Page 43 of Tender Offer
“Let me let you go. I’m meeting Smokey,” Tammi says. “Love you.”
“Love you too. Tam?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m telling the church you’re out here trying to fight.”
“Kiss my ass,” she snickers.
I cackle when the line goes dead. Then I drive back to my hotel.
My phone pings from the corner of my hotel room. It’s past ten, and I have neither a life nor a booty call lined up. Who’s texting me at this hour?
Kojo sent one right after my call with Tammi, asking to grab dinner and talk, which we did. He was more hurt that I kept my feelings from him, and he told me to give Emma space. We’ll have to figure out how to coexist since I’m helping him with the styling aspect of his business.
For now, I’ll count it as a win. My head is still on my shoulders, and Emma and Kojo’s relationship is still intact.
As for my flirting with a married man, Kojo brushed that off with the flick of a hand. He flirts with anything with a pulse, but he encouraged me to pipe down with Emma’s best friend and her husband. That is one pep talk I didn’t need. I left all interest in Terrence at the singles’ retreat and haven’t looked back.
Mawmaw always told us God don’t like ugly. I’m far from it physically, but my actions haven’t reflected my home training. Tammi told me to forgive myself, but how can I?
Guilt swallows me whole at the most unexpected times. Some days, I feel the urge to craft an apology letter for my bitch behavior. Other days are milder and don’t include a pen and paper but a vow to do better.
Forgiveness isn’t that simple. There’s always a price to pay, and I can’t shake the feeling that mine will be high given the way I’ve acted.
My phone chimes again.
“Who the heck is it?” I ask myself and the cast ofThe Fresh Prince of Bel-Airon TV.
It’s not Kojo. I left him to come back to my hotel. He should be bouncing between the legs of the lovers he has scattered across Los Angeles. Every visit is like a scavenger hunt for him, one that includes multiple players and no map.
My night might lack orgasms, but it did include wine by candlelight and cake in the tub. It’s not a sex marathon, but it comes with ’90s reruns.
Unlike my friend, my legs are closed for the evening. I’m staying on the Redondo Beach peninsula, about forty-five minutes from LA, far away from traffic and overpriced neighborhoods. I get enough concrete living in Manhattan. I want sand.
My room isn’t a suite, but it’s spacious, with a private patio and a view of the marina. The cream and blue hues are anextension of the small waves that drift in from the South Bay. It’s one of my favorite places to stay when I’m in LA.
Flipping through premium cable isn’t my go-to on a Thursday night, but I’m off dating for the foreseeable future. The only thing I’m modeling tonight is comfort and a gold eye mask under my lids.
I rip off the comforter when my phone starts ringing. I stomp the short distance from my pillowtop bed to my makeup bag, which is cushioning the nuisance. Kojo better be in the ER and not sending me clips of his choose-a-hole journey.
Another scenario quickens my steps. “Not Daddy,” I murmur, crossing the teal carpet in a hurry. Mama called last week to tell me the doctor advised him to lay off bowfishing after agitating his back in the shop.
Buck Monroe is hardheaded and hard of hearing. He and his mechanic friends are always into something whenever the garage isn’t open. My daddy loves to pretend he’s twenty-eight and not fifty-eight. My parents had me when they were twenty-one, knee-deep in diapers and pull-ups in the early years of their marriage. Mama flings weights with gym buddies half her age. Daddy rides ATVs and skydives, of all things.
I promised to swing by soon. My annual visit only lasts a few days before I’m back to a life of fashion and travel.
“Shit.” I scramble to pick up my phone and answer without looking. “Daddy? You okay?”
“That’s new,” a low voice says with a soft chuckle. The mellow bass vibrates through the line with an energy that seems out of place for how early it is on the other side of the pond.
“Preston.” I release a breath and press a palm to the side of my silk scarf. “I thought you were my daddy.”
“I can be.”
The hairs on my neck raise from the velvet baritone. I fold my arms over my cami, as if he can see my nipples standing at attention.
Hold yourself together. We don’t tingle over a voice!
