Page 55 of Brown Sugar
“And you know she’s still out of town,” she finishes for me.
“I checked the cameras and saw Shawn there.”
“Fuck, why would he want her device?”
“I’ve got some theories.”
We sit and theorize over possibilities while we drink our coffee, and Amari grows increasingly concerned.
By the end of our meet up, she’s throwing another round of furtive looks over her shoulder.
“I’m not supposed to do this. But I’m going to give you her new number. Just keep it on the low, alright? K would probably love to hear from you. But it has to be in secret.”
I save the number and thank Amari for the info she’s provided.
She goes her way and I go mine, but not without the agreement we’ll keep each other updated on any new developments.
The drive from downtown to my secluded home takes an hour. I’m a few minutes away when my phone beeps with a notification to let me know someone’s crossed onto the premises. Who the hell would come uninvited to my house of all places?
They must not know I wouldn’t hesitate making them greatly regret it.
I arrive at my house similar to how I arrived at Kiana’s penthouse apartment earlier—ready to do what I’ve got to for security reasons.
I come up the back instead of taking the direct front path like I usually would.
The first sign of the intruder that I catch sight of is the top of their head. Hundreds of tiny, tight curls that are various tones of brown. A head of thick curls that looks immediately familiar.
“Kiana?” I say, coming to a stop. My hand drops from where it’s drifted to my hip, ready to grab the firearm holstered there.
She lifts her head up, seated on my stoop as she waits on me. From the moment her eyes meet mine and I get a good look at her bruised face, I’m functioning on fury and outrage.
I’m aware of the immediate urge to bash skulls and break bones.
Kiana’s not here to visit for good reasons.
She’s here for help.
19
KIANA
Tyson is livid when he sees my injuries. He doesn’t have to say a word to let me know. His large frame tenses up, his muscles straining so hard veins protrude. His eyes flash with the kind of rage that could burn down the entire city.
Another second, and he might launch into a rampage on my behalf.
I rush to explain.
“I was in a car accident,” I say. “Earlier today.”
His thick brows connect and his broad chest rises and falls with ragged breaths, taking me in. It’s as if he’s still processing how to react. Whether he wants to be in full scorched earth mode or if he’s slipping into something else altogether.
“In NYC,” I finish, bringing my hand to the lump on my forehead. “My injuries aren’t serious, but?—”
“How?” he interrupts. “How did it happen?”
“Hit and run. The guy drove off.”
“I bet he did.” He lumbers forward, a large mass of muscle that feels safe and protective on presence alone. Cupping my elbow, he unlocks the double doors to his home and then guides me inside.