Chapter 8
No strings. No commitment. Just fun. Two friends with bomb ass benefits.
Rolling over and falling asleep on Tyriq’s long athletic body instead of getting my tired ass out of bed and letting him out last night just threw all of our rules out of the window.
Admittedly, the first time we fucked over the summer, he did stay over but I was a little bit tipsy.
That was a rookie mistake. After that night though, we had a long conversation, openly discussed our differences and goals, and set the boundaries that we just broke.
Tyriq spent the night and he’s still here.
“Shit,” I utter as soon as my bladder wakes me up, and thankfully, he doesn’t hear me. I’m not ready to deal with this or him. At least not before another few hours of sleep and a caramel cappuccino.
As carefully as I can, I peel myself out of his arms and off his body. Then I ease out of the bed and creep out of my room, deciding to use my downstairs bathroom. I don’t want to risk anything waking him up before I can wrap my head around him staying.
When my bladder is empty and my hands and face are washed, I head to my living room.
I stop dead in my tracks at the sight of my shorts on the floor.
While shaking my head, I scoop them up and take them to the laundry room under the stairs.
After placing my shorts in my stacked washer, I grab a tee and panties from the dryer and cover my naked body.
Instead of going back upstairs, I grab my favorite purple and white Delta Alpha Zeta fluffy throw off my extra-large accent chair and get comfortable on my sectional.
It’s only ten after nine, too damn early for me to be up after my long ass shift.
In less than five minutes, I’m knocked the hell out and my eyes don’t open again until I feel his large frame looming over me.
“What time is it?” I ask without opening my eyes.
“Eleven-thirty. I gotta dip. Practice at one,” he says. I open my eyes to see he’s fully dressed. “Can I see you again tonight?”
“Don’t you have a game?”
“Tomorrow night I do, but tonight, I want to be with my good luck charm.”
Slowly, I sit up and stretch my exhausted but completely satiated body. Thanks to him, I’m still tired and could honestly sleep another two or three hours but his words temporarily wake me up.
“Since when am I your lucky charm?”
His light brown eyes sparkle then he smiles smugly, letting me know he’s about to say some slick shit. “Since you first let me—"
“Boy, please. Don’t even say it. We both know you don’t need luck. Nobody works harder than you on the court.”
“Hype me up then.” He smirks before nastily kissing my lips. “Stay here on the sofa. Don’t get up. I can get out.” He pecks my lips again. “Just let a nigga in when I come back tonight.”
Before I can object or say anything, he turns and walks to my door. Then it hits me. I have to get my ass up. My alarm is set.
“Wait,” I say then ease off my sectional. “I gotta turn my alarm off.”
“You could have just told me the code,” he says and I squint.
“Um. That’s relationship behavior,” I say, no longer able to keep quiet. Between him wanting to stay, calling me his good luck charm, kissing me goodbye, and now this, something has to be said. He’s switching things up and I’m hella confused. “You good?” I ask as I walk toward him.
“I’m straight,” is all he says. “I’ll get up with you when I come back.
” I truly don’t have the energy for this conversation right now and he needs to make it back to Crescent Falls for practice anyway.
So I keep my lips sealed as I disarm my alarm.
When I unlock the door, he steps behind me, wraps one of his long arms around me, then plants a kiss on the side of my neck.
“Go back to sleep,” he utters before releasing me and opening the door.
I watch him until he gets into his black Lincoln Navigator then close my door. My bed is truly calling my name but so is my tub. After locking up and straightening up my sectional, I take my ass upstairs and trek straight into my bathroom.
There are a number of things I love about my little townhouse: my huge living room, the small, open space upstairs in front of my bedroom that I call my calm corner, my backyard, and my tub.
I have an extra-large whirlpool tub that can comfortably hold two people.
Some nights after I shower my work day off my body, I like to run a tub of hot water and let the jets massage my stress away.
Before undressing, I stop my tub, turn the water to ninety-eight degrees, pour in a packet of my favorite oatmeal bath powder, then pour in three capfuls of Dr. Teal’s Melatonin Sleep Soak.
When the tub is filled right above the jet streams, I turn the water off, slide off my clothes, then ease into the hot water.
My body is already enjoying the soothing water and I haven’t even turned the jets on but when I do… baby! Pure heaven!
After sinking down more into the magic water, I place my head back on my inflated bath pillow, close my eyes, and enjoy my bath.
It’s much needed and appreciated. While the jets massage the tension from my body, the bath soak does its thing too.
By the time my water temperature drops, I feel like a new woman.
So I drain the tub, step out on my instant dry rug, then rush into the shower to wash my body.
Clean, refreshed, and relaxed as hell, the moment I’m out of the shower, I moisturize with my body butter, throw on a tee and panties, grab my cell, then head downstairs.
I’m officially up and need my morning fuel.
My cup is already on my Keurig, so I pump two squirts of caramel syrup in it then pop the pod in.
As it brews, I rummage through my freezer and fridge for something to eat but it becomes painfully obvious that I need groceries.
I can do a lot of things but cooking is not on my list of skills.
I have three dishes that I can slay: spaghetti with a bomb ass bottled sauce, tacos, and tuna salad.
Growing up with a natural chef had its privileges.
My mom did all the cooking and all me and my dad had to do was show up in the dining room or at the kitchen table to enjoy her meals.
Hell, I still enjoy her cooking. She’s a stay-at-home wife, and when my dad, Troy, comes home from a long shift at the Black Ops Distillery, there’s always a hot plate waiting on him.
I wonder what she cooked today?
After grabbing my drink, I make another unsuccessful search in my fridge then check my pantry for shits and giggles. Besides bottled water, boxes of cereal, and a few canned goods and noodles, there’s nothing more in there either. I’m hungry and need groceries—a sad situation.
With my cup and cell in hand, I journey to my living room and ease into my extra-large accent chair.
After taking a much-needed sip of my drink, I place my cup on the table then turn on the TV.
When I was in high school, one of my mom’s favorite shows was Scandal.
I didn’t watch it then but I’m hooked now.
I just started it last week during my three days off and I’m already on season two.
Olivia Pope is that bitch and I love her and that bad ass white coat she sports.
I start the next episode and adjust the volume.
Then my damn stomach growls. I’m really hungry.
I give in and unlock my phone. The moment I open the Munchies app, my mom’s contact comes across my screen as my phone starts to vibrate.
She’s FaceTiming me. I answer and a red bowl with a few avocados around it fills my screen.
“Momma. Hey,” I say.
“One second. I dropped this knife and need to clean it,” she yells. I also hear water running in the background. When she shows up on my screen, she has a knife and a cutting board with lobsters on it.
Lobsters!
“What are you making?”
“They’re having that hundred days of safety luncheon tomorrow and your daddy requested his favorite,” she says as she places the board on the table.
“He’s the only bougie distillery worker I know,” I tease.
“Don’t call him that. He just loves this salad.”
For their twenty-fifth anniversary, he took my mom on her dream vacation to Italy.
She’s obsessed with Italian cooking and culture.
After their two weeks there, my mom came back with more meals and recipes to add to her arsenal.
One of them is this Sicilian Lobster Salad and I love it just as much as he does.
“So do I. I hope you’re calling to tell me to come get a bowl.”
“Of course I am. I want to lay eyes on my only child. You work so damn much I barely see you.”
“I was just there.”
“Two weeks ago,” she counters and I don’t miss her slight eye roll. “The Marketplace had a huge sale; their buy one get one sale. I picked up some stuff for you too.”
No matter how old I get, Diane Wilks will always look out for me and I love every moment of it. “What did you get?” I ask.
“Just come see,” she says curtly.
“Alright. I just got up. Give me an hour and I’ll head that way.”
“Bring me some of that body butter. I’m about out and your dad loves lick—”
“God, please no,” I scoff, cutting her off before she says something inappropriate.
She’s notorious for saying whatever the hell is on her mind. Some say that I inherited that same trait. On some days, I might agree but she’s definitely more outspoken than me. She doesn’t have a problem telling me anything at all and she has encouraged me to do the same my entire life.
We are super close. Not only is she my mother but she’s also my friend.
For the first four years of my life, it was just us.
I don’t know anything about my biological father except he wasn’t ready for kids.
Troy is the only father I’ve known and love.
From the moment he started dating my mom, he accepted me as his own.
“Girl, just bring that butter!”