bag containing her clothes and her car keys in her face.
Shakira heard Farah’s triumphant “Bye” before the door slammed in her face.
This was one of those times she wished she had some hands on her. She was ready to knock down the door and fight the two girls. Only the recognition that she couldn’t even win a fight with her own hair made her stomp away in a huff.
“Where are you?” London asked almost four hours later.
“At a motel,” Shakira said into the phone as she looked around her current accommodation. The single room could have fit into her kitchen and still left some space even with the adjunct bathroom.
The walls were papered in a flowery pink and green wallpaper that looked like it’d just stepped off the boat from 1743. The only furnishing was a the bed Shakira currently sat on that was covered in a comforter in a gunk shade of green to match the atrocious wallpaper, a rickety chair and a small TV that was currently playing reruns of the Golden Girls. Though it was by no means the Ritz, it was clean and pocket friendly.
“Why’d you do that?” London protested. “I told you you could stay with me.”
Shakira thought of telling her how Amani and Farah had kicked her out but she didn’t want to bring more trouble into their already fragile roommate relationship so instead she said, “Babe, you know how I like my own space.” Then to quickly change the subject, she asked, “So how did your night go with Enzo?”
“Oh, you know. We talked, played a little music, watched the stars…”
“Watched the stars?” Shakira guffawed. “I bet he wanted to do a lot more.”
“I told you we’re just friends,” London dismissed. “How did your night with Mr. Nathan Hollis go?”
“It went well,” Shakira hedged.
“Oh. No. I want all the details. Get nasty with me.”
“Girl, Charlie has nothing on this man.” Shakira settled on the bed with the phone on her ear and a smile on her face as she recounted her night.
In the morning, she woke up to dry taps. The bucket of water they brought her was as tepid as last week’s tea. By the time Shakira exited the miniscule bathroom she was ready to pay Nathan so she could get out of this place. Her first stop was the bank where they proceeded to ruin her Monday morning.
“I’m sorry, Miss Dalton your account has been frozen,” the branch manager pronounced.
CHAPTER 7
“What do you mean the FBI froze my account?” Shakira exclaimed. Her voice carried beyond Wayne’s office drawing askance looks from two lawyers who were passing by.
Wayne walked to the door and shut it before turning back to Shakira. His look was apologetic as he explained, “According to the bank, they received a notice to freeze your accounts immediately after your arrest.”
“Why? Why would they want to take my money?” she asked, her mind reeling in confusion. She knew enough criminal law to know that an arrest was not enough to get your money frozen unless you were in for some financial crime. “And isn’t the bank supposed to notify me?”
“They did notify you,” Wayne said as he settled back behind his desk. Except for his head of copper curls and the freckles that marred the pale skin underneath his eyes and nose, he was the picture of the suave successful lawyer. He’d color coordinated an expensive navy suit, with a striped purple, white and blue shirt along with a purple tie to match it. A silver Rolex and platinum cufflinks gleamed at his wrist subtly hinting at his net-worth.
Like him, his office was the picture of elegant opulence. The large space boasted a beige carpeted floor, plywood walls, a floor to ceiling window with a stunning view of Manhattan’s skyline and a glass sliding door that opened out to the rest of Green, Green & Becket . The furniture was all black leather, sleek steel and polished dark wood.
Everything about Wayne and his firm screamed money. He added, “The bank sent you a letter to your house notifying you
Shakira heard Farah’s triumphant “Bye” before the door slammed in her face.
This was one of those times she wished she had some hands on her. She was ready to knock down the door and fight the two girls. Only the recognition that she couldn’t even win a fight with her own hair made her stomp away in a huff.
“Where are you?” London asked almost four hours later.
“At a motel,” Shakira said into the phone as she looked around her current accommodation. The single room could have fit into her kitchen and still left some space even with the adjunct bathroom.
The walls were papered in a flowery pink and green wallpaper that looked like it’d just stepped off the boat from 1743. The only furnishing was a the bed Shakira currently sat on that was covered in a comforter in a gunk shade of green to match the atrocious wallpaper, a rickety chair and a small TV that was currently playing reruns of the Golden Girls. Though it was by no means the Ritz, it was clean and pocket friendly.
“Why’d you do that?” London protested. “I told you you could stay with me.”
Shakira thought of telling her how Amani and Farah had kicked her out but she didn’t want to bring more trouble into their already fragile roommate relationship so instead she said, “Babe, you know how I like my own space.” Then to quickly change the subject, she asked, “So how did your night go with Enzo?”
“Oh, you know. We talked, played a little music, watched the stars…”
“Watched the stars?” Shakira guffawed. “I bet he wanted to do a lot more.”
“I told you we’re just friends,” London dismissed. “How did your night with Mr. Nathan Hollis go?”
“It went well,” Shakira hedged.
“Oh. No. I want all the details. Get nasty with me.”
“Girl, Charlie has nothing on this man.” Shakira settled on the bed with the phone on her ear and a smile on her face as she recounted her night.
In the morning, she woke up to dry taps. The bucket of water they brought her was as tepid as last week’s tea. By the time Shakira exited the miniscule bathroom she was ready to pay Nathan so she could get out of this place. Her first stop was the bank where they proceeded to ruin her Monday morning.
“I’m sorry, Miss Dalton your account has been frozen,” the branch manager pronounced.
CHAPTER 7
“What do you mean the FBI froze my account?” Shakira exclaimed. Her voice carried beyond Wayne’s office drawing askance looks from two lawyers who were passing by.
Wayne walked to the door and shut it before turning back to Shakira. His look was apologetic as he explained, “According to the bank, they received a notice to freeze your accounts immediately after your arrest.”
“Why? Why would they want to take my money?” she asked, her mind reeling in confusion. She knew enough criminal law to know that an arrest was not enough to get your money frozen unless you were in for some financial crime. “And isn’t the bank supposed to notify me?”
“They did notify you,” Wayne said as he settled back behind his desk. Except for his head of copper curls and the freckles that marred the pale skin underneath his eyes and nose, he was the picture of the suave successful lawyer. He’d color coordinated an expensive navy suit, with a striped purple, white and blue shirt along with a purple tie to match it. A silver Rolex and platinum cufflinks gleamed at his wrist subtly hinting at his net-worth.
Like him, his office was the picture of elegant opulence. The large space boasted a beige carpeted floor, plywood walls, a floor to ceiling window with a stunning view of Manhattan’s skyline and a glass sliding door that opened out to the rest of Green, Green & Becket . The furniture was all black leather, sleek steel and polished dark wood.
Everything about Wayne and his firm screamed money. He added, “The bank sent you a letter to your house notifying you
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