Prologue #5
Ro threw a leg over and glanced across the lot toward the shadow where Sal had been.
For a beat, his jaw worked. Then another beat, and his mouth softened like he had forgiven the world for the next five minutes.
He turned to me and the look on his face carved a new room into my heart.
“Rae,” he murmured, thumb brushing the ring where it circled my finger like a truth, “you mine in front of God.”
“And you mine,” I returned, voice steady and young and ferocious, “in front of everybody who thinks they got a vote.”
We rolled out shoulder to shoulder, helmets down, the red camcorder light blinking in the liquor store window like a little star that had decided to mind our business forever.
A Raider-jacket kid on a BMX froze to watch us and then lifted his chin with that solemn respect kids give rockets and brides.
The night swallowed our taillights and spit back salt and wind and a thin ribbon of tire hiss.
I threaded my fingers into my tank, touched the gold, and whispered the verse I keep under my tongue when the block gets loud—a gentle and quiet spirit is precious in God’s sight—and the words slid down like warm tea.
In my ear, Ro’s voice cracked into the coms, low and ritual, birthdays spilling out like a roll call that made angels pause: “Dre July third. Boo May twenty-first. Tasha February eighteen.”
When he finished, he breathed once—just once—and added mine in a hush that made the night lean closer. “Nova… August twenty-third.”
“Forever.” I answered, and the road agreed by opening itself one more lane wide, just enough for husband and wife to run.
—
The ride back felt like we stole an hour straight off the calendar and tucked it in our jackets.
We floated the freeway shoulder-to-shoulder until the city grabbed us again—streetlights blinking lazy, taquería smoke doing praise hands in the alley, a busted hydrant slicking the curb like somebody baptized the whole block without paperwork.
Ro peeled off at La Brea like he knew a secret exit nobody else respected, then eased into a narrow lot behind a three-story stucco that had been beige once and gave up.
His Yamaha R1 cut last, engine lingering in the air like the growl of a dog that still watches after it stops barking.
He flipped his visor, grinned that half-wolf, half-boy grin, and pointed with his chin at the upstairs rail. “Third floor. Don’t trip on two—neighbors be thinkin’ they own the step.”
“I’ll tip-toe,” I ribbed, swinging off my Ninja, thighs still humming from speed. “And your stairs gon’ respect it.”
He laughed low, palm catching mine, fingers lacing like we’d trained for this.
The stairwell smelled like bleach and old rice, incense from somebody’s altar trying its best to fight with cigarettes and winning on the edges.
A baby cried two doors down, quick then quiet—pacifier miracle.
A TV leaked the end of In Living Color reruns, the laugh track bouncing off concrete and peeling paint.
At 3C, Ro fished the key from his pocket, jiggled twice like the lock needed sweet talk, then shouldered the door when it got stubborn. “Welcome home,” he murmured, not joking.
The apartment was a rectangle with opinions.
Mattress low on the floor under a window that stuck half-open, blinds bent in two places like they’d lost an argument.
Posters tacked crooked: Pac with his hands steepled in prayer, Snoop in blue satin, and a sun faded The Chronic cover hanging against the wall.
A 13-inch TV perched on a milk crate, VCR blinking 12:00 like it refused to learn.
Couch was a hand-me-down covered with a blanket that had seen both summer and struggle.
Kitchenette to the left—sink stacked with bowls, two forks, one knife, one pan with a stubborn egg scar.
On the counter, under a coil-burner that didn’t fully sit straight, laid a Bible with the gold letters worn soft.
Sal’s handwriting in fat block letters on the inside cover: For when the world won’t make sense. Signed —S.
My hand drifted to it without thinking. “You read?”
“Sometimes I let it read me,” he muttered, flipping on the lamp with a knuckle. “Sometimes I duck.”
I traced the softened leather like it might purr. “It don’t miss.”
He set our helmets on the counter, leaned both palms to the laminate, and looked at me the way a man looks at water after a long run. “You really my wife.”
“You really my husband,” I breathed, the words warming my mouth.
He stepped in, arms scooping my thick waist like he’d been doing it a lifetime already, and lifted, easy, like God had granted him a cheat code for this one thing.
My sneakers tapped his shin and then we were laughing into each other’s necks, bumping elbows on the doorway, teeth catching on the soft parts of words.
He dropped his keys on the counter and turned, eyes catching mine with that same weight he carried at the altar. “Come here, Nova Star,” he murmured, voice smoky, threaded with command but soft at the edges, like he knew I was walking on air and glass at the same time.
I obeyed, my thick thighs brushing together with each careful step, nerves lacing my breath. The glow of the streetlamp through the blinds cut lines across his chest and the fresh ink on his arm—our oath in script still wrapped in plastic like it was holy writ.
His fingers brushed my chin up, and his thumb lingered against my cheek. “You’re shaking.”
“I know.” My voice trembled. “It’s just… tonight changed everything.”
Ro chuckled low, not mocking, but like he was studying me. “Changed nothing, Star. You been mine. Tonight, just made it loud.” He pressed his forehead to mine, his breath warm, his cologne mixing with the faint tang of motorcycle fuel still clinging to his skin.
I whispered back, more confession than conversation. “I’m scared.”
“Of me?” His brow furrowed, his grip firm on my jaw, searching me.
“No. Of how much I love you.” The words spilled before I could snatch them back.
His grin cut sharp and tender all at once. “That’s the only thing I want you scared of.” His thumb traced down the curve of my lips, and his eyes—God, those eyes—burned through every wall I thought I had.
I leaned into his chest, my wide hips pressing against him, his steady heartbeat anchoring my storm. The softness of my body against the hardness of his frame felt like the whole city of Lyon Crest was watching, waiting, holding its breath.
His deep voice rumbled, “Wifey,” testing the word, rolling it with his tongue like it might melt. “Say it back.”
“Husband,” I whispered against his cheek, one hand finding the tight curls at the back of his head, the other fisting his shirt like I was hanging on through an earthquake. “Roman Zore—October nineteenth—mine on purpose.”
He froze a half beat—then smiled, that dimple waking like sunrise. “Nova Rae—August twenty-third—mine on God.” We grew silent for a moment, reflecting on what life had done for us just now.
“Get out your head, Nova Star,” he whispered into my curls, kissing the crown of my head. “Ain’t no fear in this. Just us.”
I leaned up and we began kissing like kids who discovered oxygen and didn’t trust it to be free.
Jacket zippers scraped, breath fogged the little square of glass on the window, the whole room tilting toward us like it wanted to.
He carried me the three steps to the mattress and set me down carefully.
I pulled him by the chain, and he came, laughing in his chest when I tugged too hard and then not laughing at all when I didn’t.
“Wait,” I whispered when the rush got fast, fingers slipping under his collar to touch skin and proof. “Hold on.”
He braked like he respected brakes. “You good?”
“I’m hearing Him loud,” I confessed, pressing my forehead to his. “Love covers a multitude of sins. Don’t mess up the covering.”
He exhaled a grin right against my lips. “Girl, I ain’t tryna sin. I’m tryna worship you. The right way.” He winked.
He kissed my collarbone with a patience that recalibrated my breathing.
My fingers sank into his curls, the texture silky and soft, my thumbs drawing small promises at his nape.
The fan clicked to a new speed and the blinds answered with a soft clatter.
Outside, a siren rose and then remembered mercy and dropped away. The world held.
Yeah, you trust me, right?” His voice dipped low, not just a question but a vow, his eyes locked on mine so deep it felt like he was reading the prayers I never spoke out loud. He brushed a quick kiss across my lips—soft, teasing, then pulled back just enough to make me ache.
My breath hitched sharp in my throat as his fingers slid inside me, stretching me in a way that made my body jolt and my soul stumble between fear and fire.
“Answer me, Nova Star,” he pressed, his tone carrying that mix of promise and command only he could pull off and get away with me. His mouth returned to mine, hot and urgent, swallowing the whimper that slipped free as his fingers picked up pace.
His grin ghosted against my cheek, the words dripping from him smooth but raw: “Damn… you tight as hell, wifey. That’s all for me. Don’t fight it—I gotta get you ready to ride yo dick, Star.”
With his temple pressed to mine, his voice became shakin’, “I ain’t never gon’ let you fall off, baby girl.”
I began grinding against his fingers. This friction wasn’t foreign, we’d done this plenty of times, but it was what was following after this time.
“I’m good, boo.” I moaned, my voice weak but laced with need, like it was trying to convince both him and me at the same time.
My eyes fluttered shut, but I felt the mattress dip between my thighs, the weight of him settling in, heat radiating across my skin. His presence pressed down on me in a way that was both grounding and overwhelming.