Chapter 13 Montana
montana
. . .
The man had me heated enough to backstroke in fish grease as a way to relax before putting my foot in his ass.
LaShawn’s huff came from the speakerphone on the counter next to me. “What did you think would happen? You pay a fleet of attorneys to handle crap, but you told them to ignore the settlement terms! We gotta get ahead of this, Montana.”
“I just got outta the hospital,” I gritted, inclining my head toward the iPhone, growling in pain as I straightened up.
“You should’ve invited the media.”
“I should’ve done a photo op of me being placed into an ambulance? I’m good.”
“Montana, we meet with the Dodger owners tomorrow. At noon. We knew this day would come. I bet Ezekiel’s lawyers used the inevitable to their advantage.”
I wasn’t worried about the dude. But damn. This week was a last-ditch effort as I worked the Zuri-dating angle. “Already scheduled a red-eye.”
“Why? You ain’t broke!”
Because of Zuri. “Don’t worry. We can grab—”
Footsteps prompted me to turn around. Momma.
What was Dude doing to my momma …
Still doing to her.
Zuri had an arm wrapped around her as they watched. Jaw clenched, I tried to finish my call in a lower voice. Single-story houses weren’t my thing. Momma had them on a Pinterest board. So, I built this place. Damn near a mile long. For her.
She didn’t want it.
And she didn’t need to hear no mess.
“I’m on my way,” I whispered, but the acoustics of the vaulted ceiling carried it.
“I’m coming with you, Montana,” Zuri said. “Can we go today? Do a fake date …” She glanced at Momma.
“What in the world?” Mild curiosity pierced the sorrow on Momma’s face.
“Yes!” LaShawn whooped in the receiver, as I said, “We have to pretend—”
“I know what it is.” Momma neared me, the back of her knuckle skimmed from the corner of my eyebrow to the start of my beard. “Will it help, m? garcon?”
“Long as we do something newsworthy.” I shrugged. “Compel the owners’ hearts. Stan and Hoops might be persuaded. Peter. If I can swing him too, all of Guggenheim Baseball Management might listen.”
“Listen to me,” LaShawn said. “Can everyone hear me?”
“Yep. You’re on speaker. Manage.”
“I need you and the waitress—”
“Doctor,” Zuri said, cutting in, then winced. “Sorry. I …”
“Black and educated?” Lashawn said. “Honey, we’re unicorns.”
“Actually,” Zuri said, “those stats are rising … whatever.” She mumbled, “Thanks for ditching the single-mom scenario.”
“So, you are a single mother?” LaShawn asked.
“Damn.” I chuckled. “I should’ve said the single ma on the phone has elephant ears.”
“True.” LaShawn’s usual cigarette-burned voice softened. “But do you have a kid, Journey?”
“My son’s out of the question,” Zuri said.
“Can’t blame a girl for trying. So you’ll arrive this afternoon? Do dinner. Something small, intimate, in a prime location. Play up your position, Journey. Let people see you’re a doctor. Montana, are you on crutches?”
“Nah.”
“Get some.”
“Nah.”
“Arm sling?”
“Nah.”
LaShawn did her thing—grumbled for thirty seconds—then tried again. “If reporters ask, Montana, are you willing to …?”
“Yep. I’ll open my mouth. Speak.”
“See? I knew you could do it!”
Hadn’t realized all Zuri did for me.
Here I thought I’d offered her first class, a new lace front with its own zip code, and a dinner so fine it required silverware etiquette.
But when she asked Momma to hold her heart—while giving Darius one last hug—that scrambled a dude’s mind.
Made me want to be held. Not just hugged.
Held. All night long.
I shook my head fast in the Uber, leaving LAX. Dangerous thinking. That’s how a man ended up candle shopping at Bath & Body Works and discussing our color palette.
“You cold?” Zuri asked from the back seat next to me as palm trees and gray LA skies zipped by. “That boat hat—”
“Bucket hat,” I corrected for the tenth time.
“Mm-hmm. A hoodie would’ve worked.”
“Once again, I left my stash tryna …” give you time to explain to Darius.
She seemed to realize I grabbed last-minute items at the airport in NOLA because she needed to prepare him.
But I didn’t mean to place the blame. She had every right to make Little Dude feel comfortable.
I doubted that she had ever spent more time apart from him than when he attended childcare.
I shoulder-checked her softly. “Besides, nobody said nothing about that 3X wig on your head.”
She elbowed my bad rib. “Shut up. It’s only a 1X as if that’s any of your business.”
“It is. A stylist will arrive at the house”—I glanced at my watch—“any minute now. We gonna upgrade you to a human hair wig and—”
“House? And how do you know about human hair?”
I side-eyed her. “I’m Black. My momma’s Black. If I ever settle, my wife will be—”
“Full of good melanin, I get it.” Her eyes rolled. “Hello, the house? Won’t we be staying at a hotel … in two individual rooms?”
I sighed as the car rolled to a stop in front of my 10,472-square-foot mansion. “I assume you won’t take me up on my offer to share my bed? That good ole Southern hospitality doesn’t disappear since we’re no longer in NOLA, bébé.”
“Aw, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Big Country.” Her voice dripped with more sugar than the Karo syrup in my restaurant’s kitchen. She gave my chest a soft pat. “But no, we won’t be sharing a bed.”
Zuri slipped out of the door with the driver’s help.
“Damn, what did my momma do to you, bébé?” I whispered into the empty sedan.
Had Momma said something this morning? Or was it them boys from the restaurant? Man, she couldn’t be afraid.
Though I’d give anything to know, I still felt sorry for someone else.
Me. Under any other circumstance, I’d never feel sorry for myself.
We’d chilled at my place. A whole ass week.
Any day now, I’d expected Zuri to tiptoe into my bed after Darius fell asleep.
Or enjoy the kitchen counter with me. I’d never invited a woman home, here or in NOLA.
With every conquest, I treated LA like an away game.
Would’ve been nice to christen the kitchen with someone genuine.
Zuri was … special.
“Momma,” I whispered into the empty Uber and shook my head, “you out here being petty and ruining lives from a thousand miles away.”
An hour later, the stylist pulled a little red scrap off the rack. Zuri turned my living room into an HBCU stomp the yard as she entered. Tug, stomp. Pull, march.
And her real hair? Wild and free, the Sisterlocks covered more skin than that so-called dress. Bodycon, huh? Three straps of red fabric. One held onto her chest for dear life. A line connected it to another strip, clinging to her hips like it paid rent.
I was here for it. Every single second while seated on a ten-thousand-dollar gray couch. Arms spread wide, I soaked it all in.
The stylist stood near the wet bar, in silent assessment. She knew my strategy because ain’t no way Zuri would leave this house in that.
She just needed to think that.
“Montana.” Zuri’s sharp voice tugged my gaze away from how the red dress barely restrained her curves. “Can’t I see the other rack?”
The first rack held clothes fit for my cousin’s Barbies. The other? Business casual. She caressed a silk pantsuit as I approached.
“Wear that,”—I hardly let my gaze slide from her eyes to glimpse the power suit—“but your hair stays down.”
My thumb brushed over a loc in my hand. I’d told her the stylist had signed an NDA regarding that parachute on her head, but it took coaxing to get her to remove the wig.
“No, Big. Country.”
Little Mama ripped my name in half. I smiled. “Okay, Journey.”
“Z—” She cleared her throat, weary-eyeing the dark-skinned beauty who held my favorite outfit for Zuri. The NDA didn’t include her real name—Zuri Sweet Cheeks, MD. The little piece of her I had? All mine.
When I leaned close, Zuri’s heartbeat slaughtered my chest. I was calling it. Momma caused issues between us. Whatever they’d said. We’d gotten Zuri comfortable enough to welcome me real close without her heart skyrocketing. I kissed her earlobe and asked, “Which will it be?”
“Give you an inch, you steal an entire island!” Her retort snapped, then her eyes widened as if she was overthinking. “I’m not leaving my wig.”
Still thumbing her locs, I replied, “The power suit or the parachute?”
“Para what?” The cloud of confusion in her brown eyes vanished, and she shoved at my chest. I stood tall. “Parachute! No, you didn’t, Montana.”
“I did. The hair. The pantsuit. Take the whole rack. Tonight, though? I need your … last name.” Damn.
That just came to me. She’d undone something in me.
I tried to tell myself I was just using her name as collateral.
To be honest, she damn near knew everyone I ever loved and hadn’t shared her last name.
I wanted to know something about her. “Which is it, Sweet Cheeks? Ain’t gonna budge. ”
“Okay, fine. I’ll freeze half to death. The wig can keep me warm.” Zuri smirked, poking my arm as if it were a coat she’d rather burn than wrap around her.
“Last—”
“No last name,” she said, chin tilting stubbornly, which placed her mouth a fraction of an inch away from mine.
Damn those eyes. A flicker of realization darkened them.
She tried to lower her chin, and I let go of the hair I wanted to tighten around my knuckles and touched her chin, keeping it tilted up.
My eyes scanned her again. Focused on those luscious hips, thick and sturdy enough to keep me from feeling guilty for my demands.
Defiance flashed on her face. “You don’t budge, me either. I’d rather catch hypothermia! Don’t put those linebacker arms around me.”
“Batter, Zu—Journey.”
“No last name,” she whispered.
I rolled my eyes, then gestured for the stylist who approached with a black dress.
Short? No doubt.
But classy. Sexy without doing the most.
“This one. That’s it. Don’t start.” I handed the dress to Zuri, still crowding her space. My shadow swallowed hers.
“Fine,” she murmured.
I pressed my lips to her forehead, hands cupping her neck. That pulse, a drum beneath my palms. “Just so you know, I wasn’t letting nobody else peek at my sweet cheeks anyway.”
She smacked my chest hard, but I saw it. That smile she hid when she turned away. I smiled too, my eyes glued to the retreating sway of God’s greatest gift to the male species.
“Pick a couple outfits. For every fit on your rack, I choose a scrap from the other rack.”
“Whatever, Big Country.” Zuri always snarled that name. Did I care?
Nah.