This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(103)

“You can still get ’em at the Grits in Charlotte,” Hendrix says, sliding Yasmen a sly look. “I swung by there when I went to see Mama last month. Vashti’s recipe is still bringing folks in by droves.”

Yasmen offers a wry look at Hendrix’s subtle dig about their attractive employee who transferred from Atlanta to their North Carolina location.

“It’s not the ribs I’m glad are gone.” Yasmen smirks. “It’s the woman who makes them. Let the good people of Charlotte enjoy them ribs. We good over here.”

And that’s all we’ll say about that.

“I’ll have the turkey wings.” Hendrix closes her menu with a decisive snap. “Fried green tomatoes and corn off the cob.”

“The usual shrimp and grits for me,” Yasmen says, handing her menu to Cassie. “If it ain’t broke.”

“Let’s go with the catfish.” I give a quick glance at the sides. “Rice and gravy, green beans.”

“Sounds good,” Cassie says, giving me a wink. “And I’ll bring some of Soledad’s pear preserves out for your biscuits.”

I grin at her comment, sharing a smile with Yasmen over that small, but consistent, contribution to my monthly income. A few Atlanta-area restaurants carry Sol’s Secret Preserves now. It’s still in relatively small batches, but every little bit helps.

“I just wanted to give pole a try.” I pick up where we left off. “A few tries, actually, before I commit to installing one in my she shed. So thank you for indulging me and venturing out.”

“I don’t think it’s for me,” Hendrix says. “If I’m hanging upside down, some man better have me in his red room.”

“I’m not sure I’m down either, Sol,” Yasmen agrees. “You might be on your own for this one.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “I may not even end up installing the pole, but it does seem like a fun way to stay in shape, and I’ve been pushing myself to try new things.”

“How’s the she shed coming?” Hendrix asks.

“Have you not been watching my live updates?” I feign affront. “And you’re supposed to be my manager.”

“Oh, I am your manager, little girl.” Hendrix gives me a secretive look. “I got some things up my sleeve for you.”

“What things?” Yasmen asks, munching on a muffin.

“In due time,” Hendrix replies cryptically. “It’s in the oven. I’m not pulling out till it’s done.”

“There’s some sophomoric humor to be had in that statement,” I laugh. “But I’m taking the higher, more mature road.”

“Speaking of the high road,” Yasmen says, sobering, “which you definitely took by not punching Amber in the face, have you thought any more about when you’ll tell the girls they have a little brother?”

I crumble a biscuit onto my plate. “I’m just gonna hold for now. Why should I have to tell them all the hard shit?”

“That’s right,” Hendrix says. “Let Edward deal with it when he gets out. You just keep working that pole.”

I laugh, raising my water for a toast. “Here’s to working the pole like rent is due, even though I’m making no money from my efforts.”

They take me up on my toast, but Hendrix grimaces. “If my pussy hurts, I want at least three orgasms to show for it.”

I choke a little, sputtering at the mention of multiple orgasms, but compose my features. I told Hendrix and Yasmen about the trip to the prison and about Amber’s little bundle of joy, but didn’t mention the world-rocking sex I had with Judah. They do usually offer great advice, and after the way I ran from Judah’s house like I was being chased, maybe I could use it.

“So, I may have… Ahem,” I say, pulling the silverware from its napkin blanket. “I may have had a little sex with Judah.”

My announcement is met with two sets of shocked eyes and dropped jaws.

“You sneaky heifer,” Hendrix laughs, giving me a congratulatory fist pound. “When?”

“New Year’s Day,” I confess.

“And you’re just now telling us?” Yasmen asks.

“That was only like three days ago,” I remind her.

“You gotta tell us this stuff immediately,” Hendrix says. “We’re in a drought and celebrate any rain in the forecast. At least one of us is getting some.”

“Um, excuse me.” Yasmen raises her hand. “To quote Brown Sugar, I get it on the regular and the shit is the bomb.”

“Yeah, but you’re married.” Hendrix waves a dismissive hand. “To one guy. Twice. Booooooring.”

We all laugh at her joke, but when the humor fades, Yasmen narrows her eyes knowingly on my face.

“So tell us what happened between Oh, my gosh, my inmate husband has a secret baby and I smashed the man who put him in prison,” Yasmen says, resting her chin on her folded hands. “This is some Days of Our Lives shit.”

“Now that’s a show I miss,” Hendrix says. “My grandmother used to watch her stories every day when we stayed with her over the summer.”

“Same!” I say. “General Hospital with Grammy and all my abuela’s telenovelas.”