Chapter 32
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
LOVIE
The five-minute drive to Lucky’s is dead silent except for the whooshing of the wind as Arnez whips down back streets I never knew existed. Jamari’s downturned eyes stare at her from the prayer card she has tucked in front of her speedometer.
I feel him even though he’s gone, and I wonder if Rich does sometimes too. Considering what happened between them, he had to—right? There are a million ways to die, but there’s just something so cruel about dying at the hands of another person.
I look out of the passenger window, poring over all the times me and Rich spent together—in his backyard, at Beatrice’s, in his kitchen, in the safety of his truck.
What signs did I miss?
How did I believe everything he said so easily?
Was guilt intertwined in his voice from the very first time he spoke to me?
The car dips, forcing me to look up as we glide over a pothole in the middle of Lucky’s parking lot.
It looks like it looks every Sunday with people sauntering in and out of the store, cars parked at the gas pumps blasting music, and folks hanging out in groups trying to solidify their Sunday Funday plans.
Arnez drives past it all, circling the back of the building where lines of cars are parked in neat rows.
I spot Rich’s truck parked in the grass field behind the parking lot like he wanted to be as far away from the building as possible.
Its familiarity makes that longing surge through my body again because it still hasn’t caught up with my brain. It still wants to run to Rich.
I sit forward as she drives toward the back of the parking lot and into the field, pulling up next to his truck. I tug the door handle as soon as the car rolls to a stop.
“You know…he never even apologized for doing it,” she mutters as the locks clank. “He only said he was sorry I had to see it.”
I need air.
I push the door open, breathing in the bitter smell of the dumpster that’s a few feet away.
“As soon as he gets the chance, he’ll do it to AJ too. You know that, right? But just know that Melo Barnes’ protection only stretches so far.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. “I just want to—I…I need to talk to Rich.”
She shrugs, grabbing the tape from the middle console. We get out and slam our doors at the same time.
“I thought you weren’t staying?” I ask.
“This ain’t the Chanel store. You can’t just strut up there in your cute UGGs and get in. That’s not how it works.” She rolls her eyes, walking off toward the building’s back door.
I take long strides, following behind her. “That’s not how I expected it to work.”
“Good. So then you should know the less you say when we get up here, the better.”
If somebody would’ve told me she was bawling over her dead ex just thirty minutes ago, I wouldn’t have believed them.
It’s as if Lucky’s made any inkling of grief disappear from her psyche, or maybe it’s just the nature of the Bottoms like Aunt Faye said.
It’s hard and brutal. It doesn’t even give you space to grieve your dead boyfriend.
She folds her arms and walks faster and cars keep gliding into the back parking lot even though the only space left to park is in the empty field. I do my best to pretend that I belong here by keeping my eyes on the closed garage doors that line the building.
As soon as we get close enough to the back door, Arnez pounds on it. It flies open, letting loud music and even louder voices seep out.
A burly, bald man with dark skin stares at me while Arnez stares at him.
He raises his eyebrow. “Who’s that?”
“Pup’s,” she replies easily.
His thin lips turn down, and he eyes me as if he can see my legs trembling in my leggings. “He knows she—”
“Nigga, you ain’t no relationship counselor. I told you that’s his gal, so she got every right to be in there.”
He holds his arms up. “I got a right to ask questions. I ain’t never seen her back here. Melo been trippin about the traffic coming in and out. Something about some young niggas posting on Instagram about the fights—”
“And what does that have to do with us? Do we look like some lame young niggas to you?”
He huffs and rolls his eyes.
She turns toward me. “Are we some lame young niggas?”
I shake my head.
“As a matter of fact, go get Pup and explain to him why you got his ole’ lady standing out—”
“Alright, alright, but I have to search y’all.”
“If you touch me, I promise it’ll be the last time you touch anybody.”
He steps to the side, leaving just a few inches for us to squeeze between his round stomach and the doorframe.
We shuffle through.
It’s dank and dark inside. It feels like a club with too much testosterone and every few seconds a chorus of masculine “Ohhhh’s!” rocks the building.
That same smell that clung to Arnez when she pulled up to Rich’s swallows me and I choke on it. It’s a mixture of cigarette smoke, sweat, and weed, but not the weed Rich smokes. This kind makes my eyes water.
I pull the collar of my sweatshirt over my mouth.
There’s so many bodies packed inside that Arnez has to lead with her arm. She pushes at the backs of grown men until they look down at us and move out our way.
“My fault, lil’ mama!” One of them grins down at me with a mouth full of diamonds that glitter under the dim lights.
I hold my hand out to keep a foot of distance between us. “You’re good.”
“Oh, you tryna get closer to the action?” He reaches down to grab me by my waist, but Arnez slaps his hand away before his fingers can even brush my sweatshirt.
She wags her finger at him. “Don’t touch.”
“Damn. I’m just tryna help her.”
“She ain’t ask for it!”
His eyes volley between us as the crowd pushes us closer to him. The bitter smoke sneaks through the fabric of my sweatshirt, and I curl my fingers in my hand even though I want to reach for Arnez like I used to reach for Terrica when we found ourselves in shifty places.
“What you is? Her guard dog?” he asks Arnez.
“C’mon, Lovie.” She cocks her head to the side, pushing another man.
I step forward to follow her, but the guy’s sweaty hand sneaks into mine.
“You leaving me for her?” he asks as softly as he can over the music. “C’mere. What you doing wandering around up in here, anyway? Come stand with me.”
I yank my hand, but he squeezes harder.
“Arnez!” I yell, catching the back of her ponytail as she pushes through the rest of the crowd without me.
I yank my hand again, and the guy pulls back.
“Let go!”
“Look…” he says, reaching into the front pocket of his jeans and pulling out a wad of money.
Before I can tell him I have twice the amount of that sad bankroll in my purse at home, his eyes widen and his hand suddenly relaxes. The money falls from his grasp, fluttering to the concrete floor like leaves blowing in the wind.
I snatch my hand out of his weak hold, stumbling back until the dim lights catch the reflection of a shiny blade pushed against his throat.
Smitty’s red eyes peek from over his shoulder.
“Sm…Smitty?” I stutter.
He pushes the blade into the guy’s skin until it puckers around it. People see what’s happening, but nobody stops moving. They trample over the hundred-dollar bills and walk around instead of between us.
“Boy, you must be crazy!” Smitty yells over the music, looking down at him. “The fuck you doing?”
“The fuck is you doing, unc?”
“You know who that is?”
“Yeah—a hoe.”
Smitty pushes the sharp blade closer into his skin until specks of red dribble out. It’s just a little knick, but it makes the guy stand up straighter.
“You must wanna get in that pit with Pup,” Smitty says.
The boy’s red eyes stretch. “I ain’t say no shit like that!”
Smitty laughs, pulling the blade from his throat and pointing it at me. “You said that the second you touched his lady.”
“His lady?”
“That’s what the fuck I said. You seem to understand English pretty damn well.”
I wring my hands.
It’s the second time somebody’s blabbered out that I belong to Rich in this disgusting place, but they don’t mean it how Rich does. In a garage full of drunk men, I’m just his property.
“C’mon, let me take you over to Lucky so he can put you down on the ledger.” Smitty wraps his hand around the guy’s arm, but he yanks it back.
“Man, get off me. I ain’t gettin in no pit. I ain’t one of them crazy, brain-dead motherfuckas.”
“You must be some type of crazy. They ain’t lace you up at the door? Touching anything around here that ain’t yours is grounds for getting yo’ ass put in that pit. C’mon. Let’s go see Lucky.”
Smitty grabs his other arm and tries to tug it behind his back, but he breaks free and scrambles off toward the back door, holding his bloody neck.
Smitty snickers, shaking his head. “One of these days they gon’ learn that this is the big boys’ playground.”
He stoops down and scoops the hundred-dollar bills from the ground. After he tugs the last hundred from underneath a man’s sneaker, he pushes up.
I hold my breath, waiting for a barrage of questions to come out of his mouth. Instead, he flicks his thumb against his tongue and counts out the money. Afterward, he looks up at me.
“You eat before you came up in here?” he asks.
Did I eat?
I nod with a frown.
“Oh, boy.” He scrunches his wrinkled face. “Pup’ll get you right. C’mon here.”
“Who spending real money? I ain’t fuckin with nothing under a hun dun!
Real spenders to the front, please! Stop insulting me with these lil’ bitty boy ass wagers!
” A loud-mouthed boy elbows his way through the crowd, shaking a wad of money while holding a pencil, paper, and his sagging jeans up by the waist.
I don’t really understand much of anything coming out of anybody’s mouths except for the amounts of money they shout and “Pup.”
“Pup up next!” somebody murmurs from behind me.
Rich is on everybody’s brains as they scurry around, scribbling in their tiny notepads and hollering about wagers.
A twenty-dollar wager is an insult.
A fifty-dollar wager is enough to start a conversation.
And a hundred-dollar wager is enough to get a handshake.