~10~

The back door to his Bentley SUV was opened for me and I dipped inside, gliding over the caramel leather seats. Next to me, Raj had dropped in from the other side, smelling of a recent shower and fresh splash of cologne, humming an unfamiliar melody. With a Yankees baseball cap hanging low over his brows, he began to tap the monitor on the back of the head rest in front of him to select a station to ride home to. Music lived in his heart, bled from his veins. The doors closed and I tried straightening my long coat underneath me.

“You good?” he asked hoarsely. I wasn’t used to his tenor being nothing but manly, deep and rich.

Was I okay? After seeing him go seven rounds, throwing blows and dodging them on bated breath, hell no, I wasn’t okay.

“You okay?” I countered with hiked brows.

He snickered beautifully as the car pulled off to a smooth acceleration. Kids and adults alike snapped pictures of the moving car with their cell phones. I’d taken a few inside of my own for my obligated social media activity as his wife.

“Yeah, I’m good. You see who won.” I was surprised to find his haughtiness attractive.

I shook my head. “I can’t believe you can box. I mean... I saw a hint of it when I looked you up last fall, but I took it as a passing hobby. Maybe a Money Team fantasy.” His head tossed back as he chuckled quietly. “I’m serious! You know everybody wanna be down with Floyd Mayweather now...be riding his dick.”

Ragee glanced at me, humor fading. “Why is your mouth so filthy?” My eyes went wild at that jab of judgment. “You’re a bright girl—real bright! Educated woman. Why do you speak like you were raised by a pack of hoodlums?”

“First of all, I’m not ratchet: I’m expressive.”

He nodded his face animated, eyes cast ahead as we pulled out of the New Brunswick boxing gym parking lot. “I would agree.”

“Second, education has nothing to do with the way someone speaks.”

“Third,” he continued for me, “you’re married to a man of God—”

“Who cusses his ass off, too!” I shouted loud as my body twisted to face him. I caught his driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror as I did.

With his face hung toward his lap, Raj laughed at himself. “I’ll admit, I’ve been spewing more profanity than I’m used to over the past six months or so. It’s a bad habit I fall into when I’m stressed the hell out.” His tone suddenly turned grim.

That change of mood struck me. “Is boxing a good way to relieve stress?” My pitch was much gentler with that inquiry.

My god, Ragee was a beast in that ring. Unrecognizable! His shoulders were broader and higher as he approached his opponent, a man much thicker and wider in size. Ragee’s chin stayed low and hands up as he focused in on the man with predatory meticulousness. Sweat dripped from his strapping frame as he did some sort of short bounce dancing with his feet to either stay ahead of the guy or from underneath him.

“One of several,” he uttered, eyes outside of the car, into the darkness.

“Ohhhh…” I whispered as I rested my elbow on the center console between us. “Name your favorite.”

“A simple praise and worship service at church.”

I blew out air, rolling my eyes. “I thought you’d say something juicy.”

“Like what?” His eyes were on me in the dim truck.

“Like… Good head, nifkin play, a long delayed nut, Spit Roast… Hell, even a good ol’ Rusty Trombone,”

With a tightened face and humor in his eyes, he murmured, “I think I’ve heard of the Rusty Trombone and nifkin, but what the hell is a Spit Roast?”

“Really?” I gasped. “It’s when you’re in a threesome and partner A is bent over, giving partner B—a guy—head while partner C’s having sex with partner A from the back. The image is similar to a pig roasting on a spit.” I waggled my brows. “Get it?”

Raj’s head shot back again, this time his laughter was so boisterous, it caused me to chuckle my damn self. I could see the driver covering his mouth up front.

“Yo!” Ragee tried slowing. “That’s what you’re into?”

I shrugged. “I ain’t into nothing. I’m married, remember?”

“Ah, man,” he trilled, facing the blackened window now that we were on the highway.

He was still snickering from processing the joke. Shock value humor had become my favorite thing with my strange fake husband, now that he actually talked to me. He asked me to come tonight under the guise of getting pictures out there on social media. His father, who managed the gym, opened it to the public for a change. Ragee was a regular there when not working, but he usually snuck in and out without announcing it to the neighborhood. That meant tonight was work. But something inside hoped it was a genuine invitation. It was nice getting off the estate for something social.

“I still can’t believe it got past me that you’re a real fighter.” I breathed in shock over the soft flowing jazz.

He turned to me with a soft grin. “Not everything about my life can be googled, sweetheart.” There was something forlorn in that as he turned back to his window.

“You said your father trained you?” He nodded with his profile to me. “You never considered taking on a career in it? You seem like a pro.”

“Because I am.” My neck snapped over to him. “I started out in bantam. Won that tournament, and went all the way to youth division. Stopped at eighteen.”

“Why?”

“Music was calling. My last championship win, my face got bruised pretty bad. I finally decided to quit before my face wasn’t marketable no more.” One side of his mouth curled into a charming smile. Then he shrugged. “Plus, boxing has never been a passion for me. It was just a means to becoming a man.”

“How so?”

“I spent lots of time in the church as a kid. My dad hated it. He and my mom were never really together, as far back as I could remember. But they were on and off for mad years, before me. He was a street kid compared to her parents’ protective upbringing. I guess she thought she could change him. She fell in love with the fighter from the Memorial Homes projects. He don’t talk about her much, but has said he was really feeling her when they weren’t fighting about him staying out of trouble. When she was pregnant with me, in her third trimester, he got locked up again. They said she was so mad, she never put his name on my birth certificate, gave me her name.” He snorted, scratching the side of his nose. “He still be trippin’ off that. But anyway, I don’t know if it was that or the fact they broke up when I was like two because he and my grandmother always butt heads, but he didn’t really take to me.”

“What do you mean?”

Raj often talked with his hands and shoulder. It was kind of cute, when he got lost in a conversation…with me. “I mean… He didn’t come around much. I saw him on my birthdays and Christmas. Most of those times he pulled up to my grandmother’s. But mostly if I wanted to see dude, I had to go see him.” He chuckled. “He was all over town until he got a job at the gym. When that happened, dude was easy to find.”

“And that’s when you were young? How old?”

“Like ten…maybe nine.” His face was scrunched, thinking hard.

“And your grandmother would take you to see him at the gym?”

“Nah. I’d go by myself,” he scoffed at me. “Pastor McKinnon’s number one priority was the sheep of her church, not necessarily the family in her home.”

That reminded me of her saying she took in lots of boarders back then.

“So, when did you start boxing?”

For a while, Raj didn’t answer. He just watched the passing lights on the dark highway.

“Twelve.”

“You wanted to be like your father?”

“No.” He shook his head softly. “Wanted to be protected by him. Wanted to live with him. The only way I could get his undivided attention was in the ring with him coaching me.” He took a deep breath, seeming to come out of some dark space that he’d quickly found himself in. “He used to say it was good to keep me out of the church. That was a female dominated environment and he ain’t want to have no Jesus-jumping queer for a son.” A bitter chuckle danced on his chords.

Had Cut, his father, seen gay tendencies in his son?

I mentally shook those thoughts from my head. I was doing it. I was slipping into counselor mode, engaging in what we called a “singular perspective history.” I was taking a trip into his grim childhood. I didn’t want to do that. I’d been having a good time, being chauffeured off the estate with well-drawn eyebrows. Myisha would be proud of my progress with this makeup thing. She’d given me a few tutorials via FaceTime since she left. I didn’t want to revisit the depressing life I’d just left by subconsciously walking Ragee down memory lane.

In a leap, I twisted to face him. “Enough of that dark shit. Let’s talk about your ‘happy.’ What’s your favorite food?”

With a brow hiked and amusement gleaming in his orbs, Ragee answered, “Sea bass.”

“Fish!” I shrilled with sarcasm. “Of course.” No pork chops, a juicy T-bone. Good ol’ healthy fish. “Okay. Next question,” I piped up. “Your favorite number?”

His eyes circled their sockets. “Ten.”

“Eh?”

He shrugged, smiled big, relaxed, and sincere. “It’s the last age I can remember loving life.”

Don’t go there, Wynter. Don’t go there!

I wouldn’t ask for more information about that, not that Ragee would likely give it anyway.

“Favorite word?” I kept going.

His brows met as he cast his eyes outside of the Bentley. Then his index stabbed the air. “Redemption. It’s true liberation.”

“What was your first job?”

“An altar boy.”

My head flew back. “Altar boy? Father John recruit you?”

Ragee could hardly breathe, he laughed so damn hard. “I’m just messing with you!” He tried.

“Oh!” I pouted, not feeling too great about the joke being on me.

“Yo, I’m Pentecostal, baby. Not Catholic.” He wiped his eyes and tried slowing his lungs. “Ah, man,” he murmured. “My first job was as a camp counselor for the community summer program.”

“Okay.” I nodded, considering that. My chin perched in the air. “Counselor Ragee.”

We both laughed at that.

“Your first car?” I moved on.

And that was how the remainder of the ride back to Sparta went. Laughing while reminiscing. Not brooding while recounting the bad.

That night, after a late dinner with just Ragee and me, I crept into the theater room to take Van’s call. It was another depressing fifteen-minute conversation about the food quality in jail, the lack of temperature control and how often he was sick with a cold, the arguments he’d had with his children’s mothers, and his frustration with not having a clear legal defense. It had been four months since he’d been in there. Four months and we had no answers. The call left me drained.

I found my way out of the spacious room and headed up to the master suite. My thighs ached from my morning workout with Raj, and my head and heart throbbed for Van’s helpless circumstances. I’d had a few hours of reprieve while out discovering yet another talent of my legally wed husband. What started out as a nice evening, ended with my emotions flared. The house was quiet, and as I made it to the second level, only the nightlights from the back of the house shone through. I guessed no one turned on the soft lights for the long, winding hallway.

The master suite wasn’t as dark. Sounds of the television across from the bed whispered inside the massive room. Raj’s big body, covering much of the bed with a posture of proprietary rights reminded me of his warning of needing to stretch out there before heading to the couch tonight. He’d been hit a lot and needed the space. I didn’t mind. Since sharing the suite with him, I’d grown more and more comfortable with his company.

I trekked into the bathroom to wash off my makeup and shower for bed. A little more than twenty minutes later, I was back out, into the room where I found the remote to power off the television. I checked to be sure the balcony doors were locked. Blame the city girl in me. When I made it back over to the room, I stood at the foot of the bed with my bottom lip wedged between my teeth, wondering if I should wake him. He looked so peaceful, and I honestly didn’t mind sharing the bed.

The only problem is, he gotta move a bit so I can get in…

I approached him, a bit hesitant at touching his bare shoulder. After telling myself to grow up, I tapped him.

“Raj,” I called out softly.

He didn’t budge, poor thing. I tapped him again and called his name gently, not wanting to fully rouse him. But to no avail. That’s when I decided to climb onto the bed and take the sliver of space available. My knee hit the high firm mattress and I went to glide my arms down under the pillows.

“Don’t fucking—” He shouted as he leaped from his stomach, arm flying in the air.

“Holy shiiii—” I breathed. Startled out of my fucking mind, I pulled back, forgetting I was on the bed and fell onto the side of my foot instead of flat on it. My leg gave out and I fell to my knees and then on my ass.

Peering up with wild eyes, my chest heaved as my heart galloped. His eyes were crazed with anger, violence, and…fear? We stared at each other in the same physically heightened state for a spell. I watched for his next move, wondering what would be my defense. I’d just seen him pummel a man with blood gushing blows. He observed me with slow recognition, his pupils shrinking in concession.

Raj swallowed audibly, air pushing from his mouth. His forehead creased. “Look…” He heaved. “Don’t… Don’t come…” He swallowed. His voice hoarse, pained. “Don’t walk up on me in the bed. I—I’ll let you come in here first.” He flashed me with expectant, urgent eyes.

I nodded feverishly, every cell in my body vibrating with a post-traumatic adrenaline rush.

For a while we didn’t move. I didn’t know what to do or say. Didn’t think words were appropriate. Ragee slammed his hand on the mattress and uttered a few invectives before swinging his legs to the opposite side of the bed with athletic precision. He then tramped into the darkened sitting room and I heard him slam himself on the couch, out of my view.

I don’t know how long I remained on the floor, not understanding what had just happened. What was clear was my beating bladder was what had me finally move.

Needless to say, sleep wasn’t in the cards for me that night.

I watched her arms work the battle ropes, muscling through a double wave on a squat.

“Yo,” I spoke over the flapping of the thick ropes smacking my gym room floor. “You gotta come back some more. How many times I gotta tell you?” I lowered her squat as she worked her arms up and down.

Wynter grunted, and after being at this for four days, I knew it was the extent of her pushback. But she eased back up, more occupied with her arms than her legs.

“You’re gonna mess up your knees.” I sidled up next to her, so she could hear me over the ropes without me yelling. “I ‘on’t know what ya man’s preferences are, but your knees come in handy when you wanna make a man happy.”

She blinked a few times. Her stride in the waves slowed, but she lowered herself, aligning her knees behind her toes and finished out the rest of her three minute interval.

“Stop!” I yelled.

Wynter dropped the ropes, her tight eyes hit me. Lips wound up as she heaved, out of breath.

“I told you I had to take a piss, asshole,” she growled as she turned and stomped off.

I knew there was more to her snapping than my pushing her. We still hadn’t talked about my wigging out on her in my room the other night. I didn’t know how. What made me think having this chick in my room would be cool? I didn’t see that coming; I never shared a bed with a woman. How was I supposed to know I’d react that way to having one wake me from my sleep? I’d been waiting for her to bring it up, but Wynter hadn’t uttered a word. And neither would I. I’d just ride out this short time until I had my damn space back. I was waiting for Myisha to call me today; hopefully with an answer on when my grandmother would be leaving.

Snickering behind me had me looking over my shoulder. My trainer, Josh, tried covering his mouth as he laughed. That reminded me of the time. My session with him was due to start. This was the second day I’d totally lost track of time while training Wynter and forgotten about my own.

“She’s gonna spazz on your ass, man.” He couldn’t cut the humor on his way to me. “That’s why I don’t train the females in my family or my old lady. They can’t take the heat, man.” Wynter may have complained all day about being hungry or the new foods she’d been eating from her meal plan, but in here or wherever we worked out, she never uttered a grievance. “That and the fact that with my lady, I can smell her pussy when she starts to sweat.”

That, I had known. Wynter was a heavy sweater. Training her had been more intimate than I bargained for. A few times I could swear to smelling her pheromones. It softened me to her a bit. Made her less of a stranger. I never mentioned it, not wanting to offend her. I didn’t know if I could. Wynter was a machine in here, even out of shape.

“Anyway,” I dismissed that topic, “what we got on tap for today?” I was so consumed with creating a regimen for her, I’d forgotten about my own.

These past four days of acclimating her to a new diet plan and workout schedule had been intense. Not to add in, entertaining my grandmother while taking calls for business.

“Upper body, man.” Josh scratched his head. “Yo, you heard about that video True Blue posted on IG?”

“Nah.” I went to grab my water bottle. “What video?”

“True Blue posted a video saying he’s smacking the shit out of Mike B when he see him. Something over Mike trying to sign his artist behind his back.”

“Artist? Who?”

“Machete.” I could tell he wasn’t familiar with him.

I was. Machete was a rap artist, who went out on tour with Mike earlier this month. I didn’t know he was signed to Blue Gang’s label. True Blue was a known Crip from Compton, who ran the label. Dude was the modern day Suge Knight the way he stayed in drama—legally and illegally. He and Mike had had words a couple of years ago over a woman they both claimed to have slept with. The problem was, she was True’s baby’s mother. Threats were hurled over it back then, but Azmir Jacobs, an ambassador of sorts, intervened, calling a meeting that led to a truce. The game didn’t need another East Coast versus West Coast beef. And both dudes had the ammunition to get one popping.

“My first time hearing about it. You know Mike makes and breaks beefs. Let me go grab my gloves for the weights.” Just as I was about to take off to the closet, Wynter was heading our way. “You’re done for the day,” I reminded her. We’d been at it for an hour and a half.

She brushed past me, going back to the battle ropes. “Just got to get this down.”

Paying it no mind, I headed to the closet to get my gloves and lifting belt. When I came back out, Wynter was at the ropes again, closely eyeing herself in the mirror to measure her stance. That didn’t impress me so much.

The fact that she stayed in the gym another thirty minutes, going over a few critiques of mine for practice did.

The door creaked open behind me. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw Wynter in the bathroom doorway, her hand rested in the frame. She’d changed into her pajamas in there.

“You’re awake.” She sighed as though she was relieved. Then she caught herself and bounced back with humor. I knew it was coming by the lowering of her eyes and the sleek grin spreading on her cute face. “She coming to tuck us in?”

I chuckled, turning from on my stomach to get up. I was wide awake, but hadn’t heard the shower turn off, or else I wouldn’t have still been laying across the bed, checking my emails.

“No. Stay. No need to run over to the sitting room on my behalf.” She sauntered over to the dresser, and pulled out a drawer. “So, what else do you do, besides sing and act?”

“Huhn?” I hummed, glancing up from my iPad.

Her chin dipped over her shoulder. “When you kept leaving the table tonight at dinner to take calls.”

“Oh. Real estate,” I answered, going back to an email from a builder with specs on a business park that would be erected soon.

“As in houses?”

“No. I did a little of that—flipping, but it was too time consuming. I do commercial properties.”

“Oh, wow.” I could sense she stopped moving and my eyes skirted over to my left where I could make out her halfway turned to me. “Is it lucrative?”

“It’s been paying the bills.”

“Like Hollywood?” I found myself turned to her fully.

That’s when I realized she was pulling out workout gear for the morning. I was impressed.

“Before Hollywood. More consistent than Hollywood in the beginning.”

She tossed her clothes in a chair in the corner before stepping closer to the bed. She nodded for permission and even though that plucked at something in me, her playing it cool made me want to, too. I returned her nod.

“But acting earns you more?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“And you don’t talk enough.” She sat on the footboard resting her back on the bedpost. “Feel free to answer any moment now.”

I couldn’t help laughing quietly as I sat up, clicking the iPad off. “My first few acting gigs were indie films and basically went straight to DVD. The money wasn’t even what I made in touring, but the investment was worth it. I earned my chops…got the gist of acting, being on an actual set, taking instruction from the director, learning lines…all that. I was able to take my time and not put too much pressure on myself to make my first two mill off a flick.”

“Because of real estate?”

I nodded, stretching my arms in the air. Surprisingly, my eyes were growing heavy.

“How did you get into it—”

Small but firm knocking at the door had both our attentions. I stood from the bed to get it.

“Pastor,” I teased, trying to sound normal. Like coming to bed at ten at night to go to sleep was actually conceivable in my world.

“Did I disturb the first lady of the house?” was her means of flattery.

I opened the door so she could see Wynter in her pajamas. Why I maintained this lie was beyond me.

“Hi!” I heard Wynter greet cheerfully from beyond.

Seeing my grandmother’s chest swell in pride had me glancing over my shoulder to see what she did. Wynter was in the bed, under the cover and she somehow got the other side of the bed to look as if it was previously occupied.

By me…

“I was just coming to tell you Heather just called. She said she couldn’t get you.” Her eyes skirted behind me to Wynter. I didn’t have to follow them to see. “Please include Deacon Neil in your prayers tonight. His granddaughter in Cincinnati just had a stroke. You know she only thirty-two? My God, the devil is busy, you hear me?” Her voice was pained.

My grandmother carried the burdens of so many, and had since I could remember. I just didn’t understand how she couldn’t pick up the works of the enemy in her own home.

“Amen,” I consented. “I’ll call out their names in prayer.”

“Amen. Her name is NeNe.” I nodded, making a mental note of it. “Well, alright. I’ll leave you two.”

“Goodnight.”

I watched her first few steps down the long hall before closing the door.

“Your phone’s vibrating,” Wynter informed me as I did.

I went to the nightstand and saw it was Heather calling. I sent it to voicemail.

“Come. Have a seat.” Wynter patted the mattress toward the empty side. “We were interrupted.”

That command turned off a switch for me. I didn’t get how it happened, but somehow her not hammering into me about what happened a few nights ago made her that much cooler in my eyes. It made me toss aside my guard without a whole lot of thinking. For the moment.

I pulled the blanket up to cover the sheet and sat with my back against the pillows and one leg hanging off the floor.

“Thanks for that.”

“For what?” she asked, confused.

“For jumping in bed and making it seem like—”

“Oh!” She blew out air. “No problem. I’m a fast learner. Now, tell me about your first big break.”

It took a minute for me to remember what we were talking about before my grandmother knocked on the door.

“Uuuuh…” My eyes squeezed as I stretched back on the pillow. I yawned. That’s when I recognized her scent in my bedding. I didn’t think much of it. Purposely. “I think my biggest break came a few years ago and not by a industry head.”

“Really?”

I rubbed my nose. “Yeah. Mike Brown and I had been partners for a few years. We put out two albums independently. This was back when I was as much of a musician as I was a singer. I did a lot of acoustic instrumentation instead of electronic. And for a while, not much was popping with my career. Mike saw how an old associate of his from BK was image sculpting an up and coming artist at that time.”

“Who?”

“Rin-Rin. You remember she had that hit—”

“Drip Drop!”

“Yeah. She was poppin’ and Mike figured it was because her label put her in touch with the guy from Brooklyn, Mike came up with.”

“Was he a producer…A&R?”

I chuckled. “Nah. Just a jack of all trades and a master at most. Azmir Jacobs. It’s kinda hard to explain his role in the industry, but put it like this: every major mover knows dude. He used to do some stuff with record labels. Now, he’s into straight business. Well, a few years ago, he came to my listening party in the City. Mike was hyped about it and made the introduction and that’s when my soul had gotten shaken.”

“What happened?”

“He was there with who is now his wife, but he wasn’t beat to be networking. Had been out of the business for a few years by then. He said what he did for Rin-Rin when she got all that airplay and a couple of deals just because of who she was seen partying with, was something he did for somebody he owed a favor to. It wasn’t that he said no. It was that he swerved me with his “date” while doing it.” I laughed, remembering the story Rayna told me after we’d gotten cool, months after that night. She said she played sick so they could leave. She did it in my face. “Anyway, I was in a bad place at that time in my life. To be honest, I was thinking about hanging it up. I’d been at music—good music for some time and didn’t have the success a few of my peers did.”

“What changed?”

“His now wife called me randomly to perform at a private party at his crib in Cali.”

She gasped. “Cali?”

“Yeah. She flew me in and put me up, too. I called on a few voices I knew out there and threw together a show that not only Rayna—his wife—enjoyed, but dude was blown away, too.” It was truly a small world, because that night was when I met Jackson Hunter, who now has the record label, L.I.T. Music, whose been dying to sign me. “A few months after that, he called me to perform at a club he owned. And from there, my career got like…poppin’.”

“What did he do?”

“He talked to me at first. Pulled me aside in his office after my show. Asked me what I wanted to do. I was a little intimidated at first, but after a while, I let down my guard. The O.G. explained being a dope musician with a voice wasn’t what the industry was looking for. They were looking for swag that matched its constituents. Wasn’t nobody checking for acoustics in mainstream music where I wanted to go. He put me in touch with some people he thought could help me with my image. About three months later, I had “Ride with Me” out. A couple of months it was in heavy rotation on seventy-five percent of all major stations. New York killed it, and that’s all I needed.”

“So, “Ride with Me” was your first single, huhn?” Wynter sounded to have been going back in time like I was sharing this with her.

“Yup. That first album went platinum. That hardly happens anymore.”

“So, that’s how you broke into music. The Jacobs guy.”

I snorted. “That’s how I got into real estate, too—business outside of music, period.”

Her head rolled over to me on her pillow. “How so?”

“We were in touch from there on out. Azmir told me to never go without multiple streams of income. He stressed not relying on one industry to be your bread and butter. To show me, he put me in a deal for a business park opening in Central Jersey. A newly developed town. I didn’t have much capital back then, just a few bucks. He fronted me a hundred stacks to add to my pennies. That first deal made me eighty grand after I paid him back his money. He showed me how to catch fish after frying it for me to taste. It was on and popping after that.”

“So, music, real estate, and movies.” She nodded, impressed.

“Technology, too. A couple of years ago, I finally caught onto a deal I believed in.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s been this huge public health push for hands-free bathrooms. To decrease the spread of germs and bacteria, there’s been an increased interest in sinks, soap dispensers, paper towels dispensers, and hand dryers with sensory power. Restaurants, malls, recreation facilities…any building you can think of with a public restroom is where a company I’m backing is marketing this technology at a competitive price for quality products.”

“You’re in on the marketing?”

“That’s the current phase. The one I came in on was the technology and high volume manufacturing. I’ve been lucky with the timing. We have companies like Macy’s, Wal-Mart, B-Way Burger…we’re about to close a deal with Hobby Lobby, and we’re working on Target.”

“That’s amazing, Raj!” she shrieked, visibly captivated. “Big shit poppin’ for the church boy!” she sang.

I shook my head as I laughed quietly. Wynter had a sharp sense of humor, something that usually irritated me. Hers was…nice. Disarming.

“Mentoring.”

“What’s that?” I turned to her.

“Mentoring. Sounds like what you had with the Ahmad guy.”

“Azmir.”

“My bad. Azmir,” she corrected. “Do you know how much further along we’d be as a society—black, white, green, blue—if we had people seeing into us, recognizing greatness, and pushing us into our destiny? Look how long you’d been at it until that one call from his wife.”

I nodded, eyes out to the other side of the room. She was right.

“I had a little of that,” her voice was but a whisper. Wynter was in her thoughts. “My grandparents were great. They always talked to me about the future. Constantly told me I wasn’t average.” Her eyes traveled over to me. “They were regular Janes and Johns, but managed to make me feel there was a big world out there, waiting for me to make it right.” A sheepish smile blossomed over her face. “That’s how I was able to breeze through school. They made me feel this big world was waiting, so I tried swallowing my academics to kill the time to meet it.” She went silent. “Then they were gone.”

“But you still went to school. Still got two degrees. That’s what’s up.”

She looked at me with light pain in her face. “But for what?” Wynter shrugged. “I became…basically a social worker, helping irreparable people. It burned me out, exhausted me. So, I’m sitting here with my highly educated ass, and just as unfulfilled as a child who never left the front stoop.”

“You’re still young. God has born everyone into this earth with purpose attached to our existence. My pastor says it’s a matter of alignment and timing.”

Wynter clicked off the only light on this side of the room. The recessed lights in the sitting room were set to dim. She shuffled to her side, fully facing me now, though a few feet away.

Her voice was wistful and curious when she asked, “What if your destiny is something you don’t want? What if the purpose God has for you is something that doesn’t fulfill you?” her voice cracked, but I saw no evidence of tears. Just fear.

 “I’ve been told the safest and most content place for a man or woman is in the will of God, even when it feels like the loneliest and scariest place there is.”

 The only problem with that was, I had to believe it myself.

The next morning, I woke to a glass of what looked to be a lemon poison concoction on the nightstand. While rubbing my eyes, I heard the bathroom door open. Raj was quietly coming out with a compression shirt and leggings, and shorts. He stopped, noticing I was up.

I glanced over to the other side of the bed. “Did you sleep here last night?” My voice was raspy.

With a creased forehead and grin begging my pardon, Raj scoffed. “Yeah. I fell asleep after your million, probing ass questions. That a problem?”

It was a little defensive, but friendly fire. I could tell he was trying. Trying to show himself friendly. Normal.

“Thanks for the potion.” I smiled with dry lips.

“I thought you were gonna be up earlier than me this morning.” His voice was male-throaty. “Figured I could help speed the dumping process.”

A giggle broke through my lips. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said and done for me, pal.”

Raj didn’t smile, his head angled and brows met, though. “Then I need to step up my roommate game.”

Why the hell did that warm me somewhere I couldn’t put my finger?

He walked out of the room quietly during the dark hours of the morning and left me…feeling. That wasn’t cool. I kicked the blanket off my legs, dropped my feet to the floor and gulped down the citrusy potion without flinching this time. My feet moved swiftly and heavily to the bathroom where I powered on the stereo, selected a rap channel, and blasted Method Man to a rebellious level until I could feel the bass of “Bring the Pain” and nothing else.