Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“I should’ve packed my shit and left when you confirmed you were a Scorpio.
“You sexy mothafucka… You ain’t nothin’ but trouble. Get the fuck outta my apartment. On the double.”
She grinned.
“I don’t mean that get out part, but it sounded good anyway, so I threw it in. Oh, and that’s the end of the poem. I take PayPal and traveler’s checks. I don’t do shit for free.”
They both burst out laughing and he slapped his knee as tears welled in his eyes. He’d been so entranced with her on-the-spot verses, which had taken him somewhere far away. Someplace surreal—yet familiar. Yes, she was right. It did feel like he’d known her before. Perhaps it was the wine? He doubted it.
It was HER.
He slid his hands around her waist and pulled her close. Nestling his face into her long hair, he inhaled her intoxicating aroma.
I’m not going to try to fuck her tonight. I just want to stay like this. Still. Quiet…
I need this. I need her…
And that’s what they did… drinking wine, laughing, flirting… lovin’ hard on one another. Building something special, just for the two of them.
Chapter Seventeen
Mrs. Florence’s house was a tall muddy brown brick dwelling with a light gray awning atop a green front door. Flanking it were a couple cream-colored ceramic planters, sporting dead foliage in dry soil. It was evident that whoever was in charge of curb appeal didn’t take the task seriously.
Caspian parked his car right on the street in front of the residence and exited the vehicle, buttoning his gray suit jacket as he approached a set of concrete stairs in desperate need of repair. He paused when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Irritated at the interruption, he answered with a sigh when he saw it was Axel.
“What?”
“I heard you’re over Mrs. Florence’s house. What are you doing?”
“Why don’t you ask Legend why? I already told him I was doing an interview for—”
“Caspian, cut the bullshit. What are you really up to?”
“Axel, this may come as a surprise to you but I don’t have to explain myself to ya. You have this un-fucking-nerving ability to play father to grown men. I’m good on that. Legend may have allowed you to take charge, but I won’t. I don’t need you to find me a job, help me with a prison bid, get me a place to stay, or use me as a sous-chef for your unfortunate lame ass cookouts.”
“Caspian, you motherfucker. You have schizoid personality disorder and I’m tryna stop you from makin’ a mistake! You better not—”
“I do not have SPD. I told you that diagnosis was ruled out, but thank you, Dr. Axel, for your crude efforts to save me from myself. Now go tend to your dead body sludge. Goodbye, Axel.”
“Don’t you dare hang—”
He disconnected the call and continued up the steps.
“Mrs. Florence, you keep your hands out from around my neck this time around, if you please. That is, unless pleasure comes soon thereafter… I only accept a good chokin’ if it’s in the midst of sex.” Keep your gotdamn spirit hands to yourself…
He chuckled as he recalled her wrapping her invisible fingers around his throat and giving it a hearty squeeze. Red marks lined his flesh for several days after the paranormal assault, and all he could do was look in the mirror and laugh. Even while it happened, he’d been slightly amused. “I really am a sick, twisted fuck, aren’t I?” He reached the door and rang the bell.
After a few moments, he heard someone approaching. The door swung open and he was immediately hit with the familiar scent of collard greens and smoked turkey.
“Well, good afternoon. Are you Ms. Pride?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Ms. Pride, I’m Caspian Emory. Pleased to meet you.” He took a slight bow then extended his hand. She shook it and he made quick work of slipping his media I.D. out of his pocket and flashing it before her. Monica Pride was a hickory-complexioned woman with deep reddish tones and a face that was slightly sunken in along the jawline. Her thin frame was clad in overalls and an orange, red, and black headscarf was tied in an elaborate knot around her head. From her lobes dangled sparkly silver hoop earrings. Her eyes were similarly shaped to her aunt’s, Mrs. Florence.
“Hey, Caspian. Nice to meet you, too. Step on in. Phelps!” she hollered. He figured Phelps was her husband, or perhaps her son. Moments later, a light-skinned Black man who appeared to be in his mid- to late forties approached. Bald with silver and black stubble along his face and sparse eyebrows, he smiled. He extended his hand.
“Hi, you must be Mr. Emory. The reporter and old student of Millicent’s.”
“Yes, I am.”
As they exchanged greetings, he noted the man’s hands were heavily calloused. He was a hardworking individual.