Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
A Scottish mother.
“Lach, you know what your manager just proposed?”
“Did LaShawn just bring up that thing about Dwayne Johnson kicking a kid in the bawbags?” Lachlan’s slight brogue ended on a chuckle.
“Yep. Does Natasha have any equally sexy single-mom friends?” His wife was Russian and Black. But as I spoke, my eyes flicked out the window, searching for the Black Queen Big Country would ask in a heartbeat. “Even half as cute. LaShawn wants me to fake date.”
“Don’t mention my love’s appearance, and I’ll ask.” He snorted.
“Alright.”
“Listen, how about you not break any hearts? I’ll go on record saying the lad came at you. The video only showed the aftermath.”
“Nah. You were at The Red Door, Lach, celebrating your marriage to the Bratva Princess. Can’t be multiple places at once.”
“Hear me out,” he began. “Would anyone contradict her family if they all agreed I wasn’t there after our win? Snitches would nap forever in the LA River. Where you thought I’d end up for proposing.”
“Damn straight. But, bruh, you’re already at your father-in-law’s mercy. I ain’t adding to it.”
Hours later, a loud slap snapped me out of my nightmare about getting kicked outta the league and the Angels being my only offer.
Sneering, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, then hit the button to sit forward. It didn’t work. Still half asleep, I pulled myself up. A smile broke off as Journey glared outside the driver’s window.
I pressed the power window switch. Jabbed it. Bruh. The keyless ignition and the dash must’ve gone dark sometime last night. Gesturing for her to step back, I opened the door.
“Really, Baby Huey, really? This flashy SUV died?”
“Relax, Sweet Cheeks. I’ll move by the time you change into your work uniform.”
She shoved a mug of coffee in my face. I raised a brow.
“Not drugged,” Journey sighed.
“Didn’t think it was.”
She smirked as if she realized she should’ve played with my head. “Drink it. Toss it. Whatever. Thanks for stalking us all night.”
“You knew I was outside and wouldn’t let me crash on the couch?”
“Don’t have one. It’s a studio. If I did, I’m sure you can figure out the answer.”
I silently concurred. We didn’t know each other. This was different … real different for Big Country. Chasing after a woman. Nah. This was for Momma.
“Keep the cup. Lemme alone, Montana!” She stomped a foot. “Move your crappy Escalade. I’m not giving you a jump.”
“Don’t need one.” I tried the coffee. Yuck! I handed it back and strode to the trunk for cables and a jump starter.
She watched.
“Go change, Journey.”
She stared at the cheap, blue cup. Eyes level with the ground, she murmured, “I’m not coming to work, Montana. You declined my offer to buy sh—”
“What that gotta do with—”
“I bet your expensive mattress sings lullabies.” She scoffed. “Hell, those MLB checks probably purchased a bed that feels like angels braided the stuffing by hand. Then you pretend to act rugged.”
“Act?” The audacity. Over here, trying to slay me in a comedy roast off.
“Boy, you, that horrible woman I found out was your cousin, and her stupid purse? Ya’ll are bougie. Don’t deny it.”
“I live a good life. But non, chère. You mistaken. I don’t lie!” All the time. “Keep your one-ply Dollar Store shirt.”
“Single-ply?” She placed her hand on her hip. “That’s for toilet paper. Forget it! Toilet is a tough one for NOLA natives.”
“First, I can say turlet!” I cleared my throat. “Toy-let. Second, I don’t even wipe my ass with one-ply no mo, bébé. I wouldn’t constitute what you’d call a shirt, as a shirt.”
“Oh, excuse me, you probably love Egyptian cotton.” Her voice went all delicious and soft. That voice? She slayed Big Country. Looked good badmouthing me. Journey won for those reasons alone. I nodded my head to what she said.
“Yep. Egyptian cotton, alright. Sea Island Cotton, bébé. That’s what my shirt was. Almost as soft as that sexy ass.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, glaring at the sky. “We’re not talking about me and sexy. I don’t want a guy, no sexy time. So, take me out of the equation. Stop playing campout, Mr. Bougie-No.”
“Bougie-No?” I busted up laughing, and she shook her head, chuckling too. “You good now, Journey?”
“Yep.” She pushed my chest. Didn’t budge me an inch. Please, she just wanted an excuse to put hands on Big Country.
She looked up at me, real serious. Her mouth pulled into a small smile—the same mouth had tried to roast my ass with some Lovie BBQ sauce. “Montana, you looked out for me. I don’t remember the last time someone cared. But I’ve gotten my last check.”
“First check.” I stared her straight in the eye. “Journey, you worked eight hours.”
“I know.”
“This ain’t no pay-by-the-hour motel. I passed by here before. Always got a sign saying First Month and Last Month Rent. And got the nerve to mention a cleaning fee in small print! Your money gone, Journey.” I paused, then said, “We can get you quick cash. See, I got this thing …” She stared at me as though my forehead read Scam Likely. “Bébé, what we gotta do is fake—”