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One would think that we were at one of those kinky clubs that allowed you to have sex from the way that Brooklyn and Breshay were in there carrying on. They were grinding on each other and damn near slobbing each other down, and it caused so many patrons to pass by and stare our way because of the performance that they were putting on. I’d had just enough of watching the two of them sex each other down on the couch, and because I wanted to drink something that I actually liked, I headed in the direction of the bar.
“What can I get you pretty lady?” the bartender asked me.
“Ummm, a long island,” I let him know.
“How much she owes you for that, boss man?” I heard a voice behind me say.
I knew that voice from anywhere. Hell, I fell asleep talking to that voice, so how the hell could I forget it? Then, it was a smell about him. It was a mixture of weed and a strong, manly fragrance that I couldn’t quite put my fingers on, but I knew that it made me wet. It made me wet as hell, actually. I was almost afraid to turn around and look at him because it was like he looked better every time I saw him. He was close as hell to me. So close that I could feel the heat that radiated from his body, and because he wanted the bartender to hear him when he talked, I could feel the warmth of his breath on my neck. Standing there, I literally had to talk to myself and tell myself that he was just a regular man, so I should turn around and talk to him without it being that big of a deal.
“I appreciate your generosity, but I can buy my own drink,” I said, looking up at him. Now, why the hell would I do that?
Just like I thought, he was even more handsome than the last time I saw him, which was strange as well because I didn’t think that it could get any better than that. Now that my back was against the counter at the bar, he was able to put both of his strong, tatted up arms on either side of the counter, as if he was locking me in. I was pretty sure that the way he was looking at me matched the way that I was looking at him. The thing is, he wasn’t draped in a whole bunch of jewelry or thousand dollar name brands like the majority of the niggas in there. He was plain, yet he stood out.
I wasn’t sure if he had a haircut or not, but he wore a black Raiders hat along with a black v-neck that showed pieces of the tattoos that were on his upper chest, and he wore black jeans. They sagged just a little bit to the point where I could see the brown Louis Vuitton belt that he was wearing and the waistband of his Polo drawers. On his feet were a pair of all black Jordan 11’s and if I was a caramel bar, I was pretty sure that he would have eaten me alive already from the intense glare that he was giving me.
He was high. I could smell it on him, and I could tell by how low his eyes were. I tried to go into the small to take out the bill and pay the bartender, but he placed his hand on top of mine, bringing it down and stopping me from pulling the cash out.
“Chill out. I said I got it,” he firmly let me know.
The bartender let him know that the drink was ten dollars, and he reached inside his pockets and pulled out a knot of cash that was stuck together with a rubber band. I watched as he thumbed through the money, trying to find the smallest bill, and then he finally came across a twenty, which he handed to the bartender and told him to keep the change.
“You don’t strike me as the type of woman to be at a strip club,” was the first thing he said after the bartender disappeared to make the drink.
“What type of woman did you take me as?” I asked, tilting my head to the side, waiting to hear his award-winning answer. For whatever reason, I valued his opinion about me. I know the type of woman I was, but I was curious to know what type of woman he thought I was.
“It’s different types of women in this world. Look at those women for instance,” he said, using his hands to point to a few women who were sitting at the end of the bar, dancing all off beat to the music. “They look like they will be in this bitch every night if the opportunity presented itself. That’s what you call professional bar seat holders. They sit there, thinking that a nigga supposed to walk over and buy them a drink because they look good. Then, you have the women who come in here, and the club is like their second home. We have the women who come after a long week of work to just wind down, have a couple of drinks, sing a couple of songs with their homegirls, and they’ll soon be on their way. You probably fit in the last category of women. Although, when I see you, I just don’t think you like the whole club vibe, period,” he let me know, and I nodded.
“It’s alright. I could do without these thirsty niggas pulling on my arm every minute, but other than that, I’m cool,” I told him.
“Who you came here with? I know you didn’t come by yourself,” he called out.
It’s almost like he knew me. I mean, knew me to the point that he was so familiar with the choices and moves I made, and it made him so confident that he could just call it out. Knowing him, he was so cocky that there was probably no doubt in his mind that he was right, too.
“No, I’m here with my homegirls. One of them is celebrating their birthday,” I let him know.
At the same time, the bartender finally came over and passed me the drink. Unlike the Hennessy, I was able to drink this one without a problem. I was drinking something that I actually liked.
“You want another one or you straight?” he asked once he saw that I’d quickly guzzled the drink down.
Of course, I wanted another one, but since I was the designated driver, I felt like it was better that I just had this one. Plus, the more I drank, the more I was going to want, and I wasn’t trying to get sloppy drunk. I’ve been told by my friends a few times in the past that when liquor was in my system, I was overly emotional and giddy as hell. I didn’t want him to see me that way for some reason. I don’t know why I cared so much, but I only wanted him to have positive things to say about me.
“I’m straight. Are you here by yourself?” I asked him.
I felt like I had to ask him something because I didn’t want him to buy my drink and then leave. I wanted him to stay. I wanted us to talk like we did that night in his bedroom. I think about that night just about every day. I think about the fact that I was in his bedroom with him with nothing on except one of his shirts, and not on
e time did he try to make a move on me. He knew the state I was in; therefore, he knew how vulnerable I was, yet he didn’t try to take advantage of that.
I felt like if it had been any other nigga, they would have tried to kissing me or caressing me to get my mind off my husband, but he didn’t do any of that. The only caressing he did was with his mouth from the conversation that he and I were having that just flowed. I mean, we talked everything from politics down to our kids and how sometimes we just needed a break from them. He was no longer the asshole from the movies or from the park. Instead, he was someone that I yearned to have a conversation with. Someone I questioned myself on what if I were to have met him first before I had met Jerrod.
I wondered if he and I would have been a thing. Would he have treated me better than what Jerrod was doing? So many questions, but I just didn’t know if I would ever find out the answer to them.
“Nah, I’m here with a few niggas,” he let me know.
I nodded, and at the same time, the DJ went on the speaker and said he was getting ready to slow it down. Out of all the songs that he could have played, he decided to play one of my favorite songs from Silk, which was “If You.” When the song came on, I smiled, and Za’Kai noticed.
“Fuck you know about this song?” he asked, followed by a laugh. When he did, his dimples showed, and I damn near melted.
“Please! You’re what, thirty-three like me? If anything, I’m probably older than you. I have a teenage daughter,” I reminded him.
