I scramble out of bed, tripping over the blankets and stumbling heavily. Somehow, I manage to stay vertical as I run through the living room. Right as I’m about to open the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
“Shit,” I hiss, realizing I’m nearly naked in just my bra and panties. Matching ones, of course. Not that I planned that just in case when Carson showed up last night. I grab a blanket off the couch, wrapping it around myself like a towel and tucking the tail in between my breasts.
Taya knocks again, more of a bang this time. “Now, Jayme. Before someone sees me out here and decides that we’re having a lover’s spat and contacts TMZ.”
I yank open the door. “Shut up! You can’t say things like that!” I snap, horrified that Taya’s going to ruin all the hard work we’ve put into making her seem like a stable, normal person even though she’s totally not. I pull her inside, her feet shuffling in her furry slides and her smile wide. “What the hell?”
“Chill. Ain’t no one to hear me on this floor.”
Frowning, I glance out into the hallway in confusion before asking her, “How do you know that?”
She’s regained her composure and is enjoying having information that I don’t. “Myron told me,” she says airily, waving a hand as though it’s no big deal.
But it definitely is.
“Myron is paid very well to not share things like that,” I argue as I shut the door.
“And I’m Taya,” she counters, knowing the power her name carries. “And your best friend, which he’s well aware of. Don’t worry, he’s not telling tales to any Joe on the street. He knows I’d kill him . . . if you or your dad didn’t get to him first.”
I can’t argue that, and sensing that she’s won, Taya struts to the kitchen, helping herself to my coffee maker. As she passes me, I realize she’s wearing the infamous TikTok leggings that make her butt look especially fabulous and a matching tie-dye, neon yellow crop top. I need to check her accounts and make sure she’s not posting anything too risqué, though that line for her is pretty far out.
“Be right back,” I tell her, hustling down the hall to get dressed. Slipping on soft cashmere joggers and a short-sleeved top, I take a quick minute to call Carson.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he answers, and I can hear his smile.
“Hey, Carson. I had something come up this morning and won’t be able to make it in until later this afternoon,” I tell him sadly.
“Oh.” It’s the smallest syllable but contains as much disappointment as I feel.
“I know.”
From the kitchen, Taya calls out, “Snap-snap, Jayme, or I’mma start helping myself to whatever I want.”
Shit. I need to hurry. Taya quite literally means she’ll pocket whatever she finds interesting. She’ll give it back—she always does—but in the meantime, I won’t have a salt shaker, the candle holder on the coffee table, or my car keys.
“I have to go, Carson. I’ll come as soon as I can, but in the meantime—”
He cuts me off. “Don’t worry, I’ve got things here. I am a marketing genius, despite recent evidence to the contrary. I’ll work on the bullet points we laid out.”
I sigh in relief. “Thanks.”
“Hang up the phone, bitch. Your ass is mine now,” Taya sings from the doorway, two cups of steaming coffee in her hands.
“You good?” Carson growls, not used to Taya’s style.
I laugh at the protective streak that pops in him as Taya sets one mug on the nightstand. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll see you later.”
He still sounds hesitant but says goodbye before hanging up, and I do the same.
“Okay, first my crisis and then I want all the deets on . . . that,” Taya tells me, waving a long-nailed finger toward my phone. She kicks her slides off and climbs into my bed, making herself at home. “Your coffee is sweet and creamy, just the way you like it. Mine is black with a shot of Fireball.”
I make a face of disgust. “How do you drink that? Especially at this time of day.”
She sips it easily and shrugs. “You do you, I’ll do me—bitter, hot, and spicy.”
Not awake or rested enough to argue effectively, I pick up the coffee she made for me and climb back into bed, wishing I could sleep for another hour or two but knowing that’s not going to happen. Not with Taya already gearing up.
“Hit me.”
Taya smiles, enjoying making me wait. “Do you remember the time we went to lunch and that guy came up and touched my hair?”
I choke on my coffee. “Oh no, please tell me you didn’t.”
The story she’s reminding me of was one of those very public spectacle rough edges we dealt with. Taya and I were out to lunch, minding our own business, when a guy came up and started gushing over Taya’s long, bright blue braided hair, saying she’d make a gorgeous model. Without asking, he reached out and petted her hair, wrapping a lock around his finger. Taya had flinched back, shouting in shock and anger. The guy hadn’t expected her loud ‘don’t touch me, asshole’ and had balked as if he’d had some right to touch her. He’d stammered, trying to explain that he was complimenting her, and before I knew what was happening, Taya had ripped her wig off, exposing her natural short hair, and started smacking the guy with it, the blue braid becoming a whip. His high-pitched screams could’ve been used for a horror movie soundtrack, and it wasn’t until I’d threatened to call the cops that I’d gotten either of their attention. The guy had wanted me to call the cops at first, thinking I was calling on Taya, but he’d changed his tune really fast when I mentioned that he'd assaulted her first and she had every right to defend herself. “That’s right, asshole. Keep your hands to your muthafuckin’ self,” she’d said.