Page 6 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

That’s why they need guidance. Somebody to train them.

I sit back to admire my handiwork. First eye done.

I think about little Raya while I start on my other eye. In my head, she shows me my dolls, all lined up neatly on my old bed. I didn’t play with them like other little girls did. Itaughtthem. Life lessons. Hard truths.

“This ain’t no fairytale,” I would say. “Nobody’s coming to save you. Whatever you want in life, you have to get it yourself. There’s no prince charming. Nobody to rely on but you.”

I was as good a mommy to them as mine was to me. I kept their hair combed and their dresses neat. But I also made it abundantly clear: they couldn’t even trustme.

Most of them ended up decapitated, but that wasn’t my fault. They didn’t listen.

My phone vibrates on the table, making my heart leap into my throat. I scramble for it, dropping my brush in the process. But it’s not Ace. Just a spam text.

I toss my phone onto the bed, my breathing hurried and shallow. It’s getting hard to restrain my anger. It’s right there, threatening to boil over. Where the fuck is he?

When I turn my head toward the mirror, I’m faced with my reflection, and I remind myself what I am: Flawless.

Cheekbones that can cut glass. Smoldering brown eyes. Juicy lips painted a rich, vampy red. I’m that bitch. Nobody can tell me shit.

But the makeup always comes off, and I’m scared the cracks are starting to show. There’s only so long a pretty exterior can hide the ugly inside.

I sit next to my phone, staring at it like it has all the answers. It just doesn’t make sense. I was charming. I was witty. Confident. He saw it, I know he did. What the fuck is taking him so long?

I clench my fists until my nails bite into my palms. If he thinks he can ignore me, he’s sorely mistaken. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with yet, but he will.

A slow, deliberate smile creeps across my face. He’ll call tonight. And if he doesn’t, I’ll just have to remind him how this works.

4

Ace

“Why did you make me come to this?” I grumble, shoving my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants.

Kamryn rolls her eyes as she adjusts the canvas tote on her shoulder. It’s already half-filled with overpriced heirloom tomatoes, a loaf of fresh sourdough, lettuce, and some bougie cheese she spent way too long debating over.

“Because you need sunlight,” she says, tossing her braids over her shoulder. “And human interaction outside of that damn construction site. Plus, it’s good to support local black businesses.”

“Kam, you live in Suwanee,” I point out.

“And yet, I still have better community engagement in Decatur than you do.” She smirks, then stops in her tracks. “Oh, shit. Gluten free brownies!”

Amused by her excitement, I watch my big sister amble off. When she found out the farmer’s market down the street from my condo was black-owned, it was all she wrote. She didn’t even ask, just told me I was bringing her.

“You want a box?” she shouts from across the aisle.

But I barely hear her. Somebody else has my attention.

Raya.

She’s standing at a booth a few feet away, trailing her fingers across a display of handmade candles. Her nails are painted blood red, and the simple motion is oddly hypnotic, the way she grazes each wick with her fingertips before moving on to the next. I swallow hard as I notice how she’s dressed.

Tight jeans cling to every dip and curve of her lower body. They mold to her ass, round and full, sitting like an upside-down heart. Fitted black top that’s just low enough to tease at cleavage, but not quite give it away.

Fine as hell.

Why the fuck didn’t I call this chick?

I’m kicking myself. I could have been inside that already.

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