AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The widening of Malakai’s really fucking gorgeous smile confirmed my suspicions. There it was—the beatific smile of a cult leader. I shivered, not just due to the chilling social threat of Malakai’s Fuckboi cult, but because the sun was ebbing early and the breeze was getting cooler. Stupidly, fooled by the deceptive and fleeting autumn warmth, I’d left my house without a jacket.
“So where am I supposed to come in?”
Malakai unzipped his hoodie and pulled it off, revealing smooth dark ripples of skin and sinew. He held it out to me casually. “Your show is romance focused—”
I shook my head at the offer of his hoodie. “Oh no—I’m fine. Thank you. I’m not cold.”
Malakai’s gaze flitted across my arms. “Kiki, you have goose bumps. Take the hoodie. It doesn’t have lurgies, I promise. If you take the hoodie, you’re still allowed to think I’m a scourge to man-dating womankind.”
This brought out a short splutter of laughter. I took it from him, desperately hoping that it wouldn’t compromise my feminism. “Thank you. Won’t you be cold, though?”
“I don’t get cold. The same way you don’t sweat. Superhuman tings.”
I swished my smile in my mouth as I pulled the hoodie on, still warm from his body. It hung to my knees, his light, woodsy, vetiver, and detergent scent as insulating as the inner fleece.
“My show is more than just romance. It’s about... stopping hearts being broken unnecessarily. Preventing the mess that comes with it. Handling ourselves. Guys get away with so much and we’re supposed to accept it because we’re supposed to want romance, above all else, and theyknowthat and take advantage of it. Monsters are bred. I’m equipping the girls with tools of protection against the Fuckboi endemic—”
“‘Fuckboi endemic.’” Malakai released a low whistle. “What did you go through to become an expert in heartbreak?”
I froze. I heard his words before his tone registered; it took a second for me to realize there was no accusation. He was looking at me with soft curiosity. Nevertheless, the fact remained, it was none of his business. “Let’s just say I had an eventful time just before I started uni. It gave me a little insight.”
“And that insight caused you to call me the Wasteman of Whitewell.” His voice was dry. He was looking at me from the corner of his eye. Kofi and Aminah were far ahead of us now; we were ambling along slowly, more relaxed in our gaits, the autumn breeze blowing across our faces. I could appreciate it, now that I felt warmer.
“Tell me more about your film and what you desperately need my help with?”
Malakai inclined his head deeply in acceptance of the fact that I wasn’t going to take it back and continued.
“Fine. So, I want it to be excerpts—similar toCuts,but with interviews with young couples, the religious ones abstaining till marriage, the ones out in a club, the dysfunctional ones—but it needs drive. Some kind of narrative angle pinning it down. Right now the plan is kind of like . . . a collage. Which is fun, but it’s missing something. It needs context, direction, a voice. It isn’t saying anything right now. And I’ve been listening toBrown Sugarand I thought, what if I cut snippets from your show? Layer it over the film so you have these two ideas of romance maybe overlapping? We’ll see where it goes. And then I thought, what if you interview the couples? You have the expertise and... okay, now you’re looking at me like I just said Taylor Swift’s version of ‘Shake It Off’ was better than Mariah’s.” So, hehadlistened to my show. “Thank God you’re not holding a drink right now.”
I blinked several times, while trying to draw half thoughts into cohesion to help me form a response. It wasn’t that the idea was bad—in fact it was great, in theory—but I was just trying to wrap my mind around the fact that Malakai trusted me enough to be involved in his film. And that it would demand me actuallytalkingto people in real life. Also, while Malakai had an undercurrent of confidence permeating everything he did, something soft flickered across his face when he spoke about his work—and unfortunately, I found it cute.
“You can say no if you want to, obviously,” he continued, “but you would be fully credited as a consulting producer, creative consultant—whatever. And I’d help you with what you need for your project for the NYU program—congrats by the way, Dr. Miller told me about it, said something about us being able to help each other out and.... You know what? Now that I am saying this out loud I’m realizing how nuts this is so I’m just going to quit while I’m ahea—”
“Okay.”
Malakai stopped walking. “What?”
I shrugged. “The concept sounds interesting. Not your Anthropological Player ‘understanding women’ ting, because, I mean,ew. But theexploration of campus relationships, it’s really cool. I just have two stipulations. The first, if we win the competition—”
“Unlikely.”
“—if we win, I want forty percent of the prize money. It’s your idea but it’s using my art and my really sexy voice—”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Deal.” I smiled.
Malakai shook his head. “You just played me.”
“I would have taken twenty.... The second condition is what I need from you for my NYU project.”
“Name it.”
Fragments of my plan began to finalize in my mind, clicking into place and turning my mental cogs. I walked ahead, then spun around to face him, beaming. “You have to date me.”
Malakai started laughing—until he noticed the look on my face. He stopped walking, blinking at me, his smile evaporating. The notion of us being romantically involved clearly distressed him. Perfect.
