Chapter 3 #2
Demi swaggered to the door and was unprepared for the man who stared back at him. In one hand he carried a brown paper bag that reeked of cheap Chinese. In the other hand, he carried his guitar.
“Not who I expected to see at all. Charlie here?” Justin asked.
Demi recognized him from the night before.
He stepped aside and Justin walked in as Charlie rushed down the stairs.
Of all the things Demi could have focused on it was her toes that stuck out to him most. A different color on every toe, Demi thought her feet looked like Skittles.
He would bet his bottom dollar on it that they tasted like Skittles too.
That pussy too. Demi’s mind was in the gutter.
He knew it because he had never thought of putting his mouth on a woman before that very moment.
“Justin! I… Ummm… I’m really sorry. I should have called you. Can we reschedule?” Charlie came out stammering, explaining herself, with a towel wrapped around her body. Demi felt a tug in his chest as he stared at her, body still dripping from the shower, her locs pulled up in a high ponytail.
She was so comfortable in her skin. In front of him in her skin. Hell, in front of Demi in her skin. Was this just her or was this nigga special? Was Demi special? Before Demi could stop himself, he was speaking.
“Say, man,” he said. “I’m up. I’ll get with you another time.”
His irritation wasn’t missed.
“Wait. I need to talk to you about something,” she said. “Can you stay a bit?”
“So, fuck the songs? What about the set?” Justin interrupted.
“Plans changed,” Demi said, staring at Charlie from across the room.
Charlie stared back. She didn’t know if she was turned on or pissed at him for answering for her.
It was all in his stance. He was arrogant.
Certain. Like he knew that he was really holding back from what he wanted to say and that she should be grateful that he was even being this civil at all.
“Umm… yeah, I’m sorry, Justin. I’ll make it up to you,” she said.
“Probably not,” Demi interrupted, again.
“Demi!” she exclaimed.
Justin frowned and shook his head. “Yo, Charlie, for real?” he said.
“I swear I’ll call you later. This is just kind of important,” Charlie explained.
“Wow, Charles. I didn’t think you were that type,” Justin said, sucking his teeth and turning for the door.
“What type is that, my man?” Demi asked.
“Demi...” Charlie intervened. She stopped him. From what? She didn’t know. Maybe the same fate that she was sure Frankie had suffered at his hand because while she hadn’t seen it, she was sure he had done it.
Demi bit into his lip and turned toward her kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator and pulling out a bottled water like he lived there. Charlie turned back to Justin.
“I promise I’ll make time to rehearse the set,” she said.
“I’ll see you at the club,” Justin said, heading out.
Charlie didn’t quite know what to say, so she let him leave. She would diffuse the situation with him later. She turned to Demi.
“What is wrong with you? That is my friend,” she said, scoffing, pissed at herself that she found herself offering clarity.
“Yeah, okay,” he answered, coolly.
“He is!” Charlie argued.
“I said, okay,” Demi repeated, with a calmness that took her temper up a couple notches. “The nigga want to fuck you, though.”
“And you got all that from the one day you’ve known me,” she said sarcastically.
It reminded them both that they had just met. This was a lot for two people who were practically strangers.
“Look, here’s your money,” Charlie said, stalking over to her guitar case to retrieve the bag. She opened it and held it out for him. “I don’t know what you have going on with Frankie, but don’t involve me in it again. Did you do that to his hand?”
Demi stared at the bag like it was infected. “I wouldn’t put you in no bullshit and I don’t know what you talking ‘bout. I’m just trusting you to hold onto that for me. Did you count it?”
“It’s not mine to count,” she said.
“Count it.”
“Nigga, do I look like a bank teller?” she asked.
Demi leaned onto her countertop and put his face in his hands... big hand... tattooed hand... she wondered who he trusted enough to let touch him to do them in the first place... Then, he scratched the top of his head, before lifting irritated eyes to her.
“You look like you don’t mind how dirty money is. Can you just quit arguing with me about everything and count the shit, man?”
Charlie was stubborn but she rolled her eyes and opened the bag, pouring the contents out onto her coffee table. Her hands flicked through the bills and when she was done, she looked up in shock.
“It’s a hundred thousand dollars, Demi. I can’t keep this for you,” she said.
“It ain’t a big deal. You got it,” he said.
“You don’t even know me like that to be trusting me with your money,” Charlie said, frowning.
Demi pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and looked off to the side and then separated her blinds with his finger, peering outside. Always aware of his surroundings. “You gon’ steal from me, Bird?” he asked, finally placing his eyes back on her.
Charlie flicked through the thick knot of bills. All hundreds. Who carried around all hundred-dollar bills?
“Probably,” she smirked, shrugging.
This fucking girl. Demi laughed. Always so lighthearted around her. He dug back into his pocket and pulled out another knot. “That’s on you. Now, you ain’t got to dip into the stash,” he said.
Charlie plucked it from his fingers. “Guess not,” she answered, smiling.
She shook her head in disbelief. “This is nuts.” She didn’t know if he was crazy, if she was, or if they both were, but this felt insane.
This sudden thing that they were dancing around, this impromptu invasion of him into her life.
“Is this all you came here for or are you planning to stay?”
“I’m a little pressed for time tonight,” he admitted.
“You should never come by when you’re pressed for time,” she said, shaking her head. “Cuz I’ma make you late. Now you can’t leave.”
She reached for his hand and she felt his palm go wet. Sweaty palms were a thing for him when he was uncomfortable.
The touching, she thought. She had forgotten just that quick.
She stepped close to him and smiled as he stared down at her. Brooding. Wound so tightly. Charlie placed her hands on the sides of his face, cupping it and he gripped her wrists.
“You’re going to have to deal with it, Demi, because I like to touch,” she whispered.
“Bird, you killing me,” he said.
She wiped her hands all over his face and he grimaced, cringing, and nodding. “You think this shit funny, yo. I’ma fuck you up,” he said, irritation lacing his tone. “You been touching that money and shit.”
“Are you freaking out right now?” she asked.
“Fuck you, man,” he snickered.
“I mean, you could clean up here. Stay here tonight,” she offered.
“I told you I got somewhere to be,” he insisted. Charlie reached for her towel and opened it, exposing pretty perky titties that made Demi’s dick stiffen.
“Well, I had plans too, but somebody felt like he had the right to change them. So now, I’m changing yours,” she said.
“I got to go,” Demi said, voice just above a whisper as she stood so close to him that his skin crawled, and his stomach hollowed.
“Do you?” she asked.
It was Charlie’s skin that pulled him in.
She had scars all over her body that told a story of pain.
Like her mother had lost control during childhood beatings.
He wanted to ask questions but opted not to.
He wanted to put his lips to those scars, but he opted not to do that too.
He cleared the lump in his throat and swept a hand down his mouth as she backpedaled toward the stairs.
“Let me clean you,” she said, smirking.
He took heavy steps her way, his pants hanging low off his hips as the thud of his sneakers echoed off her floors.
His eyes met her ass and never left as she ascended the stairs.
She didn’t have much, just enough like a delicacy, some of the best shit to put on your tongue came in small portions.
He was a look-but-don’t-touch type of nigga and he enjoyed the visual as she led the way to her bedroom and then into her bathroom.
She turned on the shower and then came out of her panties.
“Take off your clothes, weirdo,” she said.
She stepped closer to him, pulling his shirt over his head. The gun on his waistline was unexpected and she froze. He removed it and leaned to put it on her dresser.
The wifebeater he wore as an undershirt clung to his brown skin. He was the color of tree bark and the art on his body was phenomenal. Her fingers traced the ink. “How do you have these if you don’t like to be touched?” she asked.
“Somebody I trust put them there,” he answered, tone guttural, like temptation was building in his throat. She kissed the inked Bible on his chest, and she felt him stop breathing.
“Stay here with me, Demi. Don’t disappear in your head.” Her tongue wet his nipple and then she stood on her tiptoes to allow her tongue to trace up his neck.
“Mmm,” she moaned as she tasted his skin.
The spot she kissed felt like it was burning. Love burns. Like she had placed an iron to his skin.
His throat was closing, second by second, as she made her way across his chest and down his abs.
Demi was solid. Strong. His habit of five-star restaurants and thousand-dollar bottles of champagne had stolen the definition from what used to be washboard, but somehow, she still found those V-cuts as she undid his Hermes belt and unzipped his jeans.
He stepped out of them and Charlie moaned when she discovered how his body reacted to her.
Dick on brick, forming temptation in his black Tom Ford boxer briefs.
It was only right. Expensive wrapping for premium dick.