some peppermint oil. This mine now.
I could already hear her sigh, that soft mmm sound women make when they forget to be mad. I had to blink that image out before I embarrassed myself in public.
Nah, let me tell the truth.
A Black woman’s crown told her story with strength, softness, and fire. I needed to know the weight of it. Her hair’s scent after wash day. How did her coils spring back to life in my palms after gripping them? Journey denied me that, though.
She’d denied me. Didn’t know the kind of man I was. Not a player. Nah, never that. Momma raised me well. Didn’t ruin no women who hadn’t come running after Big Country. Big Country. My alter ego paced around in my chest, saying, Let’s own her for a while.
My brain?
Had me standing here with my chest aching because of all her layers. She didn’t trust me enough to strip her. No wig, no guard. Just her.
And since she wasn’t my usual type, I was drawn to her. Drawn to everything about her.
I snapped out of it. Moved to her, straight to the booth, cocked my head for Journey to make space. She didn’t. I sat anyway, feathered my fingers through that wig, and stopped myself from rolling my eyes. We gone take this off you soon, boo. Let your hair loose.
“Montana.” She shoved my arm with hers. “You’re squishing me!”
I chuckled, shifted an inch.
Texas hugged the other woman, then slid into the booth beside her. When I’d pointed her out at Journey’s apartment days ago, he’d seemed interested. But now? Church folks saw more action after the pastor ordered the congregation to greet somebody new.
Since he wasn’t into her, the clock started ticking. Did I need to remind Tex who was paying for dinner? Not that the bill mattered. Having her friend here was supposed to make things smoother for me.
“Montana, Shanice.” Texas rushed through introductions, tone flat as a cold drink left in the sun. Bruh. That tone told me everything. This was a fake date. Not mine, though.
“Look at y’all, touching. Whispering like middle schoolers.” Head in hands, Shanice gazed at us dreamily.
“Secrets.” Texas chuckled, gesturing toward the nearest server. He ordered appetizers and drinks, then clutched Shanice’s hip. “If I didn’t need to put any meat on this girl’s bones, I’d leave y’all to those secrets.”
Shanice laughed.
Journey sat up straight and bumped my shoulder. That little movement sent a jolt through me. Funny how close she was. Besides me helping at the restaurant and taking Darius to Chuck E. Cheese, this was as close as we’d been.
Journey snorted a laugh. “You don’t need to put any meat on her bones. Thirty, forty pounds bigger, smaller, that would be who she is.” Another little laugh escaped her, as if annoyed to have to school him.
“Dang, Journey, I meant no harm,” Texas muttered. “You on me like a big sister.”
My brother and Shanice escaped before the food arrived.
“I’m sorry,” Journey murmured after her second martini. “Tell your brother I’m sorry.”
“Nah. When guys judge a woman’s appearance, it implies they want her to change. You had a point. He’s got a big mouth.”
“No. Even now, Washington stopped visiting us first, right before Christmas. I could understand … him missing his son. Then Ten. I get it. People help out, and then life gets in the way, sooner or later. Texas still follows us in the morning.”
“Chère, he goes to make himself breakfast and lunch. Free food ever since he moved outta Tennessee’s place.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve. So much for starting the year fresh.” Her bottom lip stuck out.
That pout right there. That’s how men lost common sense and bank.
“Take things too far with me. I don’t mind.” I sipped my cognac. She stared at me, breath sliding over my lips like she was deciding whether I was worth the sin-tax, then downed her drink.
“Wanna dance, Montana?”
Say no more. I helped her up. “You looking a little more free-spirited than usual.”
Her laugh fluttered against my chest. “Are you implying I’m drunk?”
“Some people can only hold a drink or two. You had two, bébé.” My hand claimed the small of Journey’s back, and she bounced slightly against me. “Don’t buck up, sweetheart. I buck back.”
“And I will bite you.”
Our verbal squabble followed us all the way to the dance floor. I leaned in and caressed her bare back because of the way the dress was built. Journey shivered against me, and I nearly lost it. That brief touch made me think things that would make her run faster than crawdads in a hot skillet.
Her eyes flicked toward the table. Ah. She thought the dance suggestion would place space between us.
My lips touched a fake diamond earring. I was a split second from kissing her. A shame. “Bébé, you didn’t need to tell me you’re falling for me like this. I feel it, chère. Even if you wanted me to keep my money, we could’ve passed a good time somewhere that didn’t smell like old clams.”
“Ugh, Montana …” Her whisper teased my chest. “You’re on that fake dating thing?”
“Does it have to be fake?”
Her head tilted. “Sounds … like a nightmare.”
Oh really? My hand slapped her ass. Journey yelped. Damn, she’d played along for a while after the grannies cornered me. I liked that.
She stepped on my foot. On purpose. I winced, but the glare she gave me? Southern dessert levels of sweetness and savagery. I slapped her behind again.
“Ah, I see how you do.” She shot back. “I haven’t even shown you how rough I like it.” Her fingers clawed into the back of my neck as we slow danced in the middle of the floor.
My brain scrambled with thoughts I hadn’t had since before I was famous, and women groped my posters and my ass.
Now, it was all Journey. The way her eyes laughed since I met her, sharper than those heels. The puppy on her head smelled like peaches and my kinda mischief.
“Careful with those pretty angel of death heels and claws, Journey”—I gripped her tighter around the waist and smirked—“you might make me forget you’re a celibate nun.”
She laughed, velvet, melodic, and dangerous. “Oh, Montana, you already act like you’ve forgotten my rules. Swinging me around like a rag doll.”
I leaned in close enough for clothing not to make sense. Really? Me, her? How could it make sense? Journey’s lashes fluttered, eyes half shut. I swear, in the moment, all her walls crumbled.
Her fingernails dug tighter, and marching forward, her heels pounded the ground with the force of an HBCU marching band. A trickle rolled down my neck. Blood?
I was a big dude. And she had a vendetta against these money-making toes.
“You know,” I whispered, voice low and teasing, “we could take this one step further. I wonder if I’d have you out of that thong first. Or out of that puppy.”
She gasped. “Funny you recall what a four-year-old said and not my rules? My hair—”
“For my plans with you”—my fingertips skimmed her back—“I’d need to grip handfuls of those cornrows.”
“Never!” Her heel—a.k.a. homicide weapon—stabbed my toe so hard my ancestors flinched. “Moreover, they’re Sisterlocks.”
“Journey …” I hissed, trying not to hop. But her grin was worth every sharp step and all the side-eyes we kept getting. Damn, I should’ve been embarrassed, but I had a thing for my beautiful attacker.
The music kicked up fast. Wild. Neither of us cared. I focused on every second of her—her laugh, her sway, the heat radiating from her like she’d created our own sun.
When the DJ announced the countdown to the New Year, we didn’t count along. Didn’t need to. Journey’s lips hovered inches from mine. Despite those serial killer blades, I figured she edged up to her tippy-toes. My hands cupped her curves while she leaned in, eyes half-lidded.
Our lips met. She tasted like Lemonheads. Sweet on the surface. A kick underneath. And full of all my potential mistakes, regardless of trying to be a decent dude. People danced around us, but I didn’t give a damn.
She shivered in my possessive embrace. Moan so deep it vibrated against my tongue. As I kissed her harder, she gasped again, and I caught it, taking more. Her breath, her tongue, everything she offered. My grip on her ass tightened as if I could brand her through her dress.
Then another vibration came. My phone. But my focus? The taste of her.
Journey stepped back, licked her lips, then turned away. “Answer.”
I cursed under my breath, tugged the phone from my pocket, and answered. Damn, Momma. I’d always answer my momma. But I didn’t expect her response to stick a wedge between me and the woman who had more walls than the Federal Reserve Bank and Chris Brown’s security detail combined.
Momma asked me to get to the restaurant.
In less than thirty seconds, I realized Texas and Shanice had gone, gone, and we’d kissed for damn near an hour. I threw cash on the table, then rushed Journey out the door with me.
“That girl left me. Wow,” she murmured, skin all dewy and glowy beneath the streetlights speeding past.
I slowed a block from my restaurant. “That’s the Babineaux effect. Or it was …” I muttered under my breath.
Her eyes cut at me.
“Didn’t mean it like that.” Yes, I did.