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I lock the door and sag against the wooden panel as soon as it shuts behind her with a decisive click. My body trembles like I just survived an encounter with the anti-Christ. All that's left of Robyn Fenty in my office is her deceptively alluring scent-an intense burst of Creed, Aventus-and my terror.
And I can't forget the promissory note. My gaze darts to the desk and then away.
My gaze darts to the desk and then away. It has to be fake. Meek did not borrow five hundred thousand dollars using the distillery as collateral, because he certainly didn't use the money for any of the improvements I've been making. Every dollar that has gone into this place has been courtesy of the dog-and-pony show I put on for what seemed like every banker in town.
I'm in debt up to my eyeballs. Or, at least, I was. Now I'm in over my head. Robyn Fenty. I squeeze my eyes shut and lift my chin toward the ceiling, inwardly cursing my dead husband. My dad would probably say I'd be better off looking down to find his spirit.
How could you do this to me, you asshole?
This debt... to that woman... is the final nail in Meek's proverbial coffin. How could I have not seen through him for the user he was?
Self-recrimination floats through me for the thousandth time. It's like a bad rerun on TV I can't help let play on. I fell for his bullshit lines. Thought we were going to build my family's empire again. I thought I found a partner. I was the dumbass who suggested eloping because I was so convinced he was the one.
It didn't take long before I realized he was an opportunistic asshole who cheated on me since before we were even married and started skimming money from the distillery bank account as soon as he had access.
I slap my palms against the solid oak door behind me.
"Fuck you, Meek. Fuck. You."
I take a deep breath, open my eyes, and straighten my spine. My pity party is over. I've spent just over three months dealing with the fallout of his death, only a month longer than we were married, and just when I thought I was finally back on solid ground... Robyn Fenty happens.
I glance once more at the document sitting on my desk. The desk my great-grandfather had shipped over from Trinidad and Tobago that he'd sat at when they'd signed the very first lease for Seven Sinners Distillery property. There'd been seven sons, and their optimism about ruling the whiskey market had been undeniable.
I thought I finally proved myself worthy of sitting behind that desk when my father agreed to let me buy him out. I was so proud to be the first woman to take the helm of a distillery producing the finest whiskey in New Orleans, where our family planted roots and came to prosper even with the bitch of a law called prohibition.
Part of me wishes I'd been alive during those days if lawlessness. When might made right, and a man-or a woman-could rise and fall according to how hard he or she was willing to work. But then again, I could picture Robyn Fenty there too with a tommy gun, eliminating every bit of competition in her way. Except she was probably still eliminating her competition the same way even now.
Actually, I have no idea how we managed to escape her notice this long, but apparently that lucky streak is over.
I summon my ladyballs and cross the cold, cracked floor to look down on the document that sits on the desk so innocently. I reach out as though I should have a hazmat suit on before I touch it, and grasp a corner of the paper between a thumb and forefinger.
I leave as much of the legal BS to the lawyers as possible, but with their hourly rates running so high and adding up so quickly, and with barely enough money to pay the overdue bills I already have. I've had to learn plenty myself just to keep costs down.
Promissory Note.
I read it word for word. My quick-and-dirty summary: this one document spells out the doom of my family's heritage.
Meek Mills borrowed five hundred thousand dollars from Robyn Fenty four months ago and it was due in full last week, on the anniversary of Meek's death. Or, if you wanted to get specific, the anniversary of the discovery of his remains in a burned out car in the Ninth Ward with an unidentified female.
A cacophony of emotions riot in my chest like brass bands on opposite street corners in the French Quarter, competing for tourist dollars.
This is a disaster.
I can't pay it.
Fenty knows I can't pay it.
But there's something she's willing to take in trade.
I stumble around the side of the desk as my knees turn to water, and I collapse into the chair.
"You."
Shivers rip through my body, leaving chill bumps across every inch of my exposed skin, even though the leather still carries the heat from her body. Like her blood runs hotter than any ordinary woman. And maybe it does. One thing is safe to say--Robyn Fenty isn't an ordinary woman.
Sweet Jesus, what would she want from me?
My inner voice of reason develops an attitude. Are you serious? What the hell does any woman like that want from you? You'll pay on your back.
There may only be a few things I know as absolute fact in this life. Seven Sinners Whiskey is the best I've ever tasted. New Orleans will always be my home. And I'm not going to prostitute myself to pay my dead husband's debt.
But still, that word hangs in the air.
"You."
My hand shakes as I flip through the pages, committing the words to memory. But, really, the only things on this paper that matter are the amount I can't pay and the date it was due. I flip it over, not wanting to look at it anymore, but a bold scrawl on the back mocks me.
Seven-day payment
extension granted.
There's an illegible signature beneath it, but it doesn't take a genius to know whose it is.
Seven days? It wouldn't matter if I had seven months. I can't come up with a half million dollars.
What did Meek do with the money?
I wait in silence like the good Lord might answer me in a booming voice from the heavens, but that obviously doesn't happen.
Does it really matter at this point? It's gone. He's gone. And I'm the one left on the hook because as I unpleasantly learned, as the sole beneficiary and executor of his estate, all his debts became mine to deal with. The mess of a bad marriage lasts a hell of a lot longer than till death do us part.
I will not roll over and pay for Meek's bad decisions on my back.
The steady thrum of fear running through my veins attempts to weaken my titanium spine.
"I will find a way to fix this. Somehow. Some way. I will."
The silence is my office is the only answer I need.
I don't believe myself either.
But I have to do some thing or I'm fucked. And, apparently Robyn Rihanna Fenty will be doing the fucking.
_________
Ahh I love this book.
Thoughts?
Nicki?
What do you think she will do?
Meek?
Keep or delete?
What do you think of the story so far?
What do you think will happen next?
This is kinda a slow burn..