Page 140 of Heavy Is The Crown

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied her. “You don’t seem like the type to have game nights.”

Krys chuckled. “Depends on the game.”

She took a sip, watching him over the rim of her glass.

Kenyatta finally sat down on one of the plush bar stools, setting his drink on the counter.

“This your little hideaway, huh?”

Krys shrugged. “Something like that.”

Kenyatta leaned forward slightly, eyes dark, voice lower.

“Who else you bring down here?”

Krys paused for just half a second. Not enough for most people to notice. But Kenyatta wasn’t most people.

Her smirk returned, slow, teasing. “Why? You jealous?”

Kenyatta scoffed, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I’m just tryna figure out who else gets VIP access.”

Krys held his stare, then tilted her head slightly. “You asking if I brought K9 down here?”

His grip tightened on his glass. He hadn’t said that, but she knew exactly what was on his mind.

Instead of answering, she leaned forward slightly, voice smooth. “I don’t entertain just anybody, Yatta.”

Silence stretched between them; something unspoken settled in the air.

Kenyatta studied her for a moment longer, then lifted his glass and took a slow sip. A small smirk played on his lips.

“A’ight.”

Just one word. But it meant something, and Krys knew it.

The faintest shuffle of movement in the doorway made Kenyatta glance over.

Musa sat there, posture relaxed but alert, his massive head tilted slightly.

Kenyatta let out a small laugh. “Even down here, huh?”

Krys chuckled, looking at Musa. “Look, my baby don’t play ‘bout me.”

Musa exhaled loudly, then as if deciding Kenyatta was allowed his moment he slowly stretched out and moved back toward the open lounge, giving them their space.

Kenyatta shook his head. “Your boy thorough though. I like that.”

Krys grinned proudly. “Always.”

Another sip. Another silent understanding.

The tension was still there, but it was shifting.

Kenyatta wasn’t dumb. He still had questions, but he was just going to drink for now.

Chapter 35

The air inside Krys’ underground speakeasy smelled of aged whiskey and slow-burning cigars, though neither of them were smoking. A vintage jazz record spun lazily on the old-school turntable, filling the dimly lit space with the husky tones of a bygone era. The warm glow of amber sconces cast flickering shadows across the leather seating and exposed brick walls. It was intimate, secluded, untouched by the chaos of the outside world.

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