Lighter Shade of Brown (Urban Fiction) BWHM

Chapter 37

Cleo ran a critical gaze over every surface of the kitchen. She'd bleached the countertops, stove, sink, and microwave three times. Glaze scented candles saturated the air with a Hawaiian breeze fragrance. To the naked eye, everything was everything. Nothing was out of place. Good. She released a sigh, and drifted over to the sink. Quickly, she began to stack aluminum cups and whips into a brown grocery bag.

As she placed the last item in the bag a glint of silver from her reflection in the window snaked her attention. Her gaze zeroed in on the dainty cross around her neck. It glittered as a bold as shit reminder of C's. She hadn't seen or spoken to him in a year, but he still had the power to bust her head game wide with a single thought of him. How the hell was that possible?

She was with Tech now. Believe it or not, he was a good dude. He never took her through the changes that C's had. She didn't have to worry about bitches being on his pager, hoes falling out of the closet or sluts trying to play her position. He showed her the upmost respect. If he dealt with other chicks, it never got back to her. So why the hell couldn't she shake the brick headed Puerto Rican from the other side of the tracks?

A knock at the front door yanked Cleo free from her thoughts of C's. Leaving the kitchen, she crossed the living room and opened the door. A white dude in navy blue polo shirt stood on the porch, frowning up at the number on Ms. Lucy's door, before swinging his mud brown eyes back to her apartment number. Wrinkles creased his sweaty forehead as he glared down at the clip board in his hands.

"What?" She snapped, wondering who in the hell was the corny ass dude. He couldn't have been a bill collector or utility worker there to cut something off because it was Saturday. Maybe he was there slinging bibles?

His gaze shot to her face. "This apartment G?"

She glared at the number two on the door frame. "No. The building is G. Apartment is 2."

"You Cleopatra James?"

"Why?"

The corners of the man's mouth tugged downwards as his nose turned up in true, I'm too good for this shit, fashion. "Look, I have a three piece bedroom suit down in the truck. Now are you Cleopatra James or not?"

"What that's supposed to mean? Ain't nobody order that-,"

"I ordered it, Lil' Mama," Tech yelled from half-way down the stairs. "Dis da right place. Bring it up."

The man swung around to size Tech up, after a moment of appraisal, he nodded and turned to descend the stairs. Once the man passed him, Tech jogged up the remainder of the steps. Cleo glared at him, arms folded and tucked firmly under her breasts. He leaned down to kiss her. She turned her head and his lips slapped her on the cheek.

"What did I tell you about buyin' all this stuff? Liberty doesn't like it, which you already know. She cut the hell up when you bought the living room suit." She turned around and stomped back in the house.

Tech followed her in, snaking his arms around her waist. He yanked her back to him. "Dis fa ya, doe. A late birthday present. How she gonna be mad 'bout dat?"

"Because this her damn house. She can be mad about whatever the hell she wanna be mad about," she said, refusing to relax in his embrace. He got on her damn nerves acting like he didn't know one plus one equaled two. "And you know she already can't stand you. The last thing she need is something else to step down about when it comes to you. 'Sides, my birthday was two weeks ago."

Tech wrinkled his nose and shrugged. A clear sign he'd started to feel a way. "Yo mama gonna step down no matta wut I do," he said. "Nah let's stop arguin' 'bout someting we both need. I'm tired of sleepin' on dat woe out mattress. My back ain't been right since I started stayin here on da weekends. Last night one of da wires hangin' outta da damn ting stabbed me down to da white meat. You heard me?"