Queen Move

by Kennedy Ryan

  Kimba

  “How do I look?”

  Kayla studies me, running critical eyes over my hair and makeup, taking her time inspecting another of Lotus’ creations, a dark blue jumpsuit with wide legs and fitted, quarter-length sleeves.

  “Can we make the hair a little bigger, Lorette?” she asks.

  “Bigger?” Lorette, Kayla’s hair stylist, and I ask in shocked unison.

  “If this hair gets any bigger,” I say, patting my natural curls Lorette volumized considerably, “I’ll float right back to the eighties.”

  The three of us laugh in the small dressing room as I wait for the producer to come get me.

  “If you’re going on national television defending our right to wear our hair however the hell we want,” Kayla says, “I say go big.”

  “I think this is big enough.” I glance in the mirror. It’s hard to believe that’s my hair dusting my shoulders. “Remember when I did the big chop?”

  “Oh my God.” Kayla cackles. “Mama is still not over you cutting all your hair off. She called you Florida Evans for months.”

  “I remember.” I roll my eyes. “But I was tired of putting chemicals in my hair. It’s taken years to grow back, but I’ve never regretted it.”

  “It took me a few years to get up the nerve.” Kayla pats her short cap of natural hair. “But I can’t see myself going back either.”

  “And you shouldn’t have to,” I say. “And if someone wants to perm their hair, they shouldn’t be condemned for that either. That’s what tonight is about. Being able to be our authentic selves and not be punished for it.”

  “And about calling out Congressman Ruiz’s future opponent, right?” Kayla grins knowingly.

  “Oh, yes. That, too. It’s a risky move, but I think it will pay off. We’ll see if I’m right.”

  My phone buzzes on the dressing room counter. Ezra’s name flashes up.

  “Oh.” Kayla purses her lips. “A little birdie told me something about you and Ezra Stern.”

  “Lemme guess. That little birdie was our brother? Keith doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” I pick up the phone, and I step out into the hall to gain the tiniest measure of privacy.

  “Hey, Ez.”

  “Tru, hey.”

  By some silent, mutual agreement, we both fall quiet. I’m remembering our kisses in his car this morning. Urgent and hungry. I’m remembering last night, how we couldn’t get to each other fast enough. How my desire for him was fathoms deep. How I couldn’t reach the bottom of it.

  “I can’t wait to see you,” I tell him, hush-voiced, making sure no one is around.

  “You have no idea. I miss you already. What time are you coming for dinner?”

  “I, um, let me call you when I’m on my way. I’m kind of in the middle of something and I’m not sure how long it will take.” I squeeze my eyes shut tight. “I’m going on CNN.”

  “That’s great. What are you talking about?”

  I give him the abbreviated version of what Piers found and how it’s been reported.

  “And by commenting on this,” he says at the end of my explanation, “you kill two birds with one stone? Exposing Colson’s discriminatory practices and—”

  “And taking Ruiz’s probable greatest threat down a peg or two, while giving us a sore spot to return to for black and brown female voters when the election rolls around. He thinks he needs the good ol’ boys to win this state. I want him to realize we can take this state with a broader coalition than that. This is one step in that strategy.”

  “It’s a queen move.”

  I chuckle, liking the sound of it, but not fully understanding. “What do you mean?”

  “In chess—”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “As I was saying—” He pauses meaningfully, a smile in his voice. “In chess, when you run an attack on your opponent, you need the queen’s strength. It’s easier to capture a king using the queen than any other piece on the board. You are running offense on Ruiz’s behalf.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Never send a man to do woman’s job. You’re right. It is a queen move. Thank you.”

  “Just the truth,” he says. “Now you'll text me when you’re on your way?”

  “I will.”

  “And you’ll spend the night?” he presses, the timbre of his voice going a few shades deeper and darker.

  “Gladly, Dr. Stern.”

  “Ms. Allen!” a young lady with a clipboard calls from the end of the hall. “Five minutes.”

  I nod and smile. “I gotta go.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “You know I am.” I touch my forehead. My fingers are trembling. “Every time I have to do this, I’m scared I’ll stutter or somehow—”

  “You’ve got this. I’ve seen you enough times to know how poised you are. I’m so proud of you.”

  The door at my back opens and Kayla pokes her head out. “Did I hear someone say five minutes?”

  “Yes, bat ears,” I say with a grin. “You did.”

  “Well, hang up with lover boy, and let’s do this.”

  “Did she just call me lover boy?” Ezra asks.

  “You don’t have to sound so chest out about it.” I laugh. “I’ll call you later.”

  “You’ll be fantastic. You always are.”

  “Thanks, Ez,” I whisper, catching sight of the producer. “I gotta go.”

  “You know I’mma need this full story later, right?” Kayla asks.

  I roll my eyes, shake my head and hand her my phone to keep during the interview. “I do know that, yes.”

  Kayla walks with me as far as she can but has to wait in the wings. No matter how much support and encouragement you get from the sidelines, when that red light on the camera flashes, it’s just you. The anchor, Chelle, begins the segment by setting up the story, so I have a few moments of reprieve before I’m on camera.

  “Some disturbing news today about Georgia gubernatorial hopeful billionaire businessman-turned mayor Burton Colson,” Chelle says, looking steadily into the camera with enviable poise. “Accusations of discriminatory practices in the workplace based on hairstyles. Not a new problem, but one several female executives formerly employed by Colson’s corporation hope they can bring to light.”

  A video package runs interviewing several of the women, all shades of black and brown and gold, wearing a range of natural hairstyles and head coverings from ’locs to braids to hijabs to natural curls like mine in varying textures. A pattern emerges from each of their individual stories—one of a toxic corporate environment that required complete compliance with an anglicized standard, and if they didn’t, penalized them.

  “We have on-set with us Kimba Allen,” Chelle says once the video package ends, “well-known political advisor and the campaign manager for President Cade’s successful run. Kimba, thanks for joining us.”

  “Th-th-anks for having me.”

  Dammit. Not now. Don’t you dare.

  I draw a deep breath and relax the muscles under my tongue, willing myself to calm down and not get overwhelmed.

  “What do you have to say about these accusations, Kimba?” Chelle asks.

  “I’m disappointed.” I slow my words deliberately and concentrate on steadying my breathing, slowing my heart rate. “But can’t say I’m surprised. This is the kind of thing I and women like me have dealt with all our lives. We’ve been held to a false standard of beauty, one that’s impossible to maintain. I grew up, like so many, believing I had to press, perm, weave—do whatever it took to make my hair what those who wanted me to assimilate said I should.”

  “Is that something you’ve faced working in politics?”

  “Oh, certainly. I’m used to being one of the only in many of the circles where I’ve served the last two decades. And the microaggressions are many and never stop. The awkward questions about my hair, people touching it without my permission. Those things are unacceptable, but practices like these cited by the women who
worked for Mr. Colson? Those affect our pocketbooks and how far we can go, not based on our performance, but based on something as superficial as our hair.”

  “Several of the women indicated managers told them their hairstyle was ‘too black,’” Chelle says. “What do you say to that?”

  “I think comments like those, expectations like those, are the reason we need legislation like the CROWN Act.”

  “And for those who may not know, what’s the CROWN Act?”

  “It’s legislation designed to combat discrimination against people of color for wearing natural or protective hairstyles. This is a form of racial injustice with measurable economic consequences. CROWN stands for Create a Respectful and Open Workplace for Natural Hair.”

  “California was the first state to pass it, right?”

  “Yes, and other states have followed. Hopefully, at some point, we’ll have federal legislation. Too many of us are working in environments where just being who we are goes against some written or unwritten company policy. Simply being myself is an act of resistance.” I tsk. “But I must say it is discouraging to hear that someone running for governor perpetuated these practices. We need leaders who represent all people and respect the traditions and customs of all their voters, not just those who look like them.”

  I stare into the camera and hope Colson, Ruiz, and that damn Anthony are all watching.

  “For black and brown girls, the world is full of sharp edges, and with every step forward, we risk being cut,” I say. “We have enough to worry about. Our hair shouldn’t be a hazard. Our hair shouldn’t be an impediment to success. We need candidates who understand that. Who understand us. I hope the state of Georgia has other candidates to choose from. Someone besides Mr. Colson.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ezra

  I’m covering a steaming pot of pho when the doorbell rings. Probably Kimba. She texted from the Uber fifteen minutes ago. When I open the door, I can barely restrain myself from kissing her right on the porch. She’s still wearing the blue jumpsuit from the CNN spot. Her hair is huge, coiling all around her beautiful face in a careful chaos. Her makeup is flawless, and that is the first thing I want to change. Getting her out of her clothes is the second.

  I tug her in, close the door and cage her against it right away.

  “What took you so long?” I ask, bending to kiss her lightly on the lips. “Like it’s hard being gorgeous on CNN while speaking truth to power.”

  She giggles and reaches up to plunge her fingers into my hair. “You watched?”

  “You were fantastic. I knew you would be.”

  “I stuttered in the beginning.”

  “I didn’t even notice.”

  She searches my face and grins. “Liar.”

  “It didn’t matter and it didn’t detract one bit from how powerful you were. Knowing how you struggled with that in the past, seeing it growing up, and then seeing you now, I’m amazed. Do you even realize how incredible it is that you fight those fears off to follow your dreams? The fact that you do things like that, put yourself in situations you know make you uncomfortable and shine that way makes you more of a badass than if it came easily to you.”

  She blinks up at me, her eyes sobering. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “That’s why you should keep me around,” I whisper, dusting kisses along the tops of her breasts exposed by the jumpsuit’s low neckline. “That and I promise to do this every chance I get.”

  I slip a finger inside the jumpsuit and coax one nipple out of hiding. The erotic sight of her plump breast makes my mouth water instantly. I take it between my lips, groaning at the soft texture, the stiff button against my tongue. I suckle gently at first, my dick going hard at the moans that slip out of her. Then my hands slide down to palm her full ass, and I suck so hard my cheeks hollow.

  “Ezra.” She bangs one hand against the door. “Keep doing that. I love it when you suck my tits.”

  She reaches between us, finding my dick and grabbing it, stroking me through my jeans. I choke, pulling my mouth away from her breast to draw a deep breath. I run frantic hands over her back and sides, hungry to see all of her.

  “Dammit,” I growl, close to coming just from her touch. “How the hell do I get this thing off you?”

  Shit. My dick is a slab of concrete and my balls feel heavy.

  “Help me get this damn thing off you, Tru.” I trace the curve of her waist, the plane of her back searching for a zipper, a button, a peephole, some way in and off. “How do you pee wearing this thing?”

  Panting, laughing, she slides one shoulder out of the jumpsuit, exposing a lacy bra barely containing her breast. I take her tit into my mouth, sucking through the cup of silk and lace. She wiggles until the other sleeve slides down her arm, the top flopping over. I plunge my hand down the waistband and cup her pussy through her panties. She’s soaked and my hand is wet between her thighs. I drop my head so our temples kiss, and I turn my nose into a cloud of fragrant curls.

  “I want to taste your pussy again, but I also want to fuck you immediately. It’s a conundrum.”

  She pushes at the gathered waist of the jumpsuit, forcing it over the exaggerated flare of her hips and ass.

  “Door number two,” she laughs huskily. “I promise you can eat me out later.”

  The dark blue silk slithers down her long legs. She steps out of the jumpsuit, standing in her panties and bra and heels. She doesn’t wait for me but shimmies out of her underwear.

  “Bra, too,” I order, my voice gruff with desire, my mouth slack with awe.

  Her body is made with a reckless disregard for resistance. Full, firm, heavy breasts tipped with chocolate kisses. There’s a decadent fullness to her hips and thighs and ass. Aiko is extremely petite, and I’ve never compared the women I’ve been with. But by my response to Kimba’s body, I could tell myself I just never realized I’m a breast man. I’m an ass man. A leg man. All the things Kimba has in abundant beauty, but that would be a lie. Kimba could be smaller. Bigger. Less toned and less smooth. My preferences aren’t defined by what a woman has, but by who this woman is.

  I’m a Kimba man, and I think she’s ruined me for anyone else.

  I don’t want anyone else.

  She strips off the bra and reaches for the heels.

  “Keep them.” I catch her hand, linking our fingers by her head against the door. “Let’s fuck.”

  “I have one request,” she says breathlessly.

  “What?”

  Her eyes drop between us and she licks her lips. “Can I suck your dick just a little bit first?”

  Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good. I look up to the heavens and offer a silent alleluia.

  “You may,” I manage to grit out.

  Our gazes tangle, and she pulls her hand free of mine, opens my belt, slides down my zipper, and pulls my pants and boxers down until my dick appears.

  “Oh.” She sighs, holding me with one hand and caressing my balls with the other. “This is good. This is very good.”

  The tip is already leaking and engorged. I’ve always been a man of few words and she’s talking too much. I push on the elegant curve of her shoulder, pressing her to the floor, to her knees. She takes me into the warm, wet world of her mouth, sucking me, licking up and down my shaft like I’m one of the ice cream push-ups she used to love.

  The sight of this powerful woman on her knees, naked except for her costly shoes, devouring my cock, just about undoes me. Saliva spills from the sides of her mouth as she takes me so deep her throat closes around me. Sounds strangle in my throat. I close my eyes in brief, beautiful agony, but open them again because the sight of her doing this is too riveting. Her nipples brush against my legs. I imagine my tongue dragging from the top of her pussy and between the firm, naked globes of her ass. I want to spread her and eat until my tongue aches. When I see her hand moving between her legs, that’s it. I can’t take another second.

  “U
p. Now, Tru. Shit.” I groan, fitting my hands under her armpits and pulling her to her feet.

  I push her fingers, wet with her juices, into my mouth. It’s ambrosial and I lick every trace of it away and bring her fingers to my nose.

  “Fuck, you smell good.” I drop her hand abruptly and grip under her thighs, hoisting her up, aligning our bodies. “Dammit, condoms.”

  “I’m…” She licks her lips and lowers her lashes. “I’m, um, protected, and clean.”

  “Me, too. Can we?” When she looks up, a shadow in her eyes gives me pause. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Her smile chases the shadow away and she links her ankles at the base of my spine, rests her back against the wall and grips my neck. “You don’t need a condom. We’re good. Let’s do it now.”

  Now.

  Forever. Always. Never end.

  I plunge inside and it’s a rhythm in my head echoing the rigor of our bodies. Her pussy contracts, squeezing my dick, and my reason, my thoughts scatter. The house could burn down around us as long as this door and the two of us were still standing and fucking against it.

  My hands clench under her thighs, holding her in place while we grind together, crushing the desire between our bodies. I reach the end of her with a rough thrust. Her breath catches and her eyelashes flutter. I hit that spot again and again until her eyes roll back in her head and her arms fall away from my shoulders and she’s limp against the door, me supporting all of her weight while my thrusts grow more frantic, out of control. She bites her lip and tears roll down her face.

  “Jesus, Ez,” she whispers, her lashes dampening on her wet cheeks.

  The rush of her climax washes over me. I’m as deep as I can physically go and my body keeps searching for a hidden passage to get closer to her, to inhabit her the way, with every kiss and every thrust, she inhabits me.

  “Kimba.” I shift so one arm holds under her butt and her back is supported by the door. With the other hand I lift her chin. “Look at me.”

  She opens glazed eyes.

  “Your number,” I rasp. “I don’t care about it. I don’t give a damn who you’ve been with. How many. Baby, I don’t give a fuck.”