4. TRUTH #2
I glanced at him.
He was watching the road, his hands steady on the wheel, his jaw tight. But I could feel his attention on me like a physical weight.
“I spilled something on myself,” I finished weakly. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
And I knew—knew—the moment it left my mouth that he didn’t believe me.
We pulled up to a red light, and Amai turned to face me fully.
His eyes locked onto mine.
Dark. Unreadable. Seeing straight through every wall I’d tried to build.
“That’s your first and last time lying to me,” he said quietly. “Understand?”
My breath caught.
There was no anger in his voice. No heat. Just cold, absolute certainty.
This wasn’t a request.
It was a rule.
And I understood, in that moment, that Amai Landry didn’t make rules he didn’t enforce.
“I wasn’t—” I started.
“You were,” he said, cutting me off. “And you’re going to tell me the truth right now, or you’re going to get out of this car and walk the rest of the way home.”
The light turned green.
He didn’t move.
Cars honked behind us, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just kept his eyes on me, waiting.
My hands were shaking.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”
He pulled through the intersection and kept driving.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight, my chest aching with the weight of everything I’d been holding in.
“My ex-husband,” I said finally. “Phillip. He drove by with his—with Destiny. His girlfriend. The one he left me for.”
The words felt like glass in my mouth.
“He saw me at the bus stop,” I continued, my voice breaking. “And he pulled over. Started asking what I was doing in the Garden District. If I was cleaning houses. If I was?—”
I stopped.
Took a breath.
“And then Destiny threw her drink on me,” I finished quietly. “Strawberry Fanta. Just threw it right in my face and laughed. And when I tried to—when I went for the car, Phillip just drove off.”
Tears were sliding down my cheeks again.
I angrily wiped them away, hating myself for crying, hating Phillip for still having this kind of power over me.
“He took everything,” I said, my voice raw. “The house. The car. The savings account he drained six months before he even filed. He left me with nothing but debt and a credit score in the toilet. And now he’s driving around in my car with her wearing my sunglasses, and I’m?—”
I broke off.
Covered my face with my hands.
“I’m sitting at a bus stop covered in soda like I’m nobody,” I whispered. “Like I don’t even matter.”
The silence that followed was different.
Heavier.
Colder.
I could feel the shift in the air—the way the temperature seemed to drop, the way the space between us became charged with something dangerous.
I lowered my hands and looked at Amai.
His jaw was tight. His hands were steady on the wheel, but his knuckles were white.
“Does he bother you often?” he asked.
His voice was still calm.
But there was heat underneath it now. Sharp and lethal.
“No,” I said quickly. “I haven’t seen him since the divorce finalized two months ago. I don’t know why he’s fucking with me now. I don’t have anything left for him to take.”
Amai didn’t respond.
Just kept driving, his eyes on the road, his mind clearly somewhere else.
We turned onto St. Claude Avenue, heading deeper into the Seventh Ward.
“Once you sign that contract,” he said quietly, “you’re under my protection.”
I turned to look at him.
“You represent me,” he continued. “Nobody needs to know that. But you do. And I don’t tolerate bullshit. I don’t tolerate anybody fucking with what belongs to me.”
The words hung in the air between us.
Heavy.
Possessive.
Absolute.
Something hot and defiant flared in my chest.
“I don’t belong to anybody,” I said, my voice suddenly sharp. “I belong to myself.”
I didn’t care that he was Amai Landry. Didn’t care that he was powerful and dangerous and could probably destroy me with a phone call.
I’d spent two years belonging to Phillip—letting him control the money, the house, the decisions—and look where that got me.
I wasn’t doing that again.
Not for anyone.
Amai glanced at me.
His eyes were dark. Unreadable.
But there was irritation in them that made my breath catch, made my pulse spike, made every nerve in my body come alive.
“We’ll see about that,” he said quietly.
Four words.
Soft.
But they carried weight.
A promise and a threat wrapped together in a voice that made my stomach flip and my thighs clench and my heart pound so hard I thought he could hear it.
I turned back to the window, my jaw tight, my hands folded in my lap.
But I could feel the tension radiating between us.
Electric.
Dangerous.
Suffocating.
I didn’t know what scared me more—the fact that Amai Landry had just claimed me as his.
Or the fact that part of me wanted to let him.
We turned onto Claiborne Avenue, and the city shifted around us.
Garden District mansions gave way to corner stores with bars on the windows. Shotgun houses painted in fading pastels lined the streets—some with fresh coats of paint and flower boxes, others sagging under the weight of years and storms and survival.
This was my neighborhood.
My world.
And Amai Landry’s Mercedes looked like it had taken a wrong turn somewhere between wealth and reality.
“Next left,” I said quietly. “Then two blocks down.”
He didn’t respond. Just turned smoothly, his hands steady on the wheel, his eyes taking in everything—the people sitting on porches trying to catch a breeze, the kids playing in the street, the corner boys posted up outside the corner store.
I wondered what he saw when he looked at my neighborhood.
Poverty? Struggle? Something to pity or judge?
Or did he see what I saw—resilience, community, the kind of love that survived when money couldn’t?
“There,” I said, pointing. “The yellow one with the blue shutters.”
Amai pulled up to the curb and put the car in park.
And that’s when I heard it.
Music.
Zydeco pouring out of a Bluetooth speaker on the porch railing—accordion and washboard and that rhythm that made your hips move whether you wanted them to or not.
Laughter.
Mama’s voice rising above the rest, loud and sharp and full of that particular brand of shit-talking that only came out when she was winning at dominoes.
And the smell.
God, the smell.
Crawfish.
Boiling in a massive pot set up on a propane burner in the front yard. The scent of cayenne, garlic, lemon, bay leaves, and Old Bay seasoning hit me so hard my mouth instantly started watering.
I looked out the window.
Mama was in the front yard with Miss Claudette from next door, Mr. Jerome from across the street, and Mama’s best friend Rochelle. They had a folding table set up under the oak tree, dominoes spread across the worn wood, and red Solo cups sweating in the heat.
Mama was wearing her good wig—the one she saved for company—and a purple tank top that said I’m Not Arguing, I’m Just Explaining Why I’m Right in gold glitter letters.
She looked happy.
Relaxed in a way she hadn’t been in months.
And then she saw the car.
Her head turned. Her eyes narrowed.
And I watched her entire face shift from having a good time to who the hell is this pulling up to my house in a car that’s probably stolen.
“Oh, no,” I whispered.
Amai glanced at me. “Problem?”
“My mama,” I said. “She’s-she’s gonna?—”
But it was too late.
Mama was already walking toward the car, dominoes forgotten, her eyes locked on the Mercedes like she was about to perform an exorcism on it.
Amai turned off the engine.
“Stay here,” I said quickly. “I’ll just?—”
But he was already opening his door.
“Amai, wait?—”
He stepped out of the car, smooth and unbothered, and I watched my mama stop in her tracks.
She looked him up and down—the tailored slacks, the expensive watch, the way he moved like he owned every space he walked into.
And then she smiled.
That smile.
The one that meant she was about to embarrass me in front of God and everybody.
I scrambled out of the car, still sticky with my dress clinging to my skin.
“Mama—”
“Well, well, well,” Mama said, her voice carrying across the yard. “Look what the cat dragged up to my house.”
Amai stopped a few feet from her. “Good evening, ma’am. I’m?—”
“I don’t care who you are,” Mama said, cutting him off. She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes sharp and assessing. “Question is, what you doin’ bringin’ my daughter home covered in soda like she got into a fight at the gas station?”
“Mama, it’s not?—”
“Hush, Truth. I’m talkin’ to him.”
Amai’s expression shifted.
And I watched—watched—as he became someone else entirely.
The coldness melted. The sharpness softened. His shoulders relaxed, his smile turned warm and easy, and when he spoke again, his voice was different.
Lighter. Friendlier. Normal.
“I apologize for the state she’s in,” Amai said, his tone polite and respectful in a way that made my jaw drop. “I happened to be driving by when I saw her at the bus stop. She’d had an unfortunate encounter, and I offered her a ride home. I hope that’s all right.”
I stared at him.
The code-switch was insane.
I cut my eyes at him, but he didn’t look at me. Just kept his attention on Mama, his expression open and earnest like he was applying for a job at the church.
Mama tilted her head, studying him.
“Mm-hmm,” she said slowly. “And what’s your name, baby?”
“Amai,” he said. “Amai Landry.”
“Landry,” Mama repeated, like she was tasting the name. “You from around here?”
“Lower Ninth, originally,” Amai said. “But I’ve been in the Garden District for a many years now.”
“Garden District,” Mama said, nodding. “That’s nice. Real nice. You must be doin’ well for yourself.”
“I do all right,” Amai said modestly.
I almost choked.
I do all right?
This man probably owned half the city, and he was standing in my mama’s yard, acting like he worked at the post office.
Mama’s smile widened.
And I knew—knew—she wasn’t buying a single word of it.