Chapter Ten
ROMELO “ROME” JONES
Leaning back in my seat, I took a toke from the blunt and exhaled with my eyes closed.
A lot of shit was running through my mind—Trecee.
Sometimes a shot goes smooth when you don’t have to deal with it.
But I knew I couldn’t keep pushing shit under the rug.
I’d told Synthia I could handle it if shit spilled over.
Truth be told, I could—and shit was spilling over like crazy—a motherfuckin’ overflow.
I expected Trecee to nut the fuck up—it’s a natural reaction, considering how she found out and how shit went down.
Nonetheless, I didn’t give a fuck. She was gonna find out the easy way or the hard way.
Shit was bound to crumble between us, and I didn’t care to clean up the pieces.
I didn’t care to talk shit out either. The only thing I wanted her to do was get the fuck away from me and let me be.
It played out how it did, and I ain’t taking it back.
My happiness had been on the edge of my demise anyway—plastered a permanent smile on my face for way too long. Some shit gets old, and I’m tired of the back and forth. Trecee was exactly that: the back and forth.
“Do you need anything, Mr. Jones?” the flight attendant asked, breaking through my thoughts.
I popped my eyes open, staring at her chippy demeanor, then shook my head. She didn’t leave—she probed further.
“A glass of water? A shot?” She tittered nervously. “Anything?”
My eyes drifted down to her name badge. Melanie, is it?
Her smile widened. “Yes.”
“I’m cool. Just chillin’, shit. You don’t gotta overdo it with the damn job.” My tone was calm, but irritation was creeping in.
“Understood.”
“Cool.”
I closed my eyes, facing the darkness, put the blunt to my lips, and took a long pull. Exhaled.
“Um, Mr. Jones?”
My eyes shot open again. No hiding the irritation this time. “Mane, what the fuck?”
She fiddled with her fingers, letting out a nervous chuckle. “I-I’m sorry to bother you, but have you h-heard from your brother, R-Roxx? He’s been declining my calls, so I was wondering if you could pass him a message.”
Deadpan, I processed it. I get it. She was fucking my brother. He fucked a lot of women—more than she could count. Poor lil’ bitch was desperate, probably needing whatever he offered.
“Do I look like a fuckin’ messenger, Melanie?”
She gave a closed-mouth smile, running her fingers over her knee-length skirt. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Jones.”
I shook my head, watching her walk away, her plum-shaped ass swaying a little too hard, trying to jiggle.
Instead of trying to relax again, I kept my eyes open, staring at nothing, trying not to get lost in irrelevant shit.
Synthia was next to me, her head resting on my shoulder, curled up under a blanket. She popped a few melatonin, even though the flight was short. I offered the blunt to calm her nerves, but she declined.
Sleep was the last thing on my mind.
There was some shuffling beside me—Synthia stretching, stirring herself awake. I still hadn’t relaxed, aside from the weed running through my system. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her staring at me.
“What?” I muttered, still staring ahead.
“This whole plane smells like weed,” she scoffed.
“How you know that? You ain’t been everywhere on the plane to know that,” I tittered.
She shoved me playfully, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Nigga, you know what I mean.”
I grinned and shifted to face her. “You sleep good.” I reached over to wipe the drool from the side of her face. “Look at you, droolin’ and shit.”
“I wasn’t drooling.”
“Look.” I pointed to the wet glob staining my grey Nike tech jacket. “What you think that is, motherfucka? The plane ain’t leaking.”
“I didn’t expect that melatonin to hit that hard,” she admitted.
“Should’ve hit the blunt then,” I retorted.
Her head shot to the window, and she gasped. “We’re still in the fucking air?”
“We should be landing in a minute. Don’t you see the tarmac and clouds descending?” I pointed. “Calm yo shaky ass down.”
“I was about to pop a few more melatonin,” she chuckled, turning back to face me and settling into her seat.
Her hands ran along the side of my face, and I caught a hint of something sweet—caramel and vanilla. Not her usual peachy scent, but it smelled good nonetheless, making my mouth water and my cock stir.
“Keep doin’ that, and you gon’ get my dick hard. I’ma fuck you,” I warned.
She scoffed and cackled. “Romelo, I can walk by you, and your dick gets hard.”
“Is that a bad thing? When I get old and gray, I’on think it gon’ work no more. Old niggas still fuck. My pops still be fuckin’ the socks off my mama—I just can’t prove it.”
“I don’t have to tell you you’re sick in the head. I’m sure you already know that,” she teased.
“So, I guess I’m the only freaky-ass nigga who thinks about shit like that,” I chuckled, shaking my head.
“No, people think about it, but they don’t talk. It’s the controversy—they don’t bathe every day, whatever. Some do it, but they don’t talk about it,” she countered.
“It’s all about living in your truth,” I shrugged.
“So you randomly think about if old men’s dicks still get hard, and if your dad still fucks on your mom?” There was humor in her voice.
“Sometimes,” I nodded.
“You’re sick as fuck,” she spat, giggling.
“You know that by now,” I replied.
A few moments of silence stretched between us before I finally spoke.
“I love you.”
“How much?” she smiled.
“Past the moon, beyond the stars—corny shit like that.”
Her smile turned into a giggle. “I got your ass turning soft.”
“The first one to ever do it,” I shot back.