Page 17 of Flame
The idea that there are men sitting around a table somewhere half-assing a security plan for Bianca fills me with rage. I’ve kept it packed away all day. I couldn’t let it boil over until I was alone and had time to think it through.
Now that I have, I want answers.
I pace a circle along the side of my house and yank my phone from my pocket. I find Ford Landry’s name and hit call. It rings three times before his voicemail picks up.
“Hey, it’s Carmichael. I have a couple of questions about Bianca Brewer. Give me a call when you can. Thanks.”
I slam my finger against the red button on the screen.
“You okay, Foxx?” I look up to find my mom walking up the steps to her house. She waves with a curious, if not slightly concerned, face.
No. “Yeah.”
She hesitates as if she’s considering heading my way. So I quickly cut across my yard and into hers, meeting her at the stairs.
“Do you need a glass of tea?” she asks as I swing open the back door.
“Nah. I’m good.” I hold the door open for her. “Seen your son lately?”
She laughs. “Well, I have five of them. But something tells me you’re talking about my youngest.”
“Where is that little fucker?”
Mom leads me to the kitchen. “I take it you weren’t aware that you were participating in a bachelor auction today.”
I stare at her.
“Oh, Foxx.” Mom laughs again. “I know you don’t think this is funny—”
“It’s not.”
“—but who would’ve thought Banks would be able to con you into something like this?”
“Me.” Jess comes in with a hat that reads Proud Chicken Daddy. “Found Sparkles yet?”
Mom points a finger at him. “Jess, you stay out of this.”
“Sorry, Mama.No can do. I’ve waited my whole life for this.”
“For what?” she asks.
Jess snickers. “For Banks to have enough balls to finally fuck with Foxx.” He sighs happily and turns to me. “I take it you haven’t found him since the … charity event.”
His amusement isn’t amusing.The list of people I don’t like is growing by the hour.
“No,” I say. “But I about ran over three chickens a little while ago.”
He gasps. “Greta, Iris, and Rita?”
“Who?”
“Was it Greta, Iris, and Rita?”
I sit at the table. “I feel like this conversation went left, and I took a right.”
“We’re talking about my chickens.”
“You named your chickens?” I ask, somehow surprised. “Who names chickens?”
