Page 11 of Cannon (King Family Saga #3)

Cannon

For the rest of the night I worked the club. It seemed simple enough. Most of the patrons were upper-class men. She didn’t own a hood strip club, so she attracted a different caliber to the club.

But they still liked to get high. And they were buying in the club. I wondered who she was letting use her club to sell but I didn’t push. She needed to be careful with that shit because if someone got caught, she would be in trouble. Not the nigga supplying.

Whoever it was, I was staying out that shit. I’d made my money and learned my lesson. With the amount of cash I had waiting on me, there was no need to get back in the game. Besides, I didn’t trust anyone.

Tessa admitted in her letter to me that it was her husband that helped set me up. But he had to have had help from someone in my crew. And when I found out who, I was gonna make them pay.

The club closed around three and I left at four. In the city that never sleeps, I found a diner where I got breakfast and looked at apartment listings. I needed something cheap and low-key. Extravagance wasn’t all that important to me. Once I got my crypto millions then I would splurge.

And coming from being caged in a 6 x 8 size cell, I wasn’t too picky about where I laid my head. It just couldn’t be with my sister.

“Hey sweetie, what would you like?” A woman approached me, her voice dripping with honey.

“A cheese omelet, a side of bacon and turkey sausage. And a glass of orange juice,” I replied, before shifting my attention back to the phone, scrolling through apartments that were close to the club.

“You should try the special,” she sang, while lingering.

I glanced up with a stone face, and responded with, “I just want what I ordered.”

“Okay babe,” she winked and walked away adding a sway to her hips. I wasn’t impressed by her flirtation. She was cute but she couldn’t touch Queen.

I had to stop thinking about her but she was on my mind heavy. It irked my nerves when that nigga Darius came at her sideways. Who the fuck did he think he was talking to her that way?

It was crazy that he knew about me. He knew my name. I guess that shouldn’t have been a surprise. I had been running the streets for some time before I went away. I had a reputation for being a hothead and making moves. But I had never seen him before.

Eventually, my food came out piping hot. I dug in and while I ate, I sent out a few emails inquiring about apartments.

“Can I get the check?” I asked the flirty waitress.

“Sure,” she smiled before disappearing.

When she came back with it, it had her name and number on it. “Maybe I can cheer you up,” she said.

I just raised my eyebrow and shook my head before taking out some cash and placing it on the table.

“I’m good, ma,” I said before heading out. I left her a generous tip but women were the furthest thing from my mind.

After I left the diner, I walked around a bit to clear my head. And just when I was about to head back to Reese’s house, I got a call.

“Hi, is this Cannon Price?”

“Yes.”

“This is Catherine Lee. I was calling about your apartment inquiry. I’m around until 10 am if you want to see it this morning. Otherwise, I’m free tomorrow.”

“I’d like to come now.”

The place was in Harlem, tucked between a corner bodega and a nail salon that hadn’t changed their sign since the ’90s. A buzzer hung crooked by the front entrance, and I had to hit it twice before a crackled voice answered and buzzed me in.

It was a third-floor walk-up and no elevator. The stairs were narrow and smelled like old mop water and weed, but I’d lived in worse. It was about a block away from Sylk Road, so I wouldn’t have to commute. This meant I would stop commandeering Reese’s car.

When I got to the top, the door was already open.

“You must be Cannon,” the woman said, stepping aside.

Catherine Lee was an older Korean woman with silver in her hair and a no-nonsense vibe. She wore a puffer vest and orthopedic sneakers and looked like she’d seen every kind of tenant come and go.

I stepped inside and gave the space a once-over.

It was small. A studio with barely enough room for a twin bed, a loveseat, and a two-burner stove shoved against the wall.

The floors creaked and the radiator hissed like it had asthma.

There was one window that faced a brick wall and a tiny bathroom that looked like it had been cleaned in a rush.

But it had a lock, a roof, and hot water.

And more importantly, it was mine.

“It’s $1,550 a month. I’ll need first, last, and a security deposit,” Catherine said, folding her arms.

“I can do that.”

“No loud parties. No smoking. No pets. If you need to smoke go out on the fire escape.”

“Aight.”

She raised an eyebrow like she didn’t quite believe me but nodded anyway. “If you want it, it’s yours.”

“How do you accept payment?”

“Money order. You can move in today if you want.”

“I will.”

I didn’t need time to think. I’d already spent too much of my life waiting—waiting for trials, for lawyers, for freedom. I wasn’t wasting another second.

The apartment was damn near a shoebox, but it wasn’t a cell.

No steel toilet. No bunk beds. No echo of keys rattling every hour on the hour.

Just silence. Freedom.

I stood there a moment after she left, taking it in. The silence. The ugly-ass walls. The chipped tiles.

It was mine. And that was enough. For now.