Boss Divas (12 page)

G
ood Lord Almighty. I'm staring at the finest brotha that I've ever seen: a six-four, honey-coated, muscular god with cool pastel-colored eyes. His voice is a smooth, sexy baritone that flows over the ear like a lover's whisper. One minute in the room with him and I already feel like I'm cheating on my husband.

Once that treacherous thought crosses my mind, I shake out of my trance in time to catch Maybelline's horror-stricken face before she slides it behind a fake smile.
What the hell is that about?

“Hello.” I move away from the door and approach the bed to interrupt their mini-family reunion.

Mr. Fine releases his aunt to swing his baby blues on me—
wait. I thought they were green when he entered the room.

“Captain,” he greets, giving me a smile that gets my heart hammering like a teenager, but has my head ringing alarm bells.

Danger, Hydeya Hawkins. Danger.
“You know who I am?”

“Well, you have been all over the news the last couple of days. Looks like the city is keeping you busy.”

“I'll sleep when I'm dead.”

His shoulders shake with his low, rumbled laugh. “Won't we all?”

No doubts that this man's Colgate smile alone has broken plenty of hearts. “You have me at a disadvantage, Mister . . . ?”

“Carver.” He extends his hand. “Diesel Carver.”

We shake, and I force myself not to react to the electrical current radiating from his touch. The man exudes a strange power that fascinates me. “Nice to meet you.” A brief silence hangs in the air until Lieutenant Fowler clears his throat and jolts me out of my trance again. “Oh. Uhm. Are you from around here?”

“No. Actually, my branch of the family tree is in Atlanta.” His smile widens as he crosses his arms. “You know, I'm glad that you're here. I can ask you directly—how's the investigation is going?”

“For Terrell?”

“Terrell?” Diesel's eyebrows jump—more out of amusement than surprise or curiosity. “Isn't he dead?” he asks.

I take two seconds to try and read his sincerity, but fail. “The jury is still out on that.”

“Captain,” Maybelline interrupts. Her impatience with me is etched in the small lines in her face. “I'd like some time alone with my nephew, if you don't mind.”

Our eyes lock, but I don't have grounds to push the issue so I pin on a stiff smile and promise myself that we'll take up our mental battle at another time. Soon. “Of course not.” I back away from the bed. “If anything else comes up, I'll keep you informed.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Maybelline says, her smile flat.

My gaze shifts to Diesel Carver. “It was nice to have met you.”

“I promise you that the pleasure was all mine.”

Fowler and I exit the hospital room.

“That was interesting,” Fowler quips, struggling to keep up with my quick, angry strides.

“Interesting or bullshit?” I punch the down button for the elevator and then start pacing. I can't dismiss the feeling that I'm being played somehow.

Confusion twists across Fowler's face. “I was referring to your reaction to Mr. Playa back there.”

“What?” I roll my eyes in a bad attempt to convince him that he didn't see what he saw. “Don't be ridiculous. I was putting him through my bullshit meter.”

“Uh-huh.” Fowler smirks. “And?”

“And—he's full of shit—or, at the very least, hiding something.”

“Humph. And here I thought he was just a nice guy checking in on his aunt—who, by the way, has been through one hell of an ordeal. I don't get why it felt like you were putting the woman on trial for something.”

“Don't be glib.”

“What's with all that stuff about Terrell Carver—and he may or may not be dead? Did I miss a memo or something?

The elevator doors slide open and I jump inside, shaking my head. “Give me a break.”

“What?” He follows me. “You know sometimes things
are
what they seem.”

“Not in my world.”

Fowler laughs and then preaches to me about my trust issues all the way back to the precinct. It all goes in one ear and out of the other. I know what I know. The second I return to my office, I shoot over to my computer and type in the name Diesel Carver.

D
iesel Carver came into the world a murderer.

The way he clawed out his mother's insides in the prison hospital set tongues wagging for years afterwards. Don't get it twisted—not too many people mourned his momma's passing. Rumor was that Zaire killed her momma the same way, and then took out her daddy and uncle with a double-barrel shotgun after they doped her up and ran a train on her on her thirteenth birthday. By fourteen, she was a full-blown coke addict and hit the corners and became a ghetto-superstar in Atlanta's infamous red-light district. There, she met and fell in love with her favorite john, my brother, Ty Carver.

The Carver family is a large one. I done said before, my momma spit us out like her pussy was on an assembly line. Majority of us were sent to Nana Maybelle to raise, but Momma kept a few close to her. Ty's father, Titus, was one of them—until he came of age and then headed down to Atlanta because it was supposed to be the next black mecca. The city's promises turned to shit. The results were the same as they were here in Memphis: more niggas in concrete plantations than the good ol' boys ever had picking cotton.

Ty, Alice's fraternal twin, died in a hail of bullets from the Atlanta Police Department during a routine traffic stop. With her nigga and her main coke connect murked, Zaire turned tricks for drugs instead of money. When her looks went to hell, and her pregnant pussy wasn't putting her on like it used to, she robbed and stole—which led to someone being killed: an undercover cop.

If Diesel hadn't killed his momma, those Georgia boys would have. To make shit even more fucked up, the state sent Zaire's murderous baby to Ty's wife, Daniella, to raise.

She didn't want the child, at first, but I did play a part in convincing her to do the right thing. Hell, I was raising Terrell at the time and the system had way too many little black boys that no one wanted. I even took Terrell down south every year for his birthday so he could establish a relationship with all his cousins in that neck of the woods.

Diesel was about eight when I suspected that something was a little . . .
off
. Don't get it twisted. Whenever I came around, Diesel always said and did the right things, but it always struck me as being a well-rehearsed act. But like my Nana Maybelle always said, you can't out-slick a can of oil. I watched him closer, knowing that sooner or later, his perfectly constructed mask would crack.

One day, Daniella called, begging me to take Diesel off of her hands. The scandal was that a lot of the neighborhood pets were going missing. People suspected and then pointed fingers at Diesel. Turned out they were right. Neighbors reported to the police that their garage stunk up the whole neighborhood. When they opened it up, they found more than fifty cats and dogs in there—not only with their necks twisted, but each with their heads scalped and their organs gutted out.

The whole thing frightened Daniella and I had to race to Atlanta to calm her down....

“What are you doing here, Diesel?” I ask.

He cocks his head and fixes his soulless eyes on me. “I told you. When I heard what had happened to you, I rushed right over.”

“All the way from Atlanta?”

“Well, no. Actually, I was already in town.” He places his bullshit grocery-store-bought flowers down next to the numerous flower arrangements that had been delivered earlier from family and friends. “You're a popular woman,” he notes. “It's nice to have people who care about you, huh?”

“You can say that.”

Diesel gives me another one of his creepy grins as he makes himself comfortable on the edge of my bed.

Reflexively, I scoot over, not wanting him to touch me again. After surviving one crazy-ass family member, I'm not too eager to deal with another one.

“It really is good to see you again, Auntie. Who knows? Maybe now that I've moved to Memphis, we'll get a chance to spend more time together. Wouldn't that be nice?”

My heart sinks. “I thought you were living the life in Atlanta. You're a very powerful man, I heard.”

“So you
have
been keeping tabs on me? I'm touched.” His eyes say otherwise. “In the past, I've always felt like, uh, I don't know—that maybe you felt a little . . . uncomfortable around me.”

I don't respond.

“Well. It was probably just me.” Diesel shrugs. “I do tend to have a wild imagination.”

“Why are you here?” I ask again. “The truth. I'm too tired for games.”

“I told you the truth. I was concerned—Python was too. He's practically climbing the walls, worrying about you.”

“What?” I sit up straight, temporarily forgetting about my fear to inch closer. “What are you talking about? Python's dead.”

“Missing,” he corrected. “You heard Captain Hawkins.”

Gobsmacked, I stare at him. “If this is some kind of sick joke, it's not funny.”

“C'mon, Aunt Peaches. You know that I wouldn't joke about something like this.” He reaches into his pocket and scoops out a cell phone. “Would you like to talk to him?”

My heart rockets back into my chest. “Y-yes. Of course I wanna talk to my baby.”

Diesel dials.

“Yo, cuz. I'm here,” Diesel says. “Hold on.” He hands over the phone. “For you.”

I snatch the phone. “H-hello? Terrell?”

“The one and only.” He chuckles. “How are you holding up over there? Are they taking good care of you?”

“Oh, praise Jesus! Terrell, baby. I thought you were dead. Where are you?” My heart pounds. This is a miracle.

“Well. I can't get into that right now,” he says. “You never know who's listening, nawhatImean?”

“Yeah. Okay.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I don't understand. What—?”

“Don't worry about it. Just know that I'm alive and well, and when the time is right, we'll hook it up so that we can see each other. Until then, sit tight. A'ight?”

I nod, sucking in a deep breath. “All right.” Tears spill over my lashes.

“A'ight. I'm gonna let you go.”

“But—”

“Don't worry. You'll hear from me again.”

“But—”

“I promise,” he chuckles. “You know that you can't keep a Carver down.”