This shit was getting on my nerves. Honestly—everythinghad been irritating the fuck out of me lately. Business. Traffic. Muhfucka's talking to me. Looking at me. My mind kept drifting—pulling me somewhere else. Somewhere I wasn't supposed to be.
To her—
I clenched my jaw, dragging my hand down my face as one of my guys, Mitch, kept talking.
"…We can move the load through the west route and cut about six hour—"
"What?" I cut in sharply, sitting up and lifting my head to look at him.
The room went quiet.
Mitch cleared his throat." If we move through the west route there's less traffic and checkpoints."
"And more eyes," I replied tightly. "You just said last month that route was hot."
"It cooled down," he responded.
"When?" I countered.
He hesitated.
I leaned forward slowly, my fingers pressing into the table. "When did it cool down, Mitch?"
"We heard—"
"You heard—?" I repeated, tone dropping. "You running operations off of hearsay now, nigga?"
Silence. A couple of them shifted in their seats.
"Stick to what works," I stated. "I'm not risking losing product 'cause you wanna experiment."
"For sure, Boss." He nodded quickly.
I waved my hand slightly. "Continue."
They did, but I could feel the tension in the air.They were watching me now.Measuring my mood, trying to figure out where I was at.And I didn’t like that.I didn’t like feeling…off.
Syrus kept glancing over at me but I ignored his ass too.
I picked up the spreadsheet in front of me. Numbers blurred together, my focus slipping in and out. Her face crossed my mind again. The thickness of her thighs. The glisten of her inner lips. My groin tightened.
I clenched my jaw, tossing the paper back on the table harder than I meant to. “Who approved this?” I asked sharply.
Syrus leaned forward. “That was me.”
I looked at him. “You double check this?”
“You know I did,” He gave me a look.
“Then why the numbers off?” I challenged.
“They not off—”
“They’reoff,” I cut in, tapping the paper. “Right here. That count don’t match the last shipment.”
He leaned in, scanning it again, slower this time.” … it might be a miscount.”
“Might be?” I repeated, my voice low. “You telling me you not sure? You supposed to be my right hand.”
