“I heard it,” he said.
“Jet, girl, you’re workin’ on becomin’ a legend. Kneein’
Fratel i in the bal s, traipsin’ around with Nightingale protection and buyin’ kitchen appliances with f**kin’ Eddie Chavez. Shee-it. Darius!” she yel ed, displaying no sign of concussion or that she had a care in the world that Scary Darius didn’t want to be interrupted. I decided to focus on that semi-positive fact rather than the new frightening turn in the conversation. “How many girls wished they’d bought a coffee maker with Eddie? What, a hundred?” I sent word to the Good Lord that I real y, really needed deliverance.
Darius didn’t answer.
At least that was something.
Then Shirleen leaned into me and I realized I should have been more specific about my heavenly request.
“Darius is my nephew, I know Eddie from way back. That boy nailed every piece o’ booty that moved. Made Lee Nightingale look like a choirboy. Eddie sent his mother into despair. Think they wrote to the Pope claimin’ it was a miracle when he became a cop. Stil , even after he got the badge, he f**ked everything that breathed, no coffee makers in sight. Jet, girl, you are the shit!” Daisy leaned back and tucked her denim, platform boots under her skinny ass, preparing to stay awhile. I realized immediately I should have come alone but I was thankful I hadn’t shared about the toaster.
“She thinks she’s boring and out of his league,” Daisy threw in.
I shot her a kil ing look.
She let out a tinkly-bel laugh.
Shirleen matched it with another burst of hilarity.
Shirleen matched it with another burst of hilarity.
I sat back, put my iced tea on a coaster, crossed my arms and legs, one foot bouncing with angry impatience and pul ed out The Glare.
“I don’t know what’s so f**king funny,” I said to them, and maybe it wasn’t worth the f-word and maybe I shouldn’t have confronted the likes of Daisy and Shirleen with the f-word, but I was feeling a bit ticked off. “You’l see. When this is al over he’l be gone like a shot.”
They took no notice of the f-word or my attitude. They burst into gales of laughter and if they’d started rol ing around the floor giggling, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
When they got control of themselves, Shirleen held out her hand to one of the hangers-on and snapped her fingers.
“Get me the phone, Wanda. I gotta cal Dorothea. This shit’s too good not to share.”
Wonderful.
“Dorothea?” Daisy asked, careful y wiping away a tear of humor, so as not to smudge her mascara.
Wanda handed Shirleen the phone.
“Darius’s mother. She’s gonna love this.” Her eyes came to me while she punched buttons with her thumb,
“What brand of coffee maker was it, girl?” I looked at the TV set.
“KitchenAid,” I muttered.
“Ooowee! No sil y-ass Mr. Coffee for Eddie Chavez.
When that boy does somethin’ he goes whole hog,” Shirleen hooted, putting the phone to her ear, “Dorothea?
You are not gonna believe this!”
Daisy giggled and I clenched my teeth.
My life sucked.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gray