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It’s him.
Shit!
This can’t happen now.
I need time to prepare myself before facing him—words need fine-tuned, an outfit chosen, and a minimum of three hours of meditation done.
Maybe if I don’t answer, he’ll give up.
I count to twenty, and the knocking doesn’t cease. He gives me no choice but to answer unless I want my neighbors to call the cops on him. They’re assholes like that. It’s no biggie for them to have wild sex all night, but it’s a crime for me to jam to Britney in the morning.
I swing open the door, air knocking from my lungs, and cover my mouth in fear of vomiting. Maliki is standing in front of me, and even though it’s been months, he looks the same. Well, except he’s now wearing clothes and not sticking his penis in another woman. I shudder, my stomach knotting at the memory of seeing him and her.
Our eyes meet, and he doesn’t look happy to see me.
Why is he here then?
My hand drops from my mouth, and I rest against the doorframe, hoping it makes me look collected when, in actuality, it’s so I don’t fall on my ass. I wait for him to explain his unexpected wake-up call.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he states.
No shit, Sherlock.
“You know why.” I’m shocked at my honesty, surprised I didn’t throw out excuses like I’ve been working late or I had to wash my hair.
After my wedding, Maliki texted me with a simple,Congrats. I didn’t have the guts to reply. He sent another text after I returned from my honeymoon, and I wanted to throw my phone as I read it. He’d watched the camera footage and seen me watching them that night. An apology was added in his text, but he didn’t fail to add a jab after it, claiming I had no right to be angry with him because I was climbing into another man’s bed at night.
That time, I didn’t reply out of anger.
Our friendship is over.
There’s no moving past my marriage and his office-screwing.
He scoffs, “Because I was with another woman?”
He had a brief fling with the woman he’d screwed that night, according to Ellie. She had been appointed my Maliki informant. Just because I refused to step foot into Down Home or reply to his texts didn’t mean I couldn’t keep tabs on him. Two weeks ago, she told me the chick was no longer coming around.
“Yep,” I clip out.
“You’re pissed at me for sleeping with another woman. Meanwhile, Sierra dearest, you were fuckingengagedto another man.”
“And, now, I’mmarriedto that man.”Why did I find it necessary to define that?It was a blow to compete with his asshole attitude.
“Wrong. Youweremarried to him.”
I wince. “Excuse me?”
He motions toward the inside of my condo. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.”
This is when I realize I didn’t change before answering, not that he gave me a chance to. I’m wearing the pub shirt he gave me the night I came to him after the news broke about my father’s affair and short strawberry-patterned boy shorts. I don’t know why I’m wearing the shirt, given our fallout, but I’m blaming it on the comfort of it.
I cross my arms to cover the shirt. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He juts out his chin. “Get fucking dressed, Sierra.”
“What’s going on? I work in three hours.”
“I’ll return you in time.”
