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everything.
    â€œWhere to?” Zena asked.
    We laughed aloud, then replied in unison, “The House of Blues.” Somehow our listening to the melancholy lyrics of the blues always made us appreciate life.
    Taking a deep breath, I confessed, “Zena, I might be pregnant.”

Chapter 7
Maverick
    W omen. Emotional. Lovable. Irrational. Huggable. Gullible. Not suitable for much outside the bedroom and kitchen. Her spending too much time in either could yield a negative return on her non-monetary investment.
    That was Danté’s perspective.
    â€œYou need to change how you view women,” I told him as he drove me to my condo, then parked at the meter in front of my building. I could’ve come home this morning but decided to wait until one o’clock this afternoon.
    â€œWe need to make sure she is gone,” he said, opening my door, following me.
    â€œWait here,” I told him.
    â€œWhy the fuck am I the one who always has to wait? It’s time you tell her and yourself the truth. You want me more than you want her,” Danté said, standing on the sidewalk, in front of the doorman.
    Calmly walking over to Danté, I said in a low voice, “Make this your last time outing me in public.”
    â€œOr what?” he said, staring in my eyes.
    He had no idea who he was fucking with. I could beat his ass to death right on this sidewalk. “Don’t let him up,” I told the doorman, then entered the building, leaving Danté outside. I picked up a copy of USA Today from the counter. Maybe I’d have time to read it later.
    I loved Danté, but lately, he irritated the fuck out of me. Like now. I took the elevator to the third floor, unlocked my front door. Danté had become too demanding of me. Had me contemplating how to get rid of his ass. Permanently.
    Nobody had ever given me a thing. Not my father. Not my mother. Not Danté or Seven. And no one should expect shit from me. Every dime I’d earned, I’d busted my ass for. Every debt I had, I’d repaid. What made Danté believe he could make demands of me? What made Seven think she could waste my money, my time? She didn’t know my childhood struggles, fighting with my old man to survive in his house. Frank had taught me a few things, mainly how to take no prisoners.
    In college and while starting my business, I’d capitalized on weak-minded fools who were chasing a dollar with their dreams. That shit never made sense to me. I downed my liquor like I closed business deals. Straight. No chaser. Same time. Give me my money or my property when I execute the contract.
    My heart softened, a lot, when I met Seven.
    Her smile, warm, friendly. Her voice, soothing, calming. Her laughter, healing therapy. The kind my mother used to have before she married my father. Once he moved in, everything changed for us. What I missed most was my mother’s infectious smile. That, and the fact that she had always believed in me. Always. I was sure she still did but…
    A lump of hatred for my father clogged my throat.
    Soft men finished last. I’d learned that when my father told me, “Yo’ mother ain’t yo’ mother no mo’, boy. She’s my wife. And if you ever step between us while I’m disciplinin’ her, callin’ yo’self tryna be da man in my house, I’ll kill ya li’l five-year-old punk ass. Man the fuck up in yo’ damn house when you get one. Ya hear me? Not mine. This here is Frank’s house.”
    The day I turned eighteen, I kissed my mother’s cheek, told her, “Ma, I love you,” then walked out, kind of how I’d done with Seven, except under different circumstances. With a month left to go before leaving for college, I got a job, lived with my friend Chad Langston and his parents until Chad and I moved into our dorm room.
    â€œBoy, don’t you ever let yo’ woman get big, fat, and nasty on ya,” my father had