“Wait,” a soft voice says as I stick my key in the lock, knowing it’s not going to work, but it was the best I could come up with. I wasn’t actually going to invade her personal space…yet. A few minutes more and that answer would be different because I am not letting her slip through my grasp. When she’s mine, she’s mine for eternity.
The door slowly slides open and I hear the pitter patter of her small feet before the sound of the ancient mattress squeaking when she dives onto the bed.
I take one step inside and remind myself that she’ll never sleep here another night in her life, and that some ‘gentleman’ I know were able to track down her landlord, and should be paying him a visit right about now. No doubt he’ll be receiving the lecture of a lifetime in regards to keeping women safe.
“I need you to come with me,” I say flatly.
“No,” she says face down into the pillow, before flipping over onto her back. “That’s how we got to this point. All those rules.”
“That wasn’t a hard rule to follow. That was breaking and entering, amongst other things.”
She says nothing, knowing I’m right.
“Scarlett, we made progress, we had…a deeper connection last night. And I’m not just talking about over my lap. I respect you but you have to respect me in return.”
“This isn’t the 1950’s. You can’t just give young people rules these days without telling them ‘why’. We don’t tolerate it. I won’t tolerate it.”
“Fair enough, this one time. The ‘why’ is what I need to show you.”
Her eyes open up wide and her head pulls back in shock. I’m shocked myself that I’ve agreed to terms I didn’t personally set, but being a Daddy is about caring for my little, and in this case my little girl needs to know what might be one of the most difficult things she’ll ever learn…if what I think is true.
If not, I’m going to look like a complete fool and this is all going to blow up in my face.
“Honey, can you come with me.” And then I show her that respect I always talk about, knowing actions speak louder than words. “Please.”
Life imitates art, or at least wise proverbs, because apparently you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar. She stands and I offer my hand, gently guiding her to me and pulling her close to my hip for a hug and a kiss on the top of the head.
“I’m sorry,” she says so softly it’s barely detectable.
The natural inclination to say something domineering hits me, but I pause knowing that’s not what she needs right now.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s going to make everything ok.”
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
10
Scarlett
I rubberneck out of the car window in the Wynwood district of Miami, quite possibly it’s most famous art district from what I understand.
“See something you like?”
“Yeah, back there.”
Silas brings his Lambo to a stop in the right lane of a one-way street. There are cars behind us and nowhere to park. He’s suddenly created an unapologetic traffic jam with well over a dozen vehicles behind him honking and swearing. One guy a couple cars back even gets out like he wants to start something, but the second Silas steps out of his car, the frowns turn to smiles of recognition and everyone seems to either greet Silas out of some form of Marlon Brando-esque or The Godfather level of respect for his work in the art community down here.
“Which one caught your eye?” he asks after the other cars start funneling around his double-parked car worth more than many people’s houses.
“These. Just back here,” I say, and he takes my hand and we walk the twenty or so seconds back to the murals I saw.
“Who did these?”
A knowing smirk covers his face and he says nothing.
“You know, don’t you?”
“Very well. Yes.”
“One of your artists?”
“Warm?”
“Someone at SteeleSharp?”
“Warmer,” he says, continuing along with the kids game I love. How did he know?
“It wasn’t…you, was it?”
“Me and my best friend.”
“It looks so much like the work I saw in that room this morning when you were at the meeting.”
“Because it is very much like the work you saw in that room this morning.”
“But those words on the placard. They didn’t have your usual tone, unless that was your art. Unless that was a different way of expressing yourself?”
“They didn’t have my tone because I didn’t write them.”
“So your best friend wrote them?”
He nods, but there’s something he’s holding back.
“What’s his name?”
“When I first came to Miami,” he begins, seemingly ignoring my question, “I was an up and coming graffiti artist. I thought I was hot stuff, until I ran into another guy my age and quickly realized I was nothing. But what I did realize was that I might not be the great artist I thought I was, but I was much more organized and business savvy than most artists.” He pauses. “Are you familiar with P. Diddy?”
I nod. “The rapper?”
“Correct. His real name is Sean Combs and he’s often in Miami. He has a house here where he spends most of his time. Nineteen years ago, he had a verse in a song called “Bad Boys for Life.” That verse was ‘Don't worry if I write rhymes, I write checks.’ Well, I took that to heart. And when my graffiti artist best friend, who was also new to the area at the time, asked me why I wasn’t pulling my weight at night when it was time to do our work, I quoted that famous lyric.”
“This makes absolutely no sense to me.”
“Nor should it, but I’ll explain why it’s important. I realized, like
