Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 836(@200wpm)___ 669(@250wpm)___ 558(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 836(@200wpm)___ 669(@250wpm)___ 558(@300wpm)
I watched her look around as she followed my father to the front door, taking in the immaculate front lawn and the house I’d grown up in. Her head tilted in contemplation when she noticed the paved ramp perpendicular to the stairs leading up to the small porch.
It had been the selling point for my parents when they bought this house after moving out of the hood.
His back to Atlas, my father gave me a warning look to behave before leaving us alone so he could help my mother in the kitchen.
“Aye, you better stop looking at my pops like that before my mom fucks you up,” I whispered, yanking my girl to me when I caught her drooling over my father.
Atlas’s mouth, which had been hanging open, snapped closed with a guilty squeal and audible click of her teeth. “Baby…he looks just like you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I dismissed.
I’d heard that shit all of my life. My father could pass for my twin, especially since he looked nowhere near his fifty-nine years and more like an older brother. I let my hands wander under my hoodie and helped myself to two handfuls of her ass, which was still hanging out of her shorts.
“Who told you that you that could wear my shit?” I teased as I kissed and sucked on her neck.
I’d probably never get my hoodie back now, but that was okay. I liked seeing her in my shit more than I’d ever admit aloud. Atlas and I had been together for six months, but I was still learning how to express emotions other than anger and lust. I wasn’t about to turn into some purse-holding sucker-for-love, but I had no problem whatsoever letting my girl know how precious she was to me.
“Stop, Owen,” Atlas whined as soon as I got a little frisky. My hands were shoved so far up her shorts now that my fingertips had burrowed under her thong, teasing her wet folds and spreading her arousal around. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
It was times like this that I was reminded of her age—more like punched in the dick with it.
“I’m a grown-ass man, Atlas.”
“Owen Rashaad, leave that girl alone, and ya’ll come get this food,” my mother called from the kitchen.
Atlas lifted a brow, looking smug now as she waited to see what I’d do.
“You got it,” I told Atlas as I let her go. “This time.”
I took her hand and led her into the dining room. The table my parents cappin’ asses never used—preferring to eat in front of the TV—was already set with platters of pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, and biscuits waiting in the middle. Steam still rose from each of the dishes.
My father hadn’t been bullshitting when he said my mom was excited to meet Atlas. Since becoming a man, I’d had to listen to her guilt trips over never becoming a grandmother when it became clear her only child hadn’t been interested in marriage and babies.
“Sit down, baby.” I pulled out her chair before copping a squat beside her.
My beaming mother entered a moment later, carrying a pitcher of orange juice in her lap. My father was behind her with his hands around the handles of her wheelchair as he pushed her toward the table.
I took a sip from the glass of water already waiting for me as I watched for Atlas’s reaction out of the corner of my eye.
To someone who didn’t know what to look for, her soft smile would have been the only thing she gave away, but I could see the wheels turning in her head as she slowly pieced together everything I’d shared with her about my parents and upbringing.
Back when my Pops and I were beefing heavily over how I was getting money, my mom had gotten hurt in a hit-and-run that left her paralyzed from the waist down. Everyone assumed the accident was the reason my father and I had set our differences aside, but it was only part of the truth.
The other half was scattered six feet deep around the mountains of Hilltop. It was where my father and I had left the motherfucker who had ran my mother off the road.
“Oh, my word, Michael,” my mom gushed as she stared at Atlas. “You didn’t tell me how pretty she was!”
“I might have taken a few hits to the head during my fighting days, but that didn’t make me a fool, woman.” My mother playfully hit my Pops on the arm before giving her full attention back to my baby.
Like Atlas, if my mom was shocked by her age, she didn’t show it, meaning my father had already warned her before they came in.
“Hello, Mrs. Wray. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Oh, please, child. Call me Heidi.”
“Okay, Ms. Heidi.”
The four of us cracked up over Atlas’s insistence on being respectful, no doubt an influence of being raised by Black parents. We never called our elders by their first name; it was always Ms., Mr., Aunt, or Uncle, according to whatever role they parroted in our lives.