Fallin' for a Miami Hustla 3 by Journee Jordan

Author:Journee Jordan [Jordan, Journee]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2022-09-18T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Supreme

As I pulled up to the entrance, I saw Crayola walking out of the hospital with Omir on her shoulder, holding Cartier’s hand. Seeing her eyes widen as she noticed me, I pulled up right in front of her and jumped out.

“What you doin’ here?” she asked, looking around, probably searching for her Uber.

“Coming to take you home.” I opened the passenger side back door. “Get in.”

Her eyebrows narrowed with suspicion. “Blaze sent you to come get me?”

“Nah, but he told me you tryna take some punk ass Uber and that ain’t happenin’.” She didn’t move, just stared at me. “Get in the car Crayola ‘cause it’s people walking out behind you, and you don’t want me to show my ass.”

When I said that, her head snapped behind her to see a crowd passing through the double doors. She moved her feet and put the kids in the backseat. After opening the door for her, I went to the driver’s side.

“You so fuckin’ stubborn, ma. I gotta threaten ya ass for you to move your feet.” Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw Cartier looking at me. “What up, lil’ man? You good?”

He nodded and focused on the phone in his hand. After pulling off, I looked back and forth between the road and Crayola, as she gazed out the window. With her elbow on the window seal, she rested her chin in her palm.

“Aye,” I said to catch her attention and, when she looked my way, I confessed honestly, “I missed you.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat, letting out a shaky breath. “You got a funny way of showing it. I tried to talk to you today and you ignored me like I was some random bitch.”

“You hurt a nigga feelings, ma. What you expected me to do after you said you ain’t want me?” I spat, lowering my voice when Omir started whining.

“Treat me like a human being,” she said, glaring at me. I sucked my teeth, keeping an eye on the road as we approached a red light.

“Man. What you want from me, Crayola?” I asked honestly, turning the A.C. down and locking eyes with her. Looking at her hands, she shrugged.

“You salty ‘cause I ain’t speak to you? How you think I feel? It was fucked up how you treated a nigga, but I’m still here for you when you need me. If you were just a random bitch, I wouldn’t give two cents about how ya ass got home,” I spat, pressing the gas pedal when the light turned green. I was tired of talking any fuckin’ way, so we sat silently. A nigga ain’t never had to fight this hard before.

One of my hands was on my lap when she placed her hand on top of mine. I snapped my head in her direction, intertwining my fingers with hers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered softly, her lips quivering. “I know I’m trippin’, and it was wrong how I did you. I was scared and it was a lot I was dealing with, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.

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