Page 234 of The Wright Man

Me: I will be.

Me: I'm only calm 'cause I know I get to go home to peace.

And I meant every damn word.

Chapter Forty-One

Maleek

The scent of fruit and coconut hair oil hit me as soon as I stepped inside the house.

R&B blended with the faint sound of heels clacking and a man hollering "Shantay, you stay." I didn't even need to look at the TV to know what the hell was going on. RuPaul's Drag Race. Again.

Sure enough, I found Angie knocked out on the couch in one of my old Marine tees—oversized and off the shoulder—one leg tucked under her, the other draped dramatically over the armrest like she was fainting in a stage play. A half-eaten bowl of fruit sat on the coffee table. A few pineapple chunks, and one rogue strawberry was teetering on the edge like it had tried to make a break for it.

It had been about a week since Gavin's punk-ass stunt at the salon. She'd called me during her lunch break, voice shaking, trying to hold it together. I just listened. Let her cry.

By the time I got home that evening, she was done crying—she was furious. And she had her own particular way of releasing that fury that I was more than happy to accommodate.

She was currently laid out in that exact same spot on the couch. Mouth-breathing. Lightly snoring. A purple bonnet barely hanging on.

And still, somehow, fine as hell.

I leaned against the doorframe and watched her for a second, smile creeping up before I could stop it. We'd settled into something warm. Deep. Domestic. But it still hit me sometimes, how loud she fit into my quiet. How happy she made me without even trying.

Angelica was organized chaos. Colorful and cluttered, stubborn as hell. Always leaving a trail of cups and bobby pins and scented lotion behind her like she was marking her territory. She bought me anime pajamas and socks with little cartoon dogs on them. Tried to sneak throw pillows onto my bed—bright ones, with tassels and glitter and shit.

And somehow, I let her.

She called it balance. Said I couldn't be "Boot Camp Batman" for the rest of my life. That I needed to "unclench my spirit." Whatever that meant.

And the crazy part? She was right. I had started to unclench. Started to breathe a little deeper when she braided my hair again. Started to crave the way her laugh filled the house I once kept silent. Started to crave her constant napping, her mess, her chaos. Her.

She was softening me. Feeding something in me I hadn't let anyone touch in years.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

I gave it another second—just taking her in like this. Safe. Soft. Mine...

Then I walked over and smacked her ass as hard as I possibly could.

She damn near levitated.

"OW—BITCH!"

She flailed off the couch like she'd just been snatched from a dream and tossed into a horror movie. Blanket twisted around her ankles, she looked up at me wide-eyed, scandalized, and ready to throw hands.

"Maleek Wright, you motherfucking—" she sputtered, glaring. "I should strangle you with your damn durag."

I just laughed, catching her before she could fully tumble to the floor. She hit me in the chest, halfhearted, and I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her close.

"I missed you too, sunshine," I murmured, kissing her pouty lips.

She tried to stay mad. I saw it in the tight line of her mouth, the flare of her nose. But I rubbed the sting away with both hands, slow circles over the meat of her ass, and she melted right into me like butter left out too long.

She still muttered, "Fucking gremlin."

"This gremlin has plans for you today," I said, kissing her again before she could cuss me out properly. "I'm taking you on a date."