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Where most would love the attention, Morgan Atkins had grown to hate it. Being pretty was a curse.
She had vowed to never take another man’s last name … and then he had lied, and she had moved on, and then he had died, and although she was still walking and breathing, on the inside, she had died too.
He was a hood nigga in all his hood nigga glory, but he was top shelf. VSOP.
Men like Ahmeek should come with warnings. Proceed with caution. Danger ahead. Slippery when fucking wet.
She didn’t want to be the girl trying to train a dog because at the end of a day, a dog was going to do what a dog was designed to do … chase pussy.
Morgan was a butterfly. Messiah had been her cocoon. He had wrapped himself around her so tightly and protected her so fiercely that she had flourished when she was with him, but cocoons were temporary.
He had let her fly free because he had cancer, and he didn’t want her to watch his sickness take him under.
Her mother had taught her long ago that men were built to hunt.
She was made by a hustler, bred by a hustler, no way was she supposed to be with anyone other than a hustler. It was in her DNA.
It wasn’t even normal because it was too new to be this potent, but raw dope was raw dope, and Ahmeek was uncut. She was high.
the butterflies weren’t a warning sign—they signified love, and more than all else, Morgan Atkins wanted love.
