Chanel

 

As soon as I exited the parking lot and was sure that Tyler wasn’t behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief. My heart was pounding and I had no idea why. Maybe it was the whole thought of being cornered and that he’d never taken those steps before, just to talk to me. I wasn’t in any way afraid of him; it must have just been the shock of the moment. Showing up outside my club! Yeah, that was a bit extreme. Tyler and I have been broken up for a long time . . . at least a year and some change. I didn’t know what it was that had him suddenly wanting to get that old thang back, but as far as I was concerned, that wasn’t an option. That ship had long ago sailed and I was happily single and not tripping in the least about getting involved in another situation that I had to give my heart to. No ma’am.

After what had to be the tenth time of me checking my rear view mirror, I finally relaxed my mind enough. I pressed the button for my iPod to start playing, and my favorite couple came pouring through the speakers, collaborating on, On the Run 2. If I did have a love again, it needed to be one built on solid ground, like theirs. I’d take nothing less than that.

 

♫Who wants that perfect love story anyway, anyway

Cliché, cliché, cliché, cliché

Who wants that hero love that saves the day, anyway

Cliché, cliché, cliché, cliché ♫

 

I needed to hear some music in order to soothe what was now turning to anger. And I loved the lyrics to this song. I had watched the video online a few times and it always struck me the way that Jay Z and his wife looked into each other’s eyes as they recounted how Blue Ivy was made in Paris and how that was also the place of their engagement. It just got to me when anybody could love out loud like that. That real shit. Anything else didn’t deserve mention, in my opinion. I was fool enough to think I’d found it at a point in time.

But it is what it is. The past is the past.

I suddenly found myself smiling as I sang along to the next verse.

 

♫I don't care if we on the run

Baby as long as I'm next to you

And if loving you is a crime

Tell me why do I bring out the best in you

I hear sirens while we make love

Loud as hell but they don't know

They're nowhere near us

I will hold your heart and your gun

I don't… ♫

 

And then boom! Even with the feel-good stroke of the song, my mind still found its way back to Tyler. All I could think about was the gall of that man to bring his bruised-ass ego to my place of business. Like, who in the hell does that? Oh, I know! A cheating liar, who probably, after so much time, finally realized he’d lost big. That’s who does that!

“Ugh!” I yelled out loud, as I shook my head in disgust.

It always amazed me how, when a woman was finally fed up enough to leave, that it was the only time that a man really wanted to do right by the relationship. It should never take leaving to wake a fool up out of his sleep. With Tyler, he didn’t understand that when I said I was done, I was really done. Women had never been a shortage for Tyler and that was our problem. Professional athletes had women throwing twat, booty, and breasts at them all day long, and they took them up on their offers . . . all day long.

At a point in time, I could neither resist nor see past the butterscotch-complexioned tight end, with the physique of a damn god, deep brown eyes, the immaculately-lined fade, and perfect goatee. But over time, it grew old, and I grew up. Thank God.

Upon entering the freeway’s entrance, my mind floated back to the scene in the parking lot. I couldn’t help grinning. I’ve never been one of those women who got off on men fighting over me, but to see a man defend my honor was some of the sexiest shit ever. Not to mention the fact that it wasn’t just any man—it was Dario Caivano, undefeated heavyweight champion, who was ready to step in on my behalf. I couldn’t believe it. And he was fine as hell too, if I had to admit it to myself. The smooth skin, that fell somewhere between fair and olive-toned, was appealing against his sand-colored mustache and nicely groomed hair. The soft layer of a slightly darker tone that trailed along his jaws just added more to his lure.

Even through the dark slacks and the button-down shirt he wore, I could tell he was sporting a physique that was something close to perfection . . . if not perfection, itself. And I was really digging the way he had that fedora slightly tilted on his head. He had swag about himself. His eyes had suspense inside of them, the way they sat low. It was almost as though he was studying me while we talked. But the glare was something very different with him and Tyler when they stared each other down; it was an intense scowl, like he was daring Tyler to make a move.

I leaned my head back onto the seat as it warmed my backside and thighs. I fell into relaxation mode for the remainder of my ride home. I was tired as hell after an early morning and long night. I loved being the owner of my own club. Like, really loved it! But it was hard work and a lot of late nights. But hey, I signed on for it, so I would not be the one to complain. Being a self-made woman was huge, and I was very proud of myself.

Thirty minutes later, I arrived at my exit and could already envision my shower, the hot water, and California King waiting for me. Relaxation was so near that I could taste it, and I couldn’t wait to embrace it like a long-lost love . . . or fine-ass Idris Alba!

When my phone buzzed, I jolted from my euphoria. I was nanoseconds away from accepting the call until I looked at the all-too familiar number. In my effort to let the past be the past, I’d deleted his number from my phone, but after years of calling it, I’d memorized it enough to avoid a mistake. I guess he hadn’t gotten the message loudly or clearly enough, and now Tyler Johnson was going to be sent to voicemail soon—exactly where he belonged.

Damn shame.