And get you to let me rejoin the band.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Davey jabbed a drumstick in my face. “Are you insane? We’re hanging out tonight. And you need to explain why you dropped off the face of the earth after you had Junior.”
An army of fire ants bit my insides. Davey and I were as close as siblings, and even after I dropped out of the band, he would visit and hang out with James and the kids. But it had become too painful to hear about the gigs, even in passing. Like it was a damaged limb, I had to amputate my old life. “Sorry, Davey, but I gotta get back to the kids.”
“The kids are asleep. Text your man and sit your fine ass down.” He gestured to the seat.
“All right. I’ll . . . figure something out.” By that I meant I’d lie my ass off to my husband and tell him that I was having a late night with the girls. He trusted me and wouldn’t mind it. Fuck. Now the fire ants had spread throughout my entire body.
* * *
Three days had passed since my reckless night. I felt scared. But I also felt so alive, reenergized.
It was like an ugly part of me had awoken, and now it wanted to play. I’d become obsessed with the band. Davey demanded my new number, and as promised, I texted him pictures of the family. It hadn’t felt like three years had passed.
Trent was another matter. I hadn’t given him my number, but he found it anyway. I had been staring down at the phone for half an hour, in half disbelief over what Trent had sent me.
Someone posted a video of the concert when you were onstage. People are demanding you come back to the band.
I snorted and fired off a text. He was so full of shit.
People? What people?
He sent me a link to the video. He did not lie. The video had half a million views and endless comments asking who I was and if I was joining the band.
My hands shook. What if James saw the video? What if someone recognized me? I’d been lucky so far, but as my mother always said, what was done in the dark always came to light.
Wow. That’s crazy. I’m flattered.
And I was seriously flattered, my fingers were still shaking.
Trent quickly fired a text back.
My band manager Julia (you met her the other night)
wants you to meet with the record execs. Possibly
write a song or two and add it to our tour. Are you in?
My heart jackhammered in my chest. Shit was getting real now. This was beyond coffee shop crooning.
Unless he was pulling my leg. I would seriously beat the shit out of Trent if he was lying. He had to be playing me because this didn’t happen—dreams didn’t come true like this.
But what if they did? Only one way to find out. I wrote:
You’re kidding. They don’t want me.
They want you. I want you. Ask Davey if you don’t believe .
Davey immediately followed up with a text.
I’m sitting beside Trent. All of it’s true. Especially the thing about Trent wanting you, so don’t go there ;)
The winky smile at the end made me smile.
Davey was not a fan of Nikki and Trent together. We were explosive. Davey had been over the moon when I’d found James.
Of course. I’m a happily married woman. Not sure about the music thing. I’ll get back to you soon.
I needed to talk to my girls. Luckily, we were scheduled to meet for our Mastermind group in a few days.
CHAPTER 4
First Lady in Training—Sienna
“Mr. Porter.” I folded my arms across my chest and paced the floor of the holding room.
“Yes, Ms. Njeri.”
I stared at my client, who was dressed in a neon orange jumpsuit. His large dark hands were cuffed, feet shackled, and his eyes were cast on the stainless-steel table in front of him. “What did I tell you to do?”
“To go to work, go home, and keep my nose clean.”
I nodded, my irritation slightly soothed by his contrite tone. “That’s what I said. Because when one is currently on the docket for possession of marijuana, one must keep their nose clean until the plea bargain has been negotiated.” I stopped pacing the floor. “But here we are, at the county jail, just days later.” I waved my hands in the air. “I could’ve gotten you off easy with a plea bargain. Probation for maybe a year, and if you’d played nice, we could’ve had the misdemeanor stricken off your record. But, Mr. Porter, you’re making it hard for me to do my job when you get locked up for assault.”
“I’m not one of those guys, Ms. Njeri. I’m not a criminal,” he whispered. His voice sounded hoarse and earnest.
I settled into the chair in front of him. “Then who are you?”
“I’m a husband, a father. A son, a . . . a brother. And when my little sister stumbles into the house, shirt torn, lip busted by her deadbeat boyfriend, it’s my job as a big brother to make sure that idiot knows she is protected. And that she’s loved and is to be cherished.” His chocolate eyes were determined. He showed no remorse.
I wanted to reach over and squeeze his hand. Scratch that, I wanted to give him a hug. I knew he was a good guy with extremely bad luck.
“I know you aren’t a criminal, Desmond. I get why you did what you did, but I . . . sometimes you need to take a step back and think of an alternative. Like calling the cops on the guy instead of going to his house.” I balled up my hands and lifted them. “And using your fists.”
His lips quirked. “Duly noted, Ms. Njeri. I just wanted you to know what kind of man I am. I know you got a lot of people coming and going that don’t care, but I do. I see the looks in the cops’ eyes, and the other folks that work at the jail. They think I’m just another nigga.”
“Don’t say the N-word,” I quickly scolded. “If you don’t want them to look at you that way, don’t say things that make them feel okay to label you as such.”
He smiled, but I didn’t. I hated the word, even though it was a part of some of my friends’ and family’s vocabulary. I didn’t want to give people the excuse to ever use a racial slur. Hearing us say the word made people who weren’t black feel comfortable to say it as well.
“You were the first person in all of this to look me in the eyes and ask for my story. You’re a good woman.”
I shrugged, this time smiling. “It’s my job.”
He shook his bald head and gave me a small smile. “Sure, it is. But you care.”
Standing, I smoothed out my skirt and reached for the manila folder. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Do you think you can get me out?” His voice was shaky, just above a whisper, sounding vulnerable.
“I’ll do my best.” I didn’t want to lie to him.
My heart stalled when his eyes dimmed. He nodded, looking at the wall.
“You know why they call me the Gladiator?” I asked, walking toward the door.
“Why?” he responded, eyes still averted.
“Because I’m a warrior and I’ll fight to the bitter end for my clients, like my own life was on the line.” I didn’t wait for his response, just pushed open the door, ready to work my black girl magic.