N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(24)

“I guess your plan to sit back and let her lead you to the cash is on the shelf,” Pike laughs, lighting a joint. He passes it to me, and I take a deep hit.

I rub my temple with my wrist. “You’d guess right. There’s no way in hell I’m letting Ricci’s men get to her.” I tuck the gun in my waistband and head for the door.

“At least, not before I do.”





Chapter Ten





LENNY





These past several days, I’ve felt nothing but suffocated, although it’s a suffocation of my own doing. On the pretense of wanting to spend as much time with her as possible, I’ve spent the last week locked inside Yuli’s apartment, doing nothing but checking the help wanted ads and helping Yuli pack. And it’s true. I do want to spend as much time with her as possible before she leaves for Africa, but after what happened in the alley, I also just didn’t want to be alone.

Even though I’ve been physically suffocated, spending time with my best friend has been a breath of fresh air. She’s been my only real friend amongst a town of fake people since I was a kid. Right now, I’m smiling genuinely for the first time in over a week. Even though I’m hiding feelings of terror over almost being kidnapped in the alley of a biker bar, the smile itself is real. Instead, I’m choosing to watch the show Yuli is currently putting on by flirting with the barista at our favorite coffee house.

The best part about Yuli’s flirting is that it sounds a lot like yelling and harassing with a side of embarrassment, and not a damn thing like actual flirting.

I unscrew my flask and dump the entire contents into my coffee. Since I don’t have a car anymore, I can’t drive, and therefore, I no longer have a need to be sober.

Ever.

“Tell me, why is this cafe racist?” Yuli barks. “I mean, I expect shit like this from the chicken place down the street and the home store on the next block, but I don’t expect a side of racism with my latte from here.”

“Ummm…excuse me, ma’am?” The barista asks, nervously adjusting his dark green visor.

“You heard me,” Yuli raises her voice. “What does this cup say?” She points to the name the barista wrote on her cup and the flustered young man leans in, squinting to read it.

“Yo-yo-yo-landa.”

“Exactly. Yolanda. But you see, my name is spelled with a U and two A’s. This shit right here is racist as fuck. Not all Blaxicans spell our names the same. Tell me something.” She leans over the counter. “You a racist, Stephen?”

The barista looks terrified while I know Yuli is enjoying the torment as always. Her bright brown eyes are hyper-focused on her victim like a cheetah about to pounce. Her wild, chin-length, curly brown hair bounces with her movements as she gestures from the cup to the barista, pointing her accusing finger from one to the other.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry. I just…I didn’t think. My aunt’s name is Yolanda, and that’s how she spells it.” The poor kid couldn’t be more than twenty years old. Cute, tall, and lanky. He’s practically shaking.

“Ma’am?” Yuli rolls her eyes. “Don’t get me started on ma’am.”

The barista’s face reddens, then pales as all the blood rushes from his face. I try not to laugh because that would be cruel, but it’s not the first time I’ve seen Yuli do this to someone, and I know it won’t be the last.

“Listen, white boy.” She points to his chest and leans her ample breasts over the counter. Stephen catches himself looking, then his eyes go wide and snap back to her face. “You’re cute as hell, so I’m gonna give you a pass on this one.” She raises her finger and wags it slowly. “But don’t let this shit happen again.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean…Yulaanda with a U and two A’s.” The young man replies with a small smile. “And of course, your coffee is on the house.”

“Damn right, it is,” Yuli says. She picks up a sharpie from the pen cup by the register and plucks an empty cup from the stack next to it. She scribbles something on the cup and hands it to him. “That’s the correct way to spell my name. Just so you remember for next time.” Then, she winks. “And that…” she points to the cup and lowers her voice from accusing to downright seductive. “…is my correct phone number. Hit me up, and maybe, we can figure out all of the other ways I can make you tremble.”

She winks, then turns around, missing his shoulders falling and his deep exhale. She grins as she plops down across from me at the table by the window and lets out a deep sigh of satisfaction. She turns and stares at the barista who now has his back turned to us while working the espresso machine. He glimpses over his shoulder, and she smiles and gives him a flirty wave. His entire face reddens again as he returns the smile and goes back to serving the long line of impatient customers.

“Was that really necessary?” I ask her. “Your name is honestly spelled pretty funky. I don’t think he’s a racist.”

“Oh, I know that. My mama either had a sense of humor or was illiterate AF when she named me. Don’t know. Don’t care. Never met the woman.” She bites her bottom lip. “And do I think he hates black people? Nope, because when I get back in town in a year I am going to make that man fall in love with me. And to answer your question, was that little show of mine necessary?” She glances at his back once more and takes a sip of her free coffee. “Nope. But was it worth it to see that fine piece of freckled red-headed ass all hot and flustered?” She shutters and looks back at me with a wicked smirk. “Abso-fucking-lutley.”