It dawns on Marcus Parris that Shelby is talking about Jasmine. This time he gets out of the car in a rage. Shelby takes a step back. Without thinking she holds the broom in front of her.
“You think you can tell me what to do?” her opponent says with real menace. “You can’t stop me from seeing her.” He looks Shelby up and down. The sweatshirt, the broom, the heavy black boots. “I’m a friend of the family and you’re nobody. Who are you anyway? The cleaning lady?”
“I’m the person who’ll put you in jail if you bother her again,” Shelby says. “And you are not a friend of the family. The family fucking hates you.”
Marcus smiles at her then, broadly, so that his dimples show. Shelby can see how Jasmine might have fallen for him, how he could have sweet-talked her, given her that gorgeous smile of his. She was likely head over heels before she had time to pick up on any of the warning signs, how possessive and controlling he is.
“You’re crazy,” he says to Shelby. “You’d better stay out of this.”
“She’s done with you,” Shelby tells him.
“She belongs to me.”
When Marcus turns away, Shelby hits him squarely on the back.
He spins to face her and spits out, “You are one fucking crazy bitch.”
Before Shelby can respond, he punches her. Shelby gasps, stunned as she wheels backward. At first she feels nothing but shock, then there’s the hot sting of pain as blood rushes from her nose, so much of it she can’t believe it’s coming out of her. She puts the broom between them and stabs at the air with the handle, trying to ward him off.
“You think that’s going to stop me?” Marcus Parris smirks. Shelby is nothing to him, a fly, an annoyance, no more than that.
They’re in a bubble of hatred, so it takes a while for Shelby to hear the wail of the siren. The cop car pulls up across the street and two officers are over to them so quickly it seems to Shelby that the whole world has speeded up. They grab the guy from Queens and shove him up against the car. There’s a thud when he tries to wrench away, and then Shelby sees the glitter of handcuffs. She’s dizzy and her face is throbbing. She thinks she may fall, but then someone’s arm is around her. It’s a woman. Mrs. Diaz.
“Keep your head down.” Mrs. Diaz hands Shelby a tissue so she can try to stanch the blood pouring from her nose. “Are you faint?”
Shelby nods.
One of the officers comes over. “We’re going to call an ambulance.”
“I don’t need it,” Shelby insists.
“Hi there, Mrs. Diaz,” the officer says when he recognizes Maravelle’s mother from the ER. “It’s a good thing you phoned. She should get checked out.”
As it turns out, when Mrs. Diaz pulled up from work, she saw the encounter in the street and immediately dialed 911. Then she went into the house to grab an ice pack, which she now hands to Shelby. “Hold this against your nose.”
“Is it broken?” Shelby asks. “It was my one good feature.”
The cop and Mrs. Diaz give Shelby the once-over. “Just bruised” they agree. “It was a warning punch,” the cop tells her. “You’re lucky. He had a gun in the glove compartment.”
The guy from Queens, now restrained, is being held in the back of the police car. The officer takes down Shelby’s account of what happened.
“He’s been stalking Mrs. Diaz’s granddaughter and she’s underage.”
“But you’re the one he assaulted, so I assume you want to press charges.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Diaz says. “She does.” The last thing Shelby wants to do is get more involved with the stalker, but Mrs. Diaz tells her, “If you take him to court and get the restraining order, then Jasmine doesn’t have to. Isn’t that right?” she says to the officer.
“We could do it that way,” the cop says. He’s young, about Shelby’s age.
“Fine,” Shelby says. “I’d like to press charges.”
Shelby and Mrs. Diaz stand on the sidewalk as the officer returns to his car to fill out some paperwork.
“I’ve seen that man parked out here before.” Mrs. Diaz shakes her head. “That’s why I try to come home around this time. Lucky for you,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Very lucky for me,” Shelby agrees.