6. Nasseem
NASSEEM
I stared at my phone like it was lying. She really hung up on me. Just like that. And the crazy part was I deserved that shit. Not because I meant to hurt her, but because I was stupid enough to think I could play her at her own game and not catch the ricochet.
Leaving her two nights ago was a move I thought I could control.
I laid on her, damn near asleep in her arms—comfortable, vulnerable, home, and that scared me a little.
I wasn’t supposed to be at home with her.
This thing between us was never supposed to go that deep but then it did.
So, I dipped. Thought I’d flip the script for once and make her feel what I always did.
Guess what? It worked too damn well. She blocked me.
Then sent me a text only moments ago saying she was going on a date, a fucking date.
I didn’t give a damn if he was a doctor, a rapper, or a pastor, I cared that she was out with somebody that wasn’t me.
She was pulling away, slipping through my hands. And I wasn’t having that.
I was supposed to be chilling with Creed, Brodie, and Royal tonight at Brodie and Ari’s place.
There was a big UFC match on Rodriguez vs.
Odell. Brodie said he ordered some pizza and wings, had drinks pouring.
And between Royal and I weed was going to be flowing as well.
But instead, I was throwing on a black tee, my gray Nike tech, and a chain that I knew caught the light just right.
Then, I slid into the front seat of my Lamborghini Urus and pointed it straight towards Melrose.
If she thought, she was about to sit up in Providence laughing and flirting with some random ass nigga while I sat around waiting on her, she had another thing coming and she had me all the way fucked up.
It didn’t take long for me to get to Providence. What should have been a 35 minute drive turned into a 20 minute drive with the way I was speeding and weaving in and out of traffic. I found a parking spot in the back of the restaurant and made my way inside.
“Can I help you, sir?” the hostess asked as soon as I walked through the door.
“Nah, I’m meeting somebody here,” I said, eyes already scanning the room. “Egypt Armstrong?”
“Oh yes, Ms. Armstrong arrived a minute ago. I can show you to her table.”
“Bet.”
She started walking ahead of me, heels clicking softly against the marble floor as I followed her toward the back of the restaurant. My jaw tightened the second I spotted her.
Egypt was sitting there smiling, damn near giggling, with some Poindexter looking ass dude in a pressed suit and glasses like he walked off a Black Wall Street Pinterest board.
He had no idea the type of woman sitting across from him.
He ain’t know the sound she made when she laughed for real.
He didn’t know what her lips tasted like after a glass of wine. He didn’t know shit. But I did.
“I see her,” I muttered to the hostess. “I got it from here.”
The hostess hesitated. I could feel her eyes reading the shift in my energy and then landing on Egypt’s table where she was sitting with another man.
I pulled a hundred dollar bill out my pocket and handed it to her without looking.
That was her cue to get the fuck on. She took it, turned, and walked away.
I made my way to their table, slow but steady, blood boiling hotter with each step. The closer I got, the more I could see how Egypt’s smile fade when she looked up and saw me. Her eyes widened. Then she groaned.
“You good?” the nigga with her asked, brows furrowing.
She ain’t even get the chance to answer. “Let’s go,” I said looking in her eyes. I didn’t even look at him. My eyes stayed on her.
“Are you fuckin’ crazy?” she snapped.
“You know I am, E. Which is why I can’t for the life of me figure out why the fuck you still sittin’.”
“I am on a date, Nasseem.”
“This shit over. Get up.”
“Um, excuse me—” Suit-n-Tie finally piped up.
“You ever had a broken jaw?” I asked calmly, looking at him dead in the eye for the first time.
“Nasseem, what the fuck?!”
“Why you playin’ with me?” I leaned down, palms on the table, inches from her face. “I’m only gon’ say this shit one more time before I beat his ass and embarrass you. Get up and let’s go.”
She just stared at me like I was speaking another language. I clenched my fists at my side, jaw flexing. Her eyes flickered to my hands and that panic hit her.
“Okay,” she finally said, raising her hands like I was a damn hostage negotiator. She turned to the nigga beside her—nigga hadn’t said a word since I mildly suggested he could have a broken jaw, “I’m so sorry. I’ll call you later.”
“Lie again,” I muttered, eyes narrowing. I threw some cash on the table, turned, and walked toward the door her hand gripped tightly in mine to make sure she followed.
The second we got to the passenger side of my truck, I turned toward her, trying to get my words out before the heat behind my actions made me forget what the hell, I was even thinking.
But she slapped fire out of me with her right palm.
Quick as hell. It stung like betrayal. My head turned slightly, but I ain’t move. I just looked back at her slow.
“Keep yo fuckin’ hands to yaself,” I growled, stepping into her space, hand immediately curling around her neck—not tight, but firm enough for her to feel every beat of my heart pumpin’ through my fingertips.
“You think this a game? You think you can fuck with somebody else, and it just be no consequences?” Her chest was heaving as her lips parted; her eyes were wild.
“You wanna go on a date?” I murmured, voice low, teeth clenched.
“Cool, I’ll take yo black ass on a fuckin’ date.
But don’t you ever think you can be out here fuckin’ around with somebody else like I don’t exist. If I catch you doin’ this shit again, Egypt, we gon’ have a problem. ”
She trembled under my grip—not from fear. From heat. I could feel it, literally felt heat rising from between her legs. Her hands found my chest and she pushed me, once, softly. Then I let her go and opened the door for her.
“Get in the fuckin’ car,” I said. She stared at me a second longer, brows low, lips tight. But she got her ass in that car.
The ride back was quiet except for her huffing and mumbling shit under her breath that I ignored on purpose.
She refused to get out the car when we pulled into the garage.
So, I walked around, opened her door, unbuckled her seatbelt, and threw her ass over my shoulder like I was taking home a trophy.
She kicked, cussed my ass out calling me everything but a child of God and hit me on my back. I ain’t budge.
“You actin’ like a damn caveman!” she shouted.
“Cool. Long as you remember who runnin’ this cave.”
She kept fighting me, even as I stepped into my place and kicked the door shut behind me. I dropped her on her feet, but she didn’t get far. I grabbed her by the hips and pinned her against the wall, chest to chest, breath to breath.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” I asked, my voice low, hurt laced under every word.
“I do get it!” she screamed back, tears spilling before she could stop them. “I get that this was never supposed to be what it is now. I get that you left me when I let my guard down. I get that you got your hooks so deep in me I can’t even breathe! I get it, Nasseem! That’s why I wanted to stop.”
I froze.
She was crying. Breaking right in front of me. I reached up, brushed a tear from her cheek with my thumb, then leaned down and kissed the rest away; gentle and soft.
“I don’t wanna stop,” I whispered. “I can’t. I want you. I need you. And you know you want me too. So why the hell we still actin’ like this ain’t real?”
Her eyes stayed locked on mine, breathing ragged, pain and desire warring behind that stare. I saw everything in her face. The betrayal she wouldn’t voice. The hunger she tried to hide. The love she wouldn’t dare name.
I didn’t move at first. Neither did she. We just stood there, chests heaving in sync, that tension pulling tighter with every passing second like an invisible cord between us was seconds from snapping. Then she broke. Not with tears this time—but with her body.
She reached for my shirt, clutched it in both hands like it was the only thing keeping her upright, and pulled me into her. Our mouths didn’t even touch yet, but everything else collided. Fingers tangled in curls, palms pressed to bare skin, legs sliding between legs.
Her lips hovered close enough to mine to feel the heat of her breath. “I hate you so much for doing this to me, for making me feel like this,” she whispered.
“I know,” I murmured, brushing my nose against hers. “But you still want me.”
“I do,” she said, voice cracking. “And that’s what makes me stupid.”
I kissed her before she could say anything else.
Soft, at first like I was asking a question or maybe making a plea.
Then harder. And she kissed me back like she’d been starving.
There was no finesse to it. No slow striptease or seductive walk to the bedroom.
We stumbled against walls, knocked into furniture, tugged at clothes like we needed to get to skin just to survive the next second.
Every kiss was a curse. Every moan was a confession. When I finally laid her down in my bed, she looked up at me like I was both the problem and the answer. Her fingers gripped the back of my neck, holding me close, keeping me there like she couldn’t risk me vanishing again.
We didn’t fuck; we fought with our bodies.
We made love with everything we didn’t know how to say.
And when it was over—when we were tangled in the sheets, breathless and raw.
She didn’t run. I didn’t either. She rolled into me, chest pressed to mine, arm flung across my stomach, one leg hooked over my hip like she was finally letting herself rest.