Page 33 of Rose
They both laughed.
“I’ll tell her,” Savior said, already peeling back the foil and scooping into the mac and cheese.
He pulled a wad of hundreds from his pocket, tried handing them to her, but Marley backed away like the bills were dipped in poison.
“Don’t you hand me no money, boy. Between you, your brother, your daddy, my son, and this whole block—I’m set for life.”
Savior stuffed it into her palm anyway. “Go get your nails done. Or blow it on some shoes.”
Before she could argue, he was already walking off.
“I love you, hard head!” she shouted after him, her voice thick with pride.
Savior grinned.
Out here, he wasn’t Khaos—the ghost in the night, the most feared name on both sides of the law. He was just Savior Carter. Home. Fed. And—for a rare moment—at peace.
He stepped intoGrim Kutz, greeted by the barbershop symphony: the hum of clippers, bass from the Bluetooth speaker, trash talk flying over sports debates, and that distinct smell of aftershave and ego. A sanctuary where secrets were kept, fades were crisp, and men said what they couldn’t say anywhere else.
He dapped up a few regulars before making his way to Macho’s station.
“Aye Khaos, who you got winning the Super Bowl this year?” a voice called from one of the chairs, eyes flicking up from a phone just as Macho fastened the cape around Savior’s chest.
“Texans,” Savior said, cool and without hesitation.
The whole shoperupted.
“Ya’ll know this nigga a die-hard Texans fan!” Macho announced, laughing as he adjusted the chair.
“I got faith in my Cowboys,” someone shouted from the back.
Macho and Savior turnedat the same time, hitting him with a look so sharp it should’ve came with a warning label.
“Man, get the fuck out my shop with that,” Macho said, and the whole barbershop howled in laughter.
The laughter didn’t even get a chance to settle before the bell above the door jingled again, and in walked A’Mazi—smooth, silent, composed like always. He moved through the shop with quiet confidence, dapping up a few folks, nodding at Macho, then locking hands with Savior. Though Sincere was his best friend, A’Mazi was family in every way that mattered. Loyal, deadly in silence, an artist behind the needle and wheel. He didn’t need a title or a spotlight—his presence spoke loudenough. He and Sincere had been tight since college, and Savior respected A’Mazi’s calm, his code, his refusal to fold for anyone. Savior had wrapped every car A’Mazi drove, putting his name on every engine with art and vengeance.
A’Mazi slid into the empty chair next to him, blending in as the shop’s banter picked right back up like no beat had been missed. They chimed in here and there, quiet smirks traded like inside jokes.
Then the bell rangagain—and the room went still.
She walked in like she owned oxygen. Cocoa-brown skin kissed by the shop’s overhead light, curls twisted into a messy bun that laid against the nape of her neck just right. Jean shorts molded to her curves like they were made in her honor, hugging every dip, every rise. Heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a punctuation mark. Conversations died mid-sentence. Eyes followed, necks craned. Even Savior, whose heart rarely skipped for beauty alone, had to blink once, twice—but her eyes? Her eyes were already on A’Mazi.
But it wasn’t her that made Savior sit forward slightly in the chair. It was the woman still outside, straddling power on two wheels.
She hadn’t taken her helmet off yet, but her body told the story. Tall. Confident. Deadly. Her chocolate skin shimmered beneath the unforgiving Miami sun. Thick thighs flexed as she dismounted the blacked-out motorcycle like she wasn’t just riding it—she owned it. And those gold heels? That wasn’t fashion. That was a statement.
Savior didn’t look away.
She was the kind of beautiful that didn’t beg for attention—it demanded it. She was presence and pressure in the same breath. And whatever it was about her stance, her energy, her defiance of everything soft and predictable—it reached straight into Savior’s chest and tugged.
Hard.
Savior’s attention snapped back when the first woman—Kyre—stepped through and made a beeline for A’Mazi. He stood before she reached him, arms already open like he’d been waiting for her all damn day. Savior caught it immediately—the look in his eyes, the way his body leaned into hers. That was his woman.
Savior recognized her right away. Kyre wasn’t just A’Mazi’s girl—she was sharp, well-connected, and had helped Sincere navigate the legal hell when the system tried to block him from opening his dispensary. Despite being a defense attorney, she maneuvered through contract law like a shark in heels.
“Hey, Sav,” she said, turning to give him a quick hug. Her tone was warm, casual, the kind of soft most people never dared to show him.
