Love and Law (7 page)

We all trail behind him through a narrow hallway, passing many doors before we reach one. He pops open the door and turns on the light, revealing two bunk beds in an office-turned-bedroom. Not exactly the Ritz Carlton.

“Bunk beds!” one of the girls squeals, running to one and hopping onto the top bunk. Her excitement sickens me as I think of how young she may be, already being dragged into such a toxic world.

The other girl hurries to the bottom bunk below and sits down. Shit, now I’m left to share a bunk with Bitch Face.

“The office next door has a refrigerator and microwave. That room is stocked with everything you could need, so please help yourself. Get some rest, because, tomorrow, we get to work,” Pac orders, retreating from the room.

And in a confusing shift of mood, I suddenly don’t want him to leave me. “Where are you going?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

“Clingy cunt,” Bitch Face mutters out before stomping over to the free bottom bunk.

Pac narrows his eyes at me. I can tell that he knows I’m not happy with him or these living arrangements, but he doesn’t question my hot-and-cold attitude.

“Out,” he replies coolly before storming out of the room.

I’m fucking hurt and I hate myself for feeling that way.

“SMELLS GOOD, GRAMMY!” I PRAISE,
walking in the front door.

“Pooh Bear!” she calls out from the kitchen. “It’s almost ready. I’m running a bit behind. Lynetta called and tied me up a little longer than I wanted. Damn gossip just wanted to talk about everyone down at the church.”

The house smells amazing—just like always when she makes my favorite meal.

“Okay. I’ll be in the basement until it’s ready,” I holler back. I toss my keys and phone on the table in the entryway and bound down the stairs.

I’ve got so much pent-up sexual frustration from dealing with Kerry or Braids or whoever the fuck she is that I need to release some energy. I’ll throw myself into a project to get my mind off of her.

The chest material sits in a pile beside my workbench, but I’m not interested in that right now. I want to create a piece that represents her—strong, yet beautiful. So much for working to get her off my mind. I try not to think about her as I kneel down and begin digging through some unique pieces of wood I’ve collected recently.

Dad was always one for collecting random pieces of wood because “sometimes a project will just speak to you” and you’ll have something beautiful and unique to work with. I select a piece of mahogany that looks dark, mysterious, and resilient—just like her—and set to sanding it down.

“Dad, what will you do with this ugly piece of wood? Want me to throw it in the scrap pile?” I ask, turning the weathered piece over and over in my hands. It looks ugly.

Dad smiles and walks over to me. He pulls the piece away and studies it proudly. “No, son. I picked this piece out for a reason. There’s potential here.”

I scrunch up my nose and look at him confused. “How? Who would want it?”

“I’m going to make your momma something special with this piece. It’s just the perfect size to make a jewelry box. Do you think your momma would like that?” he asks.

To be nice, even though I think she’ll hate it, I nod. He laughs and sets to work on the piece. A couple of hours later, he’s built a beautiful top and bottom for a box. I watch him with curiosity as he adds hinges and a latch. He walks over to his cabinet and pulls out a scrap of pink felt.

Carefully, he cuts the felt to perfectly fit inside the box. It is small but beautiful—just like he knew it would be.

“Dad, she’ll love it!” I praise. My dad is so creative. I want to be just like him when I grow up.

“That she will, son. Now you know why I look for those special pieces. I hope you’ll see the beauty now in something that others would normally look over.”

I nod my head, knowing that I will never look at a scrap piece the same again. In fact, I’m excited to look in our backyard for anything workable. Dad already said that he thinks I’m grown enough to show me how to use the saw. I’ll find something to make for Momma and Grammy.

“Now go and wash up. Grammy and Momma are making our favorite dinner!” he laughs and tickles my sides. I giggle all the way up the stairs as Dad, my hero, chases behind me.

“Pooh Bear, supper’s ready!” Grammy shouts from the top of the stairs, yanking me from my happy memories. I’ve managed to sand down the piece of mahogany to my liking in the short amount of time I was down here.

“Be right up!” I yell and set the project down.

Bounding up the stairs, I’m met with the delicious aromas of Grammy’s home cooking and my stomach grumbles loudly. When I walk into the kitchen, I nearly groan out loud in delight. She’s got quite the spread tonight. The table is full of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and homemade gravy, green beans, and buttermilk biscuits. Grammy’s already piled my plate high and has it sitting on my placemat, waiting for me. I’m totally spoiled by this woman.

“You outdid yourself tonight!” I compliment as I sit down to dive right in. I’m already picking up a hot piece of chicken when she stops me.

“No, sir! We didn’t say our blessings yet,” she admonishes, sitting down beside me.

I freeze mid-bite and set down my chicken breast. My mouth is watering, but you don’t cross Grammy—not when she’s just made your favorite meal. I know there’s a big piece of chocolate cake waiting for me, and if I piss her off, I’ll be watching her eat it alone.

She bows her head and begins her prayer. “Dear Lord, we thank you for your many blessings. Thank you for giving our dear Benjamin a career that provides for us, oh Lord. He’s got his daddy’s woodworking skills, and we thank you that he’s not on the street like so many from this area are. And thank you, sweet Jesus, for giving me such good health in my old age. Eighty-four years old and I’m still doing better than that old cooter, Lynetta—damn gossip! Oh, forgive me, Lord, for cursing, but you know how much she drives me crazy. And finally, I pray you find my sweet Pooh Bear a good woman with childbearing hips that will give me plenty of great-grandbabies. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen,” she says.

I bite back a laugh during every one of her prayers. She’s a spunky, old thing. I’ll be gutted the day she leaves this Earth. Grammy is my only family, and I’ll be lost without her. The moment she said the words “childbearing hips,” I instantly thought of the mysterious woman from today. Her hips were thick and curvaceous. I want nothing more than to grip them until they bruise while she rides me orgasm after orgasm.

“Boy, are you day dreaming again?” she questions, snapping me from my thoughts.

“Oh, um, no,” I lie, which earns me a glare. I get my lie-detecting skills from the master herself. Thankfully, she lets me slide.

I’m about to take a bite when CJ’s ringtone starts playing from the entryway table. He knows not to bother me after ‘work,’ so it must be an emergency, which is imperative to why I must take the call. I ignore the disproving look from Grammy and rush to answer it.

Keeping my voice low, I grumble. “What is it?”

“Hey, boss. Um, you need to get down here right away. There’s been a situation with the females. These bitches are crazy. I’m sorry to bother you, but they’re fucking uncontrollable!” he gripes, seemingly frustrated.

“Fuck! Okay, I’ll be there in ten,” I growl and hang up.

I’m still muttering under my breath when I make my way back into the kitchen to deliver the bad news. She’s standing by my plate, wrapping foil over the top—already knowing what I’m going to say before I say it.

“Another friend need help?” she questions.

I nod. I hate that I lie about this to her, but there’s no other way. She would never approve, and I’m too far into it to ever stop.

“Well, my grandbaby isn’t going hungry. You take this to-go plate with you so you don’t starve, son,” she declares, setting the plate in a sack. She hustles over to the fridge and pulls out her famous chocolate cake. After she cuts me off a generous-sized piece and wraps it up, she adds it to the sack.

“Thanks, Grammy. I’m sorry,” I tell her genuinely.

Everything I do is for her, but she will never understand my ‘side job,’ which makes me feel continuously guilty for keeping it from her. She’d rather go hungry than have her grandson deal drugs. And Grammy going hungry will never fucking happen. Not my Grammy.

“Will you be out late? Should I expect you back soon?” she asks as I kiss the top of her head before gathering up my bag of food.

“I fucking doubt it,” I groan, knowing that the sound of CJ’s voice means I’ve got a mess on my hands.

Before I even realize my mistake, Grammy has her rolled up magazine and swats me upside the head.

“No cursing in my home, Benjamin Winston Cartwright!” she scolds and whacks me again before I duck out of her way so I don’t get it a third time.

This would be the downside of living with your grammy. I’m second-in-command to the city’s largest cocaine dealers. I scare most men with just a glare. But when I’m home, Grammy is the boss. It truly is ironic.

“Love you, Grammy!” I call out and bolt for the front door, scooping up my keys along the way.

She mumbles out something about having to eat by herself, and I try desperately to ignore the guilt that eats away inside.

I open the office door to find one of the chicks I found today and
her.
Her
being the mysterious one who refuses to give me her real name. The women are sitting in chairs near each other and both of them look pissed off. CJ, who is pacing the office, turns to me and frowns.

“What the fuck is going on?” I demand, setting my bag down on the desk.

“Ask them,” he spits out, unusually angry for normal CJ behavior.

I turn my head back to the two women. Both have their arms crossed and refuse to look at each other. Wait? Is that blood coming from
her
nose?

Stalking over to her, I startle her when I kneel in front of her sitting in the chair. “Baby girl, did she hit you in the nose?” I ask softly.

She goes from looking pissed to upset, which confuses me. “I was minding my own fucking business when Bitch Face decided to push the mattress I was laying on up with her feet and knocked me off the bed! On the way down, I banged my nose. But was that enough? No! She fucking attacked me. What is your problem with me anyway? You want him?” she demands, snapping her head in the direction of the appropriately named Bitch Face, who is glaring back at her. These two want to kill each other.

“I don’t like you. And my name is Tameka, not Bitch Face. But we can call you Cocksucker since that’s how you plan on getting paid around here,” she antagonizes.

My girl—yeah, she’s already mine in my eyes—bolts from the chair lightning fast and tackles Tameka out of her chair and into the floor. I’m shocked at first but quickly recover and run over to yank Kerry or whoever the fuck she is off of Tameka. I capture her in a bear hug with my arms around her middle, and I can’t help but feel turned on with her body pressed against my cock. Thankfully, CJ yanks on Tameka’s arm, pulling her to her feet.