Page 12 of Memphis

So, he lied about his name, too. I was beginning to like him.

But just a little bit.

“What I teach is a very lethal combination of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and military LINE combat,” he continued. “At the end of this class, you will be able to defeat your opponent and cause grave bodily harm, but you will also know when that is necessary. Now, let’s get to work!”

And work we did.

I was alwayssomeone who was naturally vigilant, constantly aware of my surroundings. It didn’t hurt that I also had freakishly acute hearing. So that night, a month into the self-defense classes, I knew I was being followed as I left the strip mall heading to my car. The footfalls were soft, as if the person was trying not to be perceived—or since I was the last student to leave, perhaps they believed I was someone who was unaware of their surroundings—but I heard them, felt their presence, and it didn’t feel like it was Mr. Riley. I could sense this was a stranger, a stranger who wastrouble.

Although my heart raced, I kept my steps steady and deliberate. I didn’t glance over my shoulder or do anything elsethat would lead someone to believe I knew what was going on. Arriving at my little Nissan, I unlocked the door and had opened it when I felt a hand on my left shoulder accompanied by a voice.

I spun around, quickly cutting his “Excuse me” off with a shot to his eyes, or maybe just his eyeglasses, from my keychain pepper spray and a swift knee to his groin followed by a hard punch to his nose. He was young, medium brown skinned, and okay looking, wearing eyeglasses that now sat crooked on his face. As he lay on the ground moaning, I lifted my right foot to finish him by stomping his head but paused when he screeched, “Wait! Wait! I have a business proposition for you,” while squinting up at me. I knew his eyes were hurting like a bitch. Those glasses hadn’t protected a damn thing.

Good.

“I’m not fucking you!” I yelled.

He vigorously shook his head. “No! No! Not that. The way you fight? That’s a lucrative skill.”

At that statement, I lowered my foot to the ground and said, “Talk.”

7

Now…

Istepped into my mother’s living room, noted the bodies occupying the space, and shook my head. This was what I left my woman for? I instantly turned to head right back out the door because…fuck this.

“Bo! Come in here and sit down!” my mother boomed, her strong voice contrasting her frail appearance. She’d always been a tiny woman, standing less than five feet tall, with a huge presence.

I turned to face her. “You said this was a family business meeting.”

Nodding, she confirmed, “It is.”

“Nah, can’t be. If so,shewouldn’t be here,” I countered, nodding toward the very pretty woman sitting beside her on the sofa.

“She lives here. Sheisfamily, son. She’s your wife.”

“Ex-wife. Heavy on the ex.”

“You know she is still family and always will be. Now, sit down, son.”

I squared my shoulders. “Nah, I’ll stand.”

My beautiful, cocoa skinned mother sighed as she crossed her legs and clasped her hands over her knees. “Stubborn as ever. Fine, have it your way. After your father died, I chose you to run The Agency—although Zaccai is the oldest—because you are methodical, calculated, and always business minded.”

“I know,” I said, irritated as all fuck to be standing in this room with my mother, Zaccai’s tattle telling ass, and got damn Layla—my ex—when I had the love of my life waiting for me at my house. I had pussy to eat, and I was standing there listening to my mom tell me shit I already knew.

“Then why are you letting your emotions lead you?”

It was time for me to sigh. “Zaccai got a slick mouth. You know that. I had to lay out some tread for his ass.”

“Over a bitch, though? Over some old pussy? I gotta have surgery on my foot! The bones are fucked up!” Zaccai interjected, sitting in a chair with crutches beside him and that foot all wrapped up. He was so damn dramatic.

With a grin, I asked him, “You think you safe here? You think I won’t shoot your ass again? You must’ve forgot that I keep that shit on me to be calling my woman a bitch.”

“You absolutely will not shed blood in my house, especially not family blood!” my mother scolded.

“Yeah, that nigga do bleed a lot. Messed my floor up bad,” I noted.

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