Page 17 of The Deals We Make

It’s a story I’ve heard a million times. “I’m proud of my cut. I earned it. And this piece of leather that you look down on paid for this.” I look around her dream kitchen that I renovated, in the house whose mortgage I paid off.

She sighs. “You don’t know how it feels, walking into church and seeing all those judging eyes on me.”

I shrug and chew on the perfectly seasoned food. Mom always had a liberal hand with seasoning and flavor, and my taste buds approve. “And that right there is the reason organized religion is holding on by a thread.”

“A trip to church and a little time spent with the gospel might cure you of what ails you.”

I shudder at the thought. “The only church I’ve got use for is the one we have at the club.”

“I’m not saying you should go to college, at this point. But I had so much more…hope for you. Every parent wants more for their child than they had.”

“And we’ve got that.”

Families like ours have been stripped of the ability to build intergenerational wealth. But that isn’t happening on my watch. My two brothers and sister have starter homes I paid a hefty deposit on in their names. I paid off my parents’ home and made sure that they had a clear, legal Will that pays back my investment and then splits the profit three ways between my brothers and sister.

“Ill-gotten gains, though. It’s hard to make my peace with God.”

“Mom. How I made the money is none of your business, but I took what I had and grew it legally. The system is stacked against us. I think of it as evening the scales. And if you think any of the banking or investment institutions in this country are any more legal than me, you’re mistaken. They take massive bonuses while foreclosing on mortgages. So, please. Make your peace with yourself because God isn’t looking out for us.”

“Tiberius,” she snaps. “You’re not too old for me to wash your mouth out or hit you with this spoon.”

I’ve faced off against the Irish mob, the Sicilian Cosa Nostra, the Righteous Brotherhood, and the Russians. And none of them have the ability to eviscerate the flesh from your bones like Omari Williams when she gets mad. Plus, we’ve had this conversation more times than I’ve eaten her grits.

Even her collection of Star Trek Bobbleheads stare at me accusingly.

“When is Laila getting here?” I ask.

Mom glances at the clock, then turns back to the dishes she’s rinsing in the sink. “She should have been here ten minutes ago. And you be nice when she gets here. She does your hair for free whenever you ask her.”

Yeah. And I’m the reason she doesn’t pay rent, but I keep my thoughts to myself.

My hair’s thick, and it grows fast, so Laila’s gonna detox it before retwisting my locs for me.

“So, Calista is back in town,” I say, eating a mouthful of food.

The pot Mom’s rinsing clatters into the sink. “She is?”

“She is.”

And, man, had I forgotten what it felt like to just be in her presence.

Sure, she was still the girl who let me sit and read without bothering me with a hundred and one questions about what Iwas thinking. And there was definitely that rip of fire running through her still.

But she was suddenly so much more than my best friend.

She’s no longer a girl. All woman.

A fine woman at that.

Ripe curves.

Lush ass.

And lips that a guy wants to kiss for the rest of his life.

I’m torn between all the different versions of her. Part of me wants to erase her ungrateful, bitchy ass from my life. Part of me wants to try and keep her in the nostalgic box of former best friend. But there’s a small piece of me that needs to know what it feels like to fuck her.

“Why?” Mom asks, breaking the visual of Calista changing in her mom’s living room. High, firm rack in lingerie I bet cost a small fortune.