Page 9 of Disrespectfully, Relic
“I’m good. I just ran into the car in front of me.”
“Damn. Are you nearby? Do you need me to pick you up?”
“I’m a block away. I doubt the damage is bad, but I know the driver is about to be on one. Let me take care of this.”
Kennedy ended the call just as a male hand stuck out of the car window she’d hit. He waved with a point, directing her to follow as he turned into the parking lot of a nearby convenient store and pushed out a heavy breath. Her eyes skimmed his bumper as she drove behind him, gauging the minor damage before parking beside his idling car just as his driver’s door popped open. She peeked through her passenger window to check him out, but clambered from her car when she couldn’t see his face hidden below the brim off a fitted hat.
“You were in a rush, weren’t you?” Those were his first words as she rounded her car to meet him where he’d strolled to assess the back of his ride. He rubbed a hand over the small dent and chipped paint before shaking his head as he removed his hat. “You fucked my shit up, mama.”
“I did not!”
Her eyes flitted to the bumper and then migrated back to a brown face housing dark, heavily lashed eyes and a smooth grin that produced a single dimple, easing the tension in her shoulders. She cracked a smile as he licked his lips.
“I am so sorry about this, for real. I got distracted for a second and before I knew it, I’d hit you. If it makes you feel any better, mine is probably worse.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better at all. Let’s see what you got going on.”
Before Kennedy could decline, he was gaiting toward the front of her car. She rushed behind him while internally giving him brownie points for not being an asshole and seeming more concerned about the damage to her modest car than his souped-up black muscle car with flames emblazoned along the side. The repairs for his custom paint job would probably send her insurance rate skyrocketing.
“Oh, this ain’t shit,” he stated as she ambled to his side. His shoulder sitting just above her head garnered her attention before she refocused, sighing at the deep indent and black paint smeared across her red coat. “It could be worse. Tell the nigga who had you distracted, he owes you some bread.”
“Huh?” She gazed up at him with a frown.
“You said, you were distracted when you hit me.”
“I didn’t say it was by a man, though. I was talking to my girlfriend.” His brow shot up, making her squeal a laugh before correcting, “A girl that’s a friend. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“My bad. You never know in this day and age. If that’s the case, though, let me get your number for the inconvenience, and we can call it even.”
“You want my number?”
Kennedy cringed, regretting those insecure words that caused lines to crease his forehead as soon as they left her mouth. If it were before the salon fire that’d altered her beauty; a fine ass man asking for her number wouldn’t come as a surprise. It’d come as more of a shock if he didn’t request it.
She played it off with a laugh. “I doubt my number is an even exchange, sir. Let me find out, you’re riding on stolen tags or don’t have insurance.”
“Shit, you hit me, mama. You’re the one that needs insurance. I’m not pressed ‘bout that lil’ shit, ‘cause I can have mine fixed up within a week. It’s nothing.”
“Oh, really? If you got it like that, then hook me up.”
“Just say the word,” he replied, digging into his pocket. Her lips tucked inward to contain her grin when he produced his phone and instructed, “Lock your number in, with yo sexy ass, and I got you. The name’s Lomar.”
“Kennedy, and you’re laying it on thick with the compliments, Mr. Lomar.”
“How? You don’t think you’re sexy?”
His dimple made an appearance again as a coy grin spread on his lips while his eyes scanned her from head to toe in unabashed approval. They lingered on her hips before drifting to her face that she kept stoic in preparation for the worst. He didn’t bat those longs lashes once while examining her injuries.
“If that’s what you’re worried about.” His head nodded toward her marred face in awareness. “A little war wound ain’t ever hurt nothing. That shit just gives you flava in my book. You want to see mine?”
She crossed her arms with a pursed mouth and called his bluff. “Yep.”
He chuckled before lifting his leather bomber jacket and shirt in broad daylight to mitigate her doubts—revealing a tattoo-littered, solid chest that’d come from lifting weights while on lockdown. Her eyes ballooned. It took her a minute to maze through the markings before spotting a single groove sitting below his right pectoral muscle and a healed gash curved along his side.
“Got shot years ago on some wrong place, wrong time type shit. Got shanked in the box.”
“You’ve been to jail?”
He pulled down his clothing and nodded. “I was in survival mode back then, but that was the old me. Now, I work in real estate appraisal, and that shit rakes in the real cash. That petty shit I used to do ain’t my wave anymore.”
