I rolled my eyes. “I ain’t your old anything, except if you’re referencing an old regret, but I do. I truly do. I regret ever dating you, and also, why are you not dead? You snitched. By prison law, you should’ve been gone in the first week.”

Another laugh, but it was lessening. I was getting to him, or the threat had. “That’s cold, even for you.”

Except it wasn’t, because while I had been worried about getting that call, the one stating someone I used to care about had been shanked in prison, it never came. The more time that passed, the more confident I became that Drake had somehow escaped certain death. Then again, that was also something he did.

“Let me guess, you had another card to hold over someone?”

An abrupt laugh. This one was short and brief, still genuine. “Something like that, yeah.”

Cross came back, then disappeared into the closet. We were in his room, so it was a larger walk-in than mine upstairs. He came back with sweats pulled on, but nothing else. Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms over his chest.

I found myself getting distracted.

Once again.

“Why are you calling?”

He drew in a long breath. “Word is that my baby mama had my baby.”

I frowned. That’d been weeks ago. “Yeah?”

“Sunday’s not letting me see the baby.”

“Why would she? Isn’t that too early?”

“Not for pictures. Not to even be told what she named my kid. Fuck, Bren. I don’t even know if I have a son or a daughter.”

Oh. Whoa. Sunday was being cold, ice cold.

“That’s nothing to do with me.”

“That’s the point of this call. You do me a solid, I’ll do you a solid.”

See. He always had an agenda.

“How could I do you a solid?” I hissed, “And do not make an innuendo about that or I will drive there and shank you myself.”

Another laugh, but his humor was fast fading. “A call from you. If you push her to let me in, get to know my kid. Fuck, just telling me what I have would be big. What do I have, Bren? A daughter? A son?”

I looked up.

Cross was frowning, and some of his normal annoyance had lessened. A brief flare of sympathy was there. I answered, hoping I wasn’t violating some major code with Sunday (I was still learning). “You have a little girl, but I’m not saying anything else.”

He exhaled sharply, sounding loud over the phone. “Thank you. Thank you. That means… fuck. That means a lot. Thank you.”

I was already frowning, because damn, I don’t know if I should’ve told him. “As for calling her on your behalf, I need to think on it.”