I arrived at the Sangster International Airport feeling like a run away slave that made it to the Promise Land. Big, dark shades hid my face from the world as I walked with my head held high through the busy building, dragging my two suit cases behind me. The heavy duffel bag full of money hung on my shoulder like a Gucci purse. The bag was weighing me down, no doubt, but you'll never know that by the fake smile I had plastered on my face. I wanted to look like a happy traveler even though I wasn't. My life did a complete 360 in less than a week.
I walked over to the little cafe inside of the airport, glancing at people munching on the cafe's treats. I wasn't here to eat, even though I took an empty table in the far corner of the filled room. I sat the duffel bag on my lap and rolled my suit cases close to me. Ain't nobody snatching my shit. Especially not the small fortune I had in front of me.
I looked around the room. Very few people sat by themselves. Most was with a partner laughing and talking like they can't wait to get their vacation started. I wish it was the same for me.
A tall man, he looked to be about 6'2, came into the cafe. He was wearing grey slacks, a grey and white polo sweater vest with a long sleeve crisp white button down underneath. He wore men dress shoes that held a glowing shine. He had a grown and sexy vibe to him and I knew he was nothing like the square he dresses like. His face was serious, not mean, but serious like he had something on his mind.
I watched as he looked around the cafe, searching faces. His chestnut brown eyes spotted me and his seriousness softened. For a quick moment. He began making his way over to me, saying 'Excuse me' and 'Pardon me' to the cafe eaters. Something changed about him. Did he get muscular? A little bit, he's still got that athletic build as I remembered. He made it to me.
"Welcome to Jamaica. My home land. Its a pleasure to have you, even under these circumstances."
Then I remembered. His dreads. He cut them off. Now he rocked a clean, neatly cut fade. I smiled. a real one this time.
"Ron, the man that 'protected' me for a few hours. We meet again," I say half jokingly.
He chuckles, but manage to still holds his strong demeanor. "You're still the same stubborn sixteen year old, Miss. Alexus Chantel," he says, not missing a beat with my "new" name.
His voice still has that strong Jamaican accent. I guess I better get used to it.
"How do you know I'm not a Mrs?"
"Because if you were, you wouldn't be here right now."
I nodded. He's right. Ethic would've never let me come here alone. He probably don't give two fucks now.
"And your Father told me everything," he adds.
I'm not surprised. Ron and Daddy are practically best friends. My Dad obviously trust him if he keeps sending him to 'protect' me, his only daughter. I knew if it wasn't for him living in Jamaica, he would've been Daddy's right hand man easily. Leaving Ethic to a regular street runner. A fucking corner boy. If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't have none of the material things he has now. Because from the beginning, Ethic was never built for the streets. He sold guns. Not drugs. And this is how he repays me? By getting a hoe pregnant and keeping it on the low for seven years.
I stand up, pushing Ethic way to the back of my mind. "Let's get going. I'm exhausted from the flight and I can't wait to greet my bed."
Ron shrugs his shoulders like, 'sure, no problem' and began reaching for my two suit cases. He knows what's in the duffel bag. He knows I'm not letting it go. I smile and let him lead the way.
Ron is defiantly not a rookie.
****
"Wow. This is really beautiful."
YOU ARE READING
A Hustler's Wife (BOOK 3)
General FictionI've always been known as being the only daughter of the most notorious drug dealer of the north and south, earning me the title of "A Hustler's Daughter" but when Daddy retire from the street hustle, he hands down the thrown to his most trusted rig...
