Maybe Next Time (Vegas Nights, #1)

by Christina C. Jones

If I see another motherfucker in your face, everybody in this bitch is gonna feel it.”

My brow furrowed in confusion as he removed his blazer, tossing it onto the hood of the car. The gun was next, placed carefully on top of his jacket once he’d confirmed the safety was on. It wasn’t until he started undoing his buttons–he wasn’t wearing a tie–that I grew impatient with whatever it was he called himself doing.

“You’re really about to lose your wife cause you don’t know how to listen?”

Deep!

“We fought. A few weeks ago. Never really got past it.” “What was the fight about?” I blew out a sigh, returning my gaze to the ceiling. “About me not paying enough attention.” “Wow. You really are a fuck-up.”

My whole face pulled into a frown as I dropped my gaze back to him. “The fuck?” “Your wife has been begging your ass for weeks to give her some face time, but you’ve got your ass in here acting confused about divorce papers. Yo–you’re deadass with this? Like… for real, nigga?”

“Because there ain’t shit for me to get,” he retorted. “I said ’til death do us part, and I meant that shit. I’m not interested in running away just because it’s getting a little grimy instead of the picture perfect, squeaky clean existence you’re looking for. We haven’t even tried to muddle through it, and yet you’re in my face talking about we’re done. Ain’t no done, Kensa!” he asserted, with a harsh growl in his tone. “You are my wife, and nothing about that has changed. Whatever shit we gotta deal with, buckle up sweetheart and let’s do it. But what’s not about to happen is you walking away from me like those vows didn’t mean shit.”