Page 99 of Out of the Blue

Without another word, I topple into my recliner. All alone. Sliding my finger underneath the seal, I drop the contents onto my lap—a front-row ticket to our upcoming performance at Madison Square Garden plus a backstage pass. Snagging the pass, I flip it over and over.

She may be stubborn, but she doesn’t have anything on me. Not when I want something. And I fucking want this woman back in my life. More than anything else I’ve ever wanted.

Grabbing my cell, I pull up her article again and reread it for the hundredth time. Or millionth. I’ve memorized every line. When I get to the part where she’s talking about her sister, I freeze. Juanita. Yes!

I scroll through my contacts and confirm I don’t have hers. Shit. My fingers strum my forearm. Facebook! I hop on the app to find her. Hitting her up in Messenger, I leap to my feet and press the phone icon.

“Fuck you, you fucking asshole!”

I wince at her greeting. At least she accepted my call. “Please listen to me.”

“Are you fucking nuts? You ruined my sister’s life. Ruined! She’s a shell of who she used to be, and it’s all your fucking fault.”

I deserve this. And more. But still—what a mouth. “I’m sorry.”

She laughs. “You’re sorry! That’s rich. Well, I’m sooooorry, I don’t want to talk with you.”

I rush in before she can disconnect. “No, wait! I really need to talk with Cordelia.” There. I said it. The truth.

“You truly are fucking something aren’t you? Son oftheBraxton Hunte who thinks his shit doesn’t stink, huh?”

I try a different tack. “I sent a letter to her, but it was returned. I need her new address.”

“Why? So you can fuck with her head some more?” She laughs. It’s a hollow sound.

“No. But I’m not going to get into this with you. I need to talk with her.”

“Well, too bad Mr. Rock Star. She doesn’t even know you sent the letter because I sent your fucking messenger away.”

Her last statement grabs my attention. “You what?”

“Something wrong with your ears? Must be all the loud music. I said, I fucking refused it.”

Which means Cordelia doesn’t even know I was trying to send her something. “So, she’s still at this address?”

“Duh. Not the sharpest tack in the drawer, are you?” A bell goes off in the background. “Fuck. I have to go. Stay the fuck away!” The call ends.

My brows raise. She seriously needs her mouth washed out. But we’ll get to that later. Right now, I have a woman to beg.

Less than an hour later, I get out of my Uber in front of a sad-looking building in a sketchy area of Newark. My fingers tighten around the handle of the case housing my acoustic guitar as I survey the outside of her building.

The front stoop is swept clean. At least that’s a plus.

The bushes appear to have been shaped somewhat recently. And a pot with some flowers sits to the right-hand side of the front door. The exterior, though, needed a paint job maybe five or six years ago. One of the shutters on the third floor’s askew. The shades are pulled down on all of the windows on the second floor.

On the first floor, a window box seems to be new. Well, that’s another plus.

She actuallydidlie to me. This place is so much worse than she had described. My heart fractures once more. What she’s had to deal with is beyond anything I had imagined.

Down the street, some kids bound into the road and start playing stick ball. At least there are families around here.

While I dither, the front door opens, and two women exit her building. The first chick bounces down the stairs. The second one takes a step outside then bends down to fiddle with her laces. All I can see is her hair—long and brown with reddish highlights. My lunch almost comes up.

Next to me, the first woman yells, “Come on, Nelly. We’re late.” She walks down the road, toward the kids playing.

Nelly. Not Cordelia. I’m almost lightheaded it wasn’t her.

“Hold your jets, Rhea. I’m coming!”

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