Baby Momma 2 by Ni’chelle Genovese Page B

than full. “Very good connect to have. You never know when you need to know someone like him.”
    With that statement the business part of me kicked in and I sat my ass down. “Key, pour me a glass too, please.” Never know when you’ll need to know an NBA team owner, especially in the housing industry. That’s some super official shit right there.
    It didn’t take long for Curtis Daniels to arrive; he was a tall, older man with greying hair at the temples on either side of his head. I can’t lie; he looked like money.
    Keyshawn got up to greet him when he came over, and introduced him. It was a damn near buzz kill having him at the table and I was honestly happy for it. Key’s playful demeanor immediately went out the window and he was acting like a perfect gentleman. If I weren’t mistaken I’d say he was actually uncomfortable, but I guessed I would be a bit out of my element too if my boss wanted to come hang out at a damn club when I was tryin’ to let loose and drink.
    â€œExcuse me. Sir Angelo extends his graciousness.” A waiter had appeared at our booth with a bottle of Châ-teau Lafite Rothschild Pauillac. My eyes widened and we all looked back toward the booth, but the curtains were still drawn.
    â€œSend it back. I’ve already paid for champagne.” Keyshawn surprised even me, but Lania said what we were all thinking.
    â€œKey, that’s a three thousand dollar bottle of champagne. This isn’t a dick-measuring contest; are you trying to offend him on purpose?”
    Keyshawn acted like he didn’t even hear her.
    â€œTell Angelo we send our appreciation. Keyshawn, that pride will make you lose more than it will ever earn you if you don’t get it under control.” Curtis accepted a glass from the waiter and I couldn’t help but wonder what Key had against that Angelo guy.
    Curtis’s sophisticated demeanor was a good balance to the group. It kept Ris from suicide tag-teaming shots and glasses of champagne left and right, giving her a little time to sober up. Once the guys got on the subject of basketball plays and seasons and playoffs, I decided it was a good time to call it a night, and I pulled a reluctant somebody away from the table and out to the limo so we could go home.
    Ris pouted the first half of the ride and slept the rest of the way. My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but figured it must be Keyshawn; I even got excited and dared it to be Curtis.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œEnjoy your time while you still can, bitch.” That’s all that was said and the call disconnected. The voice sounded like something out of a horror movie. I knew there were plenty of apps on iPhones and other programs that could mask your voice, make it raspy or deeper, but why would Rasheed want to go through all the trouble? Was scaring me that serious? I dialed the number back and it went to a Google voice service that said the call couldn’t be completed. My heart felt like it was doing clumsy flips in my chest. Someone needed to put a stop to this shit. The phone vibrated again, showing yet another number I didn’t recognize. I hit answer and didn’t say a word. I slid the phone to my ear, my heart beating in my throat, afraid to hear whatever murder, death, kill threat I would get next but ready to cuss someone the fuck out.
    â€œUmm, hello? Michelle?”
    A woman? It took me a second to place her voice. “Lania? Hey, I’m sorry I . . . I had the phone on mute.” I wasn’t in the mood for her cat-and-mouse bullshit right this second, especially not with Ris asleep right here, liable to wake up and ask a million questions.
    â€œSo, I honestly don’t do this that often and I am in understanding with your situation, but I’d really like to be seeing you again. Soon if that is possible.”
    I had to shake my head yet again at her “Frannish” but that low, sultry voice