Chapter 11
eleven
don’t test me, abeg.
Frankie.
I had the craziest dream.
I was in some hotel room with the softest sheets, blackout curtains, and heating way better than the shitty one me and Za own at our flat. I had slept in so late that I missed church.
And the best part?
I had the most delicious, toe-curling, mind-blowing, back-breaking sex known to man with he who shall not be named because if Za found out, she would kill me.
But dreams are harmless, right?
Even if they’re wet ones.
Hm….Wait.
There was weight behind me. A hand at my waist. Breath against the back of my neck. And something between my legs?
Wow. My subconscious is really committed to humiliating me.
Because the hand really felt like his. And I’m so sore from the waist down for some reason.
I shift, still half asleep and the arm tightens.
So realistic.
I’m halfway through welling myself back to sleep when the dream talks:
“Morning.”
My eyes shoot open, and I scream. Like, proper bloodcurdling, horror scream, from the soul. I yank forward, tumble off the bed, hit the carpet, and scramble backwards like a fox in a bin.
He sits up slowly, rubbing his face, voice rough. “Jesus, Frankie.”
“No,” I gasp, pointing at him. “Absolutely not. Why are you here? Why am I here?”
He blinks. “You… came here. With me.”
I look around like the room is going to provide answers. Not my bed or my flat. My heart kicks against my ribs.
I check myself. Naked as the day I was born.
“This isn’t a dream?”
He raises a brow. “The screaming suggests no.”
Did we actually—? Nope.
Not asking. Not doing that to myself.
The cramps in my stomach and the throbbing between my thighs tell me everything I need to know.
“Everything okay?” he asks like an idiot.
Ignore him and run a hand over my face.
When my phone buzzes on the nightstand, I snatch it up as the screen lights with messages:
Za : u alive?
Za : u cut off your lo?
Za : where are u?
Za : Hello? Francine? Proof of life?
Za : i don’t even have Tasha’s #
Za : & u didn’t come home
Za : PLEASE TELL ME U NOT DEAD IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE!
Za : Dude, if u gonna sleep out, at least give me a heads up, I waited up all night for u.
Za : see u @ church i guess.
Za : U MISSED CHURCH?
Za : WHERE ARE U????
Za : PLEASE TELL ME YOU ARE NOT DEAD IN A DITCH !!!!
Za : FRANKIE!!!!
Za : FRANCINE CAMPBELL ANSWER YOUR PHONE OR IM CALLING YOUR MOTHER!!!!
“Frankie?”
I look up.
“Is everything okay?” he asks again.
I stare at him. Then I laugh. It’s not a normal laugh. It sounds scary.
“Okay?” I repeat. “Do I look like I’m okay? What typa foolish bloodclaat question that? ”
He sits up straighter, palms out. “Frankie—”
“No!” I say, pointing at him. “No chatting.”
My brain starts spinning. I stand up too quickly, nearly stumble, and grab the edge of the dresser for balance.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. I cyan believe— I don’t even—” I gesture wildly. “I don’t do this. This is not me! I’m not this person. I don’t wake up naked in hotels with men I hate.”
“You don’t hate me,” he says quietly.
“Didn’t I say no chatting?”
Before he could respond, I scramble around the room, hunting for my clothes. Dress. Shoes. Bag. Anything.
“Francine,” he says gently, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing!” I snap.
He blinks. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about. I thought we had a great time last night. If you’re feeling guilty or ashamed about it, you shouldn’t. We—”
“No, no, you don’t have to explain,” I wave him off, pacing. “Let me guess what you're gonna say. ‘We’re adults, we made choices, blah blah, growth, intimacy, healing’. Spare me.”
I grab the blanket and wrap it around me like a toga.
“Oh God. Oh my God. I slept with you. I am going to hell. Za’s gonna kill me, and then I’ll go to hell!”
“Frankie—”
“NO CHATTING.” I point at him. “You’ve done enough and do I smell like you?”
My nerves prickle at the thought and I sniff my shoulder. Yup. I reek of him.
He drags a hand down his face. “You’re being so dramatic, fam.”
“I'm a Jamaican woman,” I hiss. “What do you expect?”
He stands. “I expect you to breathe.”
I start throwing my things into my bag so that I can leave. “Well, I can’t.”
Now he’s in front of me, reaching for my arm as I look right into his chest. That big, strong chest that buried me most of the night. And those arms that wrapped me up. And how could I forget about that chain that dipped low and dragged its pendant across my skin every time he strokes.
“Hey—” he grabs me and I jerk back like he’s electric.
“Don’t touch me! Touching leads to more things, and clearly, we cannot be trusted.”
He tries — and fails — not to laugh.
“Stop laughing at me!”
“I’m not,” he laughs. “It’s just, you’re so adorable when you’re flustered.”
I pinch his nipple. “Stop. Chatting.”
He hisses and then massages it tenderly. “Ow, ow, ow! Not the chest!”
“Oh shut up you big baby.”
I pull on my underwear.
“Okay,” I say, nodding rapidly. “Here’s the plan. I leave. I never speak to you again. If we see each other, we act like this never happened.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Great!” I fling the blanket, yank up my dress, shove my feet into my shoes without buckling them and slang my bag over my shoulder.
“Except for one issue,” he adds.
I pause. “What now?”
He steps into my path.
“I wanna keep doing this with you.”
My blood gets cold. “Huh?”
“We can keep this up as long as we want to,” he explains gently, “nobody saw. Nobody knows. We’re fine.”
Oh no, it IS a messy situationship from hell.
“I’m gonna go now.” And then I move, darting around him and sprinting for the door before flinging it open.
“Frankie—”
“DON’T SAY MY BOMBACLAAT NAME!”
I bolt down the hallway, shoe buckles clacking loudly until I reach the lift and smack the button repeatedly until it dings.
Bless God.
The doors slide open, and I dive inside just as he turns the corner. The lift starts closing as he approaches and I mash the button to close it faster.
“Can we at least—”
“NO!”
The doors seal and I finally breathe. I press my palm to my forehead. Calm down, Francine.
You’re grown.
You pay bills.
You file taxes.
No one can kill you for making one mistake—
Oh God.
Zaza.
Za can definitely kill me for this mistake.
Oh, I am so catastrophically fucked.
How did I even get in this position? What the fuck was I thinking? Like, honestly.
I replay last night’s ‘dreams’ in flashes, and each one makes my stomach drop harder.
Did I really think turning on DEXTA DAPS was gonna result in anything other than fucking? Mr. Bedroom? Mr. Call me if?
But scratch all that.
How did I even get in Jabari’s bed to begin with? What demon possessed me to go back to his spot with him? Get in his car? Where did it all go left? When I left the club? No… much earlier than that. When did I even… When—
Oh no.
No. No no no.
I pull out my phone and speed dial. “Hey, how was last—” Tasha starts.
“Put Mantis on the phone. NOW.”
“Christ. Alright. Calm down.” Shuffling goes on in the background and someone whispers, ‘what did you do?’
Then:
“Heeyyyyy.”
“Don’t ‘heyyyy’ me,” I snap. “What the fuck was that new strain?”
“Oh, that?” she says, too lightly. “It’s good, ain’t it?”
“Samantha I swear I’d skin you with my teeth right now. What the fuck did you give me?”
“That’s what we call One Love, babe. It evens out all negative emotions.”
I blink. “What?”
“It’s sick, right? I don’t know the science behind it,” she continues, “but it makes it physically impossible to feel negatively about things you hate. Just shuts that part of the brain off. I give it to my boyfriend so he...”
…Blah blah blah blah.
My brain goes blank.
You mean to tell me… I only slept with him because my brain was chemically altered into thinking he wasn’t the worst person to ever exist?
My eye twitches.
“You bombaclaat idiot!” I yell into the phone. “I see why Chinaza hates you! My girl, go SUCK YA MUDDA BATTY HOLE! Fuck you! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!”
I hang up before I throw my phone because what?
I pace, and pace and then I just… stand there.
Staring at nothing.
Okay.
Okay.
Okay.
You fucked him.
You fucked him Jabari. You fucked him but only because you were high out of your mind.
I try to rationalise it but it falls flat. It falls flat because I know… deep down inside. I wanted this a tiny bit.
I slept with my best friend’s brother because I wanted to.
I do everything I can to strengthen my appearance as the numbers on the lift count lower. First I rake my hand through my hair, I fix up my dress, and finally, I dig in my purse to get my lipstick, only to find it gone.
I left it in his room. My brain starts sprinting laps.
This is not fine.
This is the opposite of fine.
I slept with the one man who is off limits in the entire United Kingdom. And I missed church to do it!
I press the heel of my hand into my eye.
I am going to hell.
Not the regular hell.
The special hell where the church aunties fold their arms and shake their heads forever in disappointment.
“What is wrong with me?” I whisper.
My chest gets tight and my eyes start to burn.
Crying? Really?
Now?
Pull your big girl panties up!
Face this! Just tell Za what happened and get it over with.
Just… tell…Za? I pull my phone out and type the words into our chat.
Me: i fukked ur brother last night. soz.
Then my gut twists and turns violently. I delete that sentence right as the lift dings and the doors slide open to the lobby.
My stomach rolls like a washing machine, and I barely make it to the nearest potted plant before I bend over and throw up.
Fantastic.
Francine Campbell, everyone. Queen of class and grace personified.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, straighten, pretend like that has absolutely nothing to do with me.
But it doesn’t matter because the lobby is buzzing.
A hotel manager is tight-lipped. Two security guys are escorting a red-faced staff member toward the back.
Guests whisper with phones out.