Her words were like the first strike of a match, the practice strike, the one that made the sound but didn’t find its blaze. She was testing him, playing with fire. He could see the challenge in her; she was different, harder, and he smirked.

“Be careful, shorty,” he warned. “That’s a big trigger you trying to pull.”

He grabbed her roughly, a thumb caressing her cheek and four fingers around the back of her neck. She pulled away, and he jerked her toward him.

“I swear you love when I send niggas up outta here over you,” he said as he looked down the bridge of his nose at her through low lids. She pulled away again, and he pulled her right back.

“Messiah,” she gasped. Those ss’s for zz’s. His heart fluttered, and he scooped her, hands under her ass, and pushed her back against the wall. Their lips met, and she was weakened again, by his presence, by his kisses. Morgan slapped him. She had a fit as she jumped out of his arms and pushed him, then socked him upside his big-ass head, as he lifted his hands to block her attack. She was bawling, distraught, as he captured her wrists and pinned them above her head.

“Stop!” he shouted.

“You left me for two years!” she cried. “Where were you when I needed you? There were so many days that I needed you, and now I don’t anymore!”

“You didn’t need me, Mo. Look at you. You’re a big girl now. You’re graduating. You’re living. You’re—”

“Getting married, Messiah, and fucking your friend on the side,” she finished in a weak admission of guilt. He released her. Her words were like a cannonball, jolting him back. Like a bullet … no, he had been shot before. This was worse than that. The hurt and confusion that took over his face hollowed her stomach. “I thought you were dead, and now I’m getting married.” She shrugged and held out her arms in defeat.