“So gross,” I deadpan. “Digustingly vile. Utterly manky.”
“Manky?” They cock an eyebrow. “I swear you make half of these words up.”
“What are words if not all originally made up?”
They shake their head as they unzip the hoodie they’re wearing and then fold it and place it on the desk.
“I need to watch out for you,” they say. “You’re smart.”
“Smarter than I look, you mean?” I give them a stern side-eye. Having been blonde all my life, I’m more than used to these kinds of assumptions.
“No, you look pretty smart already. I just don’t think you always share with the world how smart you actually are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
They have their hands on the hem of their T-shirt, untucking it, and I don’t know why it makes me panic but it does. However, they stop moving and level a stern look at me.
“You tell me, Maeve,” they challenge and just when my mouth is falling open, the quippy reply I want to give them fails me because they’re pulling their T-shirt over their head.
I’ve seen Loncey’s body before. There are the ridiculous number of videos they record without their top on. There was the disastrous photoshoot earlier today. But there is something about seeing them half-naked in my hotel room, in my space, that has my body temperature changing and I have no cluewhy. I’m not attracted to them, at least not sexually. I don’t feel the things that I see described in my mother’s romance novels. There’s no tightening of my core. There’s no gushing in my knickers. I don’t feel my nipples harden and I don’t suddenly want to be filled or even touched.
But I am aware of a physical change in me as I see Loncey now walk to the bed. I’m aware of the way their muscles move as they pull down the sheets and plump up the pillows. I’m feeling…thingsas they quickly unzip their jeans, slide them down their legs and, after throwing them over the end of the bed, slip under the covers. I don’t know what exactly it is I’m feeling but I know I’m far from neutral about how at peace they look as their head sinks back on the pillow and their eyes close.
“Oh sweet Jesus, that feels good.” They sigh.
“Shouldn’t you… do you want a wrap or bonnet for your hair?”
Their eyes spring open. “You… you have one?”
I open my bedside drawer and pull out the baby-pink elasticated silk scarf I use to wrap my hair at night. I throw it at Loncey, who catches it.
“Err, why do you, a white Irish woman, have a silk hair wrap?”
I give them a berating look. “Err, because white hair matters too?”
Their face creases into laughter. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Neither can I.” I start to laugh too. “I’m sorry. You know I was only joking.”
“I do. But I still want to know why you have this,” they say as they pull the elasticated part over their head.
“Because silk isn’t just good for Black and Brown skin and hair. It’s good for all skin and hair types. I have satin pillowcases at home, but like to travel with one of these,” I say.
They pull the length of the wrap down their back, feeling to check all of their locs are covered.
“Well, I’m impressed.”
“I can’t claim full credit. My best friend, Arabella, got me onto silk pillowcases and wraps.”
“Well done Arabella,” they say as they sink back into the pillows.
I look at them for a few seconds. “That colour suits you.”
They flutter their eyelashes at me. “Thank you.”
I throw one of my pillows at them as I walk over to pull the curtains closed, taking away the view of the Strip, the grid of streets surrounding it and the desert beyond. “Now go to sleep. I’ve got work to do.”
“On your keynote?”
