Single Mama's Got More Drama

“Ms. Cain?”

“Hello,” I said, sitting up straight when I heard the voice on the other end of my line. It was Tassie Johnson’s lawyer. My heart filled with hope after the message I’d left for him. I finally had a way to come up with the cash necessary to buy out Tassie’s estranged husband’s share of my condo, and hoped that her lawyer was calling to tell me that we had a deal.

I give Tassie Johnson a nice sum of cash. She leaves me the heck alone forever.

“I’ve spoken with my client,” Bradley Harris said.

I crossed my fingers. This was it. The moment I’d been waiting for. My headache with Tassie was about to be over.

“However, Tassie asked me to tell you that she is rejecting your offer.”

“What?” For a few seconds, I couldn’t even think. Couldn’t understand. Then I saw red. “How can she reject my offer? Those were her terms. If I bought her out, I could keep the condo.”

“Yes, but she’s had a change of heart. She feels, having had time to fully consider the matter, that she would like to relocate to South Beach.”

“And my apartment,” I remarked sourly. That evil, evil—

“Your shared property.”

Shared property, my ass. “So in other words,” I began, anger brewing inside me like hot water in a kettle, “Tassie Johnson’s only interest is in screwing me over. Do me a favor—tell her to stick it where the sun don’t shine. Oh—and tell her I want my hat back.”

And then I hung up.

If Tassie Johnson wanted a fight, it was on.

It was while I was gazing at the engagement ring Lewis had given me that I thought of something. Rather, made sense of something.

The day Alaina and I had gone to Atlanta, we’d seen Tassie near Eli’s casket in the funeral home. I remembered that I’d seen a man beside her, offering comfort—an attractive man.

Tassie had tried to smear me in the media, making me out to be a manipulative slut while she’d been the doting wife, but it was unlikely that she had been sitting around waiting for Eli’s return for seven years. She was an extremely attractive woman, one who could have her pick of men.

She could have cheated on Eli for all I knew. What if she had some skeletons in her closet that she didn’t want exposed?

There was one way to find out.

I searched for the Miami Herald reporter’s card and dialed her number.

“Cynthia? This is Vanessa Cain,” I said without preamble when she picked up.

“Hello, Vanessa.”

“You said that you’d help me out if I ever needed anything. Well, I need something.”

When I replaced the receiver five minutes later, I was smiling.

If anyone could help me bring Tassie Johnson down, it was Cynthia.

It was high time I played dirty.

1

Ten days later

I was locking the door to my condo when I sensed them. Sensed them and knew they meant trouble.

Securing my keys in the palm of my hand, I immediately reached down and scooped up my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Rayna, who was standing to my left. It was an instinctive, protective gesture—because I knew this was going to be bad.

Then, fearing the worst, I slowly turned.

My stomach lurched. Standing behind me were two very large men. One African-American, one Caucasian. Both looking like they abused steroids and had just escaped from prison.

“Vanessa Cain?” the white man asked, his voice raspy. Harsh.

I swallowed. Stalled for time.

“You are Vanessa Cain, right?” the man continued. Tattoos covered both of his forearms, which didn’t exactly give me a warm and fuzzy feeling about him.

Nerves had me shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Who wants to know?”

“We’re here to help you vacate Tassie Johnson’s condo,” the black man said, his words sounding like a threat.

I chuckled nervously as I met his stern gaze. “Excuse me?”

“It’s time you leave,” he told me. “And never come back.”

“This is my home.” I pressed my face to my daughter’s. “Our home. You wouldn’t take a mother and child from their home, would you?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Cain,” the white man said. “We’re simply following orders.”

“Whose orders? The court’s—or Tassie’s?”

“It’s time,” the black man began, “for you to leave. Tassie will send you your things.”

“Oh, isn’t that sweet of her?” I retorted sarcastically. “You want me out of here? You show me a court order. This is America. You can’t just kick me out of my own home.”

Neither man seemed swayed by what I said. In fact, they both took a menacing step toward me.

“Wait!” I cried. “Don’t do this.”

“It’s time for you to leave,” the black man said again.

Was that the extent of his vocabulary? Was he a robot programmed to say only six words?

The men took another step in unison, now invading my personal space. “But—but you can’t,” I sputtered, clutching Rayna to my chest while trying to block the men from getting to my condo door. They weren’t just big—they could easily compete in sumo wrestling.

The big, bald, white guy wrapped his fingers around my upper arm. “Hey!” I protested. “You can’t touch me! That’s assault!”

“Then move out of the way,” the man said.