Juliet Simone Everette #3
I knew time was not on my side — and it wasn’t on Nazir's.
Echo was like Denzel in The Equalizer. That man set his watch, and God help whoever was in his way.
I was almost certain he was at the studio and got word from one of his people that Nazir was in my face.
If I hadn't moved, Echo would have orchestrated the most embarrassing scene imaginable — and Nazir didn't look like the type to let that slide clean.
As soon as my ass hit the comfort of my custom mauve Jeep Wrangler, my phone vibrated in my bag.
Feeling that it wasn't the short buzz of a text or notification but the drawn-out pulse of a call, I let it go to voicemail.
On the other end would be either Choo-Choo, ready to tell me how I "don't want to get my new little friend hurt," or Yahya, laughing because she knew Echo's goon squad had come out on top once again.
Either way, I didn't want to hear it. I needed to clear my head and get ready for Dr. Hamburger's creative writing class.
Shakespeare was on the curriculum this week, and although he wasn't my first choice of literature, I couldn't help but hyperfixate on his work.
Most people assumed that because my mama named me Juliet, Shakespeare was a staple in our home.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
My personal reading room held over 300 titles and counting, but I was an urban romance girl at heart.
Lo-fi music and a slow, entertaining urban romance novel — that was my idea of a perfect night.
But there was something about Shakespeare that soothed me in a way I couldn't fully explain.
I'd never told anyone, afraid they'd think I was crazy, but I had a core memory of a woman reading Romeo and Juliet to me — and no, it wasn't my mother.
Buzz. The short, sharp vibration snapped me out of my trance, and I buckled my seatbelt. This time I checked my phone.
Echo: Call me.
Me: For what, Choo-Choo?
Echo: Before I get mad, Ju-Ju.
Me: Aight, let me start my Jeep and connect to Bluetooth.
I pressed start and my baby hummed to life, smooth as always. The collection of rubber duckies gifted to me by fellow Jeep owners shifted slightly as the vehicle woke up. I leaned back in my seat, took a deep breath, picked up my phone and prepared to dial the warden.
My father, Mylo, and Zion were easy to manage.
Don't get me wrong — if I seemed unfocused or turned up somewhere I had no business being, any one of the three would come straighten things out.
But that was rare. My father never even raised his voice at me, and honestly, he didn't have to.
He had Echo. As I got older, I started wondering if my father was grooming Echo to take over entirely, but that theory fell apart when I realized it was only me that Echo stayed locked in on.
He was a good big brother to us all, but there was something extra he exuded when it came to me — an intensity that didn't quite fit the "she's the only girl" explanation I always settled for.
As usual, I brushed it off and kept it moving.
I found Echo's name in my call log and went to tap it — right before an immense wave of bass and vibration seized my entire body, sending my phone dropping into the gap between my seat and the center console.
Fuck.
The idiot driving the Bronco had the nerve to take the parking spot right next to my passenger side, music blasting like the whole world had personally requested a listening party.
I gave it a few seconds before really getting pissed, hoping the inconsiderate fool would be getting out soon — but by the time I retrieved my phone, wedged well between the seat and console might I add, it seemed like Radio Raheem had turned the shit up.
"I know you fucking lying," I said.
Completely done, I got out of my Jeep and headed straight for the Bronco.
My mother would have lost her entire mind if she'd seen me.
Olivia always taught me to never exit my vehicle to confront another driver — accident or not, stay put and call 911.
But Olivia wasn't here, and I was down for whatever.
Besides, ain't no real crimes happening in Havenbrook.
The absolute most you'd hear about was an argument over whose lawyer was going to demolish whose in court.
I tapped hard on the window. It rolled down and the music attacked my ears at full throttle. 22Gz's "Suburban" flooded the entire parking lot — and if that song wasn't so deeply my shit, the next hit this idiot would be hearing was my fist upside his head.
His head.
His beautiful head, sharply lined with coarse curls, was perfectly placed.
His beard, full but precise — giving just enough edge for the boardroom and the basketball court.
Skin, a deep, soft brown that would put you in mind of chocolate soft serve, just lickable.
And those round-framed designer glasses sat at the bridge of his nose like he was perpetually waiting to be intellectually challenged.
They didn't soften his look at all — if anything, they made me want to slide them off his face, rest them on mine, look straight into his eyes and ride him like the stallion he clearly was.
This man — Psalm Mitchel — was fine.
Too bad I couldn't stand his know-it-all ass.
Because instead of making my head spin and my words slur, he made my skin crawl and my ass itch.
The man was convinced he was number one everywhere he went — the classroom, social events, hell, even the preacher made it his personal mission to shout him out every Sunday like Psalm had a standing reservation with God.
“Turn that shit down,” I said, voice steady, hands moving just as aggressively.
He leaned back, looking me over like I was his personal entertainment.
“Or what?”
I smiled and bit my bottom lip. Annoyance was the energy fueling my rocking back and forth on my feet. That "or what" energy he carried was exactly the type of man he was — rebellious and fucking challenging.
"Or, I'll turn it down for you," I signed.
"Nah, use that little voice of yours too — you know I don't know what you're saying," Psalm responded. "Coming over here banging on my window like you're about that life and now look at you. Silent. Move."
He pushed his door open slightly, causing me to step back.
Before fully exiting, he rolled up his window and powered the Bronco down.
He stepped out completely, closed the door behind him, and his beautiful dark brown eyes invaded mine.
All 6'2" of him — baggy black basketball shorts, white and black ASICs, and a vintage Marvel t-shirt featuring Storm and Black Panther.
Gold Diesel watch on his wrist. He was the more laid-back kind of dresser, but he wore that effortlessness so damn well.
My temperament must have settled without my permission, because up until that moment, I hadn't even registered his cologne. Nutmeg and amber invaded my nostrils and sent me on a euphoric rollercoaster. I needed to get myself together — and fast — because my body was about to betray me completely.
"Now get back in your little Jeep, princess, and go on — before I tell old man Ec—"
Before he could finish, I plucked him hard on the funny bone.
The sharp inhale, the full body jolt, the way his face twisted and water pooled in his eyes while he fought with everything in him to hold that scream in — deeply, deeply satisfying.
Echo had made me take a self-defense class years back.
Most of what we covered was standard — positioning, escape techniques, the basics.
But Lacey, one of the other students, had pulled me aside one afternoon and introduced me to something far more useful.
Hit the funny bone at the right angle, with the right amount of pressure, and you don't just cause pain — you cause paralysis.
Temporary, harmless, deeply effective paralysis.
I keep that trick tucked away for special occasions.
"I call that my Mortal Kombat — 'cause I bet your ass is finished, ain't it?"
Psalm flexed his hand slowly, jaw still tight, but I could tell the pain was subsiding.
"Get your spoiled ass in that Jeep before I put you in it," he said through gritted teeth.
"Okay, okay," I said, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. "But if you bring me back a slice of pineapple upside-down cheesecake, I'll make up a good excuse to Hamburger for why you're late to class."
"Fuck," he muttered, checking his watch. He'd clearly lost track of time.
"I'll see you later — maybe," I called out sarcastically to his back as he hustled out of the parking lot toward the burger bar.