by Shelly Ellis
“You’re lyin’.” Mariana laughed and wagged a finger at him. “I can always tell when a dude is lyin’, Ricky. It’s all over your face. So what did she do? Fuck up your shit? Break your heart?”
Both, he wanted to answer, but instead he shrugged.
“Nah! That bitch’s man owes me money,” he lied, trying his best to sound blasé, “and I’m just trying to collect my shit.”
“But what are you gonna do if you can’t find her?”
“I’ll find her.” His jaw clenched. “I’ll track them down. I ain’t worried.”
Mariana loudly exhaled and slapped his knee. “Well, I hope you do, and I hope what I did helped. I gotta go, mi amor.”
He watched as she pushed open the car door and stepped back onto the sidewalk. She leaned down and winked at him. “Take care, Ricky.”
“See you, baby.”
After she slammed the door shut, Ricky returned his attention to his phone, copying addresses and saving them. But even as he typed, Mariana’s question replayed in his head: What if he didn’t find Simone?
What if the cop had gotten it wrong and Simone’s mother didn’t live in Lanham but in Lorton or Largo or Loudon County? What if he went to every address and discovered all of them were wrong? He didn’t have any other leads and didn’t have any ideas on how to find them. This whole endeavor could prove to be pointless.
He was starting to feel obsessed, driven by a manic need to see Simone, confront her, and make her pay for what she’d done to him. He even dreamed about it at night—when he could get to sleep.
In some of the dreams he would be shouting, Why did you do it? How could you betray me like that? I trusted you, bitch! He’d raise his gun and pull the trigger, always waking up gasping just as the bullet fired.
And sometimes he would dream of them in bed back at her apartment. She would be smiling up at him, running her hands along his face and whispering, Love you, baby. She’d then raise her mouth to his for a soul-stirring kiss. And he’d wake up gasping again, but for a very different reason.
It ripped him apart: the not knowing, the lack of closure. He had to find her.
Just then his phone began to buzz. A number popped up on his screen that he didn’t recognize, so he sent it to voice mail, scrolling through his phone, searching for more addresses. Thirty seconds later, the same number popped up on the screen again. He let out an impatient breath, deciding to answer.
“Hello?” he barked.
No one answered.
“Hello?” he yelled again. “Hello? Who the hell keeps calling?”
He swore he heard breathing on the other end and then a scuffling sound. The caller hung up, leaving him staring at his phone in confusion.
Chapter 9
Jamal
Jamal staggered through the door of the waiting area leading to his office. He approached his assistant’s desk.
“Good morning, Sharon,” he called to her in a gravelly voice while squinting behind his dark shades. He gave her a haphazard wave as he passed her on the way to his office.
“Rough start to the day, sir?” she asked. She raised her brows at him, eyeing him knowingly.
“Nothing Excedrin and a cup of coffee can’t cure.”
To illustrate his point, he sipped the store-bought coffee he’d purchased on the way to work.
Jamal was nursing another hangover. This seemed to be happening a lot lately, particularly when he went out with Mayor Johnson. This time it had been a business summit in the city. The mayor and he had gone out for drinks after the event and the rest of the night had been a blur of laughter, women, and alcohol. Jamal had woken up in the bed of some stranger—a blonde who lived in a condo in Adams Morgan. She’d been snoring when he woke up. He’d sneaked out of her place, wanting to avoid what was likely to be an awkward morning-after encounter.
Hey, you, random person whose bed I just stumbled out of. I can’t remember your name and I can barely remember what we did last night, but would you like to have some breakfast together before I walk out the door and we never speak again?
It was the only thing he could imagine saying.
Jamal had at least been relieved to find evidence that he’d worn a condom. In fact, he was still wearing it when he’d opened his eyes and raised his head from one of her pillows. It was casual sex, but at least it was “safe” casual sex—thank God. But he knew this had to stop. In the past, he’d never been one for haphazard hookups. That had been more Ricky’s MO. He’d always seen that kind of behavior as reckless and irresponsible. It just wasn’t him.
Yes, it is, a voice in his head chided. It’s who you are now: a corrupt hedonist who can’t even show up to work on time anymore.
“Mr. Lighty,” Sharon called to him. “Mr. Lighty, sir!”
He paused in the doorway of his office and turned around to look at her. “Yeah?”
“Your nine o’clock is still here. He’s been waiting for you for the past twenty-five minutes,” Sharon said.
Jamal lowered his sunglasses and narrowed bloodshot eyes at her. “Who?”
“Your nine o’clock!” She gestured to the leather sofa on the other side of the waiting area. “You had an interview scheduled with Phillip Seymour at the Washington Recorder today.” She tilted her head and widened her eyes. “Remember?”
Jamal turned to find the doughy, pale reporter grinning up at him eagerly. Phil pushed his wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger and waved at Jamal. “Morning, Deputy Mayor Lighty! I was wondering if we’d have to reschedule our interview. Glad I waited for you.”
Jamal barely stifled a groan.
Fuck, he thought.
He had scheduled his interview with Phil last week, back when he wasn’t hungover and was just trying to rush Phil off the phone so that he could get to a meeting. Unfortunately, he’d completely forgotten about the interview.
Jamal forced a smile despite his pounding headache. “Actually, Phil, I don’t know if we can still do the interview today. I have a meeting I totally blanked out on that starts in thirty minutes. Doesn’t it, Sharon?”
“What meeting, sir?”
His smile tightened. “You know the one with that uh . . . uh nonprofit?”
She pursed her lips and loudly sighed. “I’m unaware of what meeting with a nonprofit you’re referring to, Mr. Lighty. It’s not one I scheduled.”
Thanks a lot, Sharon, he thought in exasperation.
He should’ve known she wouldn’t lie for him. Frankly, the no-nonsense woman seemed to be growing tired of his shenanigans, of him stumbling late into the office, bleary-eyed, or him forgetting scheduled meetings and appointments. He suspected she disapproved of the new Jamal as opposed to the boring but punctual old one.
Phil rose from the sofa. “That’s not a problem, Mr. Lighty. My interview won’t take long. You can still make it to your meeting.”
Jamal removed his sunglasses. “Okay, then . . . well . . . uh . . . step inside my office, I . . . I guess.”
Phil did as he said, striding across the waiting area into Jamal’s office, where he immediately took one of the armchairs facing Jamal’s desk.
“Hold all my calls, please, Sharon,” he said to his assistant before closing his office door behind them.
He strolled to his desk, setting down his coffee next to his desk calendar and putting his briefcase on the floor.
“So . . . remind me again what this interview is about. You wanted to discuss a housing grant, correct?”
“Uh, no . . . it was about a housing development. Low-income housing, in fact, in Ward 8.”
Jamal nodded as he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair. “Go on. What questions did you have about it?”
Phil flipped open his notepad and drew out a pen from his jacket pocket. “Well, you see, Mr. Lighty, the development has stalled for the past year. Few if any of the twenty townhomes slated to be built were completed. There’s still building materials sitting
abandoned under plastic tarps. Workers show up occasionally, but they just sit around and drink coffee, then leave. I was wondering why the project hasn’t been completed.”
Jamal fell back into his desk chair and stifled a yawn. “Some projects run behind schedule, Phil. Weather can play a part. There are also sometimes issues with the subcontractors. Or it could be—”
“Speaking of contractors,” Phil said, flipping pages, “one of them seems to be a pretty good friend of Mayor Johnson. Cedric Morris. He was in several photos with the mayor and his wife.”
“All right. So he’s friends with the mayor. What does that have to do with anything?”
“I just wonder if the mayor’s relationship with Mr. Morris could have anything to do with why the city may be hesitating in holding the builder accountable for his missed deadlines.”
Jamal’s pounding headache was getting worse. The last thing he needed was Phil catching on to the mayor’s dirty business deals. But he knew from his own experience that the mayor had left a plentiful trail of breadcrumbs for someone to follow. All they had to do was look.
He leaned forward in his chair and braced his elbows on his desktop. “I’m sure that has nothing to do with it, Phil,” he lied. “Besides, the entire council had to approve the—”
“And it’s not just that development. There are others around the city—I found three more—that Mr. Morris is connected to that have either stalled or seemed to have stopped completely. If this contractor has a history of deserting projects, why does he keep getting awarded contracts? Does the mayor realize the impression this gives?”
Jamal gritted his teeth. “You would have to ask him.”
“I tried to ask him, Mr. Lighty, but he won’t return my phone calls or emails. I reached out to you because I’ve interviewed you in the past. I . . . I know you’ll be honest with me.”
Jamal stilled. Great, he thought. Now Phil was guilt-tripping him. But still, he and Mayor Johnson had a deal. He had to keep and protect the mayor’s secrets.
Remember who your friends are, Jamal could hear the mayor whisper in his head.
“Look, Phil, if I knew or heard anything about some shady business going on between the mayor and this contractor guy, I would tell you. But I haven’t. I’m sure there’s a good explanation for all of this.”
Phil opened his mouth to speak again, but Jamal held up his hand to stop him.
“I get it. I get it. It may look nefarious on face value, but looks can be deceiving. The mayor is not corrupt. Trust me.”
Despite his assurances, Phil stared at him, still looking mistrustful.
“Why don’t I do this? Why don’t I check into it, if it makes you feel any better?” Jamal asked, throwing him a bone. “Write down the names of the developments and their addresses and I’ll see what’s going on with them and get back to you.”
Phil eagerly nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Lighty! I’d appreciate that.”
Jamal watched as the other man scribbled on one of the pages before ripping it out of the notebook and handing it to Jamal. Jamal glanced down at the sheet.
“So are we good now? Did I answer all your questions?”
Phil nodded and rose to his feet. “We’re good. If you could give me a call in a week or two and—”
“Don’t worry,” Jamal said with a chuckle. “I will.”
“Okay, thanks again, Mr. Lighty.”
He then walked toward Jamal’s office door, tucking his pen and notepad into his jacket as he went. He opened the door and stepped back into the waiting area.
“See ya, Sharon!” Jamal heard Phil call out.
“Bye, Phillip!” his assistant answered.
After about a minute, Jamal balled up the paper on which Phil had written the addresses and tossed it into a nearby trash can. He then opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Excedrin, shaking two into the palm of his hand before tossing them into his mouth and swallowing them dry.
Chapter 10
Derrick
“This was a bad idea.”
Derrick paused midway of pushing open the driver’s side door. He turned to stare at Melissa, who hadn’t opened her door yet. She hadn’t even unbuckled her seat belt.
“Huh?” he said, eying her.
“I said this is a bad idea, Dee,” Melissa repeated, staring out the car window at the block of row houses. “I never should’ve agreed to this. What the hell was I thinking? It’s gonna be a damn disaster!”
Derrick sighed and closed his door.
They were slated to have dinner at her father and Lucas’s place for the first time. Melissa had seemed hesitant when she said yes to her father’s offer a couple of weeks ago, but since then the hesitancy had turned into full-on rejection of the idea. That rejection was on display right now.
“Baby, it won’t be a disaster. Besides, it’ll be a lot worse if we don’t go in there. We told them we were coming. We’re already kinda late. It’ll look like we stood them up. I bet it’ll hurt your dad’s feelings.”
“And why should I care if I hurt his feelings?” she said through clenched teeth, making it sound almost like a growl. “He didn’t care that he hurt my feelings—or Mama’s!”
Derrick closed his eyes and tiredly scrubbed his hand over his face. “Lissa, don’t start this again. You and your dad talked about this. You had a whole conversation about it. Remember?”
“That doesn’t mean everything is cool with us again though, Dee.” She turned and glared out the window again. “It doesn’t mean that I’m not still pissed or hurt!”
He opened his eyes, reached out, and pushed aside one of her braids before running his index finger along her chin and his thumb along her cheek. This time she leaned her face into the palm of his hand. He turned her face around and leaned over the gear shift so that they could kiss. When he pulled away from her a few seconds later, the anger and stubbornness had left her face. She looked more scared than anything else.
“I know you’re still pissed and hurt. I didn’t expect you to suddenly be okay with everything. But there’s no way you’re ever gonna feel better . . . that you’re ever gonna stop being pissed or hurt until you both make an effort and try again. You reached out to him by inviting him out for coffee. He reached out to you by inviting you to dinner at his place. It’s your turn again, baby. We gotta go inside.”
She loudly exhaled and rolled her eyes. “I hate it when you do that.”
“When I do what?”
“Sound all rational and methodical. It’s that damn degree in psychology coming through. I hate it when you use it on me,” she said, twisting her mouth ruefully.
He laughed and ran his thumb along her cheek again. “I think it comes in handy, but that’s just me.”
He watched as she pursed her lips and stared at the façade of her father’s row house. The light from the front porch glowed orange and bright in her dark eyes. She sat silently for what felt like a full minute before she finally nodded.
“Fine, I’ll go in. I just hope I don’t regret this later, Dee.”
“For the thousandth time, trust me, bae. You won’t.”
* * *
“There y’all are!” Mr. Theo cried with a smile before opening the door and beckoning them forward. “Lucas was wondering if he would have to reheat the food. Come in! Come in!”
As soon as Mr. Theo cracked open the door, his and Lucas’s chocolate-colored Labrador, Otis, came charging onto the screened-in front porch. He leapt straight for Melissa, who let out a squeal when his paws landed on her chest, almost shoving her back a good foot or two. She almost stumbled over a flower pot. She didn’t look alarmed as much as caught off guard by the pet.
“Otis! Otis!” her father yelled, reaching for Otis’s collar and dragging him back. “Get your brown ass back in here!”
Derrick and Melissa gave each other a bemused side glance as they stepped through the door and found Mr. Theo still struggling to tug the barking and slobbering dog down a hallway that was crow
ded with plants, stacks of newspapers waiting to be recycled, as well as discarded shoes. Derrick was used to the disarray, but he could tell Melissa was surprised by it.
Mr. Theo’s ex-wife, Susan, had kept an orderly home when he and Susan still lived together. The prim and proper Susan Stone never would have allowed this state of chaos. But Mr. Theo wasn’t living with her anymore. That message was loud and clear.
Melissa squinted at her dad as he finally shoved the Labrador into another room, shutting the door behind him. They could still hear Otis’s barks and whimpers, even the scratching of his paws against the door.
“I’ll take your coats,” Mr. Theo said breathlessly, holding out his hand to them.
“You have a dog now?” Melissa asked with raised brows while unbuttoning her jacket.
Her father nodded. “Yeah, we got him from the shelter about a year ago.”
“I asked you for years if we could get a dog, Dad,” she said, shrugging out of her jacket and handing it to him. “You always told me no. You said that you didn’t like dogs.”
“I still don’t,” he answered with a laugh before placing her jacket on a nearby wall hook and taking Derrick’s wool coat from him.
“But you got a dog anyway,” she persisted.
Her father paused from hanging up Derrick’s coat. “Things change, sweetheart. People change.”
She glanced at Lucas, who had stepped out of the kitchen and walked down the hall toward them. Lucas’s denim apron was stained with a splatter of some kind of sauce. “Yeah, I noticed,” she murmured.
“I see you’ve met Otis,” Lucas said.
The smell of the dinner Lucas had cooked wafted down the hall toward them. Derrick noticed that Lucas was wringing a dish towel in his hand while trying to undo the knot in the strings of his apron, before giving up in defeat. He looked nervous. Derrick could understand why.
“Good to see you again, Dee.” He nodded at Derrick, then held out his hand to Melissa for a shake. “Hey, Melissa, your father has told me so much about you. I’m excited to . . . well . . . to finally meet you.”