Page 7

OMIR

T wo weeks. Fourteen days since Lennox walked out of my front door and I still couldn’t get her out of my fucking head.

She wasn’t the first woman I’d spent an unforgettable night with, but she was the first in a while.

Something about her made it different. It wasn’t just the way her good pussy molded to the curve of my dick.

It was her presence—her fire, her independence, and that guarded vulnerability she tried so hard to hide.

I thought about calling Sherelle, more times than I cared to admit, just to see what was up with Lennox. But every time, I stopped myself. If Lennox wanted to keep her distance, I wasn’t going to chase her ass. I wouldn’t force something she wasn’t ready for, no matter how much I wanted more.

And I did want more. Fuck, I wanted more.

I couldn’t explain it, this pull I felt toward her, like the universe had aligned just to put her in my path.

She felt like my person, the one I hadn’t known I’d been looking for until I found her.

But what could I do? She made it clear she wasn’t interested in anything serious, and I wasn’t about to twist her arm.

So, I tried to let it be. I buried myself in work at the club, focusing on fine-tuning every detail to make sure everything ran smoothly.

But no matter how busy I kept myself, Lennox still crept into my thoughts.

Today was no different. I was getting dressed, pulling on a crisp black shirt and slacks, when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I grabbed it, glancing at the screen. It was an unknown number.

“This is Omir,” I answered and immediately closed my eyes, shaking my head as I heard the recording. Soon, my brother’s voice came through.

“Yo, big bro,” O'Shea said, his voice already defensive. “I need a favor.”

I sighed, already knowing where this was going. “What happened this time?”

“Cindy’s ass,” he said, frustration heavy in his tone. “She called the cops on me again, said I violated some bullshit restraining order. You know she’s just tryna make my life hell.”

“O,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, “this is the second time in three months. What the fuck are you doing?”

“I wasn’t even doing anything!” he argued. “I just went to drop off some diapers for Juice, and she started tripping.” O’Shea Junior, better known as Juice, was my eight-month-old nephew. I’d given him the nickname because I refused to go around calling his ass OJ.

“You shouldn’t have gone over there in the first place,” I snapped. “You know Cindy’s looking for any excuse to drag your ass back into court.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let my son go without?”

“You could’ve dropped them off with someone else or arranged to meet in a public place. You have options, but you keep making the same damn mistakes.”

There was a brief silence on the line before he muttered, “Are you gonna come through for me, or nah?”

I sighed again, already grabbing my keys. “Which precinct are you at?”

He gave me the information, and I hung up without another word. My mood had officially been fucked up. As I drove toward the jail, I couldn’t help but think about the difference between O'Shea and me.

Seven years younger at twenty-nine, he was still chasing things that didn’t serve him—chaotic relationships, quick money, and excuses. I’d been there once, caught up in the noise of bad decisions and ego. But somewhere along the way, I realized I wanted more for myself.

I wanted stability, purpose, something to build that would last. That was why I opened the club, why I poured every ounce of myself into creating a space where people could come together and feel something real.

At almost thirty years old, O'Shea wasn’t there yet. He was still stuck in the cycle, and no matter how many times I tried to pull him out, he seemed determined to stay.

When I pulled up to the jail, I parked and walked inside, my mind still racing.

As much as I wanted to be angry with him, I couldn’t turn my back on him.

He was my brother, and if I didn’t have his back, who would?

After what felt like an eternity of paperwork and payments, O'Shea finally emerged, looking tired but unapologetic.

“Good looks, bro,” he said as we headed toward the car.

I shook my head, climbing behind the wheel. As I pulled out of the lot, I glanced at him and could feel the tension in the car thickening. I could feel it building, the words I’d been holding back clawing their way to the surface.

“You know this shit has to stop, right?” I said, my tone sharp as I stared straight ahead.

O'Shea shifted in his seat, his expression hardening. “I told you, bro. It wasn’t my fault this time.”

“It’s never your fault, is it?” I snapped, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “You keep finding yourself in these situations, but somehow, you’re always the victim.”

“You don’t know what it’s like dealing with Cindy’s ass,” he shot back, his voice rising. “Nigga, she’s crazy, man. She’ll do anything to make my life miserable because I don’t wanna be with her no more.”

“She’s not the one who keeps making dumb decisions,” I said, cutting him off. “You’re almost thirty, O. You’ve got a kid to think about now. When are you gonna stop blaming everyone else and start taking some responsibility for your life?”

He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Perfect. You’ve got your fancy lounge club shit and your perfect ass life. Not everyone gets to live like you.”

“Don’t start with that,” I warned, my voice low but firm. “You think I just woke up one day and everything fell into place? I worked my ass off to get here. I sacrificed, I made changes, and I stopped letting my ego run my life.”

O'Shea stared out the window, his jaw clenched. “Not everyone’s like you, Omir.”

“You’re right,” I said, my voice steady. “Not everyone is like me. But you don’t have to keep being the guy who gets dragged into jail over some baby mama drama. You’re better than this, O'Shea, but you’ve gotta want it for yourself.”

Silence hung heavily in the car for a moment, and I glanced over at him. His face was set, his pride clearly wounded, but I didn’t care. He needed to hear it.

“Look, I love you,” I said, softening my tone. “But I can’t keep bailing you out. You’ve got to grow up, man. For Juice, if not for yourself.”

O'Shea exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I hear you,” he muttered, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t ready to fully admit it.

I let it go, for now. There was no point in pushing further.

He’d either get it or he wouldn’t. But as I pulled up to his apartment and watched him get out of the car, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this cycle was far from over.

He gave me a quick nod before disappearing inside, and as I drove away, I could only hope that someday, he’d figure his shit out.