Saving Sunflower (The Sun Series) Read online

  Saving Sunflower

  ‘The Sun Series’

  Rae Lyse

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Two

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Three

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 RaeLyseBooks

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Image By: Joseph Ngabo via Unsplash

  PART ONE

  1

  “BRO, YOU LISTENING?” Mo asked, looking up from his phone.

  Cicadas buzzed in the distance as Dominic sat with Mo on the front porch of his grandmother’s worn shotgun house. The balmy Georgia air left a layer of sheen on their foreheads as they held court on her rickety porch. Dominic idly flicked the spark-wheel of his BIC lighter while Mo listed off everything they needed to accomplish to further his rap career—if they could even call it that. Mo had dubbed himself Dominic’s manager and had taken the role just as seriously as he took the role of being his right hand. Dominic admired his tenacity and let him take charge with little fuss.

  “I’m listening,” Dominic replied, although he had zoned out ten minutes before, itching to spark a blunt.

  Too much talk about paying for things with money he hadn’t made yet put him in a foul mood.

  “We gotta shoot a music video.” Mo talked with his hands. “I wonder how much that cost? Probably a grip.”

  A popular rapper’s influencer girlfriend had posted an Instagram video with Dominic’s song playing on repeat in the background, and it had garnered millions of streams online ever since. It was funny how much clout white chicks with bad plastic surgery had, but who was he to complain? Mo had been brainstorming on how to capitalize on the newfound buzz ever since, hoping it would be their opportunity for a legitimate come up.

  Dominic could picture the wheels turning in Mo’s head. He had always been imaginative and most important, loyal. He was one of the first people he met after moving to Atlanta from Los Angeles at ten to live with his aunt.

  Dominic remembered selling candy he had purchased in bulk to other students around their elementary school to cover the past due water bill tacked on his Aunt Diane’s refrigerator. A few older kids hemmed him up one day, attempting to steal the candy and what little money he had made. He threw the first punch and was on his back before he could throw another one, so he covered his face, preparing for the worse. He still shuddered, anticipating the impact of dozens of punches. None ever came. A stocky kid with braces and a huge afro came out of nowhere instead. He threw each of the kids down one by one while wielding a small pocketknife. That stocky kid was Mo. They served a thirty-day sentence in alternative school together and had been tight ever since.

  “What else you got on that managerial to-do list of yours?” Dominic asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Mo whipped out a Backwoods from his pocket and tossed it to Dominic.

  “Court adjourned?” Dominic flicked his lighter, preparing to light the blunt, but wanting to hear his response first.

  “Nah nigga. This recess.” They laughed in unison and he lit the blunt before taking a deep drag and passing it over to Mo.

  Thirty minutes later, they were just coherent enough to resume their prior conversation and Dominic was less stressed over his money woes.

  “I might have a gig for you,” Mo said.

  “Real shit? Where at? Most importantly, what they trying to pay me?”

  “Roc said he know a promoter at Playhouse. Some new club that just opened in Buckhead. Hopefully they tryna pay something decent.” The sun set and street lights illuminated the eerily quiet cul-de-sac. “We could roll through and chop it up with him. See if he can give us the connect.”

  “Bet that.” Dominic dug in his pockets and pulled out a few balled up twenty dollar bills. “What you got on you?”

  Mo pulled a crisp one-hundred dollar bill from his own pocket. They looked at each other and grinned.

  “Let’s go before my granny come out talking shit,” Mo said.

  They hopped up without another word and headed toward Mo’s beat up ’98 Impala.

  Dominic’s deep voice vibrated through the speakers of Mo’s Impala, as they drove through the winding streets of metro Atlanta. It was around seven o’clock and the night was young for most ATLiens. He and Mo had about two hundred dollars between the two of them, but that was all they needed to enjoy themselves. They would fill their empty stomachs with waffles and hash browns, chop it up with Roc to get the promoter’s contact, and head to whichever strip club was closest to finish their night.

  The gritty lyrics of Dominic’s song had their eyes sitting low and heads bobbing in unison. His sound was uncategorizable, with the vibe of old-school Atlanta trap and a west coast feel that he couldn’t shake no matter how long he had been living in the south.

  Mo whipped into the bare parking lot of the Waffle House, haphazardly parking in the first empty parking spot he could find. He killed the engine while mumbling to himself.

  They swaggered through the parking lot and entered the shoddy yellow building, inhaling the savory smell of bacon and chaos. Roc stood behind the register with a Waffle House cap perched backward on top of hundreds of the thick rope-like locs he had worn ever since Dominic had known him. He grinned at the sight of them.

  “Look at these two fools right here!” he shouted in a deep southern drawl.

  They approached him, slapping hands and taking seats at the counter next to him.

  “That shit you dropped fire. Talk yo’ shit youngin’.” He spoke to Dominic at a fast pace as if he were in a rush but never moved an inch.

  Dominic laughed and nodded in respect at Roc’s reference to his song that had been gaining traction.

  “Appreciate that man. I’m tryna make something happen.”

  Roc was older and acted as a surrogate older brother to both him and Mo. Everyone in their neighborhood knew Roc and knew that Dominic and Mo were an extension of him. Roc supported everything they did, from selling dime-bags of weed to hitting licks, and Dominic’s music hobby was no different.

  Although the diner was almost empty, the staff still moved around the restaurant in a rush. A waitress wiped down the counter in front of them and menus a
ppeared at their hands without being requested.

  “You own this place yet Roc?” Dominic asked.

  He’d been working there since he and Mo were teens. They had never known him to have another job besides selling dope and couldn’t picture him working anywhere else.

  “Fuck you!” They all laughed in unison. “Everybody know I’m team lead around here.”

  “Team lead? They making up positions for you now? Damn man,” Mo said, shaking his head.

  “Claudette, come take these fools’ orders man,” Roc replied while pecking at the keys on the register.

  Dominic heard her smoky voice before he saw her. It had a raspiness to it that was rough, but soft at the same time. It was a voice that could rival the best strain of Indica.

  She must have been new.

  “You can’t call your customers fools if you’re team lead, Roc,” she mumbled.

  She approached the counter, gripping a notepad and pen, ready to serve. A mess of kinky ringlets sat in a large puff on top of her head, and her Waffle House uniform held a splatter of waffle batter on her left breast.

  “You right babygirl. Please come take these idiots’ orders.”

  She laughed, her chipmunk cheeks rising so high you could hardly see the whites of her eyes. Her teeth were straight with a slight gap just between the front two.

  “That’s not nice either.”

  Dominic pulled his eyes away from her and pretended to study the menu.

  “Can I start you guys off with something to drink? Coffee, juice, water?”

  She tapped the pen against her pouty lips.

  “Yeah, I’ll have an orange juice,” Mo said. “You can take our orders beautiful, we regulars around here.”

  Dominic looked at him, shaking his head. He was always trying to run game. It was corny, but often harmless.

  She gave a bashful smile while fidgeting with the pen she held. She was cute, but the annoying cute. The type of cute where he felt sorry for her nigga, because he probably could never tell her no. She’d always have him eating out of the palm of her little hand.

  “Well, Mr. Regular, what can I get for you?”

  Mo rattled off his order and she jotted it on her notepad.

  Big, marbled brown eyes stared straight into his. “And you?”

  He wasn’t a bitch, so he maintained eye contact.

  “A bacon, egg, and cheese melt with hash browns and a chocolate chip waffle.” She stared at him with a blank expression.

  “Don’t need to write mine down?” he asked, frowning.

  “Nope. What do you want to drink?”

  Dominic glanced at Mo, wondering if he had caught the exchange, but he had busied himself with his phone.

  “Surprise me.”

  At that suggestion, she rewarded him with a grin. He stopped the smile that itched to spread on his own face and watched as she stalked away with their menus.

  “Roc... the man with the plan,” Mo said, looking up from his phone. “You know you my nigga, right?”

  Roc walked from behind the register and grabbed a towel, preparing to clean a recently vacated table.

  “What y’all want?” He headed toward the table, towel in hand, with a skeptical look on his face.

  He was no stranger to their requests for help—bail money, weed, a place to crash. This may have been their least problematic request yet.

  “You remember that Playhouse connect you was telling me about?”

  “Yeah...”

  “You think we can get that number man?”

  He shrugged his shoulders while wiping crumbs of bacon from the tabletop, probably expecting something more complicated based on his easygoing response.

  “You know I got ya’ll,” he responded after a moment. “Autumn, come out here!”

  A hodgepodge of bright hair and noise came from the back-storage. The Waffle House uniform she sported hugged every curve on her body as she sashayed towards Roc, still arguing with whoever was in the storage room with her, although the door had already closed.

  “I thought I was still on break?” she asked with an eye-roll.

  Roc shook his head, kissing his teeth in annoyance.

  “Break was over ten minutes ago.” He handed her the rag in his hand. “And use your inside voice too, man.”

  “Okay, okay. Break over. Talk quieter. Got it.” She named each infraction and rested all of her weight on one leg.

  “I need something else from you too, Doll.”

  “And that would be?” Her head cocked to the side. “Me and Claudy been on time all week. We shouldn’t owe you no more extra time.”

  “Let me keep up with the time,” Roc mumbled. “I need you to talk to my cousin Mo and his boy. They need a hookup at Playhouse and I know you got the connect.”

  He nodded towards Dominic and Mo. She followed the direction of his nod, noticing them for the first time. Her lips pursed, and she tossed the rag on the table, crossing her arms.

  “What’s in it for me? I don’t do favors without getting something in return. Especially for people I don’t know.”

  Dominic looked at Mo, who looked at Roc. Roc ignored Mo’s glare and headed to grab the industrial- sized broom from behind the counter. That was typical of Roc. He hardly handed them what they asked for, preferring to give the information and have them do the dirty work. Dominic was never one to complain about doing dirty work.

  “Nigga, you said you had the connect. Not Rainbow Bright right here,” Mo said, directing a scowl toward Roc.

  Dominic held back his laughter as her pretty face transformed into a frown.

  “Bet you wish you could bag this Rainbow Bright, pussy.”

  “Fuc—”

  “A'ight, what you want?” Dominic asked, cutting off Mo before the bickering escalated and they left empty-handed.

  “A ride.”

  The thud of drinks being placed on the counter interrupted their intense negotiation.

  “Orange juice for you,” a raspy voice rattled off drink orders, oblivious to the tense standoff, “and tea for you. You seem like a tea drinker.”

  Oddly enough, he was.

  “Claudy we found our ride.” Rainbow Bright smirked.

  Dominic held up his hand, halting her suggestion as the waitress looked between all three parties with wide eyes, before practically running away.

  “I need more information before we go wasting each other’s time and shit. Who you know at Playhouse?”

  Although Mo was his self-proclaimed manager, Dominic was still his own man.

  “I know who you are,” she responded, smirking at Dominic. “And I know the promoter that books all the entertainment for Playhouse.”

  She picked at her nails.

  “This promoter got a name?”

  “Vaughn,” she replied with a shit-eating grin.

  Dominic nodded, mulling over the information she had given him. She could be legit or full of shit and suckering them out of a ride. Roc never gave bullshit leads though. He looked at Mo who was already staring at him, ready for whatever decision that would spill from his lips.

  “A'ight, but you only get three stops. Third and last stop is to talk to this Vaughn dude.”

  He’d learned long ago to give a specific number of stops to people without cars. If he didn’t, they’d have him toting them around Atlanta, wasting his night and gas.

  “Whatever.” She uncrossed her arms and began wiping down the table Roc had already cleaned.

  Their shy waitress placed steaming plates of breakfast on the counter in front of them. She hadn’t uttered a word since her friend had bartered a ride for them. She worked, refilling drinks and putting out condiments as they talked with Roc and ate. Well, it was Mo that ate. Dominic took bites here and there, too preoccupied with his phone and Mo and Roc’s antics. At the end of their meals, Roc waved the two girls off, releasing them from their shift.

  They waited in the car while the girls gathered their belongings. Mo tapped the steering wh
eel, mumbling under his breath in frustration at the abrupt change of plans for the evening. The girls trudged out of the building with backpacks on their shoulders, talking animatedly to one another. Their actual names were Autumn and Claudette.

  The talking stopped once they piled into Mo’s backseat. Dominic reached into his pocket and peeled a twenty from the folded money he had scrounged up earlier. He turned, handing the money to Claudette. Their meal had been on the house, but he appreciated her service. She took it, stuffing it deep into the pink sock on her right foot.

  “A'ight ladies, first stop?” Mo asked, looking at them through the rearview mirror.

  “Baker Hall,” Claudette replied.

  Dominic was no college student but had spent a night or two at Baker dropping off dime-bags, Percs, and Xans to student-athletes looking to have a good time. He reached forward, turning the volume up on the radio. Just as the volume increased, their chatter resumed, and he wondered what business a girl like her had to handle at Baker.

  Mo shrugged and cranked the car up, heading toward I-75.

  The car crept to a stop in front of Baker and Dominic cut the volume to the music playing. He glanced in the backseat at Claudette rummaging through her backpack while Autumn scrolled on her phone.

  “How much you charge his dumbass girl?” she asked as her long acrylic nail tapped at the screen of the phone.

  “Sixty dollars—easy money. He’s in remedial English.”

  Autumn tsked in faux sympathy.

  Claudette pulled what looked like a flash drive from her bag and turned to Autumn. The two locked pinky fingers.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She got out, carefully shutting the door. Dominic watched her wild hair bounce up and down while she walked up the steps to the dorm, easing behind a lanky dude with a basketball tucked under his arm. He watched the door she entered, unsure of what she was selling or who she was selling it to.

  Minutes later, she pushed open the door and reappeared outside. A tan, muscular arm gripped hers as she attempted to leave out. Dominic sat forward, attempting to get a closer look at who the arm belonged to. Whoever it was never came outside. They stayed behind the door, attempting to coax her back inside.