Page 107 of Lennox Lane

“She asked to meet, and I agreed so I could end whatever she thought we had.”

Lane whipped around. “Ending what, Lennox?”

His face tightened. “An arrangement that existed before you and had been over emotionally for a long time.”

“Emotionally? How poetic. Did your mouth send the memo to the rest of you?”

His jaw flexed. “It was over.”

“Then why was her hand on you like she’s yours?”

“Because she doesn’t like hearing no.”

Lane laughed once. “Neither do you. Maybe y’all should start a support group.”

He stepped closer, voice lowering. “I didn’t touch her. I don’t want her. I met her in public to make it clear I’m unavailable.”

Lane’s heart wanted to believe him, but her fear wanted blood. Sadly, her ego and fear won.

“Congratulations. You’re unavailable to me too.”

His expression shifted. “Don’t do that.”

“Watch me.”

She got in the car, locked the doors, and drove off with him standing on the sidewalk calling her name.

By the time she reached the next red light, she had blocked him on everything a la Cadence style. She was hurt when he didn’t try to fix things, and instead Lennox left town with KC on business that night. Which meant Lane had a full week to marinate in heartbreak, fury, pride, and YouTube videos about vehicle disassembly. Nova had called it a concerning hobby, and Cadence had called it “not legally advisable.” Lane had called it closure.

By the time Lennox returned to Stonebridge, his custom luxury car sat in a private garage looking like a Thanksgiving turkey after family dinner—nothing but a metal carcass.

No tires.

No doors.

No hood.

No trunk.

No seats.

No steering wheel.

No mirrors.

No headlights.

The car was so stripped it looked embarrassed to be seen naked. It was like the scene from Black Panther when Klaue destroyed the car Nakia and Okoye were driving.

Lane unblocked him at 8:07 p.m., and his call came through at 8:08. She answered on the second ring and said nothing. For three seconds, all she heard was breathing.

Then Lennox’s voice came through, low and lethal. “Lane.”

She smiled into her wine glass. “Robot.”

“What the fuck did you do to my car?” The agitation was clear in his voice.

“You mean the emotional support Batmobile?” she questioned.