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He waited for more.
I wrung my hands. “I don’t know how to say it . . . Phil . . . he . . .”
Yero held my hands. “I know the whole story. I’m so sorry about that, baby. But why didn’t you come to me? Why Asha?”
“She’s my sister.”
Yero sighed. “I still love you, Saundra.”
I put my arms around his waist. “Yero, I’m sorry.”
He nuzzled my hair with his chin. “I need more, honey. We both have to understand our breakup and why my shoulder wasn’t the one you chose to cry on.”
“You’re right.”
“Saundra,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Will you marry me?”
My body felt weightless and when our lips met again, it felt like we wer
e floating on a cloud.
We kissed until someone got off another elevator and stared at me, standing there all rumpled and still in my nightgown.
My hand flew to my mouth. “Yero, I’ve locked us out of the apartment.”
He winked and grabbed me by the hand. “Don’t worry, Asha gave me the key.”
Chapter 52
PHIL
For six months I prayed that Saundra would bend, just a little. And then one morning I reached into the mailbox and there was only one pale pink envelope in it—an invitation to her wedding. I literally screamed with joy.
That same day me and my new partner, a good white cop named Andy Byer, with ten years under his belt, were rolling down Guy Brewer Boulevard. We were on our way to check out a tip about a new crystal meth ring that was operating in South Jamaica when we saw this kid run out of a store with an armful of clothes. Since we were traveling in an unmarked car, he didn’t think twice about dashing right in front of us. The kid was black. The man who came tearing out the store after him was Middle Eastern.
Andy sighed in disgust.
I knew just what he meant. We had to stop the robbery that was going on right under our noses, but then this pissant one-hundred-dollar case would tie us up in paperwork for half the afternoon.
We got out and did our thing. The store owner ended up with his gear back. The kid was cuffed in the back of our car.
Andy started the car up and we were back in business. As we rolled along, I turned around and stared hard into our prisoner’s eyes.
“How old are you, man?”
He tried to look tough but I saw the fear in his eyes. “Twelve.”
“Have you ever been arrested before?”
“No.”
“Ever been in a police station?”
“No.”
