The Bailbondsman's Wife
"Trina's husband runs the biggest bail bonds business in Memphis. When his partner saves her from a robbery, she discovers protection comes in many forms."
Jackson Bail Bonds has been on Beale Street for thirty years.
My husband Jerome built it from nothing. Now we've got six employees, contracts with every jail in Shelby County, and a reputation that makes even the hardest criminals pay on time.
I do the books. Keep the office running. Play the dutiful wife at church on Sundays.
What I don't do is feel alive.
Not anymore.
"Trina? You good?"
Malcolm's voice pulls me from my thoughts. Jerome's partner since day one, fifty-two years old, built like he could break down doors—which, in this business, he sometimes does.
"Fine. Just thinking."
"Thinking'll get you in trouble." He sets a coffee on my desk. "Extra cream, no sugar. The way you like it."
"You remembered."
"I remember everything about you."
The way he says it makes my stomach flip.
Jerome stopped noticing me years ago.
Too busy chasing skips, building the business, doing whatever he does on those "late nights" that come back smelling like perfume I don't own.
I've stayed for the comfort. The stability. The house in Cordova with the pool I never swim in.
But Malcolm notices.
Every day, without fail, Malcolm notices.
It happens on a Tuesday.
I'm closing the office alone—Jerome's at a "meeting," Malcolm's tracking a skip—when the door slams open.
Three men. Masks. Guns.
"Open the safe, bitch."
Terror locks my joints.
I know we keep cash—sometimes fifty thousand or more. I know these men could kill me without a second thought.
"I—I can't—the combination—"
The gun presses against my forehead. "You got ten seconds."
Nine seconds.
Eight.
The front door explodes inward.
Malcolm comes through like a hurricane.
The first guy goes down before he can turn. The second gets three feet before Malcolm's fist sends him crashing into the file cabinets. The third tries to run—
Malcolm catches him by the collar and slams him into the wall so hard the plaster cracks.
"You okay, Trina?"
I'm shaking so hard I can barely stand. He crosses to me, kicks a gun away from the groaning robber, and pulls me against his chest.
"I've got you. You're safe. I've got you."
I collapse into him and cry.
The police come and go.
Jerome arrives two hours later, shirt buttoned wrong, smelling like jasmine perfume.
"Baby, are you okay?"
"I'm fine." I step back from his attempt at a hug. "Malcolm saved me."
Jerome claps his partner on the shoulder. "I owe you, man. Whatever you need."
Malcolm's eyes find mine over Jerome's shoulder.
I know what he needs.
"Can you drive me home?"
Jerome's already on his phone, damage control mode. Malcolm nods.
The ride is silent until we're five blocks from the house. Then I say:
"Don't take me home."
He doesn't ask questions. Just turns toward his place in South Memphis.
His apartment is small, clean, nothing like the showcase house I live in.
"Drink?" he offers.
"Yes."
He pours whiskey. I down it too fast, pour another.
"Trina..."
"He doesn't love me. Maybe he never did." The whiskey burns. "I almost died tonight, Malcolm. And the whole time, all I could think was... no one would miss me."
"That's not true."
"Jerome would miss his bookkeeper. The church would miss their soprano. But me?" My voice cracks. "No one knows who I really am anymore."
"I do."
He crosses the room.
Takes the glass from my hand. Cups my face in palms calloused from years of hard work.
"I know you hum gospel songs when you're doing payroll. I know you take your coffee with extra cream because your mama used to make it that way. I know you cry in the bathroom when Jerome 'works late.'"
"Malcolm..."
"I know you're the strongest woman I've ever met, and the most beautiful, and I've been in love with you for fifteen years."
I kiss him.
Not gentle—desperate. Fifteen years of loneliness poured into one moment. He kisses back just as fierce, hands gripping my hips, pulling me against his body.
"We can't—Jerome—"
"I don't care about Jerome." He backs me toward the bedroom. "I care about you. I've always cared about you."
"This will ruin everything—"
"Everything's already ruined, Trina. Let me give you something real."
He lays me on his bed like I'm precious.
Undresses me slowly, reverently, kissing each bit of skin revealed. When I try to cover my belly—soft and round from years and comfort—he moves my hands.
"Don't hide from me. Never hide from me."
"I'm not young anymore—"
"You're magnificent." He kisses my stomach, my stretch marks, the thickness of my thighs. "Every inch of you."
His mouth finds me and I cry out.
Nobody has touched me like this in years. Jerome stopped going down when we were still newlyweds, said it wasn't his thing. But Malcolm... Malcolm eats me like it's worship.
"Oh God—Malcolm—"
"That's it, baby. Let me hear you."
He works me until I'm writhing, until I'm begging, until I come so hard I see white.
"I need you inside me."
He strips quickly, and I understand why Jerome keeps him around—the man is built in every way. When he positions himself between my thighs, I grab his face.
"Look at me."
He does. Eyes dark with want but also something deeper.
"I see you, Trina. The real you. I always have."
He slides inside, and I finally feel home.
He makes love to me like I matter.
Not the frantic, distracted coupling Jerome offers when he bothers at all. Malcolm takes his time, finds my rhythms, adjusts until every stroke hits exactly right.
"So perfect," he groans. "Always knew you would be."
"More—please—"
"Anything. Anything you want."
He gives me more. Harder. Deeper. Until we're both sweating and gasping and finally, finally breaking apart together.
Afterward, he holds me.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Whatever you want." His hand strokes my back. "I'm not asking you to leave him tonight. I'm just asking for a chance."
"A chance at what?"
"At showing you what love is supposed to feel like." He kisses my forehead. "At being the man who deserves you."
I go home that night.
Sleep in my empty bed while Jerome stays wherever he stays. In the morning, I make coffee, do my makeup, go to work like nothing happened.
But everything has changed.
Malcolm doesn't treat me differently at the office.
Still brings me coffee. Still asks about my day. But now there's heat beneath the surface—shared glances, accidental touches, the knowledge of what we've done and will do again.
Jerome doesn't notice.
He never notices.
Three months later, I file for divorce.
Jerome is shocked—actually shocked—like he thought we were happy. The business split is ugly. The house goes on the market.
But Malcolm's apartment isn't small when two people fill it.
And his bed has never felt so much like home.
Jackson Bail Bonds becomes Thompson-Jackson Bail Bonds.
Malcolm's name first now—he earned it.
And on the books, where it used to say "Trina Jackson, Office Manager," it now reads:
"Trina Thompson, Partner."
In business.
In life.
In everything.