Money is the Motto: "You're killing me, Money."
Subject to change
Portions of copyrighted content
This book doesn’t need an explanation. All that you don’t receive through samples and such, you will receive when you open the book. No release date has been given. But, this book will be available this Summer.
Draped in a navy blue three-piece suit, he slid through the glob of people and passed up the hostess stand. His destination had already been decided on and his refusal to stop until he reached was partially to blame on his heart. It had led him to the parking lot, willed him from his ride and straight to the table where the woman who’d summoned it sat with a nigga who could kiss their days together goodbye and a few others. Prior to walking inside, he’d only known her location. It was the divine connection he’d been suppressing since the day they met that directed Prophet to the madness that was currently staring back at him.
Standing a few feet away, at first, admiring her glow and taking a moment to appreciate her beauty, Prophet gazed from a short distance. Malaya’s head was facing her phone, which was flat on the table. Doing a bit of a dance – cutting a few flips and completing stunts that seemed impossible – Prophet’s heart expanded in his chest, knowing that Malaya awaited him. She was waiting for some form of contact, but he felt there wasn’t any better than physical.
At the realization that another second had elapsed without him reaching out, Prophet watched as she lifted her head with disappointment in her eyes. Her shoulders hung low, so did her smile. It was forged, paining his existence. She didn’t want to be where she was. And, though she was physically present, emotionally and mentally, she was somewhere else. That somewhere happened to be wherever he would’ve been hadn’t it been the same place she was at the moment.
Two souls, tangled in a strange web, meshed like laughter and wine, couldn’t help but find each other every chance they got. Prophet wasn’t surprised to find Malaya staring back at him after the initial disappointment of her absence from his mind had afforded her with. Without a single word being spoken, much was said between the two.
Malaya begged of his forgiveness while simultaneously condemning him for his presence and pleading with him to leave at once. But, what stuck with him was the cry to be rescued. Ignoring everything that was communicated except the most obvious, Prophet placed one feet in front of the other. Malaya wanted out and he would give her a way.
Licking the skin of his teeth, Prophet attempted to control his budding anger. The dress that he’d had handmade and customized for Malaya in particular was brushing a floor that probably hadn’t had a deep cleansing in months. The back was attached to a low-budgeted wooden chair that – more than likely – needed to be replaced with a new one. The shoes were resting on the legs of a table that wobbled if anyone made any sudden moves.
Prophet was half amused, half livid. He couldn’t think straight. Cutting the distance, he made larger, more ambitious steps to lessen the time it took to be at her side. Respectfully, he stood with his hands folded in front of him.
It was his way of protecting himself. Protecting her. Because, if he didn’t control his movements, then he would find himself doing exactly what he’d been fantasizing about every night before he laid to rest on his bunk over the last two years of his life.
Smear her lipstick.
That’s all he wanted to do for now. Kiss her lips and have her climb him like a tall Hyperion tree as she had the night of their first encounter. Visions surfaced, forcing Prophet to revisit the momentous moment, the moment that he realized God actually put the red vessel in his chest for a reason other than it being a requirement of the streets.
“Can I help you?” Terrance was the first to speak.
“Not exactly,” Prophet addressed him, malice lacing his tone.
A good judge of character, he’d read Terrance back and forth before approaching and knew off top that he didn’t care for the nigga. It wasn’t because he was seated with the girl of Prophet’s world, but for reasons he didn’t care to indulge because Malaya was the matter of the moment. Nothing and no one else.
“Money,” Prophet ignored the scowl that lined Terrance’s features.
“Malaya?” Terrance followed up with, wondering how she knew the man standing before them, “Who is…”
“P,” Malaya called him by the name he’d given her, throwing shade in the process.
He caught it, chuckling at her sarcasm. It was a way of reminding him that they weren’t on first name basis, and a way to let him know that she was placing a barrier up. Walking away with her in his arm wasn’t going to be possible without a fight. But, it was well-received, because he hadn’t come without being prepared for war if necessary.
“Money, you’re looking as good as I could’ve imagined.” Prophet chose a route he was sure she hadn’t expected.
Cheeks flushing a shade between pink and crimson, Malaya bit the inside of her lip. Prophet watched as she squirmed in her seat, finding pleasure in making her do so. She was fronting. Again, Prophet had called her bluff.
“Prophet,” she gritted, upset that she reacted the way she had.
The sound of his voice was like a lullaby while simultaneously being immediate lubrication for her lady downstairs. Forcefully, she remembered the never-ending rod that sat between his legs that day. Squeezing her eyes shut for a full second, she tried forgetting that moment. Their moment.
It was obvious that she was insisting on his departure, but he wasn’t interested. “Please, tell me why I’m here instead of catering to your every desire at a place far away from here where the chatter is low and only coming from us two, the laughter is plenty, the food is top notch and the atmosphere is… everything?” Prophet spoke lowly, getting close enough for only Malaya to hear him.
“Why are you here?” She whispered to him.
“Because, I’ve been waiting for this day since the day God finally looked out for a nigga and you’re fucking up my fantasy. These fake ass crab legs and shitty-back shrimp are obstructing my view,” Prophet complained.
“You’re insane. Please, just leave.”
“Malaya!” Terrance demanded something from her, but she gave him nothing. Her attention was occupied.
“Prophet. Please,” she begged to no avail.
“Love, this is a custom Chanel piece. You don’t wear custom Chanel to three-star restaurants. The earrings alone were $2,500. It’s niggas in here wishing upon a star for that $2,500 to fall out of the sky right now and would do just about anything to get it. Here you are, ready to – unknowingly – hand it to them.” Prophet shoved his hands into both of his pockets to keep himself in line. Tittering, he leaned in, again, and asked, “Money, you trying to get me sent back upstate from bodying one of ‘em about you?”
“Please,” she sneered.
“You’re killing me, Money. I’m standing on half-buffed floors in front of people who don’t deserve either of our presence and you’re as dazzling as I imagined. Walking out of that door will be harder than the two years I just did. However, your comfort will always be the mission and Money will always be the motto.” Reaching his full potential in height, Prophet button the single button that he’d undone upon reaching Money.
“You still haven’t answered my question, Malaya. Who…”
Sniggering, with a disgusted look on his face, Prophet interrupted Terrance. “I’m standing right here, nigga. Ask me who I am.”
“Who are you?” Terrance redirected his question, appalled at the behavior and fearlessness being displayed.
“Prophet.” He spoke as if it was supposed to ring bells within Terrance.
The questionable look on his face revealed that the name hadn’t meant much, but Prophet was sure that it would soon. In fact, it would hunt him for months to come, possibly years knowing that it belonged to the man that would be keeping the woman he loved company in the near future. Satisfied, somewhat, he gathered himself before making his way to the door.