Chapter 11 Zuri
zuri
. . .
Darius dug his light-up shoes into the sidewalk when an engine roared onto the street, cutting off my baby’s cries.
Tennessee had offered to stay, even after they’d finished one of those Toy Stories.
Didn’t know which one, because while Woody and Buzz hatched up the same plan to save their people—er, toys—I was plotting.
Our escape.
Now, blood swooshed in my ears. A cold sweat chilled the already frigid January night. I turned my head slower than the next victim in a slasher flick. Edwin—
“Montana?” I nearly dropped all I held—a single backpack hooked over one shoulder. No, it can’t be him. Edwin had found me.
“Chère, don’t be afraid.” The voice held the comforting NOLA inflection—deep, arrogant—but something else rode beneath the surface, not appreciation.
Uh-oh. This looked bad.
He’d told me not to leave when we arrived at the restaurant. Although I never said I would stay, I was pretty sure his alter ego forged my consent.
Because Montana Babineaux didn’t have layers—Big Country did.
Montana was my friend. Handsome. Normal. Banter on point.
That other one—Big Country—was an entire stack of personalities.
He believed I’d stay put because he said so.
Whenever Big Country took over, Montana mentally backed into the bushes like that Homer Simpson meme, leaving me alone with the loud one.
The bossy one. The freak, who’d screw me tonight, and have amnesia come morning.
The lights on the car flickered off, leaving us beneath dim streetlamps no better than the dino-shaped nightlight I’d also left in the bathroom. Ugh. Those things, tiny as hell, cost more than table lamps.
I lifted my chin, hand in Darius’s. We walked much faster to him than he did to us. He glanced at my top. Yeah. I threw on some jeans, but I was still in Shanice’s bloody, strapless dress.
At his scoff, I scoffed too, stopping five feet away. He couldn’t tell me great minds didn’t think alike. He donned a hospital gown with the same pants as earlier.
“How are you … friend?” Really, Zuri, you’re beating around the bush.
“I’m fine. You fine as hell. We gonna be alright.”
I rolled my eyes at the signature cocky response. “Big Country had his say. How’s Montana?”
Montana glowered. “You wrong, you know.”
“Plausible.” I shrugged. “Still, I’m the doctor, you’re the patient, making you the subject. Why aren’t you at the hospital?”
“You took me to the wrong hospital. So, I’m going home. Drive.” He flipped me the keys, then strolled away.
I grabbed them. “What …?”
He didn’t even turn to address me. “First, you are the doctor. Second, you got the energy to leave in the dead of night, you can drive. I navigate. Third, I have horses.”
“What do h—”
“Horses?” Darius snatched his arm away, his light-up shoes pounded pavement, leaving an echo of blue light.
“Yep,” Montana said at the passenger door. “Darius, you wanna see a horse?”
“A real one?” My son squealed.
“On one condition.”
“No conditions,” I cut in, the backpack strap digging into my arm. I’d packed all I could. “Darius, come back …”
He climbed into the back seat, and Montana closed himself in the passenger side. I approached the open driver door, shoved the backpack over the headrest, and got in.
Face forward, Montana spoke under his breath. “They were teens. Kids.”
“I know …” I huffed. A thought hit me. “What about my stuff?”
Montana shot me a look that read, Of all the neurons in your head, that’s the one you chose?
The next morning, I awoke with a smile and rolled over onto a mattress for the monarchs and kissed Darius’s chubby cheek. Cute Little Dude.
Ugh. Not Little Dude. He was royalty. A king. All along, I’d given him an impactful name. His real birth certificate read Malik Caldwell. If we hadn’t run. All the other names? They also meant king; he just didn’t remember them.
I pressed my lips to long lashes fanned across golden skin. “I love this name for you, son. We’ll keep it.”
Did that mean … I’d take Montana up on his offer to stay? The trip to Montana’s home traveled past oak canopies that swallowed moonlight. The city’s hum vanished, replaced by blessed silence. He’d said the house overlooked water. I’d only seen darkness.
I climbed out of the fancy four-poster bed, went to the balcony door, and gasped. A river curved through the land below. The water’s reflection held the blue sky and golden notes of morning.
“Happy New Year, Zuri. This is heaven speaking,” I murmured. Maybe we could stay?
Zuri, please.
A man like Montana?
No, Big Country—his alias had the ego to boot—he was insatiable. The nerve of him! He made me add stipulations last night while I was halfway to the pearly gates in his arms.
He eyed me like a Vegas buffet and End World Hunger, which scared me. I’d only been with one man. Edwin hadn’t stared at me nearly as hungrily, still look where it got me.
Shaking my head, I approached the white cedar dresser with more storage than we had clothing and took my backpack from a drawer.
I forked a hand through my locs. New York threw chaos into my method. Well, I should call my buddy. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the contacts. Woah. Most of them Babineauxs. I stopped on the contact. One letter: C.
But I wasn’t ready to relinquish this heaven. This … Journey.
Chose this name in hopelessness too. I’d laughed at my life that day. I smiled, then stepped into the en suite bathroom to brush my teeth and shower.
Virginia gave me the day off. Today, I was supposed to rest. But Montana waited in the living room.
A wall-sized trifold glass door stood open. Sunlight spilled across the floor, catching the glow of his flawless skin. My pulse jumped when my eyes landed on his body and dragged over washboard abs. Muscles glistened in the sunlight.
He wore basketball shorts. Those dang shorts rode low on his inguinal ligaments, where the abdominal muscles—rectus abdominis and obliques—met his transversus abdominis.
A Montana trifecta of temptation. Every line, every shadow, every muscle screamed danger and desire at the same time.
In normal female lingo, we called it the V-cut.
The V-line. The V-muscle. The V-happy. A perfect angle to make you forget your own name, sanity, even your profession.
“Put on a shirt,” I hissed.
A slow smile played on his lips. “You’re a doctor.”
“How do you …?” I clamped my mouth shut.
“Can’t see you in colorful scrubs. And you said doctor last night.”
Dang, that was true! “So, you’re telling me”—I paused, since gulping was apparently a requirement around temptation—“ahem, you’re calling me boring?”
“Never that. But yep. A doctor. You just confirmed it.” He winked.
I glanced away. Another gulp.
Montana went to a massive kitchen island with multiple sinks. He pushed himself onto the marble waterfall with his hands and sat down. “How do I look, Dr. Sweet Cheeks?”
I poked him.
Was I proud of it?
Yes, I was.
“Ahh,” Montana hollered.
“Relax, it’s four inches from your bandage. And I’ve sacrificed too many years of education to be called Doctor—”
“Which college, Doctor Swee—? JOURNEY!” Another holler, this time more growly.
“University of … Somewhere, North America.”
He grabbed my wrist and pulled me in front of him. With Montana on the island, we were closer to eye to eye. My pulse thudded, hollow in my throat, as my eyes dropped to those lips that had moved like magic over mine last night.
You are in so much trouble, Zuri. Yes, I had taken up talking to myself in third person, so I didn’t forget my name. My personal conversations never hit so hard.
So.
Much.
Trouble.
A white row of teeth bit that bottom lip I wanted all over me right now. Montana shook his head. “Can I at least know your name?”
Panic washed over me. I hadn’t said my name aloud in years.
He deserves to know, girl!
I cleared my throat. “Zuri.”
“Zuri.” He smiled. Those lips again, that trifecta below. I backed away. He took my wrist again, thumb playing provocatively slow over my pulse. “You don’t need the wig here, Zuri.”
Yup, I did. And a parka jacket. Snow boots. Or a chastity belt. Yeah, just a chastity belt. After last night, the thought of succumbing to temptation even once terrified me. I flicked a few strands of Diana from my face. “Can I assess your bandage, Montana?”
“Please do.” He stopped caressing my wrist.
“Got gloves?”
“Washington dropped by with some stuff. Only checked it for my meds. Good stuff.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Oh, I must’ve slept like a baby. Where’s the stuff he brought?”
“Glad you got your rest on that angel-threaded lullaby bed.” Montana chuckled. “You bougie now, bébé?”
“Maybe.” I retrieved a hospital bag from a chair. I then washed my hands at the copper sink closest to me before stepping behind him again.
My clean fingers swept over the bandage. Damp. Not soaked. “You’re not bleeding like crazy.”
“Like crazy? That official medical lingo, Doctor Sweet Cheeks?”
I snorted. “You know, when I get technical with you, you talk crap. When I get down to your level—”
“Down? Damn. Who’s cocky?”
Aweek later, we’d struck up a routine while I friend-zoned Montana, in the temptingly close proximity of nurturing him back to health.
Montana had refused to let me go home to pack another bag.
Probably payback for denying him sponge baths.
Instead of saying he worried I might not return, he’d had new clothes delivered for Darius and me.
More toys and illustrated books for my baby.
We met each morning at the kitchen island after I showered, brushed my teeth, and put on cuter loungewear.
I know, I know. It might’ve looked like I wanted this.
Granted, my son didn’t wake up until an hour later.
But I’d gotten Montana stabbed. He deserved a cute visual, while I didn’t cross that line.
Our routine grew on me. I’d cook breakfast while Montana and Darius fed two thoroughbreds. He watched every inch of me while I cooked lunch and dinner.
This morning—the hardest part of the day while alone with him—my fingers pressed along his rib cage. “How does that feel? And FYI, again, this is my job. Not retaliation for the title.”
“I’m good.” He huffed, trying to sound unbothered, but his jaw ticked. He chuckled. “Doctor … Sweet Cheeks.” That dang title!
After an argument where he claimed his pain level was a three, and we settled on a five—a solid seven—I murmured, “Good. Although you’re downplaying the pain—”
“Ain’t.”
“Mm-hmm, Montana.” I lifted the tape from his skin for further inspection. Now, every word teased against his spine as I said, “As anticipated, no signs of infection. No swelling.”
“You been washing me up good, doc.”
He’d been buttering me up with compliments, but I couldn’t allow what happened at HC&PP to get in the way. Those feelings should be dead.
I rolled fresh gauze over his torn skin. “Hold still. Need to bring this around front.”
“So you can hug Big Country and call it medical care?”
“Heh. You need to recycle that line, Montana. You used it on day one. Moreover, if you’re gonna refer to yourself in third person, I’m not the doc for you.” Dang, my little two-faced self. Nobody had to know my Zuri monologues. Besides, self-talk kept my name alive.
Him?
Just being his usual impossible self.
I stepped around Montana, the gauze brushing the smooth, brown divots. I’d gone through the motions the first few days. Cleansed his wound day and night, cooked. But today, I woke on the wrong side of the bed because I missed laughing with him.
Missed our jokes and how I semi-felt like we were besties—didn’t have any example to assess—but we teased each other. He loved bringing up how I almost got him naked when we met.
Now I didn’t have a fixation device. And my hot shower this morning did nothing. Absolutely nothing for me.
Yes, you do have something to focus on, dummy, the gauze.
But my eyes landed on his. Mistake of my life. Dark. Intense. A teasing glint. And a flicker of exhaustion he’d never admit to.
On instinct, I swatted his shoulder.
“What was that for, chère?” A chuckle bubbled through those alluring lips.
“You,” uhhhh, have been amazing and a gentleman, “left the hospital eight nights ago.” Okay, Zuri. Awkward and matter-of-fact.
“Can I hit you back? Won’t hurt unless you want.”
“Montana!”
Another chuckle, lower this time.
“Zuri.” He said my name, and my eyes zipped to his, caught under a rapture of desire. My pulse tripped.