Darius Jones by Mary B. Morrison Page B

snapped on my eavesdropping Bluetooth, turned up the volume as I raced across four lanes of traffic on Beverly. I slowed my pace, trailed a short distance behind Jada and Grant. Grant smelled good and looked great.
    I stood on the opposite end of the lobby listening to them speak with the intake nurse who was behind the desk. Grant reminded me of a lighter skinned Dwight Howard. If I weren’t loyal to Darius, I’d snatch Grant from Jada and Honey. His broad shoulders were the kind I could hug for hours. That black tuxedo with the red wing collar worked. I checked out his shoes. Thank God they were black and not red. I didn’t like men who were ultracolorful head to toe.
    Jada’s gear was glam but her face was garbage. The way she sucked her lips in so damn far I thought she’d choke on them. Good for her she had that black-don’t-crack dark radiant skin. If her face were dry, the way she was all twisted, those hazel eyes would’ve caved in behind cracked crow’s feet. As they faced my direction, I turned my back, walked a few feet away but heard every word.
    â€œAre you coming with me?” Jada asked Grant.
    â€œComing with you where? You heard the receptionist. Fancy isn’t in her room yet.” Grant shook his head. “But Honey is in labor. I hope she’ll let me watch our boys being born. I missed her whole pregnancy. Can’t miss the delivery too. But I’ll find you later. Don’t leave the hospital without calling me.”
    All I needed was the room number for Fancy but I overheard the receptionist say the number for Honey’s birthing room too. She’d be in that room the remainder of her stay, the woman had said. Fancy was assigned to a room on the third floor; Honey on the ninth, both in the north tower.
    After Jada and Grant got on the elevator, I roamed the lobby letting fifteen minutes pass before approaching the intake nurse. “Excuse me. I’m here for the birth of my nephews. My brother-in-law said my sister Honey Thomas is in room nine-one-oh-nine.”
    â€œShe’s got a sizable support group up there already. I’m not sure if there’s enough space in her room for you but you can try. If the room is overcrowded, there’s a family waiting room down the hall,” she said, handing me a peel-and-stick badge.
    â€œThanks,” I said, pressing on my visitor’s pass.
    I went to Fancy’s floor first. Found 3117. Peeped inside. The refrigerated room was empty. The gust of air gave me chill bumps.
    â€œExcuse me, miss, you can’t go in there. We’re preparing that room for a patient.”
    I turned around. The nurse proceeded to step in front of me, then close the door. She wore a white cotton short-sleeved V-collar pullover with random pastel hearts scattered about. Her pants were solid white and she had on those white leather oxfords. I noticed she wore a name badge, Anita Harris, RN. Her short hair was auburn, brows black, lips wide, and pumpkin-seed-shaped eyes. I could easily apply a wig and my theatrical makeup to resemble her features.
    â€œOh, I was looking for my friend. The receptionist told me she was here,” I lied.
    Quickly, she asked, “What’s your friend’s name?”
    â€œFancy Taylor.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?” she asked, setting a teal tote with lavender straps inside the room by the door.
    She sure had a lot of questions. Bitch was lucky I left my Mace in the limo. I told her, “Bambi.”
    â€œYeah, right. Miss, don’t come up here trying to get an autograph from Darius Jones. His wife is in critical condition. Please, leave and don’t let me see you up here again.” She entered the room, then mumbled, “Damn, groupies done started already.”
    Who in the fuck she calling a groupie?
    Leaving wasn’t a problem. And I’d be back but she wouldn’t see the real me. I’d seen the sizable room reserved for Fancy.