Chapter 8 Hey Zaria #2
My body went rigid the minute he suggested I was worth nothing more than being his freaky fantasy.
I looked at him, really looked at him. It was then that I saw the truth clearly for the first time. I wasn’t his love. I was his indulgence.
“Choke on a dick,” I told him calmly. “Just not mine.”
That was the last time I ever spoke to him.
He relocated not long after. The last thing I heard through the grapevine was that he’s married with kids. A neat little life wrapped in the approval he wanted.
The memory loosens its grip just as a sharp voice cuts through the bar.
“Excuse me. Are you going to take my order or what?”
I blink and look up. My irritation is already flaring.
And there he is.
Calil Black.
Of course.
My annoyance sharpens instantly, curling hot and protective in my chest. Tonight of all nights, the universe decides to test my patience.
I straighten, mask sliding back into place, but inside, I already know one thing.
I do not trust men who look at love like something they can rearrange to fit their comfort. And I am not about to let history repeat itself.
I straighten my shoulders and fix him with a look that has ended arguments and nights alike.
“What can I get you,” I ask, flat and professional, “Sir.”
Calil smiles like he enjoys being called sir. Like he enjoys me trying not to enjoy him.
“Highball,” he says smoothly. “Uncle Nearest. Ginger ale. Heavy on the ice. You knew? I’ve never seen you in here before. I was rather surprised to see the woman who loves giving me her ass to kiss behind the bar tonight,” he smirked.
I rolled my eyes at his smart-ass comment before critiquing his order. “Of course this is your drink of choice,” I mutter, already reaching for the bottle.
“Something wrong with my taste?” he asks.
I pour deliberately slow. “It tracks.”
“Tracks how?”
“Tracks in that you’d order this serious ass drink,” I say, sliding the glass to him. “To match your serious ass attitude.”
He laughs lowly with a warmth that shouldn’t make me smile, but it does. “You got jokes instead of grunts. That’s a first and I like it.”
“I don’t care what you like,” I reply.
“Sure you do,” he says, lifting the glass. “You clocked me the second I walked up.”
I scowl. “You’re not special.”
“Didn’t say I was,” he replies. “Just said you noticed.”
I hate that he’s right.
He takes a sip, eyes never leaving my face. “Perfect. See, when you’re not trying to stab me with a bar towel, you’re excellent at your job.”
I lean in slightly. “You might want to remember where you are.”
“Oh, I do,” he says, voice dropping just enough. “I’m at a bar being served by a woman who clearly wants to throw me out and kiss me at the same time.”
I choke. Just barely.
“That is not what’s happening,” I snap.
“Isn’t. it,” he says calmly, reaching into his jacket and sliding a card toward me. “Then why are you breathing differently?”
I push the card back without looking. “Act like you have customer service skills and not like you’re trying to get stabbed.”
He chuckles. “Act like I’m robbing you and taking your day’s pay when I’ve done nothing to you.”
I tilt my head. “Isn’t it a little embarrassing, scrounging around trying to get women more than a decade younger than you to fall in love with you?”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“First,” he says, amused, “I’m not scrounging. Second, this is absolutely about Lena.”
My jaw tightens.
“And third,” he continues, leaning in just enough to make my pulse jump, “I’m not trying to get her to fall in love with me. She already is.”
The words hit clean. Surgical.
“And if you stopped being so fucking stubborn,” he adds softly, “you could fall in love with me too. We could make this very simple.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Heat floods my face, my chest, places I have no business thinking about behind a bar. He watches it happen, eyes dark with satisfaction.
Then he smirks.
God, I hate that smirk.
I shove his card back toward him. “You’re arrogant.”
“Confident,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
He finishes his drink, sets the glass down, and leaves a bill on the bar.
I glance at it.
“One hundred dollars?” I push it back. “You made a mistake.”
“I didn’t,” he says, standing.
“That’s too much.”
He leans in one last time, voice low, intimate, meant only for me. “I take care of what’s mine.”
Then he winks that same fucking wink from Ajaih’s kitchen.
Walking away just like he did that night. Like he didn’t just leave me flustered, irritated, and painfully aware of my own body’s arousal in the middle of this crowded bar.
I stand there for a second too long, heart racing, skin warm, thoughts dangerously loud.
Damn him.
Damn his confidence.
Damn his smartass mouth.
Damn the way Lena’s name lives between us like a bridged connection and we can’t decide if we’ll traverse it or not. And whether I like it or not, Calil Black made himself a problem.
I tell myself not to look for him.
I fail.
Calil stands across the room, easy and composed, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink he barely touches. Women drift toward him like gravity pulls them in, bold smiles, curious glances, bodies angling for invitation.
He turns them down one by one.
Politely. Firmly. Unapologetically.
And every so often, like he can feel it, he lifts his head and finds my eyes.
Each time I scowl.
Each time my pulse jumps anyway.
I don’t know when annoyance turns into curiosity, but it does, slipping under my skin like a slow burn I don’t ask for.
I move out from behind the bar to clear glasses from the nearby tables, stacking them carefully, staying focused. That’s when a hand clamps around my arm.
Hard.
“Hey,” a man slurs, breath thick with alcohol. “Where you going?”
I freeze for half a second, then school my voice into calm. “You need to let go of me. Don’t put your hands on women without permission.”
He laughs, grip tightening. “Relax. You should be grateful for the attention.”
My jaw sets. “Last warning. Let. Go.”
His face twists, ugly and emboldened. “A chick with dick like you doesn’t get to be picky. You’re lucky anyone looks your way.”
The room feels quieter, tighter, like it’s holding its breath.
The thing about me is I’ve never tried to hide being a trans woman. I was beautiful and proud. I never lived my life as if who I am is a secret. I was beautiful with a body to die for a dick that stayed hard.
I meet his eyes, steady and unafraid. “You’re shaking because you don’t know where you stand. Yet your dick does and that's why there's a tent in your pants as we engage. However, your insecurities about rejection are not my problem. Now, take your fucking hand off me.”
He bristles, anger flashing, but before he can say anything else, the weight of the room shifts.
I don’t look back to know Calil has noticed.
I feel it in the sudden stillness.
In the way the man’s grip hesitates.
In the way the air changes when someone with authority decides they’ve seen enough.
The man finally drops my arm with a scoff, muttering something under his breath as he stumbles away.
My skin hums where he touched me.
I inhale once. Slow. Controlled.
Across the room—Calil’s eyes are locked on me now—no humor left in his expression. Just focus and intent.
I don’t nod.
I don’t smile.
But I don’t look away either.
In this moment, I realize something I’d been trying to ignore. He didn’t just flirt with me. He clocked me. He watched. And he was ready for whatever.
That thought stays with me long after I turn back to my work. My curiosity is no longer quiet. My irritation is dissipating against my will.
Because intrigue is one thing, but being seen like that is another entirely.