by B. B. Easton
With one last murderous glare, Knight spat on the ground in front of my house, tucked his phone back into his pocket, and headed back down my driveway, silent as a shadow.
As I watched him climb onto his chopper and speed away, my shaking thumb navigated to his voicemail and pressed Delete, just like it had done a hundred times before. I knew Knight was still calling in the middle of the night, still leaving me random, venomous voicemails.
I just didn’t know he’d been doing it from outside my bedroom window.
The nearly full moon peeked out at me from its own hiding place behind a cluster of pine trees. Evidently, it was scared of Knight, too.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered to it, my voice brittle and unconvincing. “I’m gonna get us out of here.”
After staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my bedroom ceiling for the rest of the night, I got up to the sound of my alarm and dragged my tired, bitter ass out the door.
Georgia State University prides itself on being urban as fuck. The campus is in the heart of downtown Atlanta, straddling Peachtree Street, and within walking distance of Centennial Olympic Park, Philips Arena, the CNN Center, and some of the most crime-ridden neighborhoods in the country. One of my classrooms was in a converted parking garage. Literally. Instead of stairs, you had to walk up a concrete ramp from floor to floor. You could hardly have a conversation outside due to the traffic noise, construction noise, and emergency vehicle sirens screaming by all day—not that you’d want to loiter anyway. Stand in one spot too long, and you’d get attacked by a swarm of very aggressive panhandlers.
And don’t even get me started on the subway.
I had just walked into Langdale Hall and tucked my pepper spray back into my purse when my phone rang. Right on cue, my palms began to sweat, but when I pulled my phone out and didn’t recognize the number calling, my blood pressure spiked, too.
Oh my God. It could be Ken!
Shut up. It’s not Ken. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since you asked Jason to give him your number. Guys usually wait, like, two days to call a girl.
But it can’t be Knight. It’s—I glanced above the unknown number at the time on the screen—eleven eleven in the morning. He’s never called me before noon.
So…telemarketer?
Totally. It’s totally a telemarketer.
I took a deep breath and pressed the Talk button. After saying, “Hello?” I winced and braced myself for a barrage of angry expletives or a rapid-fire spiel about timeshares.
Instead, I heard a dry, deadpan voice reply, “So, I hear I’m taking you to the circus.”
A burst of nervous laughter flew out of me as my face pulled up into a grin that had every sad, serious GSU co-ed staring at me like I’d lost my mind.
I held the phone to my ear and began walking to my next class. “That’s right,” I said. “I set up an interview for you. They need a new pillow juggler.”
“Do they offer a 401(k)? What’s their policy on matching?”
I snickered. “I guarantee you, they do not offer a 401(k).”
“Damn. I guess I’ll just have to go as a spectator then. Want to come with me?”
My face hurts. Why does my face hurt? Is this what smiling feels like? It’s been so long.
“Sure,” I squeaked.
“I’ll pick up some tickets this afternoon. The show isn’t until March. Do you know what your schedule looks like that far out?”
“Yeah. I either have school or work every day, except Sunday.”
“Sundays. I can work with that.”
I can work with that.
Pajama Guy was smooth; I’d give him that.
I leaned against the cinder-block wall outside my classroom to finish our conversation.
“Hey, thanks for going with me,” I said in a more serious tone. “I’ll pay you back for my ticket the next time I see you.”
“Are you going to Jason’s house on Friday?”
I smiled at the immediacy of his question. “Yeah. What about you?”
“I’ll probably be there.”
“Okay.” I beamed.
“Okay.”
We were both silent for a minute before I remembered where I was.
“Hey, I’d better let you go,” I sighed. “My next class is about to start.”
“Which one?”
“Egyptian Art History.”
“That’s funny. I think I’m taking that class, too. This girl I know makes me quiz her with flash cards before every fucking test. Now, I can name all the pharaohs by dynasty.”
“You’d better watch your mouth, or I’m gonna make you help me study for statistics, too.”
Ken chuckled. “I would love to help you study for statistics.”
“No, you wouldn’t. It’s boring, and you love nothing.” I smirked.
“Well, I’m boring, and I love statistics.”
“Whatever, liar. I have to go.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
You hang up first. No, you hang up first.
“Bye, Brooke.”
I bit my lip to squelch my stupid grin. “Bye, Ken.”
I might as well have just stayed on the phone with him instead of going into class because, by the end of the day, my notebook looked like one big doodle with maybe three notes, the wrong date on the top, and the word FRIDAY in huge, three-dimensional block letters at the bottom.
As I walked around Jason’s pool table, pulling the balls out of each pocket, my eyes naturally kept drifting toward the front door.
Stop it, damnit.
What if he’s not coming?
It’s Friday! Of course he’s coming!
Oh God, what if he does come? What do I do? Give him a hug?
What? No! You know Ken doesn’t do that. He won’t even let Allen hug him.
But we’re, like, dating now.
You have one date scheduled over a month from now. Calm down.
My ears picked up the sound of the front door opening, even over the stereo and TV and crowd noise. As I racked the balls, I glanced up and watched Jason’s newest guest enter. Then, I let out an exasperated sigh when I saw that it was just another one of his khaki-clad co-workers.
Plastering a fake smile on my face, I looked over at Allen and gestured to the table. “You wanna break?”
“Nah. You go ahead. I’m just gonna call Amy real quick.” Allen’s big, round eyes looked puffy and tired behind his glasses.
I felt bad for the guy. I didn’t know what was up, but it was obvious that he was going through some shit.
Jason’s pool table was in what was supposed to be his dining room, so it took some maneuvering to take a shot without punching a hole in the Sheetrock with my stick. Again. The balls scattered, but only one went in—a solid.
“You play?”
I spun around and found Ken standing in the entryway between the living room and dining room with a smug smile on his stubbled face. He must have come straight from work again. The sleeves of his gray-blue button-down shirt were rolled up to his elbows. His silky gray-blue tie was loose around his neck. And his soft charcoal slacks hung about an inch or two lower than what was professional. It wasn’t all black, and it wasn’t meant to be edgy, but there was an air of fuck you about the way he wore it that turned me on anyway.
“Hey.” I beamed.
“Hey,” Ken said with a half-smile, crossing his arms over his chest.
Okay, so no hug.
“You play pool?” He gestured toward the table with a flick of his chin.
“Not very well.” I laughed. “But, yeah, my parents have a table.”
“Good thing you’re playing Allen then.”
Ken’s best friend was pacing back and forth on the other side of the table, waving his stick around with one hand and holding his cell phone to his head with the other.
Ken walked into the room and turned so that his back was toward Allen. Lowering his voice, he said, “Amy broke up with him last week
and moved to Arizona to live with her sister.”
My hand flew to my mouth. I looked over Ken’s shoulder at the poor bastard on the phone. “Oh my God!” I whispered. “They’ve been together for, like, five years!”
Ken turned around. “Allen, take your shot, man.”
Allen looked startled. Nodding at Ken, he held the phone with his shoulder and took the worst shot imaginable. Then, he returned to his pacing.
“How’s he doing?” I asked, watching his friend wear a hole in the carpet.
Ken shrugged. “I dunno. He says he’s gonna go to Arizona and get her back.”
Ken walked over to his buddy and took the stick out of his hand. Allen didn’t even notice. Nodding to the table, Ken gestured that it was my turn.
“Like, caveman-style?” I asked. “Like, throw her over his shoulder and bring her home?” I lined up a shot and prayed to the gods of coolness to let me sink it. I exhaled in relief when I made it. Then I missed my next shot by a mile.
“I guess so,” Ken replied, leaning over the table with one eye closed. “I told him it was a bad idea.” Smack. “If she doesn’t want him”—smack—“she doesn’t want him.” Smack. Ken had sunk the red-, purple-, and yellow-striped balls by the time he finished his sentence.
Show-off.
“What makes you think she doesn’t want him?” I asked, lining up my next shot.
“Because she moved to the other side of the country.”
“Hey, can I use your ball to—”
“Nope.” Ken smirked.
“No?” I pouted, but Ken just shook his head.
Asshole.
I tried to bank the orange ball off the side bumper to avoid Ken’s ball, but I misjudged the angle and knocked one of his other balls in instead. “Shit.”
“Thanks.” Ken chuckled, chalking his cue.
“You know, she probably left because she got sick and tired of waiting for him to propose. I know he’s your friend and all, but…five years and no ring? I mean, how long was she supposed to wait?”
Ken arched a brow at me, the end of his stick poised to strike. “You think she left him because she wants to marry him?” I could see the microchip in his brain lighting up, trying to compute what I’d just said. “That doesn’t make sense.” Ken tapped the ball a little too lightly. It stopped just short of the hole.
“Ha!” I yelled, pointing at his mistake.
I walked over to Ken’s side of the pool table where I had the best shot. I expected him to move away like he usually did when someone threatened to penetrate his massive bubble of personal space, but he didn’t. He stayed put. And he held my gaze as I approached.
As soon as I stepped into his invisible force field, I felt hairs on the back of my arms stand up. It was electric, being that close to him. Maybe because he was kind of a robot.
I planted the end of my stick on the ground and looked up into his chiseled face. “Let me ask you this…did Allen do anything wrong?”
Ken’s angled light-brown eyebrows pulled together. “What do you mean?”
“Did he cheat? Did he hit her? Did he steal her car and sell it for drugs?”
“No.”
I smiled and glanced over at Ken’s BFF, who was now sitting on a barstool with his head in his hands.
“Hey, Allen,” I called out, leaning around Ken’s dryer-sheet-scented V-shaped torso.
The stocky guy in the Falcons jersey and glasses looked up, misery aging his youthful features.
“Your girl wants to get married.”
A small, sad smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You think so?”
“Uh, yeah.” I nodded. “Ken says you’re gonna go get her back.”
Allen rubbed his eyes behind his glasses and glanced from me to Ken. “I’m thinkin’ about it.”
“If you go, you’d better take a ring with you.”
Allen’s smile spread the rest of the way. “You sure?”
“Yeah, you sure?” Ken’s doubtful voice echoed. “What if she says no?”
I looked up at him sporting a grin as big as Allen’s. “Man, you guys don’t know shit about girls. It’s a good thing I’m here.”
Something happened during that conversation that I hadn’t expected. When I’d breached Ken’s impenetrable force field, I think I broke it. For the rest of the night, he stayed within arm’s reach of me. I tested his limits by touching him here and there, but he never flinched. I grabbed his tie and dragged him outside when I went to smoke. He came willingly. I laughed and swatted him on the chest whenever he said something sarcastic, which was always. I clutched his veiny, muscular forearm and whispered in his ear whenever I was talking about someone at the party. And he let me, all the while smiling and making eye contact and leaning in to tell me his own stories about the people there that I didn’t know.
When it was time for me to leave, Ken grabbed his empty Gatorade bottle—which I knew from previous conversations would be responsibly recycled as soon as he got home—nodded his goodbyes to his friends, and walked me down the four flights of cement stairs to the parking lot. Our elbows rubbed the whole way.
My heart was pounding—and not from the stairs. Ken Easton was letting me touch him. The man had a personal-space bubble the size of a planet, but he didn’t seem to mind my intrusion at all. Which was good because I liked it inside Ken’s bubble. It was quiet and warm in there, but the energy was electric.
I knew I shouldn’t push my luck, but when Ken walked me to my car, stopped a mere twenty-four inches away from me, and gave me that look—the one that felt like a challenge—I said, Fuck it.
And with a flying leap, I wrapped my arms around his neck.
And with the reflexes of a ninja, he caught me.
My eyes shot open in surprise as Ken’s strong arms clamped around my waist, as his face—rough, thanks to a dusting of evening stubble—came to rest against my neck, and as my toes dangled at least six inches above the pavement.
For possibly the first time in my life, I felt grounded, and my feet weren’t even touching the ground.
Just when I was beginning to think that I might like to spend the rest of my life on Kenneth Easton, he slowly lowered me to my feet.
“You’re working tomorrow, right?” His eyes dropped to the ground as he adjusted his coat.
“Yeah,” I replied, looking around for a rock to kick. “Hey, maybe you could come have lunch with me?” My voice, my face, and my eyebrows all lifted in hopeful expectation.
But Ken did not mirror my enthusiasm. As he pulled his car keys from his jacket pocket, he cast a guarded gaze my way. “Maybe.” Then, without so much as an explanation or another embrace, he turned and walked away.
“Okay, something’s up,” Jamal stated, appraising me from head to toe.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I covered the Urban Streetwear section of Macy’s by myself, but on Saturdays, I had Jamal to keep me company. He was only an inch or two taller than me but weighed at least twice as much in pure muscle. I could always tell whenever there’d been a cute girl at the gym that morning because Jamal would hit the weights so hard; he’d barely be able to lift a stack of Sean John jeans above his head during his shift.
“What do you mean?” I asked, pretending like I was engrossed in the sweaters I was refolding.
Jamal held up one thick index finger. “First of all, you got your hair done. Looks sharp, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, refusing to look at him.
“Second”—he held up another finger—“you been over here, refolding these Coogis that ain’t even need to be refolded for, like, a hour now.”
“Whatever. It’s been, like, five minutes.”
“Uh-huh. And third”—another thick finger joined the first two—“every time I look over here, yo’ ass is lookin’ down there.” Jamal jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the main walkway that cut through the center of the store. “So, who is it? Who you hookin’ up wit’?”
“Are you
serious right now?”
“Is it Freddy? It’s Freddy from Men’s Fragrance, isn’t it? That’s cool. He fly.”
“Oh my God!” I turned to face Jamal, trying to act insulted but failing miserably. “I am not fucking Freddy from Men’s Fr—”
My face lit up, causing Jamal to turn and glance over his shoulder.
He looked from me to the guy in the navy-blue V-neck sweater and low-slung khakis walking toward us and then back to me. “Oh, that’s who you lookin’ for, huh? I knew somethin’ was up.”
“Shh. Shut up,” I whispered through my teeth, not taking my eyes off of Ken.
I’d never seen him walk before. At least, never more than a few feet at a time. We were always cooped up inside of Jason’s apartment or walking side by side to the parking lot. Seeing Ken from a distance was a whole new experience.
He was beautiful, tall and toned and graceful, but without a shred of ego. He moved as if he was confident that no one was looking at him, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Jamal and I were staring.
When Ken’s eyes met mine and the corners of his chiseled mouth curved upward, I wanted to physically shove Jamal out of my way, bound down the main aisle, and leap into his arms all over again.
I didn’t, of course. Not only because mauling people while on the clock was frowned upon by management, but also because, right before Ken got to us, he put his hands in his pockets.
No hug.
Ken smirked and glanced down at my chest. “No, thanks. I think it’s a little big for me.”
I looked down and realized that I was still holding a men’s extra-large sweater up by the shoulders.
I blushed and dropped the sweater on the table. “Ken, this is Jamal. Jamal, Ken.”
“What’s up, man?” Jamal shoved his hand in Ken’s direction.
I watched a glimmer of hesitation flash behind Ken’s eyes before he finally accepted.
With a tense smile and a firm shake, he replied with a clipped, “Hey.”
Jesus. He’s even weird about handshakes?