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Montez slid on top of her and she welcomed him with open arms and open legs.
Ready for another round.
17
On the first Monday of every month, the Rosses came together for a working lunch meeting.
When Montez entered the conference room, his siblings were already there, and he pulled out a chair and sat beside Devonte. A few years younger, he was the same complexion as Montez and clean-shaven. Unlike Montez who typically wore a jacket to work, his brother wore a striped tie and no jacket over his powder-blue shirt.
“Nice to see you, stranger,” his brother quipped.
“Stranger? What are you talking about? We work together.”
“We haven’t been out partying in a while. Last week you canceled on me twice. What’s up with you?”
“Just busy.” Montez opened his notepad, pretending not to see the look his siblings shared. Since he and Desiree had sex, they’d spent almost every night together in the past week.
“Since when do you cancel on anything? Itiskind of weird,” Stacy remarked. She always wore a suit, and today it was dark brown. Her amber skin tone matched their mother’s, and she currently had her braids pulled back but allowed to flow loosely down her back.
“Weird that I had something else to do?” Montez asked.
“Weird that you’d rather do something other than go partying to run game on unsuspecting women—or whatever shenanigans the two of you get into.” She shook her head.
“That sounds really mean.”
“Your behavior in the past has been reprehensible.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with Clarissa, does it?” Montez asked.
“Why yes, it does, actually.”
He was tired of this narrative. He should have never slept with her friend, but he hadn’t been concerned about right and wrong back then, only getting another notch on his belt. “I apologized—to you and her.”
“Not good enough.”
Devonte snorted his laughter.
“In case you didn’t notice, she’s a grown woman. It’s not my fault women fall madly in love with me,” Montez said.
“Don’t be an asshole,” his sister said.
“I’m not. That’s all you, acting as if Clarissa can’t think for herself. She wanted a no-strings relationship—one without the commitment, but her feelings got tangled up. As soon as she let me know she wanted more, I cut her loose. There are real assholes out there who would have continued stringing her along.”
“He has a point,” Devonte interjected.
Stacy pursed her lips at him like a disapproving mother, the same expression she used on her children when they did or said something she didn’t like.
Before the conversation went further left, their parents entered the room carrying sandwiches and drinks. Viola Ross and Barry Ross had been together since their teen years. Both in their sixties, they continued to have the type of relationship anyone would be envious of—playful, loving, and with mutual respect. Their mother wore her hair in a full, round Afro, while their father had his hair cut short and a full beard on his jaw.
“Good morning,” their mother sang.
Montez and his siblings returned the greeting, though less enthusiastically because of the tension from the conversation.
Barry raised his eyebrows as he handed out the drinks. “What’s wrong with you three?” he asked in his deep baritone.
“Nothing. Ready to get started,” Montez said.
“All right, let’s get down to business.” Viola sat at the head of the table.
