"Jules I think your ass still playing both sides when it come down to it, hell I’m on a mission to prove you is. It’s only a matter of time before your ass come crawling back in my life like you never fucking left. You and I both know this meet up about way more than a payout." She said, taking money out of her purse, setting it on the bar. I watched her fingers as she laid the cash down, neat and calculated.
"You think I'm here cause I miss you?" I asked.
She tilted her head slightly. "You here cause you can't stand not being in control."
That one hit closer, but I didn't show it. "I'm here cause I don't leave loose ends," I said.
She smirked. "You always been scared of loose ends."
"Loose ends get you killed."
"Or divorced," she added quietly. That was one of the heaviest things she said.
I looked at her then. "You think this about you?" I asked.
She shrugged. "You sitting here with me."
That was the part that bothered me. Not because she thought she mattered. Because part of me knew she wasn't completely wrong. This wasn't just about money. It wasn't just about testimony. It was about ego and unfinished business. I wanted to look her in the face and decide how it ended. I didn't let situations dictate me. I dictated them. Or at least I tried. "Don't confuse confrontation with care," I said.
She leaned closer. "You always got something slick to say. But you ain't never been honest about why you left."
"I left because it was wrong."
She laughed under her breath. "You left because you got caught."
The air between us shifted. "I left because I chose my family," I corrected.
"After you played house with me."
I didn't respond to that. I remembered it all too well. The hotel rooms. The late-night calls. The ego boost. The distraction. I remembered how easy it was to separate parts of myself. Husband here. Side nigga there. Father somewhere in between. I convinced myself it wasn't connected. Until it was, and everything collided. That thought pressed against the back of my skull, and I pushed it down quick. Not here. Not in this hotel bar with its dim lighting and soft jazz playing like nothing in the world ever went wrong. Not next to a woman who thrived off tension and unfinished business. Some things you don't let mix. I moved, pulling out my wallet, laying a fifty-dollar bill onthe bar. "I’m gone, hit me when you decide on a number. or not." I said. My voice stayed level. No threat. No softness either.
"You'll call me before I call you," she said, getting up from the bar, walking away. She didn't look back. I watched her reflection in the mirror behind the bar until it disappeared around the corner. The bartender slid the fifty toward himself without a word. Ice melted in the empty glass in front of me, thin liquor left diluted at the bottom. I didn't touch it. The bar felt smaller after she left. Like the air got heavier instead of lighter. I slowly adjusted my cuffs, smoothed my shirt, and controlled my breathing. You don't let a room know you thinking. You don't let a room know you hit. That's something prison drilled into me. Inside those walls, weakness got tested. The reaction got exploited. Grief smelled like blood in water. So you learned to swallow it. Digest it. Let it sit like concrete in your stomach until it hardened.
I pushed off the stool and walked toward the exit. The carpet muffled my steps. The hallway lighting was too warm and artificial. Glass doors slid open without resistance, and humid night air hit my face. I inhaled once, slow. Exhaled.
The parking lot sat dim and wide. My car alone near the back, black paint reflecting faint security lights. I unlocked it, got in, shut the door. I sat in silence for a minute listening to myself breathe. I rested my hands on the steering wheel again. Same grip as earlier. Same pressure. My phone sat in the cup holder. Screen black. I had a few missed calls, but before I could look through them, a call from Juste was coming through again. I let it ring half a second longer than necessary.
"Whoaaaa," I said, answering the phone.
"Be at Velvet in 10 minutes." His voice came through quick. No greeting. No explanation.
"Bet." I ended the call. When Juste used that tone, it wasn't casual. I pulled out of the parking spot and headed in the direction of Velvet. Streetlights flickered over the windshield. Traffic light. Thin. The bass in the car stayed low, background noise more than music. My mind wasn't on lyrics anyway. It drifted back to Jade for a second. Then Nia. Then back to business. I pushed the personal shit down. One thing at a time. That's how you survive.
When I pulled up, I didn't waste time getting inside. The security nodded as I passed. Inside, Velvet smelled like smoke, cologne, and liquor soaked into wood. Familiar. Contained. Juste was standing at the bar with a blunt hanging from his lip and a glass in his hand. Pierre and Noles sat at the bar lookin at Enzi who was pacing the floor. Enzi looked wild in the eyes.
"You gotta call your uncle, man. That's all it is to it." Juste said, looking at Enzi.
"Call my uncle? I can't do that. Hell nawl," Enzi said, continuing to pace the floor. His shoes squeaked against the tile every few steps. Back and forth. Back and forth.
"Why the fuck ya can't?" Pierre said, frowning.
"Have you met Abdul? He gon kill my ass." He snapped at Pierre.
"Wassam?" I said, looking between all of them.
"Pussy got his shit took and now he in a panic," Noles said without looking up from his drink.
I walked up to the bar. "Fuck you talking bout got his shit took?" I said.