Bodyguard My Heart (The Bodyguard #2)

Chapter 10

10

D emetrius

The gravel on the old dirt road made a crunching sound as I pulled up to my grandparents’ house. If I were a prideful man, I wouldn’t be there, not after that shit my grandpapa had said, but this wasn’t about me; this was about Fabian. I needed to get his funeral arrangements mapped out.

Exiting the car, I grabbed my crutches and propped myself up. It was getting easier for me to move around on these things. If Samara knew I’d driven over here, though, she’d be pissed. That’s exactly why I’d dug in her guts all night and left her ass asleep at the resort. She would have wanted to take me if I told her this was where I wanted to go. I appreciated her support, but I had to do this alone.

I walked slowly toward my grandparents’ front door and surveyed their property. On both sides of their home was land that once was a thriving coffee bean farm. Hurricane Gordon had come through right before I was born and destroyed it. My grandparents were able to rebuild their home, but they could never recover from the loss of the farm. The entire Haitian coffee industry had suffered.

“Ti gason tet di!” I heard my grandpapa yell. “You don’t listen just like yo’ damn daddy either!” He was standing in the distance, tending to the small piece of the coffee bean field he could sustain.

“I am hardheaded, huh,” I shrugged. “I need to discuss Fabian’s funeral arrangements, and my father taught me to take all my losses like a man. I wonder where he got that from.” I shot back as I switched gears and headed toward where he was working in the field.

“He ain’t get that shit from me,” he grumbled. His Haitian accent was dripping with sarcasm, making me smirk as I neared him.

“You still fooling around with these old coffee bean plants?” I made small talk as he whacked away at the coffee bean tree. Every morning, my grandfather would come out here and gather coffee bean seeds so that my grandmother could make fresh coffee.

“These old coffee bean plants once were the staple of this family. Bought this house you tried to replace,” he said. A tinge of guilt shot through me.

“You know I ain’t mean no harm, Grandpapa. Just wanted to give y’all something nice. Do something that showed y’all I was successful. I ain’t mean it like that.”

He put down the axe and turned to look at me.

“I know, son. You know the problem with you younger folk is you think that money equates to success and happiness. You value things for how expensive they are. The more expensive, the better the quality.” He approached me, touching my shoulder. “You forget that the beauty is in the journey. Success is more about defining who you are and what is important to you. It’s not about how much money you make, but your impact on people’s lives.”

I listened as he spoke, appreciating his wisdom. This kind of wisdom only came from living life. His words contradicted everything my father had instilled in me as a child. To my father, success was money and power. He ran the London Cartel alongside Royale’s father with fear. He didn’t care whose life he ruined to get what he wanted. It was a flawed way of thinking, but one I had inherited like a trophy.

“I’ve always only done what I knew. What my father taught me. He taught me that money equals power and respect. He preached that once I had those, success would come. The only men around me growing up were gangsters. The only men I’d ever seen with money and status who weren’t tossing a ball were gangsters. I’m a big nigga. My father didn’t put me in sports growing up. He took me to cocaine farms, fed me gangster music, and taught me how to use a gun.”

My grandpapa looked up at me with a solemn expression etched on his face.

“Your father wanted everything fast. He went to America after the hurricane. Things were so bad here, and he wanted to chase the American dream. What he found once he got there was what most people of color do. The American dream wasn’t designed for people who look like you and me. He couldn’t find a job that made him decent money. I don’t know how he became a cartel member, but it changed him.”

I had never heard these things about my father before, so I stood there and listened. Took it all in like a sponge as I slowly started helping my grandpapa pluck the coffee cherries from the trees.

“Your father equated success with what he could do financially. He didn’t realize that what he had right here was the seeds of success.” Grandpapa grabbed a few coffee cherries from the tree and held them up. “This is nice. My home is nice. My life is nice. Not because I have money but because I have purpose. My family. My wife. That is my purpose. That is where I find my success.”

His voice trembled, and I stared at the coffee cherries as he cracked them open with his bare hands revealing the coffee bean inside. The word purpose rang out on repeat in my head. I didn’t know what my purpose was, then Samara crossed my mind. I never felt like anything other than a gangster until we got involved. She gave me purpose. She was my purpose. A silence fell over us, and we worked in unison, filling the bucket with ripe cherries. It made me think of those times Fabian told me about doing the exact same thing when he lived with our grandparents.

“You were right. It’s my fault Fabian is gone. I could have given him a legitimate job. I could have given him money to start a business, but I made him my security. I made him pledge to put my life before his own, and that’s exactly what happened.”

“We can’t change the decisions of our past, but we can use the lessons learned from those decisions to write a better future,” he said as he embraced me. “I’m sorry for placing that burden of guilt on yo’ spirit. Grief clouded my judgment. I ain’t know how to handle the pain. Hearing of Fabian’s death reminded me of the day I found out your father had been killed.”

His apology had me thinking so much. I couldn’t do anything but nod in understanding. It felt like the burdens of the past were releasing both of us. Maybe forgiveness was the key to healing. I had to forgive my father for the choices he’d made and the life he’d presented to me. I had to forgive myself for the lives I’d negatively impacted being a part of the cartel. I had to forgive myself for Fabian’s death. I stared at the field, feeling everything I’d bottled up.

“Here, meet me at the grinder. Your grandmother will come out here looking for her coffee beans any second.” He handed me a basket full of ripe coffee cherries.

“Okay.” I steadied the basket in one hand, still gripping my crutches.

“There you go. You look just like an Augustine man now,” he commented as I made my way over to the pulper.

“This is where the magic happens.” He pointed to the small gray machine. “This is where the cherries get turned into coffee beans. Dump them.”

I steadied myself on the crutches and poured the seeds into the pulper. I watched as the cherries went in and the coffee beans came out on the other side, and a peaceful feeling swept over me. The word purpose echoed through my head again, and I felt a sense of pride sweep over me.

“Let’s get these beans in the house. I smell breakfast,” he said as he leaned down and grabbed the bucket. I nodded my head and followed behind him.

“Look who I found,” Grandpapa announced as we entered the home. My grandmother rounded the corner into the living room. Her face lit up when she saw me, and relief washed over her face.

“Boy!” she shouted, running over and wrapping me in a warm embrace.

“I came to discuss Fabian’s funeral arrangements,” I said.

“Where’s Samara?” She pulled back, staring a hole in my face.

“At the resort. I drove–”

I wasn’t able to get my words out well before she took her hand and slapped me across the head.

“You not supposed to be driving!” she fussed.

“I know, Gran. I just wanted to come do this on my own.” I turned to Grandpapa. “I ain’t want her to get kicked out of here twice.” We all shared a laugh as I lifted the basket of coffee beans. “Oh, and I have these.”

“You’ve been in the field?” she questioned.

“Yeah, Grandpapa showed me the Augustine way.” I shrugged. I could see pure joy on her face at what I’d said.

“Come sit. I’m almost done cooking. We can discuss the arrangements over breakfast. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” I followed her into the kitchen as she started talking about my family’s history with coffee beans.