Instead, she blocked him. Undressed for bed, showered off the night, and went to sleep with the faintest smile on her lips. Because for once, she had chosen herself. Cassius and hishalal-Barbiecould run off in the sunset for all she cared.Jackie was done. Done with the half-steppin, done with the mixed signals, and more importantly, Jackie was done with being treated like she was less than.
Najee had created space for her. Given hersomethingshe could feel, and it wasn’t sexual. It was tender and felt a whole lot like possibility. Which made the silence that followed cut deeper.
The next week, when Jackie showed up to Max’s session, she didn’t see Najee. Instead, she was greeted by his new therapist, Dr. Ishmael. Dr. Ish could not have been a day over twenty-five. He looked like he picked up his degree last night. His whole vibe gave “substitute teacher.” He wore Birkenstock sandals, paint splattered cargos rolled up above the ankles, a black Kufi and a graphic Tee that read:Cry like a Boy. Jackie was five minutes away from canceling the session, marching to Sister Malika’s office and telling her to bevery fucking forreal. But then Dr. Ish spoke, and it hit her instantly.Najee.Not his voice. But his training. His confidence. Dr. Ish carried that same quietcertainty. But where Najee was serious, almost clinical, Dr. Ish was lighter. He was playful, animated and engaging.
He specialized in art therapy and play therapy. Shit Jackie didn’t even know existed until that day. And the way he was able to explain his technique, with so much conviction and enthusiasm, it was obvious this man believed in the work. Dr. Ish described his therapeutic approach asintegrative, pulling from various techniques including sensory-based healing, child led emotional expression and even arts and crafts. Max connected with himimmediately, probably because he looked like one of those streamer niggas, he worshiped on the YouTube. Jackie wanted to be mad, pop her shit, go in the office pointing fingers and demanding answers. But Dr. Ish was so good with Max she couldn’t stay angry.
Up until that point Najee had always kept her in the loop. So, him not mentioning this? Hit different. Jackie was trying her hardest not to internalize it. But it was hard not to, and it didn’t help he was M.I.A. for the next three weeks. When he finally returned, his energy felt different.
He was still present,technically. After all he did sit in on both of Max’s sessions with Dr. Ish, but only in an observational capacity, and even then, he was distant. Polite butdistant. He hardly looked her way during those two sessions, barely even spoke and when he did his tone was professional and clipped. All the warmth and softness she had grown to expect from him.Gone.
Just Dr. Amin-Rashid and his legal pad, clicking his pen looking everywhere but at her. It was almost as if that night never happened. Like he hadn’t held her half naked, in his arms three weeks ago. Like he hadn’t told her she was beautiful with his whole chest, as she climaxed in his lap.
Jackie felt like a suckafalling for it. The shit felt familiar, toodamnfamiliar. Warm one minute, cold the next, a damnAmin-Rashid Pattern if she’d ever seen one. Which is exactly why Jackie had no business dragging her ass to this week’s break-out session. She knew it would probably be some of the same distant-ass- energy. But Jackie told herself she would go, because it the end of the day it was for Max. The session would be held at his Private Practice in Rittenhouse according to the email his secretary sent. She should’ve canceled then, pulled a no-call, no-show, like he did these last few weeks. But here she was like adummy. Getting dressed, curling her hair, moisturizing her entire body and trying to decide between knee-high boots or Ankle ones. She felt like a goddamnsimp. Because deep down she still cared. She should’ve blocked his some-timey ass. The same way she blocked Cash, ignored the calendar invite and just got back in the damn bed. But instead, Jackie found herself deep in her closet, looking for her favorite sweater dress. The Cashmere one, that hugged her body just right and made her feel feminine. Jackie wanted to act like her fit was effortless, and she was just throwing something on. But the dress was intentional, so were the over-the -knee boots. She even wore her favorite fragrance. YSL Libre. Jackie made sure she sprayed behind her knees, across the base of her throat and behind her ears. She was doing theabsolute- fucking- most, and she knew it.
Jackie hated she still wanted to look pretty for him…even if he didn’t deserve it. She moved to the bathroom, did a little eye liner, before applying a coat ofBetter than sexmascara, and finally finishing with a littleFentyGlass Slipperon her lips. Her hair was bouncing and behaving, yet here she was, still in the mirror telling herself she could facehim. Jackie’s plan was to keep it cute and not crash thefuckout. She inhaled slow, bit a piece of a weed gummy for an additional layer of calm, then headed downstairs. Jackie had no intention to drive into town, especially to Rittenhouse Square.
It was Thursday, before noon, and Jackie knew PPA was“outside”lurking around like ICE agents, and she wasn’t finna risk her only mode of transportation. And she damn sure wasn’t catching SEPTA. She could call a Lyft, but she knew it surged this time of morning, and she wasn’t bout to pay forty dollars to ride Ten minutes. She was just about to call Kormia when she heard a faint knock at the door. Jackie swung the door open, just as an older man in a Dark Car coat made his way down her steps. “Can I help you sir?” Jackie asked as he turned around and instantly, she recognized him as one of the Malcolm X- coded brother’s Najee and Cash seemed to have on speed dial.
Before she could gather herself, he began to speak.
“Are you Ms. Brown?” he asked. “Uh… yes?”
“Well, I’m here to take you to Dr. Amin-Rashid.”
That’s when Jackie saw the all-black BMW X4, double parked in the middle of the street. The older man moved swiftly to the back of the car, standing outside the door, waiting on her like she was VIP. Jackie just stood there, trying her hardest not to be affected by the gesture. But it was too late, her heart felt like it was about to jump out her chest. She stood there frozen, before going inside grabbing her purse and jacket and locking her door. She reminded herself to stand onbusiness.
He didn’t get to ghost her, give her the cold shoulder all week, and then send a black car like it was supposed to fix anything. He had herfuckedup. Jackie straightened her shoulders, armored up the best way she knew how, stepped forward, as he opened the door for her.
“Also, per Dr. Amin-Rashid’s instructions, don’t forget to smell the roses.
“The what?” Jackie frowned, then glancing in the car…and her breath caught. There waiting in the seat next to hers, sat at least eight dozen of roses, plum, mauve and blush. Thick stems, petals soft as silk, wrapped in linen and tissue paper, arrangedwith the kind of intention that made them look like art. This wasn’t no supermarket bouquet either. That’s when Jackie saw the Toussaint’s ribbon, and immediately she knew he spent a pretty penny. Jackie sat down slowly, careful not to crush a single petal. The scent filled the car. Beautiful. Overwhelming. And if she had gotten these two weeks ago? She might’ve cried. But now? Looking at them, even in all their glory—Jackie didn’t know what it allreallymeant. She wanted to be hopeful but based on his recent movement, she had no reason to be. Unfortunately, Jackie knew how this movie ended, even if she wanted to pretend, she didn’t.
Jackie didn’t touch the flowers for the first few minutes of the ride, she was just about to reach for the bouquet when she remembered that Mariah the Scientist lyric, that had been stuck in her head,Bitter me, how sweet of you to… Ask if I'd be your muse and go and paint me blue.” It pretty much summed up the last three weeks in a nutshell. “Every time Jackie tried to wrap her mind around his recent moves, it gave her a headache and a heart ache if she were being honest. She opted to leave the flowers untouched and look out the window instead.
CHAPTER THIRTY
NAJEE
A few hours before…
Najee hadn’t set foot on 52nd Street in years.
Yet here he was before sunrise, watching as the city woke up slow. He sat in the backseat of his midnight-blue BMW X4 with a member of his uncle’s security team, taking the whole block in. Once upon a time, 52nd Street was the mecca of Black economic growth in the city.
Back when it was a thriving business district. The Deuce served as a full-blown ecosystem of Black commerce, with each business contributing to the cultural fabric of the community. That was until the city let it go to hell. And at the very heart of it stood the Toussaint family.
More specifically, Newdy’s grandfather, Lucien Toussaint Sr.,The florist.
Lucien Toussaint’s name was worth its weight in gold. While Philadelphia had a long history of organized crime, from the Italians in South Philly, the Russians in the Northeast, the Triad’s in Chinatown, and the various sects of Muslims that controlled the northside.
The truth was simpler. There weren’t four families, there werefive. The Toussaint’s were the fifth family in arguably the most powerful. The actualblackMafia.
Lucien ran the streets, the way surgeons ran operating rooms, clean, exact and with practiced discipline. He was a pillar of the community, an award-winning florist, and a feared boss. Toussaint’s Flowers was more than a flower shop. It was a headquarters. Neutral ground for the city’s heavy hitters. The florist didn’t just arrange bouquets. He presided over conflicts, and his word was final. Toussaint’s was the place where street beefs went to live or die. If two rival crews were at war, it got brought to the florist. If a play needed to be greenlit or shut down indefinitely, the florist, and only the florist, made that call. So when Lucien passed, the checks-and-balances system he had strategically put in place passed right alongside him. For nearly ten years, the streets operated with no florist.
No florist meant no order, and in the absence of order, certain entities were able to rise to power.There should have been a change of guardimmediately.But no one could really fill his shoes.Paris, Lucien’s grandson and Newdy’s identical twin, didn’t have a governing bone in his body. He was overexposed and entirely too enthralled with the mix to be trusted with such an undertaking.
Lucien’s brother Christoph tried to serve as the interim florist but quickly found out he didn’t have the stomach for the deadlier aspects of the job. That leftNewdy.The quiet twin.The reluctant boss.The one who had no interest in power or politics but actually had the stomach to govern and carry out every aspect of the role.Newdy had done a few years in the feds for some shit Paris did. He knew his brother wasn’t built like that, So Newdy did the time for him.Only to come home from serving his time, to his brother being dead and the weight of the position waiting on him.