By the time she’s done just killing that song, I’m grinning ear to ear, and my A&R Spidey-tingle is buzzing in the back of my head.
Jenni said all I had to do was clap and tell the kid she did a good job, and the current age of the mask has made it really easy to be a socially distant, insincere dick. But I end up crouching down to tell her, “You’ve got phenomenal talent, kid.”
Now she’s the one grinning from ear to ear. “My mom says I should be boring, like her. But I want to be a singer-rapper when I grow up. Just like you!”
“Just like me, huh?” I chuckle, and a long-lost memory of me saying the same thing to one of my rap-star heroes, C-Mello, washes over me.
“Well, guess what, my dad didn’t want me to rap either. So you keep doing you, and see how that turns out.”
“Okay, I will!” she says.
Jenni appears beside us and clicks a few pictures with her camera phone before saying, “That was wonderful, O2. Now, that’s not your real name, correct?”
“No, ma’am, I’m named after Auntie Olivia. So everybody calls me O2.”
“Wow, kid’s calling you ma’am. We really are back in the South,” Jenni jokes.
“Yeah,” O2 agrees with a somber nod. “It’s not like New York here. You have to talk to adults with respect. That’s what my mommy says.”
“Well, your mother sounds like a very by-the-books person,” Jenni says in that exaggerated, slow tone some adults use with kids. “Could you let me know her name? I’d love to find her and have her sign a release form so that we can showcase your talent on Griffin’s social media channels.”
O2 claps both hands over her cheeks, like a cute, light-brown Macaulay Culkin. “No shush?”
After a confused moment, I realize that’s her kid version of “no shit.”
“No shush,” I assure her with a laugh. “Just give Jenni your mom’s name.”
She drops her hands and eagerly answers, “Bernice! Her name is Bernice!”
That name…
I still.
“What did you just say?” I ask the little girl.
At the same time, Jenni says, “Could you spell that for me? And what’s your last name?”
Instead of answering either of us, O2 points over my shoulder and says, “Mommy! Mommy! It’s G-Latham!”
CHAPTER 25
BERNICE
Allie and I screech to a halt at the backhouse daycare’s front door.
“Mama!” Allie’s son calls out, toddling right on up to her.
But O2…my Olivia…
She doesn’t call out my name for a reason that makes my heart nearly give out.
She’s deep in conversation with a man who’s squatted down to speak with her. He’s wearing a cowboy hat paired with a Ruthless Reapers leather vest over a tee. And though his back is turned to me, I recognize all the tattoos running up his neck and down his arms.
I remember allowing my curiosity to roam free one of the weedless days, when we were supposed to be watching a movie on the couch. I crawled over to him like a cat in heat and kissed each inked piece while my hands grazed his hard, lean body—until he put me on my back and buried his mouth in my pussy, aggressively returning all my soft tattoo kisses with a hard, wet one of his own.
The memory floods through me like it happened yesterday, not years ago.
“Mommy! Mommy!” O2 calls out when she sees me over his shoulder. “It’s G-Latham!”
I can’t answer. I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe as Griff…G-Latham slowly stands up to his full six feet plus.
“Bernice?” Allie asks, pulling me back into the present.
She’s got ahold of her little boy, and she’s desperately trying to hide her face and help me at the same time.
But I can’t be helped. He’s already seen me.
“Run,” I whisper out the side of my mouth. “Run while you still can.”
O2’s face goes from excited to worried when Allie turns and flees without even a word of hello.
“Mommy?” she asks.
I need to say something…reassure my daughter, the love of my life.
But I can only stare at her father.
A few more hopeful maybes spark in my chest. Girls in his world are a dime a dozen. There had to be a million mes while he was out on the road. I mean, that was probably why he stopped asking Allie about Red, the bad girl he never got to finish mindgaming.
And I wear my hair in sensible box braids now—not a flashy cherry-red weave. Maybe he won’t recognize me. Maybe he won’t realize—
“Red,” he says, his blue-black eyes narrowing on me, then on my daughter.
Our daughter.
All the hope dies in my chest. Then I spring into action.
“O2, come with me,” I say, holding out my hand. “Now. We’ve got to go. No questions.”
Thank goodness she still minds me like she did in the big city of New York.
O2 rushes forward, throwing a “Bye, Mr. G-Latham!” over her shoulder.