Page 48

“You focus on driving. You do realize I live at The Wharf, right?”

“Damnnn! Why you let me drag you all the way out West? Open that container. I’m eatin’ that shit while it’s hot.”

“Well, you didn’t ask, and you wanted to come here.”

I shook my head and started my truck. “Man, sit back and eat. I’m ’bout to cut this time down.”

“Uh-uh, don’t blame me, Mr. This Gon’ be Quick. You mad at the wrong person.”

I pulled off, and she fell out cacklin’. “Somebody is big mad.”

I turned up the music and sped up, lettin’ her laugh. “Keep talkin’ shit. Ima have yo’ ass home before you know it.”

She kept laughin’ while she opened her food, and I caught myself smilin’ at the road. We used to do this all the time. It had been years since we rode around talkin’ shit and eatin’ chicken from K&K, but it took her less than an hour to get on my nerves the same way she did back then. I ain’t even trip when she ate my fries.

By the time we pulled up in front of her buildin’, Juicy had gone quiet beside me. I glanced over, and she was starin’ at her phone, brows pulled together tight.

“Why you lookin’ like that?”

She turned the screen toward me. “We made the blogs.”

I put my truck in park and grabbed her phone, zoomin’ in on the picture. Whoever took the picture didn’t get her face, but it was her. I could see myself clearly, though. The post had only been up for eight minutes, and it already had 400 comments and 15,000 likes. The mufuckas at Tea Talk kept their ears to the ground. Shit was crazy.

Juvie Ross was spotted with a mystery woman in his old neighborhood. Mama is in floor-length fur and a wig to die for! Did he and Niema Scott call it quits? Whew, chile. The perfect ending to a Messy Monday!

I handed the phone back to Juicy, and she shoved me. “See! This is why I told your ass we needed to leave. Now we all in the blogs and shit.”

“Juicy, we got chicken. It ain’t that deep.”

“I am your agent. You are in a very public relationship, so this is not good press. I’m so glad I already got your new PR team in place.”

I rubbed my hand across my head, irritated as fuck. Not from Juicy gettin’ on my ass, but from how much people really thought this internet shit was real. Her fingers were movin’ so fast on her phone, I ain’t know what the fuck she was doin’. When she looked back at me, she rolled her eyes.

“Go straight home. Don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars, don’t even stop at a damn gas station.” She reached over the seat to grab her purse, then turned back to me. “And let me know when Jante will be dropping my car off. Send me the bill.”

“You trippin’. This ain’t nothin’. And it ain’t gon’ be no bill. You straight.”

“You, Mr. Ross, are starting out as one of my most problematic clients. I’ll send you my availability so we can reschedule our meeting.”

She hopped out of the car and strutted toward the door. Just when I was about to pull off, my phone buzzed in my lap. It was a text from Ni.

Ni: Public appearances with Juicy now? You just don’t give a fuck, do you?

She attached the screenshot from the blog. I rubbed my hand down my face and blew out a breath. Ni was about to piss me the fuck off.

Me: Stop fuckin’ callin’ her Juicy.

Ni: Okay, JuMarion. Watch how you handle that. I’m just giving you a heads up.

I dropped my phone in my cup holder and pulled off—all this shit from a flat tire and a chicken box. No matter where I went or what I did, niggas stayed watchin’ me. I patted my waist to make sure my heat was on me. Maybe Juicy was right about security. I didn’t trust Ni, and I damn sure didn’t trust Yusef.

The arena was jam-packed today. Music blasted from speakers all around us. The players’ sneakers squeaked across the floor, but all I could see was my man. Today was game day for Emery. I sat courtside with Jacinta, whistling at her husband every time he ran by. Emery was already up eighteen points, three rebounds, and two assists, and they still had an entire quarter left. He was on fire tonight. Every time he scored, he blew me a kiss, and the fans were eating that shit up. The arena was so loud, I could barely hear Jacinta.

“Who’s your stylist? What’s her fee?” Jacinta asked, almost screaming.

“Stylist? Girl, I’m not paying somebody to dress me. I put this shit together.”

“Well, who pulls your pieces? Your boots have been sold out for months. You always have the exclusives. It’s no fair.” She pouted, leaning her head on my shoulder.