Chapter Three #2
I guess it's true—money doesn't solve problems.
Because I'm looking at a money-making machine right now with a lot of them.
Including me.
For days, I'd given him the cold shoulder because he was keeping me tucked away like I was some forbidden piece of fruit. I couldn't busy myself enough with binge-watching shows. I'd watched Grey's Anatomy, Scandal, How to Get Away with Murder, and Power. Romelo was subscribed to everything.
I'd invited myself to his man cave twice but never went lurking through his things. He'd dumped a load of urban fiction books in the guest room for me—and I knew most of them were from my apartment. He wasn't slicker than a can of oil.
"Why?" I spoke up, crawling out of my thoughts.
I watched soap swim down the crack of his ass as he scrubbed himself, and then he jolted his neck in my direction. The scent of Dove's men body wash lingered heavy in the steamy air.
"Why what?"
"Why don't you cum from head?" I yelled loud enough for him to hear me over the sound of the water.
He shrugged while scrubbing the back of his neck and behind his ears. "I ain't never put too much thought into it. It ain't like I can't nut. I just ain't never came from head." He responded nonchalantly and looked away from me.
I walked closer to him through the steam. It smacked against my face, warm and thick. The glass doors were clouded with mist. My nipples brushed against his back, and he didn't flinch.
Our skin touched, and the intimacy between us turned up a notch. I felt fire igniting from the contact, and I'm sure he could feel it too. That's why he didn't move.
His body became relaxed—almost as if he'd been waiting for this feeling his whole life.
I pressed my cheek against his back, released a deep breath, and closed my eyes.
"I'm feeling things that I don't know how to feel about," I whispered.
"Like what?"
"I don't know." I shrugged against him. "I'm catching feelings for my kidnapper."
His chuckle made his body jolt. "Is that what you call me?"
"It sounds way better than 'my cousin's boyfriend.'"
Now I felt defeated. Saying it out loud made it real.
He turned around, facing me, and grabbed a handful of my ass, groping it slowly, possessively. Though my skin was wet, he had a firm grip, and I knew there'd be marks later.
"I don't give a fuck how you call it. I've already stressed that shit to you enough.
The fuck I look like letting you slip through my hands twice?
This shit ain't debatable, Synthia. I got you, and I ain't lettin' you go.
I'm droppin' bodies left and right 'bout you.
Playtime's over. They 'bout to be workin' overtime at the morgue. "
I giggled because I knew he was serious. Dead serious.
"Don't start that."
"You've already been dealt yo' cards. Now it's time for you to play them. I know you got niggas, but make me the chosen one."
"This is dangerous," I sighed, gazing into his eyes, following the fire burning in them.
"I been dangerous, baby. Google me." He smirked cockily and tilted his head to the side. "I walk it like I talk it. Juicy, it's war over you. Would you believe me if I told you I'd kill your cousin for getting in the way of your happiness?"
My eyes grew wide. I waited for a chuckle—for him to say he was joking—but when he stale-faced me, I realized he was dead serious.
"Why do things always end up in death?" I tried to rationalize with his mentality. "It's not the only possible solution."
"It is with me. Niggas can't play with you. My rep speaks for itself, and that's already a forewarning."
"Sometimes I wish I could pedal back and decline Allen's offer when he mentioned stealing those iPhones. It wasn't worth it," I muttered, my voice breaking.
"Then you wouldn't be here, Synthia."
"So you think this is meant to be?"
"It may not be the way you look at it, but shit happens for a reason."
Romelo had loosened up, surprisingly. Instead of putting me in the trunk like I'd half-expected, he let me sit in the front seat, and I surveyed everything in awe as we drove.
The compound was in an area called Twinkle Town—a place where the elderly resided and hung Christmas lights year-round.
The air felt clean, not polluted like the hood.
The grass was greener, perfectly manicured.
Kids could play in their yards without worrying about shoot-outs.
Families could have barbecues without worrying about feeding the whole neighborhood or dealing with uninvited guests.
This was the life I saw in magazines. The life I'd feasted on online but ended up famished for.
Romelo didn't know how lucky he truly was.
"Why you be doin' that?" His deep voice startled me out of my thoughts, robbing me of my daydream.
"Doin' what?" My voice hitched, and my brows furrowed.
"That daydreamin' bullshit. You do that shit all the time. Fuck you be thinkin' 'bout?"
I shrugged, not having a solid answer. I didn't even know he cared enough to notice.
"Life, I guess," I mumbled, turning my head away from him to gaze out the window again, switching my eyes from house to house.
"What about it?"
"You know the 'what about it.'"
"Most of the decisions we make are an outcome of how we live."
I scoffed and released a sarcastic chuckle.
"You're a nepotism baby. You don't know how it feels to struggle, Romelo.
You're like the rapper who grew up with a silver spoon and gold tissue to wipe your ass with, rapping about living in crack houses because that's what you forced yourself to think. Everybody wants to be ghetto."
His jaw flexed, and he gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Oh yeah? You think you know me so well."
"Am I lying?"
"I grew up in a two-parent household. That doesn't eject me from society.
I'm a Black man, Synthia. I was born a statistic.
" His voice was firm now, almost angry. "It took years for my parents to live this lifestyle people call lavish.
My grandparents—my mama's parents—died, and they worked normal jobs.
They had a hefty 401K and a fire-ass pension plan.
By that time, Roxx was born. My mama got pregnant with him young—at sixteen.
So she couldn't touch that money until she turned eighteen.
My dad wanted to marry my mama, but it'd be going against my grandparents' wishes.
A church-going girl with a thug-ass, gang-banging nigga for a son-in-law isn't something worth bragging about.
He signed a prenup to protect her valuable assets so he wouldn't have access to her money.
My daddy grew up on the other side of fame, but he had a wealthy mindset.
He dropped out of school in eighth grade.
He was the first Black man to turn dust into diamonds.
You think he had handouts? Unless it's built off word of mouth, niggas don't like seeing each other win. "
My head turned. His jaw flexed again as he gripped the steering wheel, lost in thought about his life.
"He had to earn his way back into her heart for the way he treated her.
But you think because I grew up with both of them that I didn't have to struggle?
Shit wasn't peaches and cream, and my dad don't believe in handouts.
I bet you if you ask my brothers what their stories are, you wouldn't hear the same one. "
He paused, his knuckles white from gripping the wheel so hard.
"Everything I got, I got on my own. I ain't get served a floor plan.
I drew that shit on my own and built it.
I'm confident enough to bet on myself because at one point in my life, I was all I had.
Trecee is getting the off-brand version of who she brags about now—to you and whoever listens.
Y'all are the ones who fall for that hokey-pokey ass bullshit. " He grimaced.
"I got you figured out so wrong then, huh?" I said quietly, guilt creeping in.
"Yeah, you do." He nodded, keeping his eyes on the road.
We were on Elvis Presley Boulevard now. I giggled, butterflies fluttering in my stomach when we passed by BJ's—the wing spot where Romelo had eaten me out in the bathroom and tongue-fucked my ass for the first time.
He chuckled too, so I knew he was thinking about the same thing.
"You never said where we were going," I spoke up, noticing we were somewhere in South Memphis now.
"I never planned on saying anything," he responded, that cocky smirk back on his face.
"Give me a hint, at least. Knowing you, it's another secret hideout spot." I snickered and cocked my head at him, watching him glower playfully.
"It just might be," he uttered, and I frowned. Then he glanced over at me and chuckled. "But we're going to see your cousins."
That got a smile out of me—the widest smile I'd had in a long time. I didn't want to stress over the past few days, but after that accident with the burnt pot, I'd been dying to check on them. Trecee couldn't relay a message because I'm sure they weren't a priority to her.
The way she treats them is inhumane sometimes. Trecee doesn't have a funny bone in her body when it comes to those kids. I was their root of compassion, and I didn't mind being an outlet. But I felt like I'd failed them.
Without a doubt, I'm sure they called me first when the fire happened—back-to-back calls that I couldn't answer because I was trapped here. Like always, I would've answered on the first ring. Fear was probably etched into them, and they'd gravitated into panic mode, not knowing what else to do.
I wouldn't have freaked out. I would've etched out a solution to ease them.
Romelo didn't have to be vivid about Trecee's words that night, but I knew. She always talked to them like they weren't humans—like they were animals, burdens, problems.
"I miss them so much," I cooed, my voice thick with emotion.
"They asked about you. Monterrius is still blaming himself even after some one-on-one talks with him." He glanced over at me, and our eyes reflected the same type of sadness.
"I figured that."