1. Nairobi Crawford
TWO YEARS LATER
I stared at the name flashing across my screen. She’d called an hour ago and I ignored it, which wasn’t unusual for me. But two calls back-to-back meant something was up.
I steeled myself as I swiped to answer. “Kenya,” I said flatly.
“He’s dead,” she blurted, her voice trembling. There was a hiccup, then a sniffle.
I sat up in the soft hotel bed, my chest tightening. “Mama,” I said, the word felt unnatural and awkward coming from me. I hadn’t called her that in ages, but it felt like the right thing to say now. “Calm down. Who’s dead?”
“Your father, Nairobi,” she choked out, her voice cracking. “Sterling… he’s gone. He’s dead!”
A guttural wail erupted on the other end, and I held the phone away from my ear.
The tightness in my chest disappeared as a wave of relief washed over me.
It sounds bad, but it was the truth. The heavy cloud of my father’s presence that hung over my head for as long as I could remember, finally lifted.
“Hello? Hello?” My mother’s panicked voice called out.
I put the phone on speaker and placed it in my lap, willing the right words to come to me. My father and I hadn’t been close, I wasn’t a daddy’s girl. I hadn’t seen either of my parents in two years, but I knew I had to show up for her. She didn’t have anyone else.
My tongue felt thick in my mouth. “I’m here, mama,” I replied finally. “What do you need me to do?”
She sniffled again, then blew her nose. “I need you to come home, Nai. Please, for me.”
After I hung up with her, I booked the first flight to Atlanta.
I was grateful that I had my own place out there because I couldn’t stomach the idea of staying in their house.
Going there was one thing, but staying was completely out of the question.
Next, I called Parker, my handler, to let her know I’d have to be released early from my current assignment.
“Hey, lady,” she answered cheerfully. Parker and I had worked together for three years, and while she was good at her job, her overly friendly demeanor grated my nerves. She was just a little too personable, which was frowned upon in this line of work—or maybe I was just a cynical ass bitch.
“I can’t finish the New York job,” I said bluntly, “I’ve got a family emergency. I’m flying to Atlanta tomorrow.”
“Oh? The client will be disappointed,” she said. I could hear her try to mask her irritation. “They requested you specifically.”
I leaned back against the headboard, exhaling. “They’ll live. There are plenty of great operators available. Call Olivia.”
“No, for sure,” Parker said quickly, trying to recover. “I’m actually in Atlanta right now. Is there anything I can help you with while you’re here?”
I rolled my eyes and rubbed my temples. I knew she was being polite, but it still annoyed me. “No. I’ll let you know when I’m operational again—I’m probably going to need a few weeks off.”
“Understood.”
I stared at the phone long after the call ended.
My thumb hovered over the contacts icon.
Reaching out felt like the normal thing to do, but the one person I wanted to talk to wouldn’t answer.
Fontaine had made that abundantly clear two years ago.
Cash briefly crossed my mind, but we hadn't spoken since my little Irish goodbye, and I’d heard he and Jasmine were expecting.
He had enough going on. I pushed the thought aside.
I had no siblings and was so far removed from my parents’ extended family. There were no aunts, uncles, or cousins to lean on. Just me.
Fontaine’s words echoed in my head: “Good luck with your lonely ass life.”
I needed a distraction.
Hey you busy?
Three bubbles popped up almost immediately.
CJ
For you? Never.
I scoffed and bit back a smile.
Come get me? I need to get out of my hotel.
I hadn’t told CJ I was in the city—not that it mattered. He was fun and uncomplicated—one of the things I liked about him. If I wanted more, it could be more, but he didn’t push when he realized I wasn’t on that type of time.
CJ
Send the location, ma.
I sent him the address and slid out of bed. It was October and the weather in New York didn’t know if it wanted to be summer or true fall. I threw on a white tank top and black leggings, grabbed my leather jacket, and headed downstairs to wait for him at the hotel bar.
The bar was dimly lit, with only a handful of corporate types nursing after-work cocktails. They eyed me curiously as I slid onto a barstool.
“What can I get you, beautiful?” the bartender asked as she placed a napkin in front of me.
“Gin martini with a twist,” I replied, smiling at her. While I waited, a text from Parker came through confirming she’d reassigned the New York job, like I knew she’d be able to do.
The bartender set my drink down. “You looked like a Hendrick’s girl,” she said, watching me.
I held her gaze as I raised the glass to my lips, letting the smooth drink slide down my throat. “Perfect,” I said.
Fifteen minutes later, large hands wrapped around my waist, and the familiar scent of leather and woody musk enveloped me.
“‘Sup, lil mama?” CJ’s thick Brooklyn accent drawled in my ear.
I turned slightly as he slid onto the barstool beside me. “You can’t just run up on people like that,” I said.
CJ set his helmet on the bar top, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief. He had on a leather jacket with the Gotham Reapers emblem, a black tee that hugged his firm chest, dark jeans, and Timbs. The man was Brooklyn through and through.
“Hello to you too, Nai,” he replied with a slow grin, leaning in to kiss my cheek.
The bartender reappeared and slid a napkin towards him.
“I’m good. Just close up her tab,” he said, nodding at me as he pulled a thick wad of cash from his pocket.
I rolled my eyes as he peeled off a crisp hundred-dollar bill and placed it onto the bar. “Keep the change, sweetheart,” he said with a wink.
The bartender blushed, pocketing the bill as she went to close out my tab.
“How long do I have you for?” he asked, reaching for my glass. He sipped my martini and immediately recoiled, scrunching up his face in disgust. “I don’t know how you drink this shit.”
I drained the rest of the drink. “Because it’s not for you. And I’m leaving for Atlanta in the morning.”
“Damn, we gotta make the most of tonight then, huh?”
I nodded.
Getting sleep wasn’t a concern—I was sure I’d knock out before the plane was up in the air. I needed twenty-four hours in Atlanta to myself before dealing with my mother's hysterics.
“Aight, let’s roll,” he said, standing and grabbing his helmet off the bar.
The cool fall air nipped at us as we stepped outside. CJ’s black Yamaha Tracer was ignorantly parked in the fire zone.
I took the helmet that he handed to me. “The fire zone?” I asked
“Nobody was about to touch my shit,” he said, pulling on his helmet.
I strapped mine under my chin and climbed on behind him, arms going around his waist as the bike rumbled to life beneath us.
“Where we going?” I asked as he started the bike and revved the engine.
“Brooklyn,” he replied. “You good?”
I nodded and tightened my grip on him.
CJ weaved us through lower Manhattan, picking up speed as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. The city skyline faded behind us and the energy switched the moment we hit his borough—it was different from Manhattan in a way that you felt before you could explain it.
He slowed as we turned into a block of brownstones, bikes lined up along both sides of the curb. Music blasted out of one of the homes which was clearly Reapers affiliated. CJ parked in front of the one with a crowd gathered on the steps.
“Whose house is this?” I asked, pulling off my helmet and leaving it on the seat.
“My cousin’s,” he said and held out his hand. I took it—his grip was warm and firm—and followed him up the steps. People greeted him as we went, dapping him up, nodding, and stepping aside without being asked.
Inside, the air was heavy with weed smoke. A DJ was set up in the corner with two large speakers flanking him, the music bumping loud enough to feel in your chest. People milled about with red cups in their hands.
“Lil Creed!” a deep voice boomed from across the room.
”Fuck outta here with that little shit, nigga,” he called back.
The man pushing through the crowd was massive and easily had a few inches and at least a hundred pounds on CJ. But the resemblance was clear. They had the same skin tone and sharp features. He wore a black leather Gotham Reapers vest over a long-sleeved black shirt.
CJ dapped him up and pulled him into a quick hug. “Dylan, this is Nairobi,” CJ said, jerking his chin toward me. “Nai, this my bitch ass cousin, Dylan.”
Dylan eyed me with a smarmy grin, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together appreciatively. “Oh she fine fine,” he said.
“Thank you?” I replied, cocking my head at him.
CJ shook his head, pressing his hand against the small of my back. “Don’t pay him no mind,” he whispered. “He’s harmless but has no damn home training.”
“Whatever, nigga,” Dylan laughed as we walked off.
The kitchen was a mess of liquor bottles and sodas. Open bags of chips were scattered next to containers of dip, and a cooler packed with ice sat on the floor. The bass from the speakers pulsed through the walls.
“What you wanna drink?” he asked, grabbing two cups and filling them with ice.
“Whatever you’re having.”
He moved around the kitchen, plucking bottles, pouring, tasting, and adjusting until he was satisfied with his concoction. He handed me a cup and watched while I took a cautious sniff.
“This is one of them sneaky drinks,” I quipped.
“It’s only sneaky if you can’t hold your liquor, ma,” he teased with a smile.
I took a tentative sip. The fruity sweetness masked the bite from the liquor underneath. Warmth spread through my chest almost immediately. “You trying to put me on my ass?”
He chuckled and leaned in close. “Only if you want me to,” he said low in my ear.
I took another sip, unsure if the heat spreading through me was because of the drink or his words.