Honey and Spice(2)
I raised a brow. “Which of us is which?”
He smiled, tightening his grip around my waist. “See, funny, too.”
It only took a few seconds for his gaze to flit from me, from us, back to his own reflection. His bottom lip had tucked in. It was honestly like a very uncomfortable threesome where two people were way more into each other than they were you, eventually leaving you to watch them doing their thing, fascinated. I presume.
My Guy’s eyes were still on his own. He kissed my neck. “A peng power couple.”
I bit my lip to keep my laugh in, but by the way his grip tightened on me I think he misread it as a sign of arousal. Oh, man. I knew enough about him (enough was enough) to know he was serious. This had been fun, but I was done.
I unwound his arms from around my waist, his weight against me now oppressive. It was kinda disturbing how despite his heat, I wanted to shudder within my leather jacket. His room smelled of weed, Tom Ford hastily sprayed to cover up the weed, and the heady, musky spoor that could only be described as boy. The cocktail was making me a little queasy. I picked up my satchel, forcing his arms to drop to his sides as I turned to face him. “Do you want me, or do you just want me to want you?”
My Guy kissed his teeth and groaned, running a hand across his face impatiently. “Man, for fuck’s sake, see, like, here you go again, Kiki. Speaking in riddles. Just be straight with me.”
“I always am. I told you from jump what this was. You were cool. You said you preferred it. You do you. I do me.”
My Guy looked at me with almost the same intensity that he’d been looking at himself in the reflection a few seconds before. He was doing it again, hoping the facts that his eyes were hazel and his skin caramel were enough to work for him. I guess it could have worked if I hadn’t already bitten into him and felt the crunch—and discovered that his sexy was fake. Or if I hadn’t chosen him specifically because there was no risk of falling for him.
“Yeah, but maybe . . . I didn’t realize how much I’d like it when I do you.”
I knew how My Guy thought it sounded in his head. His voice had lowered into a purr, his eyes calculatedly heavy, constructed to elicit the image of him on top of me, his voice against my neck. It was meant to weaken me—and it had worked so many times for him, I’m sure—but I had a built-in resistance for that kind of bullshit. I’d been through it before and now I had immunity. He snapped out of intoxication mode on hearing my incredulous laugh, his eyes widening, mild annoyance and confusion slipping into them.
I shook my head. “You haven’t done me.”
“I mean basically.”
“I mean basically, we’ve only had a few spicy cuddles.”
“And whose fault is that?”
I smiled. “I have to go.”
“You’re shook and I get it, but you’re different from the rest, Kiki. It isn’t the same with you. You know I cancelled on Emma from Hazelwitch Hall for you tonight?”
I turned from my way to the door and pressed my hand against my chest. “Oh, you shouldn’t have. Really.”
My Guy nodded, rolled his tongue in his mouth, and laughed humorlessly. “You’re really kind of a bitch. You know that?”
I grinned. “I do. Thanks, though. It means a lot coming from you. If a guy like you doesn’t think I’m a bitch that means I’m fucking up somewhere.”
He laughed heartily, with the energy of someone who hadn’t understood a word I’d said, and went back to his bed, reclining, abs flexing, white boxer-briefs tighter than normal. It was like he had to physically remind himself that he was hot. As if he was actually capable of forgetting. “Be like that. You’re gonna be back.”
“Well if I did leave an earring, you can toss it. I never wear my good shit here.”
Okay, so it was a good exit line and I was proud of it, but I’d jinxed myself. As I did my ritualistic double-checking of my bag (I couldn’t leave any evidence of my presence) as the door to My Guy’s flat clicked behind me, I realized I’d left my lip gloss. Shit. Actually, it was Aminah’s lip gloss that she told me to look after in my bag and I’d forgotten to return a month ago. Despite the Best Friend Bylaws stating that there is a statute of limitations in relation to makeup reclamation, I’m pretty sure she would be pissed at where I’d left it. She would rather I’d flushed it down the toilet. After peeing on it. I couldn’t have left it. I rooted for it as I absentmindedly walked toward the lift, praying that God would forgive me for my recent transgressions. (Did it help that My Guy had a tattoo that said In God We Trust on his chest? In cursive, above a Tupac quote: “Real eyes realize real lies.”)
I hit a very firm, warm wall, my nose squishing against the soft cotton of a slate-gray shirt. “Shit! My bad—”
“Nah, it’s cool, don’t—”
The voice was low and smooth, thick like honey sunk to the bottom of a tumbler of cognac. I looked up—but not enough because I found I’d only reached his nose: it travelled down his face narrowly and then curved out, drastically, majestically. I mean, it was quite enough to look at, but I thought I’d try again. I tilted my head a little further up till I hit black quartz gazing at me, glinting.
He was looking at me like he knew me. That was weird for a number of reasons, including but not limited to the fact that I knew everybody in the Black caucus of Whitewell College. I knew each clique, subgroup, and faction and, granted, it was the third week of second year so there was a bunch of new people, but even so. I flicked through my mental Rolodex of mandem and came up blank. He wasn’t part of the Nigerian Princes (sons of Nigerian politicians), the Faux-Roadmen (studying pharmacy at a redbrick university is not the same as dealing, sweetie), the Future Shiny Suits Who Read (a group that could include any of the above, but who usually studied something finance-related, sought to work in the city, wanted an educated girl who knew her place; quite fine and included My Guy). Nor the Water into Wine (at the clerb) Bible Study Boys . . . nothing. Looking at his face seemed to actively contribute to my mind blankness, which was bizarre because my mind was never blank unless made purposely so. Like when My Guy was trying to talk to me about The 48 Laws of Power one time.