Chapter 11
Antonio
E.U.’s “Da Butt” slides through the Bluetooth speaker I brought from home. I kicked off the night with Silk’s “Meeting in My Bedroom” but almost found myself on the other end of Miriam’s front door. In my defense, we do have plans to fondle her walls, but she says, “that’s nasty.”
The bass of the DC go-go classic is no match for her cackling. I lost track of how many times she snorted today and had to check her pulse twice to confirm she was still breathing.
She does this silent laugh, like she’s choking. She’s wheezing now, tears streaking her makeup-free face, which is mushed up like she’s reaching for one of Fantasia’s high notes. Her eyes are closed, and her body convulses with a force that would make people call an ambulance if we were in public.
Watching Miriam be so carefree is an experience that requires earplugs at times, with her high-pitched squeals, but demands a front-row seat.
She never laughed this much in the years we circled each other from a distance or when she was wrapping up her PhD.
She put so much into her studies, it was hard to get her to come up for air.
This is the first time I’m seeing all of her, the layers buried beneath her sixteen years of chasing after degrees that consumed her identity. Those layers are slowly shedding away to reveal a woman who’s ready to let loose with the right encouragement.
“You done yet?” I say to her body curled into a ball.
She snorts. “Your p-penis is missing.” My phone falls out of her hands as her head tips back, inciting another soundless cackle. “Oh my—” She snorts again before a wave of giggles takes over.
“I. See.” Snort. “Person.” Her laugh hits a high pitch.
It’s an annual tradition for rugby players from the league to hit up Vegas the weekend before the season starts. Everyone dresses up in costumes during one of our nights in Sin City.
Last year, the Steel were Troll dolls. The ugly ones from the ’90s that look like foreskin with hair. It took a full-length bodysuit and a few tips on tucking from Queenie LaCreme, a Buffalo drag queen, to keep my dick down without cutting off my circulation.
It wasn’t long before I tossed the belly jewel and bare bottoms for basketball shorts and slides. It would take a magician to make these inches disappear, but Miriam doesn’t need to know that.
I shimmy across the drop cloths to her. “Come with us.”
Her face scrunches, shifting her glasses to the bridge of her nose. “What? No.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“You already graduated, and whatever job you land wouldn’t start until after we’re back,” I say. “One weekend, Doe. Consider it a party to kick off the season and celebrate your next chapter.”
The last twenty-four hours are the most time we’ve spent together without interruption.
It’s hard not to want to be around her now that we’re in the same city.
I want to see her with her hair down, like it is tonight.
After years of studying, she deserves it before she goes back to a life of classrooms—or whatever engineers spend their time theorizing about.
Miriam bites her lip and stares at the stack of cardboard in the corner. We unpacked every box and had groceries delivered so she can cook tomorrow. We would’ve finished painting her room if I hadn’t distracted her with random rugby pictures on my phone or dance moves she’s been dodging.
Two dimples pop. She adjusts her glasses. “I’ll consider going under two conditions.”
“Name ’em.”
“We have separate rooms, and I get to skip any activities that require a year’s worth of energy.”
“Deal.” I nod and stretch out my hand. When she shakes it, I pull her off the floor.
“Antonio, no! I didn’t say yes!” She cackles in a weak attempt to shoo me away. “We won’t finish at the rate we’re going.”
“I think we’re done. One last dance.”
“No!” Her snort causes a hiccup. “I’ll pee if I laugh any harder.”
“We got the drop cloths down. Aht—no, you don’t.” I chuckle at her attempt to go limp and take her painter’s brush between my teeth so I can hold her up.
“Antonio!” Her palms press into my white tee. She tries to push me away, but there’s no force behind it.
“E-yea-e-yea-e. E-yea-e-yea-e-yea-e-yeah!” My words muffle around lacquered wood. It’s a challenge to serenade her like this, but I do it with a George Jefferson two-step and a hip bump.
Her shoulder lifts before she fully commits and moves her body.
Her black biker shorts have been fucking with me all night.
The nylon spandex rests above her knees but clings to her fleshy thighs like paint.
There’s no gap, only curves and wide hips that mock me for missing out on the chance to access the feast between her legs.
I spin her and adjust myself in my jeans. Her rose body oil lingers under my nostrils as I twist and turn her, savoring every giggle.
“Okay, okay.” Her laughter bounces off her simple V-neck shirt and the large breasts beneath it. Eyes up. “The paint needs to dry, and you missed a spot, Happy Feet.”
“The hell I did!” I snatch the paintbrush from my mouth. “My side is immaculate.”
We transformed the room from a basic white to a light green shade. I’ve helped D with his construction business enough times to know how to paint and how much to apply.
I always lay it on thick, but my shit is even.
Miriam lets out a breath. “I don’t know. That spot looks bare to me.”
My nostrils flare, but I’m all bark and no bite. “Okay, Bob Ross. Here you go.” I hand her the paintbrush so she can inspect the built-in shelving above the headboard.
She wanted to do this side of the room herself. It made no sense since she had to use the stool she fell off of yesterday to reach everything. I kept an eye on her just in case and was surprised she stayed upright the entire time.
Miriam is the clumsiest person I’ve met—with glasses on.
“I know I didn’t miss a spot. I don’t miss,” I mutter over a half-used can of paint next to the discarded brush. “Watch her trip over the tarp trying to reach a spot at my height.” I shake my head and stand. “Miri—”
I’m halfway up before she hits me with paint. It’s a direct chest shot that ricochets across my arms.
A sinister grin stretches across her face. “Now we’re done.”
“You’re gonna get it.”
She yelps and attempts to run out the door, except I’m pulling on the drop cloth to bring her back to me. A laugh morphs into a squeal when she falls. I pounce, dragging her weapon of choice up her thighs to the strip of mocha skin peeking out from beneath her T-shirt.
“Not the hair!”
I push back her loose curls and swipe her neck. “Missed a spot.” My voice softens when I paint her chin. “Got another.”
She bites her lip to stifle a giggle and looks away, unaware of the effect she has on me.
My throat knots at the unwelcome urge to drag my thumb across her pulse point, which is now decorated in her favorite shade.
None of my body weight is pressing into her, but I feel her heart thudding against the thin material of her shirt.
The urge to close the short distance between us and tease her lips apart with my tongue is there, but I won’t do it.
But I won’t. Having her in any way that compromises our friendship, which took years to build, risks losing her.
It kills me to deny the feelings that won’t go away, but I have to, because not having Miriam in my life is an agony I never want to experience again.
She stills. Shit, did I go too far?
We always play around, but I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.
“Hey, sorry,” I say through a frown and push off of her. As I do, a smirk flashes before she grabs my paintbrush and smears my jaw.
“Got ya,” she teases.
I graze my beard and gape at the paint coating my fingertips. My shock fades fast enough for me to grab her ankle and drag her back under me.
Her brown eyes widen, and her skin tints a shade of pink. “I take it back! Truce.”
I grin. “Can’t do that, Doe. We’re just getting started.”