Grandma grinned. “Told you.”
“Right about what?” I folded my arms over my chest. “What’s going on?”
“She told me you were overprotective.”
“Just as overprotective as she is,” I tossed back.
“I think you have me beat, Pooh,” she muttered.
“Ace is my real name,” he explained. “My last name is Bond. I met Liv at Flower Day a couple of years ago.”
“Years?” I croaked, glancing at Grandma before locking eyes on him again. “Are you from Detroit?”
Grandma was well-known and well-connected. I’d grown up surrounded by important people. It wasn’t weird for her to have celebrities in attendance at her events. Singers, artists, rappers, athletes, actresses … Some of them even lived on our block.
Bond…
The name was familiar, but he didn’t strike me as a typical famous Detroiter. He looked familiar, too. Not in a Motown-singer way or a city-government way, either. In a legendary way. As I stared at him, I tried to recall where I could’ve seen him. Then it finally dawned on me. “Wait, Bond? Are you—?”
A smile formed on his lips. “I am.”
My mouth fell open. “Oh my God.” I stood. “You’re Ace Bond. The original Mr. Black Detroit.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
The Mr. Black Organization was founded at the height of the civil rights movement in America. Over the years, they’d expanded nationally. Thousands of Black men in every city represented the org, working to empower, educate, and enlighten our communities.
“It’s an honor,” I whispered, shaking his hand again. Because of all the celebrities, the important people I’d met in my life, this man was an icon.
He squeezed my hand. “I’d say it’s an honor to meetyou.”
“I’ve read about your family. The Bond name … I heard so many stories growing up.” I leaned in closer. “Is it true that—”
Placing a finger over his mouth, he shook his head slightly.
“Okay, enough,” Grandma cut in. “Old Man, can you give us some time?”
Ace bent low and pressed a kiss to Grandma’s forehead. “I’ll call you later.” He glanced at me. “Nice to meet you, Albany.”
“You, too.” Shrugging, I added, “I guess you can call me Pooh.”
He barked out a laugh. “Got it. So long.”
Once he shut the door, I turned to Grandma. “Really, Grandma? You’re sleeping with Mr. Black Detroit.”
“He’s my man.Myman. Myman.”
I cracked up at Grandma’s use of the popular phrase. “You’re too much.” I sat next to her. “When did this happen? I expected you to be sad about Grandpa. But you’re here getting busy.”
“A woman has needs, Pooh.”
I patted her leg. “Let’s not talk about your needs, okay?”
She giggled. “Haven’t I always been honest with you?”
“Maybe too much,” I tossed back. “Seriously”—I squeezed her hand—“are you okay?”
“That man took years of my life from me,” she explained. “He lied to me daily, cheated on me through our entire marriage, and then tried to steal my money. He doesn’t deserve any more of my tears.” She brushed her thumb over my cheek. “I just thought you should know that he died.”
