Page 8 of In Too Deep

“Oh really,” stepping out of the car, I extended my hand and helped her onto the sidewalk. The pavement had a high ass dip, and it was easy for anybody to stumble if they weren’t careful. Tilting her head, she glanced up at me, looking into my eyes. “And what does being the good guy in my story look like?”

Chuckling lowly, I grabbed the cusp of her chin and stroked it. Her face felt like velvet between my fingertips. Aside from me telling her she was pretty as fuck, I’m sure she’s heard that a million times, and only an insecure ass bitch would point out her flaws because she walks around as if she doesn’t have any. I’m not trying to run game because from the sound of it, it doesn’t sound like she’d be gullible to anything. However, I want to be a stepping stone, investing in her dreams, treating her like a franchise.

Releasing her chin, I dug in my pocket and passed her the stack of bills. She looked at it like it was an infectious disease under a microscope.

“I can’t take this,” she held it out, trying to give it back.

Towering over her, I clasped my hand around her small ones and pushed them back. “You got two hands, and you can take anything I give you.”

“You know what I mean and Trecee?—”

I interjected, “Don’t run shit. She don’t jump unless I tell her to.”

“I don’t even know what to do with this, where to put it.”

“You’re smart, and I know you ain’t gone blow it. Do you have a bank account?”

She nodded her head while twisting her mouth to the side. “I’m with Regions.”

“Okay, cool. Don’t deposit all the shit at once, unless you have big transactions that’ll match it. Regions be with the shit and they’ll flag your account for fraud, so do little by little—a few hunnid here and a few hunnid there, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. Here you are giving me rides and money, and the only thing I can offer you is a thank you,” she simmered down.

“You know how to cook?”

“Do I?” she giggled. “I’m the one who taught Trecee how to cook. I know how to throw down in the kitchen. I’m trusted with Thanksgiving dinner.”

We shared a laugh. “Oh shit, look at you!”

“As lanky as you are, you don’t look like you eat much no way,” she teased.

I rubbed my stomach, shook my head, and spoke when my laughter subsided. “I been a lanky nigga all my life. My body fat only goes to one spot though.”

Pushing my flirtatious mannerism to the side, she shook her head and looked off for a minute before diverting her gaze back to me.

“I can cook, just tell me what you have a taste for and I’ll make it for you.”

“Soul food on Sundays, like my granny used to make—turkey necks, collard greens, candied yams, baked macaroni and cheese, cornbread and not that Jiffy shit, I’m talking ‘bout homemade—from scratch,” I grinned.

“That’s a big meal, Rome.”

Reaching down, I swiped my finger under her chin as I bit down on the bottom of my lip. “You think you can handle that?”

“I got it. I’ll have to look at my schedule. Usually I’m off on Sundays, but I’ll double check again tomorrow though.”

“Cool, I’ll pull up on you. Let me see your phone so I can lock my number in.”

“Rome,” she sighed. “The ride home, the money, I’m only cooking for you to thank you, but me having your number is?—”

“Harmless,” I cut her off to say. “Don’t be so quick to ruin a good thing.”

Hesitantly, she thought about it for a second before passing her iPhone to me. I locked my number in and saved the contact as RJ, then shot myself a text and saved her contact as Juicy in mine, then passed her phone back.

“If you ever need anything, don’t be afraid to hit me up. I mean that shit, that goes for anything, money, a ride, hit me up. Don’t be too quick to figure shit out on your own in survival mode. Use me for something.”

“I hear you, thank you again, Rome. I really appreciate you.”

“No problem, ma.”

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