Griffin (Ruthless MC 3)

If not for all the horns blaring behind me because I’d stopped dead in the road, I might still be sitting on Church Street with my mouth hanging open.

Instead of collecting the money from Griff—who was apparently really a “country trap” artist named G-Latham—I ended up selling my car to fund my New York dream. So no, that wasn’t the most intelligent I’ve ever felt.

And believe me, I got to feeling even more stupid when I read the pregnancy test I bought on a whim when I couldn’t recall the date of my last period. As it turns out, it wasn’t because of the buzzy brain fog that came with moving to a huge, loud city and starting a breakneck year-long internship at an elite event planning company.

No, I couldn’t remember because I was pregnant! Pregnant by that lying monster!

So, dream interrupted.

The glitzy event planning company suddenly decided that we weren’t "a match” after I started visibly showing. And believe me, I felt mighty low pounding the pavement in search of a job that would keep me in New York while nearly eight months pregnant.

Thank goodness for Olivia Glendaver. The bourbon heiress gave me a full-time job at her Women with Disabilities clinic without hesitation. And sure, I was working the same boring job I'd had in Nashville, with a front office one on top. There wasn’t enough room in the clinic’s budget for a nurse and a receptionist, so I had to do both.

But the job came with maternity leave, prorated access to the university hospital’s daycare, and benefits that Olivia made sure kicked in before my baby came. I was so grateful, I named my newborn after my angel of a boss, which is why everyone, including me, calls my daughter O2.

So no, my life didn’t turn out quite like I was expecting. But I would never call it ruined.

I do, however, scan the crowd anxiously as we make our way down to the baggage claim.

I know the odds of me running into G-Latham—who’s rebranded himself as Griffin Latham these days—are slight. But being back in Nashville always makes me anxious.

“Are Aunt Kyra and Uncle Colin going to send a big black car, like last time?” O2 asks as I follow the signage to the rental car counters.

As anxious as I am, I can’t help but laugh. Being only three, O2 can’t remember some of the stuff that happened two weeks ago. But that black limo memory from last Thanksgiving stayed with her.

“I told them not to,” I answer.

But Kiki, who insists everybody calls her by her given name, Kyra, these days, can have a mind of her own.

Just in case, I bring my phone out to tell her.

Hey best cuz! Just landed. Headed downstairs to pick up our RENTAL CAR.

That warning given, I get in line to pick up the car. I don't drive in New York, so I like to practice whenever I visit Nashville—a city where everybody doesn't drive like they're on freaking cocaine. But it takes forever.

And by the time we climb into the small economy car, I have to let Kiki know:

I’m having major regrets about not letting you spoil us with another limo. But we’ve got the car, and we’re on our way.

Kiki’s text comes back almost immediately

KIKI: Can't wait to see you. You will NEVER believe who RSVPed for the party…

I laugh. And type, “Who?” even though I already know it will probably be some up-and-coming country singer I've never heard of. Now that artists like Kane Brown are sitting at the top of the pop charts, my songwriter cousin is forever trying to make country music that Black folks also like happen.

KIKI: Colin’s cousin, Waylon! And he’s best friends with Griffin Latham, so he’s coming too.

My heart stops. Just plain old stops beating in my chest. And another message pops up.

KIKI: Griffin Latham? You know, G-Latham. He was huge a few years ago. But he’s kind of semi-retired now.

Yes…yes, I know who G-Latham is. Now.

But I don’t type Kiki that. I can’t…I can’t…I can’t do anything but sit there and tremble.

“Mommy? Mommy?” O2 calls out to me from her car seat in the back. “Why are you just sitting there? Why aren’t you driving?”

CHAPTER 20

GRIFFIN

“Look who finally made it to one of our parties,” Colin Fairgood tells his wife, Kyra, after he and Waylon walk me into their Thanksgiving get-together.

Kyra Fairgood wrote a couple of tracks on my last album. She’s one of those bold, arty types who swaps out her hair color at least once a month. She also has a visible scar across her face that she does nothing to hide but never explains.

She’s still hot, though. And right now, it’s a triple smoke show because she’s talking to that reality star babe Colin’s brother, Woods, married, and the girl-next-door cutie Waylon’s suddenly decided he wanted to go all-in for this year.