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For a while we just stared at each other before bursting into a fit of laughter.
“Don’t play with me, Mahogany.”
“I’m not! I can do social media literally anywhere. You’re my sister and I love you. I don’t want to be without you either. It’s nothing for me to move. My husband might be there waiting for me, ’cause he for damn sure ain’t here.”
I hugged her neck tightly, fighting back my tears. “You just made me so, so happy! Oh my God, I love you so much.”
I didn’t think anything could make the progression of me and Beethoven’s relationship better… but having my sister with me in Rose Valley Hills just took the fucking cake.
The weekend had been amazing. Friday, Beethoven and I went to a car show, which was super fun. Yesterday, he took me to my first symphony, and it was so beautiful and emotionally moving I cried. Tonight, I wanted to put together a date for him. He’d been really good to me, and I wanted to do something to show him how much I appreciated him.
During one of our get-to-know-you conversations, he shared that no woman had ever took him on a date and that he’d never ridden in a limo before. He was always the one doing romantic gestures and being sentimental, which was often the case with men. So tonight, I hired a driver and reserved a limo for four hours. We went to the spa for massages and facials, grabbed some drinks and went dancing, then had a romantic dinner and boat ride on the Mississippi River.
After we settled into the limo and prepared to go back to his home, Beethoven said, “No one has ever done anything like this for me. The evening was perfect, bae. Thank you.”
“It was my honor and pleasure. I want to treat you just as well as you treat me.”
Our lips connected for one of the kisses that I’d absolutely become addicted to. His lips lowered to my neck—his hand lowered between my thighs. As I spread them, I was grateful for the privacy of the partition being raised. We were about to add another first to both of our lists—making love in a limo.
28
Whiskee
One Week Later
Early May
For the two men in my life, I prepared a southern feast. They broke bread and tolerated each other over a meal of fried chicken, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, yams, and caramel cake for dessert. The meal was silent except when one was saying something to me, but they were at peace, and I accepted that.
When we were done eating, I gave them both a box of cigars and a bottle of The Macallan. As I looked from Carlos to Beethoven, I said, “Robert Carter gave me this whisky when I turned twenty-one. He told me to save it for a special occasion. I want the special occasion to be you two working together and finding a way to get along.”
Carlos scoffed, gently pushing the bottle away. He knew the importance of it. He’d seen it on the bar in my room for years. He heard the speech our father gave me on my twenty-first birthday. How he reminded me of my influence as a woman. How unique I was.
Not just because of my name and appearance but because of my heart and character. How I would come in contact with men who would abuse and misuse me—not understand and appreciate or savor my value. How I would be found by a man who would treat me like the strongest and smoothest whisky… valuing me, cherishing me, savoring me, and treating me in such a unique and special way that I’d feel safe pouring into him and trusting he could pour into me. Beethoven was that person for me, and I prayed my brother would understand and respect that.
“He planned to kill me, sis. I’m here, in peace, because of you.”
“If I wanted you dead, you would be,” Beethoven replied, taking the whisky, and I held my breath.
“And what? You think I’ma ever trust you? Ever feel safe with you? Ever think your intentions with my sister are pure? How am I supposed to know you’re not using her to get to me and my father’s organization and when the marriage is done you won’t hurt her or me?”
Beethoven’s head tilted and he released a hard breath. “I proved my loyalty to you by offering you a solution. One that would allow you to not only have a purpose and be successful but keep your life too. If you don’t shift into production, there’s literally nothing me or Whiskee can do to save you. If I don’t kill you for my father, someone else will.”
Sitting on the coffee table in front of them, I looked from one to the other, almost pleading with Carlos with my eyes.
“You used to always say how much you loved working directly with the different strains,” I said, “How creative you felt coming up with your own. The only reason Daddy made you stop was because he didn’t have the resources then to put behind you or time to wait because his clientele was growing.” I placed my hand on his knee. “That’s no longer a problem, brother. You can be the head of production, create the strains you love, and flourish in your position. Your life won’t be on the line, and I’ll get to be with the man I love.”
I hadn’t admitted that to Beethoven before, so it didn’t surprise me when his head whipped in my direction. Thick brows bunched up and his chiseled jaw clenched as he stared at the side of my face.
“You love him?” Carlos asked softly.
Nodding, I blinked back tears and swallowed my emotion.
“Yes,” I choked out with a smile. “And I trust him. With me and with you. If Bay says switching positions will keep you safe and you’ll no longer be a target, do it, Los. Please.”
Our eyes remained locked for a while before Carlos looked over at Beethoven.
“Aight, I’ll do it.”
