Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
“Sounds like somebody is jealous.” I sat in my seat.
Minutes later, the stewardess stumbled out of the bathroom with her purse. She checked her watch, hurried to Jean-Pierre, and spoke.
For whatever reason, he gave her a wide smile and then nodded.
Then, she sneered at me and rushed away.
Jean-Pierre ran his fingers through his hair. “Put your seatbelt on, Maxwell. It is time to land.”
“And where in the U.S.A are we landing?”
“Nowhere near New York.”
“Can you give me more hints?”
“West Coast. California. Have you ever heard of a city called Belladonna?”
“Naw. What’s in Belladonna?”
“Lots of things.”
I put on my seat belt. “But, what do you want there?”
“I have nothing in Belladonna. We are actually going outside of the city. Up in the mountains.”
“For what?”
“Somewhere in this arrangement, Maxwell, you think that I am to answer to you.”
“It’s just questions. I’m a grown ass man.”
“Meaning?”
“You can’t just take a man anywhere and expect his ass to just pleasantly trot along.”
“Yet, you will trot, Maxwell.” Jean-Pierre pulled out his phone. “And you will do so in the most pleasant way possible.”
“I don’t trot. And I’m not pleasant.”
“I see.”
“What’s in the mountains outside of Belladonna?”
“A man that I need to talk to. His name is Timur." He typed into the phone, probably talking to Eden. "Does that name sound familiar to you?”
“No, but why is this man important to you?”
“He knows more about Fela than any of us. I think he can help. However, it is rumored that Timur may have gone mad.”
“Mad how?”
“They say Timur built a church based on a religion he created and that his congregation is wood people.”
Yeah. He’s crazy.
I quirked my brows. “Do you really think Timur will have a lot of information about Fela?”
“I do.”
“The sort of information that could win a war?”
“It would put the Lion and Mouse in an advantageous position.”
"And what would you need from me, since you dragged me along?"
"Oh, Maxwell." He looked up from his phone and stared at me. "There are several reasons why you're on this trip."
Chapter 3
The Plot Twist
W
e left the plane.
First step outside, I stayed at the top of the stairs and pulled out my joint case and lighter.
Back in Harlem, Em had bought me the cigarette case to keep my joints in. She thought that when I just had them in my pocket, I reeked of weed. The case was silver and had an embossed design of a cannabis leaf on the front with my name engraved under it. It was my favorite thing to stash my joints in, and I always made sure to keep it close by. Inside of it, the metal flaps held the joints under so they wouldn't fly everywhere when it was open.
Finally, I can smoke.
I opened the case and grabbed a fat joint. The California sun shone down on my skin, warming me instantly.
Heading down the steps, I placed the joint between my lips, flicked my lighter on, and let the flame lick the joint's end.
Once I took a long drag, the tight ache in my chest eased. The smoke swirled around inside my lungs before I exhaled.
There we go.
I chilled by the steps as more of the French left the jet.
When Boris departed, he gazed down at me and shook his head.
I ignored him. The fresh air was invigorating, and the joint tasted smooth and earthy. My muscles loosened. My worries dissipated.
The world became brighter through the haze of cannabis. It felt softer, more manageable. The colors were more vivid. The breeze was more refreshing. Smiling, I took another hit off the joint, feeling my body relax into the day.
First time in California. Let's see what you have for me.
More men left.
Exhaling, I scanned the space.
The small airport was clustered between fields of tall grass and a great view of California’s beautiful coast. A few planes were parked on the tarmac around a two-level gray building.
Several black SUVs surrounded a champagne-colored Bentley Bentayga.
No one can say Jean-Pierre doesn’t have style.
I looked up. That California sun gleamed. A few white clouds dotted the pale blue sky.
It was a nice day.
Perhaps, I should have been happy for the safe flight and the nice fuck in the bathroom, but I wasn’t. A deep melancholy feeling washed over my soul.
The weed only dulled the ache a little. After a couple of puffs, the ache returned within me, tugging at my heart and giving me that hollow, empty sensation.
I can't believe I'm on the West Coast. Life is crazy.
Being back in the States reminded me of my life in New York and how it all seemed so distant now, so far away. I wasn’t that same man from Harlem anymore. I’d seen too many things, experienced too much to not change.
Jean-Pierre headed down the stairs and passed me. "Let's go, Maxwell. We have a long day."
Pushing away old memories, I put the joint out, placed it in my box, stuffed that in my back pocket, and followed the Butcher.