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I strolled along the strip, grinning and laughing at them making fools out of themselves, thankful that I was no longer a twenty-something. As I drove, my eyes caught sight of someone I knew. I wasn’t sure it was him at first, but the closer I got, the more of him I could make out, and sure enough … Brandon Mathis.
“Well, looka here!”
A smile stretched like taffy across this round, brown face of mine. He was clearly drunk off that fine, bubble-ass of his, stumbling down the street like some inebriated wino. I started to leave him alone, thinking that he would eventually get to wherever he was headed. But I thought, what if he gets hit by some kid, drunk behind the wheel? Or a bunch of rednecks wanted to mess with him, beat his ass, just for the hell of it?
Either way, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. I drove alongside him and let down the passenger side window. “W’sup, boy!”
He looked into the car at me. “’Sup, shawty?” His white teeth juxtaposed nicely against his black velvety skin. The peach-hued sheen from the streetlights bounced off his bald head.
“You want a ride?”
“If you don’t mind.” Brandon opened the door and got in. I noticed the large blistered symbol on the upper part of his left arm. I had seen the same painful-looking sign branded before on another brother’s skin. I recogniz
ed it as a symbol from one of the local black fraternities on the campus of Florida Southern University. Alpha Omega, I think. I had always wanted to ask Brandon about it when he worked at the theater, but we hardly said so much as boo to each other.
“Where you comin’ from?” I asked.
“I walked my ass all the way from Chubby’s. They had that Rick Ross concert over there.”
“I know. I wanted to go, but I couldn’t get anybody to cover my shift. How was it?”
“Keisha, it was off the chain.”
“Whaaat?”
“Ricky Ro-zay!” he yelled out the window.
“Stop, boy, you crazy!” I tugged at him, pulling him back in the car.
“You missed a good-ass show.”
“That’s why I need to quit that shit. No social life.”
“That’s why I left, working every damn weekend. Is that where you comin’ from?”
“Yeah, I just got off.”
“You smell like popcorn.” I tugged at my shirt and took a whiff. Brandon started laughing. “I’m playin’, boo.” The smell of liquor and cologne filled my silver Charger.
“So, I heard you quit because of pencil-dick Chris.”
“That was part of it, but mostly because my grades were taking an ass-kickin’ because of the late hours.”
“So you don’t miss it?”
“Hell no! I mean, I miss you and the free movies, yeah, but not getting home late and, on top of that, tryin’ to study.”
I knew Brandon’s type. A player, a butch brand type of brother. To say that Brandon is fine as hell would be the understatement of 2012. I was always checking him out, swiping glances at his sinewy muscles, his firm booty. He would come to the theater when he was off, looking much like he looked that night in my car: muscles tight under a Hollister T-shirt, a pair of baggy jean shorts hanging just so, showing some ass under his boxers. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was doing it on purpose, teasing me, so I would walk around work the rest of my shift with a wet pussy. If that was the case, that shit was working. A day doesn’t go by when I’m not fantasizing about him booty-naked, fucking me stupid over the snack bar. I thought of how lucky his girlfriend was that she could have his dick whenever the mood struck.
“So where you stay?” I asked.
“You can drop me off at the Omega House. You know where that’s at?”
“Over on Wahnish Drive, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll point you to it when we get up there.”
Brandon went on about the Rick Ross concert. The alcohol on his breath was like a slap to my face.
