by Briana Cole
Dorian always had this vision of what marriage was supposed to look like. He remembered how his parents always talked about the “forever honeymoon” stage. It was completely normal to catch them sneaking kisses and flirtatious winks across the table at dinner or groping each other in a dark corner of the house when he would come downstairs for a midnight snack. He knew it should look different, feel different. Raw, bitter emotions of uncertainty came rippling back, and that was what kept constantly nagging him.
Dorian’s pocket vibrated and he pulled out his cell phone to eye the incoming call. He felt his lips purse into a frown at Shantae’s number. Dorian sighed and swiped his finger to reject the call.
“Was that Shantae?” Roman craned his neck to look at the phone screen.
“Yeah.”
“Damn. What next? She going to come up here and get you? What, she got you on a curfew or something?” Roman nudged his friend’s shoulder and gestured back to their little party in a section of the club. “Come on, man. Seriously. We trying to have a good time and you over here acting like a female. Cut that shit out.”
He was grateful when Roman walked away after that. His friend had always been too damn candid for his own good.
Dorian’s phone vibrated again, this time signaling a text. He debated whether to read it or just delete it altogether. Curiosity had him opening the message anyway.
WE NEED TO TALK. WAKE ME WHEN YOU GET HOME
Dorian rolled his eyes and shoved his phone back in his pocket without responding. Like hell he would do that.
“Hey, stranger.”
It wasn’t even the flirtatious voice that had Dorian turning around. It was her scent. He hadn’t seen her in over a year, but he’d always know her by that alluring fragrance. She had once divulged its ingredients, apple and jasmine, but he figured it was the person that could carry the scent so deliciously, yet dangerously sinfully.
He remembered she was short, about a good foot under his chin. But since he was sitting, he was face-to-face with the juicy cleavage she had busting out of a crop top with bills safety-pinned to the neckline. His medical eye could tell immediately she’d had work done, and whatever MD had blessed her with the extra assets had done a damn good job. Speaking of which, Dorian couldn’t stop himself from admiring the rest of her five-two frame. Yes, she was certainly thicker in every place that mattered, and she wasn’t thinking twice about showing off every curve.
He saw her dimples next, the sexy impressions in her cheeks present even though she wasn’t smiling. Her warm, coconut brown complexion and the natural crinkle curls that fell in a wildly exotic mane. And the deep-set misty gray eyes that seemed to glimmer as she spoke to him. The signature features were all a semblance of Shantae. It was more than clear they were sisters, but this one was the young, carefree, uninhibited version of his much more conservative wife.
Reagan’s glossed lips parted in an appreciative grin. “You must like what you see.” She did a slow pirouette on the eight-inch heels, showing how the skintight red dress stopped to tease just underneath the succulent flesh of her butt.
Dorian lifted his glass to his lips, almost embarrassed at his blatant lust for his sister-in-law. Damn, the alcohol had hit him with a vengeance.
“Good to see you again, Reagan,” he murmured.
“Always good to see you, big brother.” Her tone was taunting, and the corners of her lips lifted as if she was trying to hide a smile or a laugh. She slithered onto the stool next to him. “What are you doing here?”
Dorian nodded in the direction of a group of men surrounded by dancers. “It’s my boy’s bachelor party.”
Reagan cringed. “Yikes. Y’all and this marriage shit. Y’all ain’t got nothing better to do?”
Dorian had to chuckle. “Well, what are you doing here?”
Reagan gestured toward the bedazzled tiara nearly hidden in the nest of hair on top of her head. The words Birthday Bitch were etched in glitter and fake gems. “It’s my birthday.”
“Oh yeah? Happy birthday. How old now?”
“Old enough to do some things, young enough to get away with it.” She winked. “Buy me a birthday drink, Dorian.” Not bothering to wait for a response, Reagan lifted her arm to flag the bartender.
“I’ll have two shots of Hen and a Midnight Wave.” She tossed a casual look in his direction. “What do I owe you?”
Dorian didn’t know if it was the liquor, the mood, or just subconscious wishful thinking, but Reagan seemed to be polishing it up just for him. He didn’t know why the dangerous thought was turning him on.
“Bruh, you are missing out.” Dorian’s other friend Myles strolled up, his arm around the waist of a mixed dancer. He reeked of alcohol as he nearly stumbled into the bar. “Oh man, my bad.” Myles’s grin was wide as he looked between Reagan and Dorian. “I didn’t know I was interrupting.”
“It’s not like that.” Dorian didn’t know where the guilt was coming from, but he felt compelled to clarify. “This is Shantae’s sister.”
Myles didn’t bother hiding his approving stare as he looked Reagan up and down. “Damn, girl.” The rest of his words were inaudible, slurred by one too many drinks. Dorian could only shake his head.
“Aw, you want me and my girls to keep you and your friends company, D?” Reagan licked her lips as she let her finger stroke the collar of Dorian’s polo.
He hesitated a second too long, which was enough to have Reagan’s grin spreading. His slacks tightened even more, and he felt like she was smothering him, though she’d managed to keep a respectable distance.
“We’re good,” he said and even surprised himself by how calm his voice was despite his horniness. “Y’all have fun and be safe.” And with that he led Myles back to their VIP section.
He felt Reagan’s eyes on him, and it wasn’t until they made it back to their couches that he risked a look back at the bar. She was gone. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or disappointed.
Dorian made himself comfortable in the cushioned VIP bucket chair, a new bottle of Corona in his hand. The sounds of joyful entertainment played around him as dancers gyrated so close, he could smell the musk of their drying sweat and Bath & Body Works spray. Still, his eyes lingered across the room. His mind was full of Reagan.
He managed to scan the room and locate her through the smoky haze and strobe lights. She sat now, perched on the edge of a couch, those toned legs crossed at the knee to expose just enough thigh flesh to make his mouth water. Dorian eyed her little group of friends, all just as young with varying degrees of melanin, ratchet behavior and low-budget clothes with high-budget weave and jewelry. But the way they fanned, flocked, and doted on Reagan made it obvious she was the queen bee of their little tribe. And she was clearly relishing the attention.
Dorian watched her get a lap dance from a curvaceous stripper with a tapestry of tattoos riddling her body. Women were hemorrhaging cash like confetti, and Reagan’s sexy laugh lifted over the music.
Funny, Shantae didn’t mention it was her sister’s birthday. But then again, why would she? After being with Shantae off and on for over ten years, married for nearly one, he could count on one hand how many times he’d met or, hell, even heard his wife mention her estranged sister. And that would’ve been fine except he knew firsthand how close Shantae was with the rest of her family.
The very first time he had met little sis was actually when she’d knocked on the door of Shantae’s college apartment. “What are you doing here?” His girl had seemed mortified when she saw the visitor at the door.
Dorian noticed her; he would’ve been a blind man had he not noticed her. But he hadn’t had long to take in the woman. Shantae had made absentminded introductions before ushering him out the door.
The next day, Shantae told him she had asked for money. The girl was trouble, she had made that clear. And now, watching her get up and bounce her ass right along with the crowd of dancers in her section, he could see why.
“You want t
o try this again, Dorian?” The stripper from earlier had returned. Sure enough, he felt YoYo’s hands circling his neck and her tongue stroking the sensitive area right behind his ear. Despite his best judgment, he moaned, welcoming the affection.
Roman sat next to him and couldn’t stop the grin that spread. “Here, baby,” he said, peeling three twenties from a wad of bills and tucking them into her garter. “Show my boy here why they call you Yo-Yo.”
YoYo’s eyes danced as she swiveled Dorian around on the stool to face her. “What you say?” she said. “You want to see a trick?”
Dorian started to decline but decided against it. Fuck it. He needed a distraction anyway.
Chapter Three
It was a little past 7:00 in the morning when Roman was drunk enough for Dorian to slip out unnoticed. If it was up to him, he probably would have left hours ago, but he needed to stay long enough to be respectful. After all, Roman had been his boy since residency. Granted, Dorian didn’t necessarily agree with him deciding to marry his short-term girlfriend. Hell, hadn’t he just been introduced to Bridget four months ago? But with his boy Ro no one could tell him shit. When his mind was made up, it was as good as gospel. Sure, he loved a little eye candy once in a while, but he swore Bridget was the one he wanted to be with long-term.
So as much as he didn’t agree with the whole love-at-first-sight and when-you-know-you-know bullshit he was talking when he told Dorian he had proposed, they were still friends.
But now, he had done his friendly deed. After nodding his goodbyes to the group, he worked his way through the haze of weed and cigarette smoke toward the door.
The early morning air was warm for November, but refreshing nonetheless. It had been raining. The pavement was slick drying, and he inhaled the wet, earthy odor that blanketed the air like a quilt. A faint ombre of orange and purple striped the sky, signaling the first pieces of sunrise. Dorian shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and headed toward the parking lot.
The party bus Dorian had ordered was parked toward the back amidst a few low-hanging trees. Thanks to Shantae, he had been running late and missed the pre-party shenanigans on the bus, so he had driven instead. Now, though, he was thankful for that convenience. The club didn’t close for another couple of hours, and Roman would probably stay there until the lights came on and the dancers left to pick up their kids from daycare.
He heard the angry voices before he even registered what was happening. Women yelling, their curses jumbled on top of each other and only heightened with adrenaline and alcohol. Dorian saw the small crowd that only hours before had been teasing, laughing, and having a great time. Now they were positioned like middleweight boxers in a ring anxiously waiting for the bell so they could go at each other. And right in the middle of it was Reagan, her short frame not deterring her from putting her hands in the face of her much taller female counterpart.
Without thinking, Dorian took off running. Why he was even intervening, he had no idea. It wasn’t like he knew this girl like that. Either way, she was still his wife’s sister.
“Hey, hey!” He lifted his deep voice above the voices as he stepped through the circle of women and directly between the two who were about to fight. He had to admit, Reagan had a lot of balls. The other woman had a good three inches on her, stopping just short of Dorian’s chin. And that was with her heels off, because they had been kicked to the side as she paced completely barefoot.
“Bitch, please,” Reagan was taunting, pushing up against Dorian’s outstretched arm to burrow her way past. “I ain’t got no reason to steal from your broke ass.” Clearly the alcohol had taken over. Her speech slurred and she was staggering on shaky legs.
“Who you calling broke, bitch?” Tall girl was taking off her earrings, her eyes cutting like daggers into Reagan.
“Hey, chill out.” Dorian spoke again, his voice more forceful and prompting silence. He turned to Reagan. “Go get in the car.”
“Fuck you, Dorian, you ain’t my damn daddy.”
Dorian grabbed her arm, gently but firmly, and nudged her in the opposite direction. “Go, Reagan. Now.”
Reagan’s eyes never left the other girl, but she relented and hobbled off a little, putting distance between them.
Satisfied, Dorian turned back to the other woman, reaching in his pocket. “Look, I don’t know how much you think she took,” he said. “But this should cover it. And an Uber.” He watched several sets of eyes widen in delight as he peeled off a few hundred-dollar bills.
“Fine,” the woman answered, all but snatching the money from Dorian’s outstretched hand. She then stooped to pick up her heels and gave her tiny dress a quick tug down from where it had gathered by her waist. “Tell that bitch she better watch herself with her thieving ass,” she added before leading the way back toward the club with the other three women in tow.
Reagan was leaning against the hood of Dorian’s Range Rover, her arms crossed, a cigarette between her fingers. She rolled her eyes as Dorian walked up to open the passenger door.
“She was lying,” she mumbled, clearly still upset about the entire ordeal.
“It doesn’t matter.” He opened her door and stood back, waiting.
Reagan glanced from him, to the seat, and back to him. “What?”
“Get in. I’m taking you home.”
“Get the hell away from me. I don’t need you to take me home.”
Dorian caught her arm before she could put the cigarette back to her lips. Swiftly, he plucked it from her fingers and dropped it to the ground. “I suggest you get in,” he said, his voice calm. “Or we can get Shantae on the phone and you explain to her what’s up.”
He could tell by her hesitation she didn’t like that ultimatum, and it didn’t take her long to weigh those options. Smacking her lips, she pushed past him and slid into the passenger seat. Dorian sighed and closed the door. Shantae had been right. Baby sister was certainly a handful.
He felt the tension pulsating as he slid into the driver’s seat. She could throw a temper tantrum all she wanted. His protective instinct had kicked into overdrive, and now he felt compelled to make sure she was safe. So what if he was using it as an excuse to keep from going home right at the moment? He wasn’t looking forward to whatever the hell Shantae wanted to talk about.
“What’s your address?” he asked pulling out of the parking lot. Silence. Reagan sat staring out the window, her lips poked in a pout. “You don’t have to tell me,” he tried again. “Just put it in the GPS.” More silence.
Dorian waited a minute before pulling out his cell phone, making his actions more than clear. If a little manipulation would make her cooperate, so be it.
“Okay, damn,” Reagan snapped when he held the phone threateningly between them. “Don’t call her because then I’ll have to hear her mouth. Just take me home and get the hell on.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
Reagan rattled off her address and Dorian put it in the navigation system though he was familiar with the Ben Hill area. Its reputation of hood, gang violence, and drug-infested complexes superseded its name.
“You always like this?” Reagan broke the silence.
“Like what?”
“This.” She gestured wildly in his direction. “This Rescue Rangers shit. You don’t have anything better to do?”
“Shantae would kill me if I didn’t look out for you.”
For some reason, Reagan found that funny. “Oh, I see. You one of those bitch-made men. Your wife really runs shit.”
Dorian felt the first flickers of anger and he quickly swallowed it. She was drunk, he had to remind himself. Ignoring the comment, he eased the truck onto the expressway and let the silence linger between them.
“I know one thing,” Reagan spoke up again. “Ebony lying ass better not call me no more.”
Dorian assumed the woman from the parking lot was Ebony. The one that was about to give Reagan a new face that even his cosmetic surgeon skills wouldn’t
have been able to fix.
“They say friends and money don’t go together,” Dorian said.
“Well, if I had to choose one, it’ll always be money.”
He shook his head at the comment. He didn’t know her all that well, but if he had to guess, Ebony was probably right to assume Reagan had stolen her money. Shame.
“How’s Tae?”
Dorian frowned. “You haven’t talked to your sister?”
Reagan shrugged off his questioning gaze. “She doesn’t want to be bothered with me too much.” There it was, just under the surface. He could detect a little hurt in the casual words.
“She’s good. Why don’t you give her a call?”
Reagan shrugged but she didn’t comment.
The GPS navigated them into Hamilton Homes, a run-down complex with both apartments and duplexes seemingly dumped on patches of dead grass and pothole-covered streets. Dorian eyed the thugs littering the darkened street between the buildings, their sagging jeans heavy with drugs and money, the stench of weed and Black & Milds wafting in the night air. Someone had their laced-out Cutlass parked on the grass, rap music blasting and overpriced rims spinning.
For the wee hours of the morning, there was a lot of activity, and all eyes turned toward the expensive vehicle riding through.
“Right there.” Reagan gestured to building six. Obediently, Dorian pulled the truck to a stop alongside a junk vehicle. He cut the engine off and had Reagan pausing. “You don’t have to walk me in,” she said quickly.
“I’m not letting you go up there by yourself this time of night.”
“What do you mean? I live here.”
Dorian placed a hand on her shoulder to stop the argument. “You’re drunk, you’re tired,” he said. “I just want to make sure you get in the house safely. Is that okay?”
Reagan’s eyes slid to his hand resting on her bare skin, and when they came back to him, he saw the sudden passion engulfed in the irises. “I’d like that.” It was dark, so he couldn’t exactly see her smile, but he certainly heard it in her voice.