Chapter 8 Hey Zaria
Calil Black confused the hell out of me from the very first moment we exchanged pleasantries. Men like him didn’t exist in my experience. Not in the way he moved and not in the way he looked at me.
Every time I was around him, he tried pull me into friendly chatter. Not in an aggressive way. Not in that let me see what I can get from you way I knew too well. But in small, deliberate moments.
“Hey Zaria.”
“How you doing tonight?”
“You always this quiet or you just don’t like me?”
“Both,” I joked as we both chuckled.
Still, I never gave him much. A nod here. A hum there. Some one-word responses if I was feeling generous. I didn’t dislike him but I couldn’t figure him out. In my world if I couldn’t figure you out, I didn’t trust you.
That simple.
There were only two possibilities in my mind for his behavior. Either—he wanted Lena and I was in the way. Or he wanted me and I was about to become another secret. Another “you’re perfect but…” situation. Another man who could admire me in private but wouldn’t dare stand beside me in public.
So I kept my distance. I was always polite, though I remained unreadable and guarded. Calil didn’t retreat; he adjusted. He didn’t chase or force his way into my space, but I could see him mentally taking notes and waiting patiently. Honestly, that almost irritated me more.
It was a game night at Ajaih’s place. Everyone was loud, happy, and chaotic. Drinks flowing. Maverick and Knox arguing about something ridiculous. Calla laughing too hard at her brothers and their goofiness. Lena glowing like she always did when she was surrounded by people she loved.
I slipped into the kitchen for a moment of quiet. Needing a breather and space. I was pouring myself another drink when I felt it. That presence. His presence.
Again.
“Running from us?” Calil’s voice came from the doorway.
I didn’t turn right away. “Getting a drink,” I replied.
“Mm,” he hummed, stepping inside. “You always look like you you don’t wanna be around our crazy asses.”
I rolled my eyes slightly as a smile formed on my face. Still focused on my glass. “Quite the contrary. I love a good game night with y’all.”
“Bet. I’m glad to know that,” he said.
I could feel him closer now but not invading.
Just… there.
“You look good as shit tonight. Where you headed when you leave here?” he asked casually.
That’s when I turned. Because now I needed to see his face. Needed to read his body language and demeanor. Needed to know what lane he was trying to swerve into. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t scanning me like I was a body to assess.
He just… meant it.
That made me uncomfortable. So I did what I always do when I feel off balance. I went on offense.
“You know I’m trans, right?” I blurted.
His brow lifted slightly.
I kept going, because once I start, I don’t half-step. “And I still got all my original parts.”
There it was. Let’s see what you do with that, I thought to myself.
Most men falter and get all weird like every transwoman is on the prowl. Some get curious in ways that feel invasive. Some backtrack like they accidentally walked into the wrong room.
Calil?
He laughed. Not loud. Not disrespectful but in amusement.
“Okay,” he said, nodding once. “That’s what’s up.”
I blinked. That wasn’t the script I planned for. He stepped a little closer, just enough for his voice to drop. “I’m still complimenting a beautiful woman.”
And then—he winked.
He really fucking winked at me like he knew he rendered me speechless. Like he didn’t just walk straight through a moment most men stumble over. Like I hadn’t just tried to throw a whole grenade at him.
Then he turned and walked right out the kitchen like it was no big deal. I stood there for a full five seconds completely still except for the glass shaking in my hand.
“Did this man just—”
I shook my head before letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
Because what?
What kind of man hears that and doesn’t flinch?
Doesn’t question?
Doesn’t reduce me to a curiosity or a secret?
He just…accepted it and kept it moving like it wasn’t a problem. Like I wasn’t a freak of nature to figure out. Like I was just—a woman. That moment was huge for me because rarely was my humanity honored in that way. I tried to convince myself that this man was annoyingly persistent.
Because I didn’t know where to file him after that. He didn’t fit in the boxes I had built for protection. Didn’t move like the men I knew how to guard myself against and that made him dangerous in a completely different way.
So as I’m standing behind this bar now—wiping the same spot for longer than necessary—thinking about Lena.
Thinking about what she said. Thinking about him.
I realize something I don’t want to admit.
Calil didn’t just confuse me. He disrupted me.
Our interactions left me wondering I was protecting myself from this man or missing out on something real.
The bar is louder than it needs to be, but not louder than my thoughts tonight. The tips are better than I expected so there’s balance.
A Thursday crowd pretending it’s Friday as laughter spills too easily.
Glasses clinking like everyone’s trying to have the best night of their randomly in the middle of the week.
I’m filling in tonight for a call out shift I didn’t think twice about taking.
When I’m not at Provocateur, I moonlight wherever I’m needed.
Local bars, hotel lounges, anywhere my hands can stay busy and my thoughts don’t have to.
Ice.
Pour.
Garnish.
Slide.
Rinse and repeat.
My body is on autopilot while my mind never has the luxury.
Lena’s hospital room keeps replaying in my head. The way she looked at me when she asked that question so calm and steady. It’s like she didn’t realize how dangerous it was.
What if I have enough space in my heart to love you and Calil?
I wipe the bar slower than necessary in this moment and my jaw goes tight. The thought won’t leave. It never does once it takes hold.
The optimism I feel with Calil instantly causes memories of pain creep in before I can stop them.
Damon Jackson.
Mr. Fortune 500 attorney.
We had just finished making love. I could still feel his wet mouth wrapped around my length.
Damon loved sucking my dick. His switch flipped from Mr. Macho to my dick sucking slut every time.
Not only did he enjoy taking me in his mouth—he also enjoyed taking me in his hole in every position possible.
Doggy. Missionary. Reverse cowboy. Any way I could push this thick fuck inside him, Damon would take it.
The room was still warm. The sheets tangled. The air filled quiet after intimacy that tricks you into believing you matter more than you actually do. His arm was loose around my waist and his phone face down on the nightstand like nothing else existed.
For a moment, I let myself believe it.
“Hey,” I said softly, tracing idle circles on his chest. “We still on for this weekend?”
He went still.
“I’m sorry baby. I forgot,” he said.
I laughed, quick and easy, already adjusting myself to fit the moment. “That’s okay. We can do something else next weekend.”
I’d grown used to him not wanting to be seen in public with me unless it was Provocateur and confidentiality was the standard. Still I managed to convince myself that this time would be different. Silly me.
“My parents are in town,” he added.
“Oh.” Excitement hit before caution could stop it. “That’s fine. We can do dinner with them. I’d love to meet them.”
He sat up fast, the shift abrupt, like I’d crossed an invisible line.
“No.”
I blinked. “No?”
“You’re not invited,” he said flatly. “My parents wouldn’t approve of our relationship. They wouldn’t understand this.”
This.
Me.
Then he said the part that burned.
“And don’t call or text me this weekend. I don’t want to explain who keeps reaching out.”
I nodded. I always nodded back then. I told myself I understood the complexities of being with someone like me.
I told myself love meant patience, silence, compromise.
I told myself not to take it personal that this man had just finished taking every inch I had in every hole on his body and was not treating me like I was the plague.
I did what he asked.
I didn’t call.
I didn’t text.
I made myself small.
Until Sunday night.
After having a beautiful night at the newest Winston Hills Museum of Modern Art exhibit, I went to my favorite Italian bistro—Figlia.
It was owned by a beautiful woman of Black and Sicilian heritage.
It was a beautiful place that always felt like comfort.
I was halfway through my meal when I heard his laugh.
Damon stood a few tables away with his parents. And another woman.
She fit there effortlessly with a hand on his arm.
Her smile was ease and filled with familiarity.
Her posture said she not only belonged in his world without explanation but she had be there for a long time.
I stayed frozen in my seat as my pulse roared in my ears.
I watched with bated breath as he dropped to one knee.
The restaurant erupted.
Applause. Cheers. Smiles. Him attempting to stare lovingly into her eyes and failing.
He never knew I was there and I preferred it that way. T
I confronted him the next day. I needed to hear it from his mouth.
He didn’t deny anything. He didn’t show a single sign of remorse.
“She’s my college sweetheart,” he said, like history made it noble. “This is what my family approves of. This is what makes sense.”
“And me?” I asked.
He sighed with annoyance dripping from his body. It was like my hurt was inconvenient. “I love you. But we could never have a family that shares my DNA. You know that. This isn’t something I can build a life around. Not publicly.”
Publicly.
Then he offered the last insult.
“We don’t have to stop seeing each other,” he said. “We can just be discreet. You can still be with me. Just… quietly.”