Chapter 16
Theo O'Keefe
It’s not that I feel guilty, but Jamal running around Detroit at night, alone, isn’t helping anyone. We’re in a business section of the city, but most are closed, and the streetlights do a poor job of lighting the pavement.
He’s right; I shouldn’t have run my mouth without proper backup. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had proper backup. That would require more friends than a lesbian bullied by her parents.
The fucker starts sprinting, and I follow with Brant trailing behind me.
“No one needs you,” I hiss at him.
“No one wants you,” he retorts, and the insult hits its mark. This isn’t the time to soul-search; it’s about making amends. Helping Jamal get the gum out is the least I can do.
I hang back as Jamal gets a few items at a corner store. Brant goes in after him, and they argue. Brant points to me, and Jamal levels me with a glare expressing he wants me dead. Join the club and get to the back of the line.
I’m impressed with Jamal’s shady skills. He doesn’t fight us about being alone, then hops in a rideshare and speeds off before I can open the car door.
Brant and I don’t speak as we run to our hotel.
Mr. Dimon stops us in the lobby, asking about the bruise on Brant’s face.
At the front desk, I tell the clerk we have a family emergency and I need Jamal’s room number.
The guy’s a hockey fan, so he knows I’m Jamal’s stepbrother and even gives me a key. Sucker.
As Mr. Dimon lectures Brant, I make a mad dash for the elevators. Mr. Dimon can bitch at me later.
I pound on Jamal’s door, but he doesn’t open it. “I’m coming in. Fair warning.” I listen for footsteps but don’t hear them, so I unlock the door.
“I don’t have a view where I can reach it.” His voice echoes in the bathroom.
My greedy eyes drink in a half-naked Jamal contorted in front of the bathroom mirror. His abs are engaged and create ripples in his dark skin. It’s incomprehensibly difficult to look away.
“How did you get in here?” he demands.
“Family emergency.” I lean against the doorframe as if my heart isn’t racing, fearing he’ll kick me out. “Need help?”
“No,” he snaps, and turns his back to me, but then he can’t see the gum.
His anger is addictive because I’m the only one he shows his true self to.
“Baby, let him help you,” a pretty Black woman says on a video call.
Fury radiates through me, but I beat it back. It’s none of my business if she calls him baby and he says he’s gay. She can call him baby all day, for all I care. I step closer.
“This won’t be easy, and a second set of hands could make a huge difference,” she coaxes. “If he’s a dick, bring him over when you get home. I’ll take care of him.” She smirks. “I’m Jada.”
“Only because I can’t see what I’m doing,” Jamal huffs, and I’m across the room before he changes his mind. The bathroom has double sinks, and I contemplate laying my suit jacket on the counter but hang it on a hook on the back of the door.
Jamal shakes his head, but his lips turn up, and my belly jumps to my throat, flips over, and crashes into my internal organs. His smile is better than a hot shower after a cold practice. Fuck. I’m losing my mind.
“What? It’s a custom fit,” I say indignantly, nodding to my jacket.
“Okay, sweetie,” Jada says, and I realize she’s talking to me. “Dip your fingers in the peanut butter. Apply liberally to the gum.” I do as she says, and a hunk of it squishes in my fingers.
“Got it,” I say proudly and hold up the offending gum. Mission accomplished.
“Sweetie, that was step one. Find a hotel washrag to wipe it off. Make sure there’s no gum on your fingers.”
As I’m cleaning off my fingers, there’s a knock on his door.
“King? It’s Mr. Dimon, please open the door.”
Jamal eyes his dress shirt but opts to drape a towel over his shoulders as he takes his phone to answer the door.
Washing my hands in the sink, I inspect them for sticky remnants of gum. His act of covering up strikes me as odd. Hockey players see each other naked on the daily, and Mr. Dimon isn’t a stranger to our locker room.
But Jamal always uses a private shower. I’ve never seen him naked-naked.
While the water was running, I couldn’t hear their conversation, but now their voices filter through the door.
“Everything’s fine. It was a misunderstanding. Thank you for checking on me, sir,” Jamal says.
“Mr. Brant was adamant that you need assistance,” Mr. Dimon responds.
“I’ve got it. Say hi.”
“Hi, handsome. We have it under control, but if you insist, I’ll take your number and text you back.” Jada’s voice is playful and flirtatious.
“That won’t be necessary. Mr. King, text me or Grayson Ward if you need something.”
After I hear the door shut, Jada says, “That man is a snack and a half. Dayyyummm.”
“Stay out of my pool,” he says sternly, and she cackles.
Jamal reenters the bathroom, and she gets serious. “Sweetie, more peanut butter on the fingers.”
I dip my fingers, disappointed that his top half is covered by the towel. “See, she thinks I’m sweet,” I taunt Jamal.
“She don’t know you,” he says.
“I need a better view before you start,” she chimes in, and I take the phone in my peanut-butter-free hand to hold it up to Jamal’s head. “See the streaks of gum stuck to his hair? That’s the next step. If we’re lucky, you’ll be able to get it out without undoing the braids.”
“I’m not cutting my hair!” Jamal yells, and a shiver runs up his spine.
“We won’t cut it,” she promises. “What’s sweetie’s name?”
“Theo O’Keefe,” I say formally, like an asshole.
“You ready, Theo O’Keefe?”
I’m not prepared to touch Jamal. He takes the phone because it’s too hard to hold and get the gum out. At first, he’s rigid, every muscle locking in place. I can’t help myself and stroke his neck where his pulse hammers.
Jamal’s skin is supple, and my mind goes to bad places, imagining running my hands down his back and over his chest. His defined V-line rises above the waistband of his pants.
I forget there’s someone on the phone, and she jolts me back to reality with more instructions. If my family had given me any attention, I wouldn’t have crazy thoughts about my stepbrother. He’d kill me if he could read my mind.
It takes a million years to get the gum out, and we have to undo a few braids, which is a project in itself.
The best part is Jamal relaxing into my touch. When I tell him it’s going to be fine, his muscles unclench, and he responds to my fingertip pressure to move or angle his head differently. Our bodies are speaking to each other in a language they already know.
Jamal ducks his head under the water to rinse and hands me a bottle of shampoo.
Then it’s over.
The gum is gone, and my job is done.
There will be peanut oil on my fingers for the next decade. It’s in my pores and part of my DNA.
“Baby, when you get home, come knock on my door and I’ll rebraid you.”
“Much love, appreciate you,” Jamal says, waves goodbye, and hangs up.
I’m afraid he’ll thank me, so I ruin the moment. “I always knew I’d get to touch your hair.”
Jamal rubs the underside of his chin. “Do you want a prize?”
“That was my prize.” I grin at him in the mirror.
“You’re a dick.” He runs his fingers through his loose, wet hair.
“My dick is the ultimate prize.” I raise a suggestive eyebrow. All his muscles tense, and I curse myself.
“For who?” he asks, meeting my steady stare.
The question takes me by surprise, and my usual comebacks sound pathetic in my head.
“Truth. No one loves to worship a dick more than a gay man, so keep your mouth in check when speaking in mixed company.”
His smug expression almost gets the best of me, but I hold back telling him that I am mixed company, and he’s welcome to worship my dick.
To regain the upper hand, I twirl his long locks around my finger.
His hair is longer than I expected, and so, so soft.
It’s thick, it’s hard to imagine how much hair he has on his head.
Jamal slaps my hand away and sighs. “Have you heard of consent? Don’t touch people without asking. Thank you for helping me, but don’t turn into a shithead.” He frowns at me.
“My hands have been in your hair all night,” I snap. “What’s the difference?”
“Seriously?” he balks. “There are so many reasons.”
He’s really offended. “You’re the one who said you wanted to be friends. It’s not a big deal.”
“See, that’s the problem. It is a big deal, and instead of asking why, you’re arguing with me.
You know why I couldn’t stay mad at Benz for saying ‘One thing is not like the other?’ It’s because he immediately apologized when he wasn’t sure what he did wrong.
He didn’t focus on his intention. He was concerned about my feelings and about making it right. ”
“What, are you after Benz’s dick now?” My mouth can’t stop. Jamal’s right about me sabotaging any chance of friendship with him. It’s easier to be an asshole than have people let me down.
“As a straight guy, you are very, very concerned about dicks in general and mine in particular. Why is that?” His eyes bore into mine as if he can extract my secrets.
“You’re projecting.” I take a step back.
“Mm-hmm.” His mouth quirks up on one side.
The bastard. “No need to thank me just because you never could’ve done it without me,” I sneer, and flee like a child.
“Thank you,” Jamal hollers before I slam his door.
There isn’t anyone in the hall, and I sink into a crouch with my back against the wall. Sometimes the truth is uglier than the lies combined. I’m not fascinated with Jamal because I was constantly compared to him.
I’m fascinated with him because I’m attracted to him.
The guy who made my life miserable. But it wasn’t him. It’s like the universe is playing a trick on me. It can’t happen.
He’s the last person I should ever be with. Neither of us would survive the consequences.
Time to focus on something else. Jamal’s devastation over his hair seems extreme. The only thing I can think of to get answers is a search. Why are Black men sensitive about their hair?
I expect a sentence or two, but there’s an in-depth response, breaking it down into categories.
Skimming the major bullet points, I realize this isn’t a quick answer, and it’s not something I’ll understand crouched in a hotel hallway.
The three bold headings are: Historical Context and Discrimination, Cultural Significance and Identity, and Personal and Social Pressure. There is so much information.
Objectively, I’ve got a great head of hair. People comment on it all the time, but it’s hair. It grows and I cut it. I’d be furious if someone shaved my head against my will.
Something is wrong with me. I can’t stop myself from pushing his buttons and loving the result. Jamal gets under my skin, and…more inappropriate thoughts flood my brain that have no business being there.
When he pinned me to the wall last year with his arm at my throat, I excused my erection because his thigh rubbed against me. I can’t admit his anger is a turn-on. That’s fucked up. And confusing as hell.
I bang my fist against my forehead with a need to apologize. Nothing says I’m sorry better than a gift.