by Zaire Crown
“I am good.”
“Dani’s just growing like a weed, huh?”
“Yeah, I gotta go clothes shopping for her every few days.”
There was an awkward silence between them and Tuesday could tell that he introduced her merely to distract from it. “This is Tabitha Green. The friend I told you about.”
“Brandon King.” He surprised Tuesday when he took her hand and kissed it. That was some old-school player shit that niggas nowadays never did. It made her smile because he was the first guy that Tuesday ever met who was pushing seventy and could still get it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. You have a lovely home.”
“Thank you. I’d be happy to give you a tour if you guys have time for it.”
“We don’t!” Marcus interrupted coldly. “We have eight o’-clock reservations for Mastro’s and we’re already cutting it close.”
Tuesday wasn’t used to being in another time zone. They had left Detroit at seven and after a three-hour flight had landed in Los Angeles at seven. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that it wasn’t as late as it felt to her.
“Well, that’s too bad,” the father said with a disappointment that seemed to be more than just about the tour. “But I still need to talk to you.” And after Marcus shot him a look, he added, “Just for a moment.”
Marcus apologized to Tuesday and excused himself with a peck on the cheek. His father led him to the entrance of the house but they didn’t step inside. He took him just far enough for Tuesday to be out of earshot.
Tuesday stood with the driver next to the Rolls. She gave him a nervous smile, trying not to feel too awkward. He opened the car door to suggest that she might be more comfortable waiting inside and Tuesday agreed.
While the Kings spoke, she didn’t openly stare but did glance repeatedly at them. Even though it was his father who had asked for a minute, Marcus did most of the talking. There was an aggressive flair to his gestures that made Tuesday think he was either going off or barking instructions to him. The old man just nodded compliantly as the son used his fingers to enumerate a list of things that he either hated about him, or needed him to do.
When the discussion wrapped up, Brandon trailed Marcus back to the car where he received an overnight bag for Danielle. When Marcus climbed inside, his father stuck his head inside the window for parting words.
“It’s all gonna happen pretty fast,” he said. “So you need to be ready.”
Tuesday didn’t understand what that meant but did understand the impatient glare his son shot back before he signaled the chauffeur to pull off. As the car lunged forward, his father practically had to jump back not to have his feet run over.
Tuesday was shocked by how rudely he’d treated his old man but knew it wasn’t her place to say anything. There was obviously some history at work that she didn’t know about or understand.
There was actually a laundry list of things about all of this she didn’t understand. Tuesday assumed that this whole “Marcus King” thing was just a front he was putting on, but if it was, he sure put a lot more into it than she had for Tabitha Green. All she had was a phone, some bogus ID, and an empty apartment; he had a daughter and a paid-ass father with whom he had issues. His character was so convincing that Tuesday was beginning to wonder if it really was a character at all. Even if Caine had legally changed his name, and raised the little girl to believe that he was really Marcus King, she couldn’t see his father changing his name just to go along with the plot. Plus from the way the flight attendant talked about the Kings, their name was known, just not in the circles Tuesday moved in.
Another thing that bothered her was their wealth. Nobody outside of Colombian and Mexican cartels made six hundred million dollars from selling drugs. Even if he had a strong run and hustled hard for years without ever spending a dime, Tuesday couldn’t see that. Marcus said he grew up in this house, which meant he was born into money, and the way the flight attendant said “son of Brandon King” seemed to confirm that the father was already caked up. Of course Daddy might be fucking with the game too, but you don’t drop a fat-ass mansion in Beverly Hills and a private jet without having some way of cleaning up your money.
As the Phantom cruised down the driveway, Tuesday took a final look back at the plush white palace. She couldn’t see how someone who grew up there could end up hustling in the D. It was obvious that his family had plenty of money and Marcus seemed too smart to do something that dangerous just to make a name for himself.
No matter how she looked at it, Marcus King and Sebastian Caine just didn’t match up as one person. The more thought she gave it, the more she began to suspect that she and Dresden had both got it wrong. This wasn’t her mark. This was just the rich son of a multimillionaire who, for some reason, was living low-key out in Romulus. She’d spent all this time barking up the wrong tree.
Chapter Fifteen
Mastro’s was a high-end restaurant that was obviously a favorite of the Los Angeles affluent and Hollywood celebrities. Tuesday played it cool, carried herself like she’d been somewhere before. She didn’t stare at the famous faces or pester anybody for an autograph. She didn’t want to embarrass Marcus by acting like some starry-eyed groupie, but she told herself that if Dwyane Wade walked in, then all bets were off.
They had dinner with Marcus’s accountant and his wife. The couple was about ten years older than them. Even though they were black, Tuesday could tell they were the type with absolutely no hood in them at all. Marcus spent most of dinner in whispered conversation with the man about business while huddled over a stack of paperwork he needed to sign. They were at the same table but in their own world. Through it all Tuesday tried to kick it with the wife, but she was so uptight and bougie that their conversation quickly dried up.
Tuesday didn’t make it obvious but did her share of ear-hustling while the boys were talking. They were speaking low and the noise from the other diners prevented her from hearing everything, but she heard enough being mentioned about offshore accounts and shell corporations to peep that Marcus was moving around a lot of money. Millions on top of millions. He was preparing to make some big move that neither of them would speak about in detail.
Tuesday didn’t know how to play it from here because she was more convinced than ever that not only was he not Sebastian Caine, he wasn’t even a dope boy. He spoke about investments, assets, and liquidation like a Wall Street yuppie, and every document he signed was as Marcus King. Sure, he had money, but the girls usually only hit up niggas in the game. Plus, his money was tied up in securities, stocks, and municipal bonds, not safes, duffel bags, and burial stashes they could easily get at. The fact that they dealt in cash was another reason she preferred to rob drug dealers.
Tuesday considered shifting her role to play him as the high-maintenance girlfriend, but dude was so sharp that he would peep if she switched up on him after seeing his father’s mansion and jet. Even if she could reel him in as a boyfriend, that didn’t change the fact that she owed Face four hundred G’s and couldn’t see Marcus writing a check, no questions asked. Then, to top things off, she still had to remember that the feds were about to kick in his door any day, whether he was Caine or not. That didn’t leave time to build the type of trusting relationship that gave her access to his bank accounts or safe deposit boxes.
Things must’ve gone well for Marcus because he was in a celebratory mood and took her to a swanky downtown nightclub called Red. The place was jumping and Tuesday saw as many celebrities there as she did at the restaurant. They partied up in their own VIP lounge with bottles of champagne. Tuesday couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a club that didn’t have a girl dancing on a pole.
It took some time and a whole lot of drinks to get Marcus loose enough to dance. When he got up, she pulled him close and spent the next five songs grinding her ass into his crotch until he was bone-stiff.
After a few hours, they left Red with such a buzz that Tuesday was g
lad neither of them had to drive. There was more kissing, more touching in the car, and Tuesday thought it would have been so perfect for them to fuck right there in the backseat.
The only problem was that his square ass wasn’t down. He was cool with kissing and playing with her body, but every time Tuesday tried for his zipper, he pushed her hand away.
He whispered in her ear, “Not here, but soon. Wait till we get there.”
This made a drunk and horny Tuesday curse at the driver to hurry the fuck up.
She expected a hotel, so she couldn’t believe it when they pulled back up to the airport. She figured he was about to fly her home just like that. They weren’t going to spend one night in L.A.
When they got back on the jet, as much as she tried, Tuesday couldn’t hide how disappointed she was. He only needed her to be arm candy for some dinner, and now that she’d done her part, he was dropping her back off? She felt used. She knew how crazy this was considering that she’d spent the last two weeks planning to rob and kill him, but couldn’t help how she felt. She was gracious to the friendly flight attendant who had hooked up her hair and makeup but was cold toward Marcus.
“You all right?” he asked from the seat next to hers, noticing that she’d been somewhat withdrawn since they boarded and took off.
“I’m fine.” It was said in a tone that every man who ever had a woman knew meant that she really wasn’t.
She pulled off the diamond earrings, put them back into the jewelry box she kept in the Hermès clutch and passed it back to him. “Thank you for letting me wear ’em,” she said without ever looking at him.
“You didn’t have to take ’em off so soon. I kinda liked the way they looked on you.”
“I forgot; this is yours too.” She dropped the purse in his lap, then turned to face her window. “You can get back the dress and shoes when they say it’s okay to get up and move around.”
He looked at her, confused. “Tabitha, did I do something wrong?”
She shook her head. “You did exactly what you said you was gone do. You needed somebody to go to a business dinner with you and that’s just what I did. Now it’s over.”
Marcus now understood why she was giving him attitude. He smiled as he reclined his chair. “Well, since you aren’t gonna be pressed for conversation, do you mind if I take a little nap?”
Tuesday smacked her lips. “It’s yo muthafuckin’ plane! You can do whatever you want.”
“Actually it’s my father’s, but I get your point.”
He closed his eyes, and not too long after that, the champagne, the stretched day with the extra three hours, along with the cushy leather chairs, all began to take their toll on Tuesday as well.
She dozed off trying to understand why exactly she was so mad at him.
Tuesday didn’t feel as if she’d slept long but constantly switching time zones had her internal clock all screwed up. The windows on the G-650 were all lit up from the day outside and sunbeams filtered into the cabin through the ones on the port side. Along with light, the cabin was also filled with the smell of breakfast.
Tuesday had that brief moment of confusion that we all get when waking up in an unfamiliar place. It panicked her a little bit too when she looked over and saw that Marcus was gone.
Just then the flight attendant wheeled in a cart, which was the source of that delicious aroma. Scrambled eggs and a few strips of bacon accompanied a fat Belgian waffle with strawberries. There was a large glass of orange juice to wash it down along with a mug filled with black coffee.
The flight attendant said, “I don’t mean to rush you but you may want to hurry. You only have a few minutes before we land and the tray has to be put away before we start our descent.”
“And where exactly are we about to land?” asked Tuesday. “The trip coming from Detroit didn’t take this long.”
The woman just gave her a mischievous smile before heading back to the galley.
Tuesday was half finished with breakfast when Marcus finally appeared from the back. He had changed into a white Polo shirt with long shorts that were blue, and crisp white Gucci sneakers.
He said, “Hey, stranger, still not talking to me?”
“Where are you taking me?” Tuesday tried her best to make it sound like she still had an attitude even though she wasn’t mad anymore.
He slid into the seat next to hers. “Well, for now just consider yourself kidnapped.”
“My people will never meet your demands. They have been instructed never to negotiate with terrorists.”
“I guess that means I get to keep you and do whatever I want.” He reached over and stole a strawberry from her plate and she made a motion as if to stab him with her fork.
“Why don’t you get your own?”
“I already ate while you were still sleeping.” He pecked her on the cheek. “You’re beautiful, but you snore.”
Tuesday playfully punched his arm. “Is this the type of mental abuse you put all of your hostages through?”
He laughed. “I haven’t even started abusing you yet.”
Tuesday finished her breakfast just as the flight attendant came to collect her serving cart. She returned it to the galley and the captain announced for them to fasten their seat belts because they were starting their descent.
Tuesday kept pestering him about their destination until he finally told her to look out her window. Peering down through the clouds, she saw a group of four large islands surrounded by a bunch of smaller ones that looked like gumdrops from that height.
She turned to him. “Wow, Detroit sure looks different when you see it from up here,” she said, joking.
“Baby, that’s the Caribbean Sea you lookin’ at down there, not Lake Ontario. That ain’t Belle Isle either. Welcome to the BVIs—the British Virgin Islands. I thought you might be down for a quick tropical getaway.”
“Virgin Islands, huh?” She smiled. “Sounds like the perfect place for a girl like me.”
He gave her a yeah, right look. “Well, if you’re a virgin when we get there, I promise you won’t be one by the time we leave.”
Tuesday gave him a sly smile. “Don’t make promises you ain’t gone keep!”
They landed in Road Town on the main island, Tortola, and did a little shopping for clothes better suited for the tropical weather. He laced her up with some sundresses, sandals, and a few swimsuits for the beach, then hit a couple more stores in the district picking up miscellaneous supplies they might need. Tuesday soaked up the sights and culture, still amazed by the fact that just hours ago they were half a world away.
From Road Town they took a chartered helicopter to Peter Island, which was the largest of the private islands. The Peter Island Resort was world-renowned for its luxurious accommodations and indulgent staff, but mostly for its seclusion. Being a privately owned island meant there were no people other than those staying at the resort and the staff operating it. As a rule they never booked more than one hundred guests at a time so couples would have no trouble finding privacy within its twenty-five hundred acres. In addition to hotel rooms, the Peter Island Resort also offered beachfront villas, of which the Crow’s and Falcon’s Nest were the two most elegant—and expensive.
The Falcon’s Nest had been reserved by Marcus. As the attendant showed them around, Tuesday tried not to look so gassed up but couldn’t help it. The villa was plush, the decor impeccable, and it was all surrounded by floor to ceiling windows with killer views of White Bay Beach and the Caribbean Sea. Boasting twenty thousand square feet of living space, an infinity pool with Jacuzzi, and its own personal stretch of beach, it was like having their own private mansion set on their own private island.
After they got settled in, Tuesday changed out of her evening dress into a blue-and-yellow two-piece that definitely wasn’t designed for her body type. The top fit fine, but she was practically bursting out of the bottoms. When she came out and modeled it for Marcus, the goddamn! look on his face was enough to make her laugh ou
t loud.
The first thing they did was hit the beach. The resort was designed to make guests feel as if they had the island all to themselves, which was exactly how Tuesday felt as they strolled barefoot through the warm, powdery sand. They didn’t see another soul the entire time, and as usual, Tuesday thought they could’ve got it in right on the beach without being seen—which had always been a fantasy of hers.
The resort offered numerous activities for their guests such as nature walks, hikes, and bicycle trails, but neither of them were down to do anything like that. They rented jet-skis and clowned out on the water, took a boat ride where they were taught how to dive and catch their own lobster that was served to them later at lunch. They got their drink on at the island bar where they saw a few other guests, and then after massages, they spent some time just chilling on a big hammock that was strung up between two palm trees.
Tuesday had a lot of questions but knew she couldn’t ask any of them. She still wanted to know exactly what he did for a living and what was this big move he had planned. If he wasn’t selling dope, which she seriously doubted now that he was, what was he involved in that would make the feds mistake him for Caine? She was even curious to know what the deal was between him and his father. Most important, she wanted to know why, when the Kings had money up the ass the way they did, was he living so below his means out in Romulus.
The problem was that asking those questions would require a lot of answers from her. Even if she tried to warn him about the feds, she would have to explain how she actually knew they were about to come at him. How could she know that he was living beneath his means if she had never been invited to his house? Plus at this stage, asking about his relationship with his father and the money moves discussed with his accountant might only get her “None of ya damn business!”
So she just lay there quietly with her head resting on his chest in a lover’s embrace, full off lobster, buzzed off mojitos, and relaxed from a deep tissue massage, slowly rocking in their hammock, being lulled by the swaying palm trees, the caressing breeze, and the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the surf, until they dozed off again.