Zora almost laughed until she realized he was serious. “So, do you beat his ass now? To return the favor?”
“Hey. I observe the fast.”
Asif poured for himself and Zora and slid a glass toward her.
She tried to take her first sip without self-consciousness, but she always felt awkward drinking at all in front of Muslim men, especially if they were Senegalese. But Nicolas seemed to take it in stride, his eyes never leaving her face, letting her know he found her attractive, without leering.
“When you get back onstage, play a couple of those joints you told me about, bruh,” Asif said. “The ones you thought I might use for the doc.”
Nicolas looked away from Zora for only the second time since he sat down.
“I could do that.”
He drank his water when it came, and then he and Asif did a little walk down memory lane for Zora’s benefit. She realized as she listened, that she had missed some things growing up. Her brother had never tried very hard to assimilate into the Black American experience, and honestly, neither had she. But it had happened nevertheless.
Ousmane, maybe because he was a boy, and maybe because he naturally emulated their male parent, was more Senegalese than American. And she, perhaps, emulated their mother and was more American than Senegalese. But whatever the reason, sometimes Zora felt left out.
Listening to Asif and Nicolas talking and laughing, reminded her that there was a whole swath of her culture she had neglected.
“I want to do it,” she said.
Both men looked at her.
“Do what?” Asif asked.
“I definitely want to help with the documentary.”
“That’s cool, cuz.” He lifted his glass and Zora toasted with him.
“I gotta get back up there.” Nicolas nodded toward the stage. “You guys hanging out till we done?”
“Probably not. I got a couple more spots to hit and then I have to get Cinderella here home.”
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Zora.”
Nicolas extended a hand and she took it. For a moment, she thought he might kiss it. But all he did was flash her that perfect smile.
“Seef,” he said. “Lemme holla at you real quick.”
Zora watched as Asif stepped off to the side and the two men spoke for less than a minute before he returned.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Whenever you are,” Zora said, and then after a moment added, “he was nice.”
Asif smiled. “Ah. See, that’s what I waiting to hear.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Nicolas asked if he could ask you out. I told him, he could. But only if you mentioned him with anything that sounded like interest.”
“I’m not …” Zora blushed.
“He’s a good guy. A solid guy, Zora. You could do a lot worse.”
Taking a sip of her beer she said nothing. She hadn’t dated. Since Deuce, she hadn’t dated. But Nicolas was attractive. And he was Muslim. It would be a novelty, anyway, going out someone her father would approve of.
“He asked your permission, huh?” she said glancing up onstage where Nicolas and the rest of the quartet were getting warmed up again. “How many cows did he promise to pay you?”
Asif shook his head but didn’t smile.
“You might think that’s old-fashioned or whatever, but it means something. It means it’s important to him to let me know, and let you know that he’s accountable not just to himself.
“And he’s not just accountable to you either, but to me, and to the entire community of people who care about you, to treat you with respect. That’s not too common these days. It’s nothing to be made light of.”
And with that, Zora felt ashamed of herself for a moment. Asif, who was piping like a plumber three nights a week, was making her feel embarrassed that she responded inappropriately to a decent guy wanting to take her out.
“How would this work anyways?” she said. “Is he going to ask me, or … does he plan on asking you to ask me?”
“Now that you said you might be interested, I’ll pass on your information. He’ll call you himself.”
Swallowing hard, feeling like she was crossing a threshold, Zora nodded. “Okay.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was almost eleven when Zora finally returned his text messages. After spending almost six hours trying to tough it out with just his own mind for company, Deuce texted her for the first time around eight o’clock. Then again at eight-ten, then eight-forty-six, nine …
He had almost given up and was sitting on his sofa about to crack open his fifth beer when she finally pinged him back.
What’s wrong? Are you ok?
No, he responded.
He could have said more, but by then was a little pissed off it had taken her so long to get back to him. People were attached to their phones these days. No one missed a call or text message unless they wanted to miss them.
Maybe she just wanted to miss his. Maybe she was out somewhere, doing … he didn’t even want to think about what, and with whom. And now, at the worst possible time.
His phone rang, and he picked up on the first ring.
“Deuce,” she said, sounding a little breathless. “What’s the matter?”
“Where are you?” he asked. “Can I … where are you?”
“Home. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Can I come over?”
“Can you …? Right now?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Is that alright? I just …”
“Deuce, did something happen?”
“Zee, I need …”
I need to see you.
He took a breath, and tried to slow down, to stop slurring and to keep his words from tumbling one over the other. But he’d had all those words, all of them in his head, all day and the prospect of being able to release them in speech was an unbelievable relief.
She rattled off her address before he could try again.
“Come now,” she said. “Okay?”
He exhaled.
“Deuce? You hear me? Come now.”
“Yeah,” he said before hanging up.
The urgency dissipated a little, and he took stock of himself. He had been sitting here, on this sofa for most of the day. Hadn’t gotten his hair shaped-up, hadn’t eaten since brunch at Ellen’s, hadn’t spoken to anyone and had ignored almost all the messages he got.
Regan sent a few, telling him she was pulling a double, asking whether he would be around when she got off around one-thirty. Then asking again. And again.
Finally, Deuce sent her a response, saying only ‘yes’ but not even registering what he was saying yes to.
Stopping only to brush his teeth and grab his keys Deuce took a cab to Zora’s place uptown. He fidgeted as the driver maneuvered his way through the snarl of weekend traffic, his mind playing over again the image of his mother, exhausted and lying horizontally across her bed.
He’d asked her if she was hung over. Hung over.
Nah, you idiot. She has cancer.
He didn’t ask the right questions at brunch, either. Didn’t ask about her treatment, what it was, when it was, how she managed to get there and back. Who was with her when she went? He would have to go see her again. Soon. Tomorrow.
Deuce slid his card into the reader without checking the fare, and left a five-dollar tip, climbing out of the cab and looking up at Zee’s building. The neighborhood was what they liked—in gentrification parlance—to call “transitioning”. He understood now why it made sense for her to live with her cousin.
Shit. Her cousin. Hopefully, he wasn’t home.
When he buzzed, she unlocked the front door without speaking into the intercom, and without asking who it was. Deuce took the stairs two at a time up to the third floor, and as he was reading the numbers on the doors, trying to figure which way to go, heard one open down the hall.
And there was Zora, standing in a doorway, her face knitted with worry.
/> “Deuce,” she said.
He went to her, and for a moment they stood there, looking at each other. She reached out and took his hand, pulling him inside.
“What’s the matter?” she asked once the door was locked. “What …?”
He glanced around the space, which looked like the bachelor pad of someone who wasn’t home much. Zora obviously hadn’t been there for long, because she liked to make a place her own, hanging prints, laying down rugs, finding and placing vases and statuettes, knick-knacks and plants.
She was messy as hell. Never put things back where they belonged and seemed to thrive in clutter. This apartment didn’t feel like hers. It was too sterile and impersonal. He could tell just by looking around that she didn’t feel at home here.
“Deuce,” she said again.
He looked at her and looked her over completely for the first time. She was made up, and dressed up, and had obviously not been sitting around in the apartment all day. He wondered with a flash of jealousy where she had been, and whether she might have been on a date.
He tried sitting, but wasn’t comfortable doing that, so instead he paced. Zora sat, though.
“You know how my moms is, right?” he began. “She just … my whole life she’s just been so freakin’ … extra.”
He looked at her, but Zora didn’t nod, just gave him a small, uncertain smile.
“You don’t have to say it. I know you know what I mean. And my pops, he just couldn’t deal with her, like ninety-nine percent of the time. And as much as I resented him staying away from me because of it, I kind of understood.
“And that was the worst part, because I knew he was a crappy father partly because of her. I mean, she made it difficult for him to be … Not that that excused him not being there but …”
He was babbling, his words coming in stream-of consciousness, without focus or clear destination.
“Deuce.” Zora’s voice was gentle. “C’mere.”
She extended a hand and he went to her. When he was standing in front of her, she took his hand. She stood, and slowly, she put her arms around his waist, rested her head against his chest and held him.
“What happened?”
“She … she …”
~~~
“She has cancer,” he said.
Zora exhaled. “No.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice was wooden, and she felt him tense in her arms. “And it’s bad. And she didn’t tell me for months, Zee. For months. And I think the only reason she’s telling me now, is that she might …”
He didn’t finish the sentence and Zora held him a little away from her.
“Babe,” she said.
It was out before she could remind herself that she shouldn’t call him that anymore. That privilege belonged to someone else now.
But it was out. And when Deuce heard it, something in his eyes, and around his mouth shifted. And he relaxed a little, his muscles, softening almost imperceptibly.
“I’m sorry,” Zora said. “I’m so, so …”
He dipped his head and kissed her. His lips weren’t gentle. They smashed into hers, but Zora didn’t consider pulling away. Not even for a nanosecond.
She kissed him back, and her arms went from around his waist, up and around his neck. Zora felt his heartbeat, or maybe it was hers, skipping irregularly between them. Every cell inside her woke up.
In their frenzy, it seemed they had forgotten how to do this, both of them shifting back and forth, one taking the lead, and then the other. They were clumsy, but it was still perfect. Deuce took her tongue between his lips and sucked it, so that when he released her, she struggled to catch her breath. And when she caught it, he stole it again.
She nipped his lower lip and felt his erection against her stomach, rock hard and insistent. He dragged his lips away from hers, his head dropping further so he could kiss her jaw and shoulder. Reaching for the single button at her nape, he opened her blouse and tugged at it just enough, so he could have access to her neck.
Zora put both hands on his head and held him still.
“Deuce,” she said, her voice a pant. It was unmistakably her heart that was skittering uncontrollably.
He lifted his head, and their eyes met. His were wary.
“Zee,” he said between uneven breaths. “Please …”
She let her hand fall and took one of his in one of hers. She should refuse him, she knew she should. But she also knew he needed her, at least for now. And his need was something she could not refuse.
They went back to her small, sparingly furnished bedroom, which she hadn’t had the will or heart to begin to decorate just yet. The bed was the singular most prominent feature in the entire space, large because she had vowed after college to never sleep in a twin-bed again.
Around it, were law books, piled high. And atop one pile, a teacup, probably not completely empty. Her closet was open, and messy. Clothes were draped over the footboard, including the discarded tank that Asif forbade her to wear without something more concealing.
Zora dropped Deuce’s hand, and lifted the hem of her blouse, peeling it over her head. He watched her, unmoving as she removed the bra as well, and then shimmied out of the jeans without bothering to undo the zipper.
Deuce’s eyes followed the length of her body, now naked, and Zora saw his chest rise and fall with each breath. Taking both his hands, she put them on her breasts. The corners of Deuce’s mouth lifted slightly, but his eyes were fixed on hers.
His fingers were rough, slightly callused, she knew from lifting weights. The roughness felt pleasant against her nipples, pleasant and familiar. They hardened immediately.
She reached for his shirt and his hands dropped from her breasts, just to help her get it off. But Zora didn’t allow him to unfasten his jeans. She did that for him, and as she pulled it down, kneeled in front of him.
“Zee, wait …”
“No,” she said.
She didn’t want to wait. She had only ever done this for him. But when she moved to take him in her mouth—anticipating the slight saltiness of him on her tongue, the smooth texture covering firm muscle, and the depth he went to, even though he would struggle to control himself—Deuce dragged her back to her feet.
“No,” he said. “Not that. I want … I need …”
Just hearing him speak about need and she felt the wetness between her legs, and the pulsating need to have him touch her there.
Deuce held her shoulders, taking a moment to steady himself. His eyes were dark, and intent. He guided her backward toward the bed and lowered himself atop her. The weight of his upper body was braced on his elbows as he kissed and sucked her breasts, playing with the nipples with the tip of his tongue, and light nips with his teeth.
Sliding a hand between them, he touched her with two fingers and Zora’s hips lifted spasmodically. Deuce raised his head and looked at her, in his eyes a question.
Then he spoke. “Should we …? Do we need …?”
“Do we?” she asked. “I mean, I haven’t …”
“I always. With her, I always …”
The sentences were incomplete, but they said everything the other needed to know. And she trusted him. She trusted him implicitly.
She nodded, and he moved up a little, sliding slowly, but effortlessly into her.
Zora let loose a deep, gut-wrenching groan, and opened wider, hooking her legs around his to pull him closer. On the very first stroke, the combination of feeling him inside her again, and the friction of his rough pubic hair against her clit had her coming, hard.
~~~
Good sex was supposed to be just that. It shouldn’t matter who you had it with. Bundles of nerves, mindless, and placed strategically in the human body when skillfully stimulated should have produced the same response, no matter who was doing the stimulating.
But with Zora, it was always different. Everything was luminescent.
In Deuce’s mind, there was light and there were waves, and there was her.
He saw only her face when he labored over her, he felt only her softness and heat, yielding beneath and around him. He smelled her hair, her skin, her female scent. He heard her keening, cooing, moaning cries, begging for more, pleading for him to stop, and then begging for more once again.
And everything he said, was nonsensical and extreme.
Except when he spoke of love.
He had missed her.
He only loved her.
He had never loved anyone but her.
He said all of that, and all of it was true.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Are you hungry?”
“What you’re saying is that you’re hungry, right?”
Zora rolled over, so she was lying atop him, and propped her chin on folded arms. She twisted her lips, unsuccessfully stifling a smile.
“Ahm … yeah. Little bit.”
“You always get hungry after …” Deuce let his voice trail off, grinning back at her.
“So, then you’d better feed me.”
Even those words sounded sexy when she said them.
There was just something about Zora Diallo. If he had a week, a month, or a lifetime, Deuce doubted he would ever figure out the pull and hold she had on him.
“Let’s make something,” he suggested, though he didn’t relish the thought of getting out of the bed. “What you got in your fridge?”
“Probably nothing. Nothing much. Asif eats us out of house and home. There’s a twenty-four-hour grocery store around the corner, though. We can get something there.”
“That sketchy-looking C-Town?”
“Yup. That’s the one.”
“I don’t want to get up,” Deuce said. “You?”
They were both still naked, still in bed. And the awkward afterwards-moments Deuce had been fearing hadn’t come. They didn’t say the usual things people said under these circumstances. There was no professing that ‘we-shouldn’t-have-done-this’, ‘I-don’t-know-what-happened’ or ‘we-just-got-carried-away’. There were no expressions of regret at all.
Rhyme & Reason Page 6