by Mj Fields
“You know where she went?”
She cocks her head as she thinks. “Sundays, she goes to Walnut Park for the fresh air yoga class.”
“Harrison Street?” I ask.
She smiles and nods before walking into the bar.
Not wanting to appear too fucking eager, I wait until she’s no longer visible through the window before running to my fucking truck.
“Sunday fucking drivers.” I hit my horn when the car ahead of me is still sitting when the lights green.
When the driver turns around, I feel guilty when I see the white-haired man wearing an Orangeman baseball cap, until he gives me the finger. I’m tempted to give it back, but I don’t.
When I attempt to go around him as we approach the next light, the old fuck crosses the line, driving in both lanes.
“Oh, come on, man!”
By the time I get to 700 Harrison, I am ready to lose my mind, and it’s now five minutes after one.
I see the yoga class and throw the truck in park, jumping out of the vehicle then run to get closer. Then I slow down so I don’t look as much like an idiot as I surely do already.
I look for her in the group, but all I am getting is an ocean of ass in the downward dog position.
I wait for them to face me. And wait and wait.
“Pervert,” I hear and turn to see her standing with her arms crossed, scowling as she looks at her feet and kicks at the dirt. She’s mad, and she has every right to be. But hidden behind the hurt is anger.
“Reda told me you’d be here. Then I got stuck behind an old man driving slow as hell, who …” I stop when I realize I’m rambling like an idiot. “Sorry I’m late. I overslept.”
She takes in a slow breath before looking up at me, shielding her eyes from the sun and cocking her head. “So, what did you want to do?”
I smile at her, and she fights hers, but caves.
Fucking stunning.
We walk to my truck, and I open the door for her.
A smirk hits her lips as she gets in.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re really working this date thing, aren’t you, your highness?”
Before I shut the door, I let her know, “I don’t do anything half-assed, Ray.”
Chapter Eight
Yeah, real cute..
Keeka
“So, yoga, huh?” he asks as he starts his truck. A truck that has no top, which I find fascinating. “Flexibility is always a plus.”
Before I can say anything, he leans closer, putting his arm behind my seat.
“What are you doing?” I ask as his face gets closer and closer to mine.
His eyes sparkle as he smiles.
I take in a slow breath, waiting for what I assume is going to be another kiss, one that has haunted my dreams for a week.
He looks down at my chest. I already know what’s happening. I feel my nipples beginning to ache.
“Gotta ask you something, Ray,” he says slowly, looking back up into my eyes.
I’m afraid to speak, fearing the thickness in my throat will cause him to be even more aware of how attracted I am to him, so I nod slightly.
“Do you ever wear a bra?”
I shake my head.
“That much of a free spirit, huh?” He reaches up and tugs the braid hanging over my shoulder. Then he rubs the ends between two fingers. “Is it because you like the way the fabric of your shirt rubs against them? Is it because you like the attention you gain? Or is it to tease the hell out of all the men, like me, who want your attention?”
I swallow hard as I take in his words, all of which makes my heart thump harder against my chest.
“Truth, Ray.”
I take a deep breath and look away. “When I moved here, I didn’t bring much.”
He nods. “What else did you leave behind? Panties?”
The way he says it sounds like he’s playing with me, so I look at him and, sure enough, he’s smirking.
“Say yes and I’m gonna end up in the same predicament I was in last night. And Ray, it was really fucking hard. Painfully hard. So hard I thought my skin was gonna split.”
“You’re a pervert.” I suck in my lower lip so I don’t laugh.
He sits back and gasps, bringing his hand from behind my seat and producing two white hats. “I was talking about leaving you.”
“Your skin was gonna split because you were leaving me?” I do laugh now.
“Ray, I’m not sure what the hell you’re talking about, but I like the way you think.” He leans over and pulls my braid up, feeding it through the hole in the back of the hat as he puts it on my head. He then uses one finger to lift my chin, looking me over, inspecting me. “Tell me you look like shit when you wake up.”
“I look like shit when I wake up.” I laugh. “And that’s the truth.”
“Good. Because, when I spend the night with you, I wanna be able to leave or kick you out when I have shit to do.”
“Maybe I’ll kick you out because I have shit to do.”
“All you’re gonna be needing to do is rest and recover. I play hard, Ray, and I don’t quit until I fucking win.” He puts the other hat on his head backward then grabs his sunglasses out of the cup holder. Winking at me, he puts them on.
When he hits the gas, I feel the wind pick the hat up off my head. Clamping my hands over it to hold it in place, I can’t help smiling.
He’s smiling, too. Beaming he’s so happy, so very happy. I want to be, too, but the fear I thought I left behind remains in the shadows.
He reaches up and turns on the radio. A song I have heard at the bar a million times plays. “Click Click Boom” by Saliva. It’s loud, but I hear him singing along.
He taps his large thumbs to the beat on the steering wheel, moving his body to it as well. I don’t have to wonder if he can dance. I saw him on the dance floor.
I laugh to myself, thinking about how my mom once told me white boys can’t dance. Clearly, she had been dancing with the wrong ones.
When the song ends, he looks over and holds his hand out to me, palm up. My heart accelerates as I place mine in it.
“That’s what I thought.” He smirks.
“And what’s that?”
“You want me.”
I hold our hands up. “You wanted me. I just complied with your nonverbal request.”
His deep, low chuckle gets drowned out by the next song as he hits the accelerator and heads up the on-ramp to 690 West.
He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other holding mine, singing, sometimes to himself, others looking at me while he does it. I like that. I like it a lot.
When Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’ ” comes on, I decide to sing along, too. He laughs and begins hamming it up, big time, and I get swept up in the moment.
When he whips the truck into a gas station, laughing, he hits the control on the phone and starts the song again, blasting through the speakers. Then he hops out of the truck without opening the door.
I watch him hurry in front of the truck and am confused when he opens my door, holding his hand out.
“Dance with me.”
I look around to see half a dozen people pumping gas, all turning to look at us.
“No way.” I shake my head profusely.
He reaches in and unbuckles my seatbelt.
“No. No way. Trucker, no!” I squeal as he grabs my waist and lifts me.
“Comply, Little Ray.” He laughs as I squirm. “Ticklish?”
“Oh, my God.” I laugh as he lifts me and twirls me in a circle.
“ ‘Just a small-town girl’,” he sings loudly, drawing more attention.
I cover my eyes and laugh at how ridiculous he’s being, but God how I love it.
“ ‘Just a city boy’,” he sings even louder, and I uncover my eyes to look down into his. “Sing with me, Ray.”
“ ‘He took the midnight train going anywhere’.” I smile at him as I sing.
“Louder, Ray.” He ho
lds me up above him higher now as the guitar solo plays.
“ ‘A singer in a smoky room’,” he continues singing as he lowers me.
When my feet are on the ground, but my head is still on cloud Trucker, he leans down toward me, closing his eyes as he grips my hip with one hand and tips my chin up with the other. He strokes his thumb across my lower lip, and I close my eyes, taking in how good it feels to simply be touched. It has been months, maybe years, since I took comfort in … comfort, before Trucker’s ghost-kiss last week.
I pucker my lips and kiss his thumb as Journey’s beautiful music surrounds me.
He removes the hat from my head, pulling my braid free. When he sets it back on my head backward, I open my eyes.
The timing couldn’t be more perfect as I watch him lean in, eyes closed, until his lips touch mine. It’s not like the ghost-kiss this time. It’s warm, wet, and soft.
I gasp, and he surrounds my lower lip with his, sucking on it gently. When he pulls on it, still sucking, I close my eyes and reach up, placing a hand on each side of his face that has a light dusting of soft hair on it.
When his lips leave mine, I pull him in closer and find his lips again. But this time, I suck his lip, wanting to taste him. I trace it with my tongue, and then … then his lips surround mine as he grips my hip and pulls me closer.
We alternate between pressing our lips together, sucking one another’s flesh, and tasting it, too.
His breaths become more labored, his grip on my hip less gentle, and I pull his face closer to mine.
He pushes his tongue into my mouth and licks inside it as he moans.
Everything is good, better than good. His touch, his taste, his smell … him. Trucker. My first kiss.
When I suck on his lip again, he hisses, “Fuuuuck.”
I open my eyes and lean back, breaking our connection.
“You ever kiss someone else like that, you’re gonna ruin me.”
I shake my head, and he nods slowly.
“I don’t know what the future holds, Ray, but you’re mine until next year.”
I nod and smile, thinking of all the moments like this, ones that feel good and make me smile, ones I will have over the next four months.
“Cuddle season?”
He nods. “Fuck yes.”
When he leans in and kisses me this time, he holds the back of my head and pushes his tongue in harder and more hurried. It feels good, so good.
When we hear horns and applause, he steps back, and we both laugh.
He moves us until the backs of my legs are against the truck. Then he grabs my waist and lifts me onto the seat. “Buckle up, Ray. We need to jet before the self-proclaimed internet reporters blast us all over IG, Twitter, and Facebook.”
He shuts the door and walks around the truck to get in. He doesn’t hold his hand out for me to take this time; he just takes it.
In that moment, I know I will let him take whatever it is he wants from me, just as long as he keeps kissing me like he did seconds ago and keeps smiling.
He pulls into the open parking lot of Destiny USA and turns off the truck.
I reach up to take off the hat.
“Leave it on.” He winks.
“Okay.”
He leans over and grabs the back of my head, pulls me close, and kisses my cheek. Then he takes the hat off, grabs my braid, and feeds it through the hole in the back before pulling it down. He then grabs the cord attached to his phone, unplugs it, puts the cord in the glove box, and locks it. Getting out, he walks around the truck and opens my door, unbuckling my belt before taking my hand. “Let’s go.”
Walking into the mall, he holds my hand a little tighter and pulls me a little closer. Everyone we walk by looks at us.
“Told you the hat was a good idea.”
I nod and point to the sunglasses. “Maybe they’re looking at us because we look like we’re in disguise.”
“Nah, they just wish they could be us.”
Us? What does us mean? I think as we step onto the escalators and ride up.
When we step off, he leads the way. I have no idea where we are going, and I don’t care.
When we walk into Victoria’s Secret, I hesitate.
“Ray, if I hear one of my teammates talk about your perfect little tits again, I’m gonna end up beating the hell out of them, and then they’ll let me get pummeled on the field.”
“I didn’t bring my wallet. And if I did, I’d be in a store that cost a lot less for a bra than this one.”
He looks down at me. “Your tits should be in satin or lace. This place will have to do.”
When I pull my hand back, he looks at me.
I didn’t want him buying me gifts, not like the men who came in and out of my mom’s bedroom did for her.
“I don’t have my wallet.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. “We won enough last night to get you a few.”
“You won—”
“We, Ray.” He squeezes my hand gently. “We won it.”
Walking behind him, I look around, feeling completely out of place.
When he asks me what size, I tell him the truth.
“I don’t know.”
A look of confusion crosses his face, but it fades quickly as he looks around. “I could measure them with my hands, but that’d be a little inappropriate in public.” He winks then looks around, catching the eye of a sales associate. “Can you measure her?”
I look toward the door, trying to judge how long it will take me to run out and never look back. But when he grips my hand, I look at him and realize, if I did that, I wouldn’t get four months to look at him, see him smile, feel his full, soft lips against mine.
Inside the dressing room, I’m internally freaking out. What have I gotten myself into?
“You can take your shirt off.” She smiles pleasantly at me. I must look terrified, because she continues, “Your bra can stay on.”
And now I want to drop to the floor, crawl past the nearly six-foot-tall … in heels, perfectly put-together blonde, slide out from under the dressing room door, become invisible, and run, never looking back.
She smiles again. “I’ve seen boobs before.”
“Well”—I cross my arms in front of myself, grab the hem of my shirt, and lift it over my head—“here are two more.”
“Wow, they are so cute!”
Kill me now, I think as I close my eyes, and she begins to measure me.
“Your boyfriend is—”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I interrupt.
“Oh, well, is he …?” she trails off, and I open my eyes.
“Is he what?”
She whispers, “Are you a professional?”
“Did you just ask me if I’m a hooker?”
Her face turns bright red. “I’m not judging. I watched Pretty Woman and thought it was a beautiful—”
“You thought wrong.” I close my eyes again. “Can we just finish this up?”
Thankfully, it only takes a couple of seconds more.
“All set,” she says as she jots down a number on a piece of paper while I hurriedly put my shirt back on.
When we walk out of the dressing room, she tells him, “Twenty-eight B.”
He nods and takes my hand, walking past the sale racks and to the corner where all the prettiest ones hang against the wall. He grabs four very quickly. All lace, all different colors. Then he walks to a table where underwear sits.
“Extra small?” he asks, and I nod.
He grabs four pair, all matching the colors of the bras, and all thongs.
“I’m going to wait outside.”
He looks at me, puzzled.
“This just isn’t me.”
“It’s a bra store, Ray. It’s a hell of a lot more you than it is me.” He pulls me behind him. “Go look around; see if there’s something you like better than these.”
The bench outside, I think as he lets go of my hand and leaves me standing there
while he walks over to a rack of sexy nighties. When he turns around and holds up a white lace number that looks like scraps of material, I just look at him.
He holds it against his body and smiles. “Would this make my butt look big?”
I look around and meet the green eyes of the sales associate who thinks I’m a hooker, and then I back at him. As his smile melts away some of the insecurities, I nod.
He shrugs. “Well, damn.” Then he turns around and keeps looking.
I’m standing in the middle of a store that sells beautiful girlie items and feel so out of place.
Blend, I tell myself, just like you had to learn to at the bar.
I look around and allow myself to consider buying things like these on my own one day.
My wardrobe consists of black shorts, my work shirts, workout attire with built-in bras, a few pairs of leggings, two hoodies, ridiculous socks that are fluffy and feel good on my feet, one pair of white canvas, no-name sneakers, a few pair of sandals, and one pair of Ugg knock-off boots that Shakeeka bought me. All mom-approved, no frills, natural beauty enhancing items.
I naturally gravitate to a rack of athletic type clothes and grab a black pair of jogging pants. When I see the price tags of seventy-three dollars and ninety-nine cents, I look for something that makes them better than the ones at Walmart that I paid under ten dollars for. Splayed across the butt is the word PINK.
I laugh to myself, thinking people must be nuts to spend that kind of money for a black pair of pants that are covered with the word of an entirely different color. Then I set them back on the rack.
I look around for Trucker and don’t see him. For a brief second, I panic. Will he find me? Then I realize how stupid that makes me sound and feel.
I’m not a little girl who’s lost. I’m not depended on by someone else anymore. And the way Trucker looks at me doesn’t give me the feeling or impression he would be a guy who would leave a girl standing in the middle of a store with no intention of coming back.
Those are old feelings, Brooklyn feelings. I’m not that girl anymore.
When I see him walking out from the farthest section back, he’s smiling at me while carrying a pink and black striped bag.
I shake my head from side to side, unable to help catching the Trucker effect. That smile could cure cancer, and his highness seems to know it.