Chapter 14 Zuri
zuri
. . .
Iwas basically the Black Julia Roberts in a Pretty Woman remake. Except for different skin and shape. More education. Less … experience. And Montana’s kiss on New Year’s Eve? Made me feel like all I’d ever done was elementary stuff. I was almost convinced that Darius’s birth was a miracle.
He’d kissed me so good. But still, my mind remembered the past.
I’ll teach you a few things, Edwin had said while I dug through tissue paper to grab a new textbook from the gift bag.
Except, lingerie now came with it.
Wait. What the hell are you doing, Zuri? Don’t you dare compare Edwin to Montana.
For every fit on the rack you like, I choose a scrap from the other rack.
His words echoed in my ears, but I refused to believe he was another Dr. Edwin Heine.
For starters, his interest lay in the real me.
My surname. Then more … When I didn’t give him what he wanted, he got salty.
You have a 3X wig, Zuri. A parachute head.
Didn’t matter that my new human hair wig—Diana Redux—wasn’t made for mere mortals.
XL, 2X, 3X? Nope. This wig had a kinder sizing chart.
Still, that boy dissed with Kevin Hart’s skills and the heart of a fifth grader in love.
In love?
No.
Zuri, stop lying to yourself.
I never believed Edwin loved me. Maybe my intellect. Me? No. That psychotic parasite unearthed a part of me that could’ve stayed dead.
But Montana, his uninhibited laughter, and wide shoulders somehow made me feel safe instead of insignificant. He wanted my truth.
Did I wanna go too far with him? Pull a Julia Roberts and cross a line.
Hell, he’d paid for more than this freak’em dress and had already given me a brick of cash for this evening.
Fifty thousand. As well as another twenty-five thousand for the past week of medical care.
That would put a dent in my medical school loans.
Ugh. I couldn’t focus. I shoved those thoughts aside as I sat in a French steakhouse in Beverly Hills. The server’s smile made me glance around to confirm this wasn’t a Colgate commercial.
Paparazzi cameras flashed outside the windows, and Montana leaned back—this was just another day.
What did they think? He’d ghosted the limelight after shoving his father.
A deadbeat so official he could’ve created a business card.
The media didn’t even know Ezekiel existed.
I figured any discussion of his father was like asking him to give himself heart surgery.
Which was why he hadn’t played up the kids stabbed me while I saved somebody’s baby momma angle.
But if I asked Montana why he didn’t campaign for sympathy cards from his diverse fans, who no doubt had a similar upbringing, he’d want one thing from me.
My last name.
And here I was, thinking of telling him about me again while the server brought us our main entrée. I hid a smirk behind a champagne flute. “This is my first time in Los Angeles, Montana. So, is that a normal portion size?”
Montana glared at three cubes of steak drizzled with sauce.
“I was thinking …” He picked up his fork and tapped a cube. “Should’ve brought Darius. Not sure if he’d eat it or try to stack ‘em like Legos.”
My heart ached, first missing Darius, then remembering how Edwin wasn’t thrilled when I first mentioned my pregnancy.
I’ll squeeze you in on the surgery schedule. This weekend we’ll go—
Nope. No more Edwin. He could rot. I glanced at the Legos again, ahem, steak. One more look, and I was gone. My shoulders shook, tears falling from laughter as I imagined my son’s foolishness with this rich-people food.
Montana forked my salad. “What is this? Louisiana Bald Cypress got bigger leaves.”
“Mon … tana, stop.” I stabbed my hand into my rib.
He popped a leaf in his mouth.
“Hey, I’m hungry.” I gasped. “I’ll wilt more than that salad if you—hey!”
He finished my food in one wolfish bite. “You ain’t eating that.” He swallowed like he’d downed cod liver oil with spoiled milk.
“Why?” My voice went all high and sugary. Hopefully, it didn’t scream, I love you, marry me, and protect my baby and me for the rest of our lives.
Because he’d protected me and gotten stabbed with the knife that I apparently brought to an ass-whooping party.
“Tasted bitter. I like you the way you are. Sweet. Fierce. Full of life.” His eyes darkened a little.
The air shifted. No more clowning over overpriced food. His gaze locked on mine. Cameras flashed through the window, but neither of us broke eye contact.
“Montana—”
“And slowly opening up for me, Zuri.”
That landed. Hard. The seriousness in his tone had my skin tingle with need. Which left me in one position.
I rolled my eyes to cover how wide open I was. Miss Virginia, pray for me. I can’t meet him at my level. His level entices me to my knees.
Later, at his place, Montana handed me a Dodger hoodie that matched his.
With daylight savings, we passed on the aviators.
Montana opened the passenger door to his Bugatti.
I stepped inside. He squatted, took my strappy stiletto in his hand.
Since this dress was growing on me, I’d kept it on and tugged the hoodie over my head.
“What are you doing?” I purred the question while he massaged my foot. Also, partially relieved I’d escaped that mansion again. So many rooms. So many opportunities to become Black Julia Roberts. One of the many bathrooms held a similar, modernized oversized tub.
He tugged his Dodger cap lower, and the air nearly snatched from my lungs as I glanced into those deep-set eyes. “Tonight, I’m Big Country.”
“I don’t prefer Big …” I could hardly get the words out because he’d unhooked the strap and kneaded the arch of my foot. “Country. Too … um … sarcastic.”
“You do.”
His thumb attacked that spot. The inner arch, while his other hand rolled my foot, lengthening my ankle so deliciously. “I don’t.”
“Too bad. You can’t see the real LA in a 3X wig.”
Okay, prime example of why I hated Big Country.
He commented on the size of my head. Had even said, “Damn, Gina,” once after Darius and I moved in.
Can’t think of another word for a temporary stay, but he’d called me that while we watched a movie in the theater room.
So rude. I whimpered. “No. You just bought this wig. Mine wasn’t human hair.
Put some respect on Di … ahem.” I coughed to cover the fact that I almost mentioned Diana Ross.
“The wig goes.” He stuffed my toe into his mouth.
“M’kay.” I sighed, eyes heavy as I sank into the seat. “Where are we going?”
He kissed my big toe, then pushed the hoodie back and slid the new wig from my head, tossing it into the back of the car.
Diana Redux landed with a soft flop. Was it big enough to cover all three seats?
Didn’t know. Didn’t care. My eyes never left him.
Just hoped I remembered to tug the hoodie up once we left.
“Can’t have you lose this shape. Gotta feed you, bébé.”
The way his lips shaped the words, I waited—ached—for them to fall over mine, like they had at HC&PP. The memory rushed in, the warmth of his mouth, the promise … So did the rest. Those boys. That danger. My pulse kicked. Anxiety overpowered desire, all jagged and uneven.
As if he realized my thoughts had scrambled, Montana’s hand came down in a casual pat against my thigh before he kissed my toes again, putting my heels on. He stood, stepped back, and shut the door behind him.
The next hour passed in a blur. We ate too much.
Pinks Hot Dogs—even though we were supposed to share one because I had my phone out searching social media for the best spots.
Funny how we thought alike. He’d ignored my suggestions about one Jamaican spot before we ended up at another.
Underrated. Best jerk chicken of my life.
I didn’t lick my fingers, even though all ten begged me to.
I had to keep telling myself not to come out of the hoodie that covered much of my face.
That food was spicy good! And Montana was giving me that look.
When we arrived at a comedy club, I was warm from the food, resituating Diana Redux. The way he claimed me between his arms. All his. All Big Country’s, I guess.
He took my hand, and we wove around tables beneath low lights. A small stage warned that comedians roasted everyone in the audience just for existing. Uh-oh. We needed to find a seat … farther back.
We approached a small table at the front. Two leather chairs faced the stage. Reserved. Dang, the issues with dating—fake dating—a celebrity.
“We’re supposed to be incognito,” I muttered as he pulled out a chair.
“Bébé, don’t nobody care about us right now.”
For effect, laughter ripped the club in half.
“If someone roasts me, I will eat your big ol’ sexy self alive with some A1 steak sauce.” I slunk into the seat.
Montana claimed the leather chair next to me. “Hope you get the chance. Nico is here tonight. Don’t forget to thank him for these seats before you eat him alive too.”
“What?” I squeaked.
“He’ll know me by the Dodger hoodie, and he hooked us up with these seats.” Montana turned to the server.
“Wai-wait. You didn’t tell him I said …”
“Double shot of Hennessy. Actually,”—he looked around at the crowd instead of addressing me—“Two hennies with Coke. One lemon drop martini.”
Hmmm. He knew my favorite drink. Finally, he glanced into my bewildered eyes.
“Cheesecake, bébé?” he asked.
“Did you tell Nico I said I’m your funniest—”
“That’s it,” he told the server.
She sashayed away in shorts smaller than the Hanes hipsters I bought at Walmart. Should I whack him over the head because he stared at my scared face instead of watching her retreat? Or kiss him. Dang. I still craved a kiss from this man.
After a while, without being roasted like a whole hog, I chilled and laughed with Montana.
Once the hype man announced the headliner, I drank my martini.