Chapter Nineteen
Spencer
Iplopped onto the center of a massive black leather u-shaped couch.
Malik sat on a chair facing me and strummed out the song on his acoustic guitar. He didn’t need sheet music or even a piece of paper with lyrics. He knew everything by heart.
Speaking of hearts…mine stuttered. His words were sung softly but with surety. His voice was both strong and gentle at the same time. The song built in intensity until it hit a crescendo…and then backed down to quiet again.
I blinked repeatedly. Pike…you would’ve loved this. This would’ve been your anthem. This song would’ve inspired you.
Malik finished singing, and the last chord faded. He tapped the body of the guitar and, finally, glanced up.
Our gazes held.
“Shit.” He winced. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”
I cocked my head even as I blinked.
“You’re crying.”
At first, I didn’t understand. Is he really that uncertain of himself? Of his talent? Where’s the arrogant asshole who knows everything? “That was…” I leaned forward. “Your talent truly is remarkable. You captured what we’re trying to do in a five-minute song.”
“Well, three-and-a-half. It felt that long?”
“In a good way. I didn’t want the song to end. I wanted to know what came next. What a brilliant idea you had.”
“Group effort.”
Again, I cocked my head.
He did some weird thing with his head that I couldn’t quite interpret—not a shake, nor a nod. “Okay…mostly me. Reese did some of the melody, and she’s got some ideas of what we can do if we go full orchestration.”
“Or you can just have a solo voice and a lone guitar.” I was curious what the song would sound like with Razor Made performing it—but I had also been completely captivated by just Malk’s raw voice and the solo acoustic guitar. “Wow.”
His gaze held mine. “Yeah?”
“I’m no expert…what did Reese, Creed, and Freddie think?”
“They loved it. Creed insisted I play it for Mama Murthi, and she said the song was one of my best compositions. I think she’s a little biased.”
“Is that Creed’s mother?”
He nodded.
“Wouldn’t she be more biased if Creed had written the song?”
He scrunched his nose—which he did when he was deep in thought. “I guess…”
I pushed up off the couch and made my way over to him.
Gently, I removed the guitar from his hands and put it on the stand.
Then I eased myself onto his lap—much as I had nearly a week ago.
A moment of intimacy forever seared in my mind.
I liked being in his lap—far more than I was willing to either admit or examine.
His stomach rumbled.
I pressed my forehead against his neck. “Dinner?”
“Yeah.” He banded his arms around me. “In a minute or two.”
How long we stayed that way, I couldn’t have said.
A moment suspended in time.
We baked flatbread and ate watching the news.
We cuddled in his bed and made love for hours.
After breakfast, we went back to my place.
He played guitar while I sucked up to my severely annoyed cat.
I prepared my presentation while he dozed.
Just a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Dinner was at a Thai place down the street that served the most amazing vegan Thai red curry with tofu.
Our eyes watered.
We brushed our teeth before falling into bed and making love repeatedly.
Every time we came together, I swore it was better than the last. He was learning my body and what made me feel good. I figured out what made him tick and what got his engine revving.
Monday morning came too early—in the guise of a cat sitting on my face.
“Is that comfortable?” Malik’s voice carried quite a bit of humor.
“It’s his way of telling me he’s hungry.” Gently, I moved Moses off my face.
“Well, it got you to stop snoring.”
I shot Malik a murderous glance.
He grinned, kissed my nose, and got out of bed. He headed to the bathroom—offering me the most glorious view of his very fine ass. He jiggled it just before he disappeared.
I groaned. “Do that and I’ll never make my meeting.”
A chuckle came just before he closed the bathroom door.
I glared at Moses. “I might’ve gotten lucky.”
He blinked—clearly indicating he didn’t give a shit and could I please hurry up and feed him?
Slowly, I rolled out of bed. My ass was just the right kind of sore as we’d…
fucked…a whole pile of times. He never seemed to run out of stamina.
My cock was always willing to rouse. I couldn’t remember ever being this horny.
Given I’d been sleeping with guys for a long time, that lack of memory niggled.
You’re not remembering because you have sex brain.
Best ever means no one else counts. Certainly not Paul Fuck Face.
Malik’s new nickname for my ex.
Moses twined himself between my legs as I emptied a perfect portion of wet food for him. He purred loudly and dug in as I moved to my laptop.
“You’re working?”
Hand pressed to my heart—I spun to find a very naked Malik at the other end of my galley kitchen. “You scared me.
“I came to invite you to have a shower with me.” He offered the lascivious grin I’d come to love. He crooked a finger.
Of course I followed him.
Ten minutes later, sated between the mutual hand jobs, we lathered up. “So, Saturday was your day, right?”
He eyed me as he wet his hair. He’d brought something to put in it later, he’d explained. “Sure.”
“Well, why don’t you come with me today? See my point of view?”
An eyebrow arched as he shampooed his hair.
I rotated us so the spray ran down my back. I shimmied a bit to try to get the soap out of my nooks and crevices.
“You said you’re meeting with a member of Parliament.”
“I am.” I wet my hair—which admittedly took way less time.
“Sounds boring.”
I dumped a dollop of shampoo into my hand, then lathered up my hair. “You say that, but I’m also visiting North Vancouver and the First Nation over there.”
His eyes widened in interest. “Yeah, okay.”
“You have to promise to behave.”
Those eyes narrowed. “When am I not behaved?”
For my part, I rolled my eyes.
Eventually we dried, styled our hair, ate breakfast, and headed out the door.
Malik worried because he wore jeans, a nice shirt, and a leather jacket.
I assured him he’d be fine.
He was.
During my meeting with my MP, he hung out in the reception area and entertained her staff.
I rolled my eyes yet again, but was pleased when she asked him for an autograph—for her grandchildren.
He was thrilled to do that…and grabbed a CD, signing that as well.
While I met with indigenous band members in North Vancouver, about what TLIO could do to coordinate with them on several pressing issues, Malik joined a guided hike around the area.
He should’ve worn more appropriate footwear, but I hadn’t been certain how the day would progress.
With the brilliant sunshine and mild temperatures, pretty much everyone who wasn’t in our meeting wanted to be outside.
On our ride back across the Lion’s Gate Bridge, he continued enthusing.
I sat back and let his words wash over me. I tried not to think about how much work I’d created for myself during my two meetings today.
“…so cool.” He sighed. “Counterflow.”
I laughed. “We’re heading into Downtown Vancouver while the bulk of the commuters are headed home to North and West Vancouver. We’ll survive.”
“At least my vehicle is electric.”
I patted his knee. “You’ve done all right.”
“Today was enlightening. I didn’t know the band’s history before. I was…humbled.”
“That happens. One of my distant, distant, distant relations wrote a guidebook to fells in the Lake District in England. My family came to Canada over a hundred years ago, but I’m well aware we’re newcomers.”
“Like, I’d never heard of Triquet Island.” He tapped his hand on the steering wheel. “The settlement they found? Fourteen-thousand years old. That’s three times older than the pyramids.”
“That is cool.” I clutched my messenger bag as a huge SUV in the counterflow lane came awfully close to us. “So you heard about the six-thousand-year-old arrowhead they found up near Williams Lake?”
“Right. Closer, though, is the Matsqui First Nation. Out near Mission City? Nine thousand years.” He nodded.
“And Tsleil-Waututh, Squamish, and Musqueam first nations? Around this area…?” His hand swung from the windshield where Stanley Park approached back to North Van where we’d just come from.
“I learned about this stuff in school, but…” He tapped the steering wheel.
“I almost feel like it’s not my story to tell. Not my song to sing.”
I wasn’t certain how to answer that. “You’re not trying to take someone’s identity. To tell the story as if it’s your own.” I tried to let that sit.
“But my perspective might be different because of my cultural heritage?” He eyed the GPS. “Every route between here and your place is red.”
“We could stop and eat at White Spot for dinner. Wait until traffic thins before we head home.”
“Moses?” He glanced at the GPS again as we inched through the magnificent Stanely Park.
“Will not starve. Plenty of nights I’ve worked late, and he hasn’t expired. He’s got kibble. He knows how to eat it—he just chooses not to.”
“Would you if you had the choice?”
As we came around the causeway bend that turned into West Georgia Street, we picked up a bit of speed.
“I eat plenty of things I’d rather not.”
“Ha.” He signaled to pull into the restaurant parking lot. He selected a spot, parked, killed the engine, but didn’t get out.
I held myself still.
“I’ve faced discrimination.”
“Yep.”
“My family came north on the underground railroad. From Georgia.”
I waited. I hadn’t asked and maybe that had been a mistake. I just figured he’d tell me when he was ready. Apparently he was ready.
“Canada offered the opportunity to be free, but true equality…?” He cleared his throat. “We’ve had a bunch of Black folks doing firsts. One day I’d like that to end. I would hope that my people would have done everything that everyone else has done. You know what I mean?”
“I think you mean that you’d rather someone be known for their accomplishment and not the color of their skin or their heritage.” Sheesh, am I saying the right thing? “Not color blind. Just that…”
“Yeah. That. I’ll always be Black. If I have kids who are like me, they’ll be Black. I just don’t want them to go through what I went through. If I live where I live and they go to the same school…” He scratched his jaw. “But does it really matter?”
“You’re asking if a more ethnically diverse neighborhood might lead to less bullying?
I don’t know.” I wracked my brain for the right words.
“I think kids will always bully other kids. If not for the color of their skin, then the clothes they wear, the accent they have, or something none of us can predict. You teach your kids—” My voice caught.
“You give them all the tools in the world to be brave and strong. To be resistant to the insults while, simultaneously, ensuring they don’t bully other kids.
Either accidentally or intentionally. Childhood sucks, Malik.
You can do everything right and your child still gets hurt.
Resiliency means being able to get back up after being knocked down.
“You’re resilient. You’re one of the most resilient people I know.” I rested my hand on his thigh. “You survived childhood and then the loss of your parents. You left security and forged the path you wanted to. That’s important. And, I mean, you’ve got goals and shit—”
“Rocktoberfest.”
“—yeah, that. So keep looking forward.”
He met my gaze. Night had fallen and only a lamp in the parking lot illuminated us—with a weird pink glow.
“Today really opened my eyes.”
I had no doubt. I remembered my first visit to the First Nation.
Talk about a resilient people. “Well, see? We don’t need two-hundred bikers and a thousand-person picnic everywhere.
Sometimes we let nature—and the people we’re trying to help—guide us.
I would never presume to speak on behalf of someone—be they Indigenous, Black, Asian, or anyone else.
Acknowledging the wrong is part of the solution, I know.
So I do the land acknowledgements. I welcome diverse opinions. I’m on a journey.”
“It’s not easy.” He placed his hand on mine. “I have moments…”
I held my breath.
“I’m hungry. I want a steak or ribs or something.”
A snicker escaped my lips.
He leaned over and kissed me. When he pulled back, I caught a gleam in his dark-brown eyes. “What are you having?”
“Either the Avocado Impossible Burger or the Brie and Mushroom veggie burger.” I grinned. “You know, they’re both amazing.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Fungi?”
“Yum.”
“I’ll try the avocado burger thingy.” He sighed dramatically.
I kissed his cheek.
Hours later, as we lay in my bed, Moses tried to play with a sleeping Malik’s hair.
Knowing distraction worked, I hauled my cat over to my side of the bed and encouraged him to sleep on my pillow. Then I pulled Malik into my arms and hoped fervently all his dreams would come true.