“Mind your business, youngblood” this here is a private matter.”
“O.G., I hear you,” he said, voice low, “but respectfully… I’m not asking again.”
One of the older men held his hands up, attempting to de-escalate the situation.
“Cleo, let that gal go. Earl got some working girls headin’ to the hotel right now.”
“Nah,” Cleo barked, gripping Kormia tighter. “I ain’t payin’ for no more pussy tonight. This bitch gon’ give me what I paid for — what Ibeenpaying for.” Parrish felt his anger climb, slow and hot, the longer he looked at the man’s hand on her. His jaw tightened. “I asked you to let her go,” Parrish repeated, voice calm in a way that made it even more dangerous. Cleo turned, cocky, and venomous. “Or what, lil’ nigga?” Parrish didn’t shift. Didn’t blink. He slid his hand to his hip, fingers steady, and pulled the Ruger free, the full-size one, big and black and heavy in his palm. He didn’t raise it theatrically. He pressed the barrel to Cleo’s forehead with a motion so quiet it landed like the final word.
“Or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off,” Parrish said, flat as a verdict.
Time folded. The laughs died. Cleo’s swagger collapsed into raw, blinking panic.
The other men froze, their eyes flicking from the gun to Parrish’s face, any drunk bravado evaporated, replaced by the cold calculation of men who’d suddenly realized they misread the room. “Aye, man, we don’t gotta take it there,” one stammered, voice thin. Cleo’s hand dropped from Kormia almost instantly. When their eyes met, Parrish saw something he hadn’t seen in her all night, fear.
“Go wait for me in the car,” Parrish said, without taking his eyes off Cleo. He pressed the barrel a little harder as he spoke, just so the point landed the way he needed it to.
He stepped back finally, turning toward the other men. “Y’all good?”
“Yes” they all said in unison. Before quickly grabbing the Cleo nigga by his arm, and dragging him away fast, disappearing down the block. Parrish watched them scurry their old asses down the street like roaches. Luckily the street was empty and there were no witnesses.
It had been a minute since he lost his shit like that. He didn’t even know he was still capable of that type of anger. The last time he had been that angry, was when he got the call his twin brother was murdered. Parris had been the only one, he had ever crashed out about. Parrish didn’t even crash out about street shit. He always maintained a certain level of decorum and level-headedness, especially when he carried out his duties. Still, he hated that her, of all people could invoke that level of response from him. It was reckless, messy and completely out of character. He took a deep breath before he finally made his way to the car. Parish dropped into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and gripped the wheel.
His knuckles were still tight, pulse still loud in his ears. He hated that part of himself. Theswitch.The way it went dark so fast. One second, he was calm. The next, he was a trigger-pull away from putting a man’s brains on the sidewalk. And for what?Messy Mia. Who was probably running the same game on another old dumb nigga somewhere in the city. Beside him, Kormia sat silent, arms crossed tight. Not slick, not loud. Just staring out the window like she saw a ghost.
The quiet pricked at him, turned his adrenaline into irritation. “You aint got nothin’ to say?” His voice came sharper than he meant. Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “What you want me to say?” Parish cut his eyes at her. “I don’t know, maybe start with, why you was over there all night with them old niggas anyway. Don’t tell me you fuckin’ one of them.”
“No,” she snapped back quick. “Then why was he on ten like that? You must’ve told him somethin’. Promised somethin’. Hadhim thinkin’ he had a chance.” Parish didn’t let up, anger still burning in his chest. “I almost killed a man.” Her whole body snapped toward him, voice climbing.
“First of all, I didn’t ask you to do shit. Second, I ain’t never fucked no nigga for nothin.’ That old nigga wasn’t getting no koochie from me—just ‘cause he spent a few racks.”
She jabbed a manicured finger at her own chest. “I had it handled.” Parish barked out a humorless laugh, eyes still locked on the road. “Handled? Looked to me like he was handling you.”
“He wasn’t handling shit,” she spat back, before he looked at her and shook his head.
“So, you ain’t even just messy, you a fucking liar too.” Kormia’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me?” Her lips pressed tight, breath hot through her nose. “Boy, you got me fucked up. Don’t ever confuse me with any of those hoes you know, Kormia brown ain’t never had to sell no pussy.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he replied as their eyes met. “That pussy looked like it was on sale to me.” The car went quiet again, heavy with everything unsaid. Parish clenched the wheel harder, jaw locked. He hated the part of him that had gone for his gun. Hated how close he’d come to pulling it. But what he hated more was that bruise blooming ugly across her arm where that old nigga had gripped her up. She was trying to act unbothered, but he saw the way her mouth tightened each time she rubbed it. Saw the flinch she couldn’t hide. “Stop touching it,” he said, voice low, cutting through the silence as he shifted the truck into gear. She froze, caught, then yanked her hand back like he’d burned her.
“Stop talking to me,” she said.
Parish kept his eyes on the road, knuckles flexing against the wheel.
“All im saying is, some wounds get worse the more you pick at ‘em. And that bruise already look nasty as fuck.” Kormiarolled her eyes, leaning against the window. “So what, you a doctor now?” she responded annoyed. “Nah.” His tone stayed even. “But I know pain when I see it. And you ain’t gotta make it worse just to prove you tough.” Her head whipped toward him, eyes flashing again, but the comeback never left her lips. The car hummed with tension, and for a second the only thing between them was the truth neither of them wanted to name, that he cared enough to notice her pain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
KORMIA
Newdy had been driving in silence for twenty minutes.
Kormia had no idea where he was taking her. He hadn’t asked for an address, and he was driving in the complete opposite direction of Jackie and Cal’s house. But for whatever reason, she didn’t feel unsafe. She actually felt the totalopposite. If anything, sitting next to Newdy might have been the safest she felt all night. Tonight, had been a complete shitshow, one she knew was nobody’s fault but her own. Kormia had been in close calls before, but never like this. Cleo had completely flipped the script on her, and if Newdy hadn’t stepped in when he did, she didn’t even want to imagine how it could’ve ended. Her fingers brushed the bruised part of her arm, and she winced. A sharp reminder of just how wrong she had read the situation. Her nerves were still buzzing. Her hands were still shaky. And her mind kept replaying the comment Cleo muttered before Newdy walked up.Your homegirl Jamilah should’ve told you what I did to her friend.The words sat heavy in her chest. Jamilah never once mentioned that one of her friends had dealt with Cleo. Let alone that something happened to her.
Kormia tried to shake the thought off, but it kept creeping back in. She thought about waking Jamilah’s ass up and getting to the bottom of it. But it was damn near five in the morning, and she knew Jamilah was probably clubbing, or laid up somewhere. Either way, Kormia wasn’t getting answers tonight.So she put a pin in it for right now. Her gaze slid over to Newdy. Hands on the wheel. Eyes forward. Face stone. Which honestly was an improvement from the look of disgust he gave her earlier. Kormia wasn’t the type to feel shame easily. Not from niggas. Not from gossip. Not from anything. But that look he gave her…stung.Kormia spotted him earlier, standing out in a sea of designer and drip. While everybody else was in Amiri, Balenciaga, and Milano, Newdy had on a simple navy-blue Dickies set, a fresh pair of construction-grade Timbs, and a midnight-blue Yankees fitted. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he wasunderdressed.Or somebody’s quiet cousin fresh off a shift.
But then there was the watch.A Patek Philippe Nautilus.Slim. Understated. Vintage. Three hundred thousand dollars, sitting in plain sight on his wrist. Quiet and confident. Just like him. The watch was an understated sign of wealth, and if you knew, you knew…and Kormiaknew.
Still, she wasn’t the only one paying attention. He had been the topic of discussion in her section all night. Every girl with two eyes was clocking the fine nigga with the locs and the Patek. Luckily for her, none of them knew his name. That gave her a weird sense of relief she couldn’t explain. She could’ve sworn she felt his eyes on her a few times too. But she chalked it up to her imagination.