Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
ROMELO “ROME” JONES
Synthia walked past me toward the kitchen, and I caught a whiff of that sweet peach scent—the one that always made my dick hard and my mind go blank. It slapped me across the face like a physical force, making me do a double-take.
My eyes followed the sway of her ass as she moved, each step making those thick thighs rub together. The shorts she had on were riding up, and I could see the bottom curve of her ass cheeks peeking out.
Fuck.
I'd be ruled ill-mannered if I grabbed her by the arm right now, dragged her into my bedroom, and fucked her seven ways 'til Sunday. The urge was so strong I had to clench my fists to keep from acting on it.
That little stunt she pulled earlier in the shower—getting on her knees, trying to suck my dick with zero experience—had pissed me off and turned me on at the same time.
If you're gonna get down on your knees and put a dick in your mouth, you better know what the fuck you're doing. Period.
I would've slapped the shit out of any other bitch for wasting my time like that. But Synthia's mouth was a virgin hole—only used for food and smart-ass comments, never touched by a dick. She didn't know any better.
For now, I let it slide.
But I'd be sure to teach her the right way when the time came. And she'd learn, whether she wanted to or not.
Being the dog-ass nigga I am, I didn't take my eyes off her until she disappeared completely into the kitchen. The kids—Moriah, Monterrius, and the others—trailed behind her like she was the Pied Piper, their little voices chirping with excitement about being hungry.
I heard cabinet doors opening. The sound of pots clanging. Water running. Synthia was already getting to work, doing what Trecee should've been doing all along.
Trecee's attention was still glued to her phone, her thumb scrolling rapidly across the screen. She was so absorbed she didn't even notice I'd been eye-fucking her cousin for the past thirty seconds.
Good.
Sighing, I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my joggers and leaned against the wall. The cool surface pressed against my back through my thin white tee. I could still feel the dull throb from the bullet graze on my forehead—not painful, just a reminder of the stupid shit I'd done earlier.
"Wassup, Trecee," I said, my tone flat and uninterested.
She glanced up at me, finally tearing her attention away from her phone. Her eyebrows furrowed together, and her lips pressed into a thin line. I could already tell she was about to start some shit.
"What the fuck are you doing bringing her here?" she hissed in a harsh whisper, her head nodding sharply toward the kitchen where Synthia had disappeared. “And what happened to your head?”
Her tone was accusatory, like I'd committed some unforgivable sin by letting her cousin ride in my car.
I shrugged, keeping my expression neutral. "Because I'm grown. You don't have a say-so in who I bring inside of my house. I don't have to consider what the fuck you think." I responded one question instead of the other one.
It was the truth. This was my house. My name on the deed. My money that paid for it. Trecee didn't contribute shit except drama and complaints.
"Are you serious right now?" She gasped dramatically, her hand flying to her hip as she shifted her weight to one side like she was in a damn Tyler Perry movie.
I almost laughed at how predictable she was.
"'Bout as serious as your tilted uterus," I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Her face twisted in offense, and I could see her jaw clench. She hated when I brought up her medical issues—especially that one. The doctors had told her it might make it harder to get pregnant, and ever since, she'd been sensitive about it.
But I didn't give a fuck.
"Can we talk somewhere else?" she snapped, her voice low but venomous. "Away from earshot?"
She emphasized the last two words, glancing toward the kitchen where I could hear Synthia's voice talking softly to the kids, asking them what they wanted to eat.
Without answering, I pushed off the wall and walked toward my bedroom. I didn't wait to see if she'd follow—I knew she would. Trecee always followed when she wanted something.
The hardwood floors creaked under my weight as I made my way down the hallway. I could hear her footsteps behind me—quick, hurried, anxious.
When I reached my bedroom, I stepped inside and leaned against the bed, crossing my arms over my chest. The covers were messy, flipped back on one side. Evidence that Trecee had been lingering in here earlier, probably going through my shit.
She entered behind me and closed the door with a soft click. Then she walked over, her heels tapping against the floor, and wrapped her arms around my waist from the side.
I didn't move. Didn't hug her back. Didn't even look at her.
I felt nothing.
Looking at her now—her perfectly done makeup, her expensive weave, her designer clothes that I'd paid for—it all felt like a disgrace. A lie I'd been living for too long.
"I don't know what we're doing," she muttered after a few heavy seconds of silence.
Her voice was soft, almost vulnerable. She was trying to appeal to whatever emotions she thought I still had for her.
But there were none.
Running my hand over my waves, I took a deep breath and licked my lips. The air in the room felt stifling, thick with unspoken truths.
"We're drifting apart," I said simply, my voice devoid of emotion. "Shit just ain't the same."
It was the most honest thing I'd said to her in months.
"You look at me like you hate me." Her voice cracked slightly, and I could hear the sadness creeping in.
Years ago—before everything went to shit—that tone would've broken me. I would've held her, kissed her forehead, told her everything was gonna be okay.
But now? Now it didn't do shit to me.
"Because I do, Trecee," I stated boldly, the malice in my voice impossible to miss.
She pulled back slightly and glanced up at me, her eyes searching mine for any hint of a lie. When her eyes began to water, pooling with unshed tears, I didn't feel bad.
Not even a little bit.
The fuck I look like lying about some shit when I ain't never been known to lie?
Trecee knew exactly what she was doing. She knew what she was trying to get out of me. Her birthday was coming up in a few days, and she wanted to parade me around like a trophy—post us on Instagram, make TikToks, show the world that we were this perfect, inseparable couple.
But it was all fake.
None of that shit meant anything to me.
But it meant the world to her. Her entire identity was wrapped up in being "Romelo's girl."
"I can fix us," she said desperately, her hands gripping my shirt now.
I sucked my teeth and shook my head, damn near laughing at her willingness to fight for something that was already dead.
"You'd be the only one willing to fix it, though, Trecee."
"What did I do that has you hating me so bad, Romelo?" Her voice pitched higher, more frantic.
"What haven't you done?" I shot back, my voice rising. "I'm starting to get sick of this back-and-forth shit, and I'm sick of repeating my fucking self every time it comes down to this."
I gently but firmly moved her back, creating space between us. Her hands fell from my shirt, and she stood there looking up at me with wide, wounded eyes.
"Please don't tell me this is about that shit with me fighting Synthia," she started, her tone shifting from sad to defensive. "Since when have you been pressed so hard about the way I treat her? I'm grown as fuck, and I don't need—"
I lifted my hand and thumped her hard across the forehead with my middle finger—not hard enough to leave a permanent mark, but hard enough to shut her up and make a point.
"Ouch!" she cried out, her hand flying up to palm her forehead. There'd be a red mark, maybe even a bruise tomorrow, but she'd be alright. "Why'd you do that?"
"Mane, I ain't one of yo lil' friends," I said coldly, my eyes boring into hers. "Stop talkin' to me like you can lil' boy me. You fail to realize that I ain't a simp-ass nigga yet?"
Her face crumpled, and the tears that had been pooling in her eyes finally spilled over, streaking down her cheeks and ruining her makeup.
"Romelo... I'm sorry," she croaked, her voice thick with tears.
Years ago, that sight would've destroyed me. I would've folded, apologized, made it right.
But that was then.
This was now.
And I didn't feel shit.
Suddenly, the door swung open.
Both of our heads snapped toward the sound. Standing in the doorway was little Moriah, her face covered in grease and shredded cheese from whatever Synthia had made her. Behind her stood Synthia, her hand resting protectively on Moriah's shoulder.
The contrast was stark—Moriah's innocent, happy face versus the heavy tension in the room.
"Do you not knock when you see closed doors?!" Trecee screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice shrill and piercing.
Moriah's face crumpled instantly. The smile she'd been wearing—so bright and carefree just a second ago—vanished, replaced by trembling lips and eyes that filled with tears. Her small body began to shake, and then she broke out into full sobs.
"Why do you have to talk to her like that?" Synthia snapped immediately, her voice sharp and protective. She pulled Moriah behind her thick thigh, shielding the little girl with her body like a lioness guarding her cub.
"Bitch, you don't have to ask me shit about why I do what I want, when I want to!" Trecee's voice was venomous now, her finger pointing accusingly at Synthia. "She needs to know right from wrong! That's why she walks around spoiled and doesn't listen to shit I say!"
"Stop cussin' like this with her right there," I hissed, my eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as I mugged Trecee. "You be doin' too much."
I could feel my anger rising—not just at the situation, but at Trecee's complete disregard for how her words affected a four-year-old child.