11. AMAI
AMAI
Ipulled away from Delphine’s house and watched Truth disappear through the screen door in my rearview mirror.
The Seventh Ward was a place where people laughed loud, loved hard, and survived on gumbo and stubbornness.
I didn’t belong here.
But I’d stood in Delphine’s yard eating crawfish and code-switching like my life depended on it, and for those few minutes, I’d felt something I hadn’t felt in years.
Normal.
I turned onto St. Claude Avenue and merged into traffic.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that made the city look almost beautiful. Almost forgiving.
I wasn’t forgiven.
And I sure as hell wasn’t normal.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter and tried to focus on the road.
Tried not to think about the way Truth had looked at me when I dropped her off—tired, grateful, soft in a way that made me want to protect her with my very life if I had to.
Tried not to think about the fact that I’d spent the last thirteen days fucking Alexis like I was trying to prove something to myself.
She’s just the surrogate. You hired her. This is business.
I repeated it in my head like a mantra.
Like if I said it enough times, it would become true.
But the guilt sat heavy in my gut, thick and sour, refusing to be rationalized away.
Thirteen days.
Sometimes twice a day.
Alexis in her bed with the white sheets and expensive candles. Alexis bent over her kitchen counter. Alexis in my house that one time when I knew no one would be there, her legs wrapped around my waist, her nails digging into my back.
It had been good.
Raw. Primal. Uncomplicated.
Exactly what I needed to keep my head clear and my boundaries intact.
Except my head wasn’t clear.
And my boundaries were already fucked.
I turned onto Magazine Street, heading toward the Garden District, and the guilt twisted deeper.
You’re not in a relationship with her. You don’t owe her anything beyond what you’ve already agreed to.
That was the truth.
The legal truth.
The rational truth.
But it didn’t feel true.
It felt like a lie I was telling myself because the alternative—admitting that I cared about Truth Renois in ways that had nothing to do with the baby she could carry—was too dangerous to acknowledge.
That wasn’t business.
That was something else entirely.
And I’d been fucking Alexis to convince myself otherwise.
You’re full of shit, a voice in my head quietly said.
I ignored it.
Turned up the volume on the true crime podcast playing through the speakers—some case about a man who’d killed his wife and tried to make it look like a robbery.
The narrator’s voice was calm, clinical, detached.
I envied that detachment.
I used to have it.
Before Truth walked into my office wearing a sundress and asked me if I wanted a child or an heir.
Before she looked at me with those eyes that didn’t flinch.
Before she became something I couldn’t stop thinking about.
The streets widened as I crossed into the Garden District.
Old money architecture. Manicured lawns. Oak trees dripping with Spanish moss.
This was my world.
Beautiful in a way that kept people at a distance.
I pulled onto my street and felt my phone buzz in the cupholder.
I glanced at it.
A text from Alexis: I have a surprise for you.
I didn’t respond.
Just set the phone back down and kept driving.
My house came into view—a restored Victorian with a wraparound porch and iron gates that were custom made.
And standing on that porch, leaning against the railing like she had every right to be there, was Alexis.
I slowed the car.
Stared.
What the fuck?
We’d fucked at her place.
We’d fucked at mine exactly twice—both times when I knew Layla and Syx wouldn’t be there, when I had the house to myself and could control the situation.
But Layla was supposed to cook tonight.
I’d told her I’d be home by seven.
And Alexis was here.
Uninvited.
Unannounced.
Standing on my porch like she belonged there.
I pulled into the driveway and cut the engine.
Sat there for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, trying to process what I was seeing.
Alexis smiled when she saw me.
Waved.
Like this was normal.
Like showing up at a man’s house without being invited was something people did.
I got out of the car slowly.
Closed the door with a quiet click.
I walked up the porch steps and let the irritation settle somewhere deep where Alexis couldn’t see it.
She was leaning against the railing, smiling like she’d done something clever. Like showing up uninvited was spontaneous and romantic instead of a boundary violation I didn’t have the energy to address.
I forced my face into something warm.
Something that looked like I was happy to see her.
“Hey,” I said, pulling her into a hug.
She melted into me immediately, her arms wrapping around my waist, her face pressed against my chest.
“I missed you,” she said softly.
I didn’t respond to that.
Just held her for a beat longer than necessary, then pulled back and smiled.
“Come on inside,” I said, gesturing toward the door. “Have a seat. I’ll let the chef know to set an extra place.”
Her face lit up.
“Really? You’re not mad I just showed up?”
“Why would I be mad?” I lied smoothly. “It’s a nice surprise.”
It wasn’t.
But Alexis didn’t need to know that.
She followed me inside, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors as she looked around with the kind of appreciation that came from someone who understood wealth but didn’t live in it daily.
“I love it here,” she said. “Every time I come, I notice something different.”
“I’m glad.”
I guided her toward the sitting room and pulled out a chair for her at the table.
“Sit. Relax. I’ll be right back.”
She sat, crossing her legs and smoothing her dress over her thighs.
She looked perfect.
Polished. Put together.
And I felt like shit.
Because I could see it in her eyes—the way she looked at me, the way she smiled, the way she’d driven across the city to surprise me.
She was falling.
And I wasn’t.
I wasn’t even close.
I turned away before she could see the guilt on my face and headed toward the kitchen.
The smell hit me first—garlic, butter, something rich and savory that made my stomach remind me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Layla was at the stove, her locs tied up in a wrap, her body moving with the kind of efficiency that came from years of knowing exactly what she was doing.
She didn’t look up when I walked in.
“Smells good,” I said.
“Mm-hmm.”
Her tone was flat.
Cold.
I stopped just inside the doorway and watched her for a moment.
She was pissed.
I could feel it radiating off her like heat from the stove. She must’ve heard Alexis’ voice and our conversation.
“I have company,” I said evenly. “Need you to set an extra place.”
Layla turned then, wooden spoon in hand, her eyes sharp and unforgiving.
“Company,” she repeated slowly. “That the bitch you been fuckin’?”
I didn’t blink.
“Layla.”
“‘Cause you sure as hell ain’t been fuckin’ me.”
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
“Cut it the fuck out,” I said. “You know what this is. You’ve always known what this is. So do your damn job and cut the attitude before I do it for you.”
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then she set the spoon on the counter with a deliberate click.
And walked toward me.
Slowly.
Her hips swaying in a way that was both a challenge and an invitation.
She stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the garlic and butter from the stove.
Then, she reached out and caressed my dick through my slacks.
Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, her fingers tracing the outline of me with the kind of familiarity that came from months of knowing exactly how to get a reaction.
“You know exactly how to get rid of my attitude,” she said softly, her voice dropping into something low and dangerous.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t pull away.
Didn’t lean into it.
Just stood there and let her make her point.
Because she was right.
I did know.
And part of me—the part that was still wired from the day, from Truth’s recovery, from Alexis showing up uninvited, from the guilt sitting heavy in my chest—wanted to take her up on it.
Wanted to bend her over the counter and fuck the tension out of both of us.
But I didn’t.
Because Alexis was sitting in the other room.
And because I was already juggling too many women and too many lies.
I reached down and gently removed Layla’s hand from my dick.
“Not tonight,” I said quietly.
Her eyes flashed with hurt, anger, maybe both.
But before she could respond, a voice cut through the tension like a knife.
“Oh shit.”
I turned.
Syx was standing in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the hallway, arms crossed, grinning like he’d just walked into the best entertainment of his life.
“This just got overly interesting,” he said, his voice full of amusement.
I turned my head slowly and locked eyes with Syx.
“Don’t,” I said, my voice low and even. “Don’t be on no bullshit at this dinner.”
Syx’s grin widened.
He pushed off the doorframe and shrugged, his locs swaying with the movement.
“I can’t make any promises, cuz,” he said, his tone light but his eyes dancing with mischief. “You know how I am.”
I stared at him for a long moment.
Considered throwing him out.
Considered a lot of things.
But Syx was family, and family—no matter how problematic—had a seat at my table.
Even when I didn’t want them there.
“Just—” I exhaled slowly. “Behave.”
“I’ll try,” Syx said, still grinning.
I didn’t believe him.
But I didn’t have time to argue.
I turned back to Layla, who was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Set an extra place,” I said quietly.
Her jaw tightened.
But she nodded.
“Of course,” she said, her voice clipped.
I left the kitchen before the tension could escalate further and walked back through the hallway toward the dining room.