The Lover

by Forrester, Nia

  “Why’d you come to tell me that now? About your brother.”

  “Because I want to do it,” Ryann said. “I want us to … try to have a baby. And so I thought you should know.”

  “Is that the worst you’ve got?” Spencer asked, trying to make light of the situation, and to relax her a little. “That you have a brother in prison?”

  “And I have a mother who put him there,” Ryann said. “She’s a recovering alcoholic. A self-righteous, holy-roller of a recovering alcoholic.”

  “And you don’t like her too much,” Spencer surmised from her tone. “Since she put your brother there.”

  “No. But she’s my mother. And his too, so …” She shrugged.

  “Where does she live?”

  “Right here in DC. I see her occasionally. But not often, if I can help it.”

  “What’s your brother away for?”

  “Felony murder. A man got killed when he and his friend were robbing a store. Rick wasn’t the shooter, but …” She shrugged again.

  The flat and dispassionate way she told her story was familiar to Spencer, and the passive voice: a man ‘got killed’. The families of people who committed the crime almost always sounded this way, like they either trained themselves to remain distant from the crime, not to feel anything about the offense, or had shoved it all deep down inside.

  They didn’t feel entitled to have any emotion about it, except shame, guilt, and regret. But Spencer knew from experience that most of them, the decent ones, mourned as well. Not only for their family being taken away from them and incarcerated; but for the victim, for the victim’s family, and their much greater loss. The difference was, their mourning was sometimes met with scorn, so it was often safer not to show it.

  “You think that would have made a difference to me? About your brother? Especially with my own background?”

  “No, but I thought you should know.”

  “Now I know.”

  Ryann nodded.

  “And your mother, she … you said she put him there?”

  “Yeah.” Ryann ran a hand over her face and looked away. “But that’s a story for another day, I think.”

  “Okay.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it a little. Her hands shook slightly.

  “You hungry?” Spencer asked. “Just left my sister’s. All she had were hot dogs and cheese sandwiches.”

  “I could eat.” Ryann nodded.

  She was much more subdued than he had ever seen her. He didn’t know this Ryann. He would have to get to know her all over again, this time with more focus and attention to who she might be under all that armor; now that they were going to have a baby together.

  Terror, and excitement in equal measure rose in his chest.

  Ryann followed him into the kitchen and sat waiting while he took out a package of ground turkey he’d left in the fridge to defrost, some onions, sweet peppers, garlic, tomatoes and a box of dried farfalle pasta.

  “You want to help?” he asked.

  Ryann looked poised to refuse, but instead came to stand next to him.

  “Tell me what you want me to do,” she said.

  Spencer turned and looked at her, planning to tell her he needed her to cut the vegetables in small enough pieces for the sauce. But instead he leaned in, and Ryann got on her toes, met him halfway with eyes closed, and they kissed.

  They cooked together. Or Spencer cooked and Ryann was his sous chef, following his instructions without her usual smart-assed-ness. They didn’t speak, except for when he was putting the garlic in the sauce and Ryann touched his hand, and stopped him from putting in too much. Spencer smiled at that because he thought he might know why.

  After the food was ready, they ate in his living room, him at one end of the sofa and Ryann stretched out at the other end, her feet in his lap while he held his plate.

  “Good thing you have pretty feet,” he murmured.

  When she was done eating, she set aside the plate and lay back with her head on one of the sofa cushions, and fell asleep. Spencer watched her for a while, and tried to understand why he thought it was a good idea to have a baby with this woman and bind his life to hers, possibly until the end of his life, or hers.

  It was crazy. Just like she said it was.

  It was crazy. But he still wanted to do it. And for reasons he still didn’t understand, it felt right.

  He must have fallen asleep too, because when Spencer was next aware of his surroundings, it was twilight, and the room was dark. It was the first time in forever that he could recall having fallen asleep in the middle of the day and waking up to a head full of cotton. Ryann was still there, her feet still resting in his lap; but she was awake and was smiling down at her phone. The television was on, with the volume turned low. Spencer squeezed her foot before she even realized he was awake, and when she saw that he was, she held up her phone so he could see.

  “Tone texted me,” she said. “He’s really excited about all this.”

  “I’m excited, too.”

  Ryann smiled again. In her eyes, he saw that she knew. He wasn’t talking about the donation.

  They didn’t talk about how it was different, or why it was different. It just was.

  This time, when Spencer undressed her, Ryann was still, and compliant. She let him take his time removing each piece of her clothing and didn’t ask him to go faster, or to change anything at all. Her chest was heaving up and down, and he could hear her soft breaths. When he removed her top and bra, her nipples hardened under his touch immediately. She didn’t make a sound when he took one in his mouth, nor when he touched and rubbed the other, smoothing his palm over it, taking it between his fingers and squeezing lightly.

  All Spencer heard in the dark room was her quiet, restrained breaths. And then his. He heard and felt the pace of each inhale and exhale increase in speed, and become shallower. The room was almost pitch-black so they were only silhouettes to each other. That made it easier. This new tenderness and reverence might have embarrassed them otherwise, even though some of the raunchiest, dirtiest sex-talk had never given either of them the slightest moment’s pause.

  When Spencer covered Ryann’s sex with his mouth, sticking his tongue in, deep and hard, only then did she begin to make more audible noises, and grab his head and press herself into him. He made her come, once, twice, and then a third time before he was satisfied. Crawling up her length, he almost reached for the bedside table drawer, out of habit and instinct. He had never had a woman in this bed before, without taking care of that first.

  Sliding deep inside her, feeling Ryann’s body grab and envelope him, Spencer took a few moments to bask in the feeling. He had made love to her before without any barriers between them, but she felt different. More open, and softer. It was probably all in his head, but he would’ve sworn it if asked—she felt different.

  “Spencer,” she was speaking into his ear, talking to him but almost to herself as well. “That feels good, baby. You feel … so good.”

  Propping himself up on his extended arms, Spencer looked down at her, reveling in the expression on her face, of a woman dizzy with pleasure. She bit into the flesh of her lower lip and stared back at him through lazy eyes, issuing silent gasps, and clenching around him when he flexed into her. When he pulled back, her eyes opened wider and she looked almost desperate, arching her hips off the bed and toward his. She didn’t put her arms around him, but grabbed the sheets at her side, grasping them in her fists, her torso bowed upward.

  “Hold me,” Spencer finally managed to groan. “Hold on to me.”

  He watched her gradually release her grip on the sheets, and her hands and then arms went up and she clutched him to her, holding him, pulling him down. Spencer allowed his elbows to bend, dipping his head to kiss her shoulder, her throat and finally her mouth.

  They were still like that when the wave of her orgasm finally crashed—his mouth on hers, their tongues sweeping against and tugging at each other, t
heir lips crushing almost to the point of pain.

  Spencer felt her groan, and the shudder that wracked her entire body. He let his full weight cover her, just as his own release hit. Reaching beneath them both, he clutched Ryann, and held her close, and tight, until the last of her tremors subsided.

  “Where you goin’?”

  Spencer’s voice was gravelly with sleep. He felt the shift of the mattress the moment Ryann sat up, even though he couldn’t see much of her in the dark. They had fallen asleep wrapped around each other and moved apart sometime in the night, both of them probably much too accustomed to sleeping alone.

  “Thirsty,” Ryann croaked. “Going downstairs to get some water.”

  “I’ll get it.” Spencer sat up and stretched.

  He didn’t want her to start getting any ideas about leaving. Staggering down to the kitchen, naked, he rubbed his eyes and yawned hugely as he opened the refrigerator. Pouring Ryann a large glass of cool water, he paused at the sound of his cell phone buzzing on the counter.

  With sleepy eyes, Spencer glanced at the screen and yawned again.

  Stranger, the message said. What you doing?

  It’s Mariana, came another message, immediately after.

  Feeling badly about simply ignoring it, Spencer rationalized that it was Saturday, and past midnight. So, probably just a booty call. He wouldn’t be needing any of that.

  Taking the glass of water with him, but leaving the cell phone behind, he went upstairs to Ryann.

  She drank almost the entire glass of water in one long gulp, then handed it back to Spencer, curling on her side and making a sound that was a cross between a moan and a purr. She didn’t look like she was planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

  “I’m a night-owl,” she said unexpectedly. “Are you?”

  Downing the rest of the water, Spencer set the glass on the bedside table and lay next to her, on his back, staring at the ceiling.

  “Nope,” he said, already feeling sleep begin to reclaim him.

  “Well I am. So when I sleep here, I might get up in the middle of the night. Do laundry, read a book, watch television, clean the stove …”

  When I sleep here …

  “Now you know damn well you ain’t doin’ no laundry, or cleanin’ my stove,” Spencer said, groggily.

  He heard Ryann’s quiet laughter and then felt her moving. Before he knew what was happening, she was sitting astride his thighs, and had grabbed his hands putting them on her breasts. Spencer grinned in the dark.

  “You serious?”

  “You just said, and you’re doggone right, I am not one to be cleaning stoves of doing nobody’s laundry. So, I’m going to need something else to help me get back to sleep. And we’re trying to get pregnant, right?”

  He grinned. “Yeah. We are.”

  Ryann lifted herself up and grasped him in her hand. He wasn’t even completely hard—though he was getting there—but she lowered herself onto him anyway. It took a little doing, but soon he was inside her. She heaved and sighed, like someone settling into a well-loved and comfortable spot.

  “I’m not doin’ shit,” Spencer warned, wavering between exhaustion and arousal. “This is gon’ have to be all you.”

  “Fine. Lazy.” Then he felt Ryann bat his arms aside so his hands were no longer on her breasts. Instead, she pressed the flats of her palms against his chest and began to move, just in the hips, lifting her ass and letting it drop again, so she was sliding and gliding along his length. Despite his vow of non-participation, Spencer reached up to grab her by the hips. Ryann removed her hands from his chest long enough to shove his away.

  “Uh uh,” she said, pausing her movements. “Don’t try to take over now. I’m runnin’ this show, remember?”

  “Then run it,” Spencer gritted between his teeth.

  And so, in the dark, with only the light of the moon behind her, Spencer let Ryann ride out another noisy release, and another, until finally, with a loud, hoarse groan, he joined her.

  “Thought you said you didn’t cook.”

  “Eggs and sausage? That hardly qualifies as high cuisine.” Ryann looked up when Spencer came wandering into his kitchen.

  She was standing at his range, wearing one of his t-shirts, her ample backside peeking out from the beneath the hem. He gave it a quick smack as he walked by, on his way to get some orange juice.

  While he drank it, he leaned against the counter watching her. He wanted to tell her he was glad she was there, but Ryann was fine with intimacy only just as long as he didn’t call attention to it for what it was.

  “What’re you gettin’ into today?” he asked.

  “Work. I have lots of work to catch up on, now that I’m not attending to Tone and his high-maintenance ass anymore.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then nothing,” Ryann said, beginning to plate their food. “That’ll probably take up my entire morning, afternoon and well into the evening.” Then she turned and looked at him. “Why? You have something in mind?”

  Spencer shrugged. “Nah. I mean … maybe next weekend.”

  “Maybe next weekend, what?”

  “I was just thinkin’ ‘bout what you said. About my wardrobe. That suit wasn’t half bad, so …”

  Ryann’s eyes lit up. “You want to throw all that old stuff out?”

  “Not all. But maybe some. You know, the ones that …” Spencer shifted his weight a little and cleared his throat.

  “Spencer,” Ryann said, arms folded across her chest, her face serious. “It takes a real big man to admit that his taste is atrocious. Seriously. I applaud you.”

  “Shut up,” he said, laughing.

  Ryann turned back to the food. “Well, the answer is yes. I would love to go shopping with you. But next weekend. You’re just going to have to survive one more week. Looking like that first-round NBA draft pick from Oxford, Mississippi.”

  Spencer tossed a dish-towel at her and it hit its mark, draping over her head before she could duck.

  “Three points from half court,” he said. Walking by to grab his food, Spencer gave her one last, loud smack on the ass.

  ~14~

  “Who?” Ryann wrinkled her brow, looking up at Brittainy from her computer.

  “Louis. He said Mr. Hall sent him.”

  “I don’t know a Louis. Tell him I’ll be out in a moment and let me see whether I can get ahold of Spen … Mr. Hall to see what this might be about.”

  Brittainy nodded and headed back out to the reception area while Ryann reached for her phone. Dialing Spencer from her cell, she muttered a curse when the call went straight to voicemail. So instead she sent him a text message and waited three minutes for a response before giving up.

  Standing and straightening her skirt, she headed out to reception. A broad-shouldered, dark-skinned man in jeans and a work-shirt stood as she entered, and extended a hand. Ryann took it and smiled.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Ryann. I’m sorry, I can’t remember if we’ve met.”

  “No ma’am, we haven’t. I’m Louis. I seen you come to the Coalition a few times, but we never met.”

  “Oh. You’re from the Coalition. And you said Spencer … Mr. Hall sent you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. To pick up your car?”

  Ryann stared at him blankly.

  “To get it serviced and detailed?”

  Behind her, Ryann could feel Brittainy shifting in her seat, probably sitting forward, and listening even more closely.

  “He didn’t mention any such thing to me,” Ryann said, laughing a little. “So …”

  “He told me that I was to come over here and get the keys and do the work, and bring it back to you before five,” Louis said, looking troubled. “I’m pretty sure I have the day right …” He reached for his cell.

  “It’s not a question of the day,” Ryann said, waving away that concern. “It’s just that he didn’t … Give me a minute, would you?”

  Turning, she headed back to her office
and dialed Spencer’s number again. This time, it rang twice before he answered.

  “Hey.” He sounded a little out of breath. “Was just about to text you back.”

  “Did you send some guy over here to g…”

  “Yeah. Louis. He’s there?”

  “Yes. To get my car? Did you tell him I needed to have my car serviced and detailed?”

  “Yeah. Give him the keys and …”

  “Did I tell you I needed my car serviced and detailed?” Ryann asked pointedly.

  “I don’t need you to tell me stuff like that. Your car is the most raggedy-ass Benz I ever seen in my life. And it’s only about two years old so it has no business lookin’ that way. You need to get it tightened up.”

  Leaning back in her chair, Ryann felt her mouth literally fall open at his tone. This Negro …

  “I’m on a job-site, Ryann. I don’t have time for all this back and forth. Give him the keys so we can both get back to work,” Spencer added when, after a few moments she still hadn’t spoken.

  Finally, she found her voice. “I’m supposed to give some random convict my car keys because you say so?”

  “Ryann.”

  His voice had dropped a couple of octaves, the way it did when he’d had enough, and she was stunned silent once again. Spencer wasn’t one to flex often, but when he did, it made her feel like she was about six-years old.

  “Give. Him. The Keys.”

  She tried again. “All I’m saying is …”

  “Don’t say shit. Just give Louis the keys.” And then he hung up on her. Yes, he did.

  For a few prideful seconds, she considered going back out into the reception area and sending Louis packing without the car keys, but instead with a message to his boss to stay in his lane and leave things like car maintenance to the actual owner of the car.

  But that would have been cutting off her nose to spite her face, because Spencer was right—her car was a mess most days. And what was the point in having a luxury car if it didn’t look luxurious?

  Sighing, Ryann fished in her pocketbook, pulling out her car keys and the claim ticket from the garage. Pausing for a moment, she separated the key for the car from those that opened her house, and headed back out to Louis.