Chapter 23
The basement is part entertainment center and part arcade.
LED lights frame each wall in pale blue, giving the room a cool, ethereal vibe.
Chunky recliners face a large-screen TV that is mounted on the wall for viewing pleasure.
A mahogany pool table sits off to one side while a pinball machine blinks brightly in the corner.
A shelf holds a messy stack of video games, controllers, and a VR headset.
“I can see why Sophia hosts here all the time. This place is a social haven.”
“That’s what I was going for. Someplace where Soph would want to hang out with her friends, and I could keep an eye on things.”
His admission makes me smile because, of course, he would do that. Chaz isn’t just a protective big brother; he’s the kind of man who would build an entire space to make sure his sister was safe and happy. He’s a man who loves deeply, with his whole heart.
He’s the kind of man who took such good care of me—again.
Despite his own disappointment, he did everything possible to make me feel better when I would have otherwise spiraled.
I burrow into the neck of his sweatshirt I’m wearing, inhaling his scent—sandalwood and spice and everything nice.
Just like him. I press a spontaneous kiss to his cheek.
“What was that for?”
“Just because.”
He grins and kisses me for real. His hands slide up the back of my thighs in the way he likes to do. But it doesn’t go any further. Maybe he understands I’m not ready to try again so soon. Maybe he’s not ready either.
We play a game on the Avengers pinball machine, a clear nod to his Marvel obsession.
Iron Man, Thor, and the Hulk make flashy appearances, the machine buzzing and chiming with each hit.
It’s fun and ridiculous, and I suck at it.
We laugh at my enthusiastic attempts, and Chaz—naturally—shows off his skills, though only a little bit.
Afterward, he takes me to the back of the room, opening the door to his studio.
It’s tucked away like a retreat from the world.
A glass partition frames the recording booth, its seamless panes reflecting an adjustable microphone, a stool, and video camera equipment.
Outside the booth, the walls are lined with polished wood slats, their russet finish shining under track lighting.
There must be half a dozen guitars laid with care around the room, most of them acoustic.
A big amplifier dominates one corner, and a table stretching along the back wall holds an array of production equipment.
Its buttons and dials blink like a spaceship’s console.
On a small desk, piles of handwritten music sheets are scattered in disarray.
I resist the urge to straighten them, sensing this organized chaos is his creative process in its purest form.
“So, this is where the music happens,” I say, looking around.
“On a good day.”
Above a worn loveseat hangs a cluster of mismatched picture frames that I’m drawn to.
“Aw, look at this one,” I exclaim. It’s him as a young boy, sitting cross-legged on a rug with a guitar almost as big as he is in his lap.
There’s a front tooth missing from a wide grin spreading across his cute, chubby face.
Beside him sits a man who must be his father—same smile, same warm, intelligent eyes.
“Me and my dad,” Chaz murmurs from behind me.
“That’s where you get your dimples.”
“It’s a Delgado thing.”
“An adorable family trait.” My gaze drifts to another photo of them sitting side by side on a living room couch, playing their guitars.
In this one, Chaz is around eleven or twelve, and that déjà vu feeling comes over me again, raising goosebumps on my arms. So strange how that happens.
“You two look like you’re really jamming,” I say.
“Mm-hm.” He wraps his strong arms around my waist and speaks quietly next to my ear. “Dad worked so hard, but whenever he was home, music was everything. This was taken on my mom’s birthday. We’d written her a song called “La Mejor Mama.” In English, the title translates to “The Best Mom.”
“She must have loved that.” My hands cover his.
“She did. I can see her smile. Hear her laugh. We were all so happy that night. Mom was pregnant with Soph then. I didn’t know it would be the last birthday the three of us would celebrate together.”
His bittersweet memory pierces my heart.
“It took me a long time to hang these up,” he continues, in a voice thick with love and haunting sadness.
“For years, I couldn’t face them. But I didn’t want my anger and grief to erase the memories.
It’s still hard sometimes, but I’d rather deal with the pain than hide these away in a box, you know? ”
I nod, though I don’t really know. Not in the way he does. But I hear the raw ache of loss etched into every word, and I’m struck by how much weight he carries. What he shoulders alone.
“That’s enough of that.” He abruptly straightens. “I’m not looking to drag us down.”
“It’s not a drag,” I say, turning to him. “You can talk to me any time.”
“Thanks, but no more tonight. We said it would just be us.”
“We did.” I bring a hand to his cheek. “Just know I’m here for you.”
“I do, baby.” He takes my hand and kisses across my knuckles, then reaches for a tin on the side table. “Mind if I smoke?”
“You smoke?”
“Sometimes.” Flipping it open, the unmistakable scent of weed fills the room.
“Oh.” My nose wrinkles. “That kind of smoking.”
“Yeah. This blend gives a chill buzz. Like floating.”
“Really?” I say, more curious than anything. “Go ahead.”
He gestures for me to sit, and we settle onto the loveseat. The cool leather presses against my bare legs as I tuck my feet beneath me. Chaz taps dried grass onto a thin sheet of paper and rolls it with practiced ease.
“Ever smoked?” He glances up.
“Nope. No real opportunity.”
“Until now,” he says, sealing the joint with a slow slide of his tongue. After lighting it up, he takes a long drag and holds it out to me. “Want to try?”
I hesitate for only a moment. The ember glowing red at the tip dares me. “Okay.”
“Another one for the fuck-it list.”
“I don’t have a list.”
“I’m keeping one for you.” He grins, hiding away his grief from moments ago, and I wonder if smoking helps him numb it.
“Don’t inhale too deep your first time,” he warns, “or you’ll be coughing up a lung.”
I hold the joint carefully, the paper fragile between my fingers, and raise it to my lips for a small puff. The smoke burns the back of my throat like fire, and I cough hard, my eyes watering.
Chaz rubs my back. “Smaller drag next time.”
“I thought that was small,” I croak, my voice raspy. “How could you possibly enjoy this?”
“You’ll see. Give it another shot.”
I try again, inhaling just a wisp. This time, I tolerate it better. The taste is earthy, almost bitter, but the effect quickly creeps up on me. My limbs feel as if they’re melting into the couch, and my mind goes fuzzy like it’s wrapped in cotton.
“Okay?” he asks, watching me closely.
“Oh yeah.” I take another drag and sink back with a lazy smile.
“That’s probably enough, Blue,” he says, taking the joint back.
“Probably,” I admit, through a pleasant haze.
Chaz chuckles and takes another drag. I can see his lips moving, saying something to me. Is it funny? I don’t know, but I start giggling uncontrollably. I cover my mouth on a snort that only makes me laugh harder. When I finally stop, my eyelids feel heavy, and so does my head.
“Do I have a pumpkin head?” I ask, touching the top and sides. “It feels ginormous.”
“No, Lex. Your head is perfectly matched to your perfect body,” he says, stubbing the joint out in a makeshift ashtray. He stands and extends his hand to me. “Let’s get you ready for bed.”
“But I wanted to hear you play.”
“Tomorrow.”
“You promise?” I hold out my pinkie.
“I promise.” He locks his pinkie around mine and pulls me up.
My legs feel boneless, my body buoyed, floating just like Chaz said—a man of his word.
I lick the side of his face, and he laughs, keeping a steady arm around me as we climb the stairs.
In the bathroom, he flips on the light and grabs my toothbrush from its travel case, prepping it with water and his toothpaste.
Giggling again, I clutch the toothbrush like a child holding a crayon.
Chaz brushes his own teeth without issue while toothpaste dribbles down my chin. With amused patience, he rinses my brush and sticks it in the holder beside his before wiping my mouth.
“Thanks, hubby.”
He grins and leads me to the bedroom, where he pulls a T-shirt from his drawer. “This should be comfortable for you.”
“What are you going to sleep in?”
“Boxers. That okay?”
“Naked would be better,” I say, my head lolling to the side. “Will you be the big spoon?”
“I’d love to be your big spoon, Blue.”
“Yay.” I try to get the sweatshirt off but can’t seem to lift my arms without almost toppling over.
“Need help?”
“K,” I giggle.
He helps me change into the shirt, slipping it over my head. The fabric is buttery soft and smells faintly of detergent and him. He sits me on the bed and crouches to pull off my socks.
I squirm as his fingers brush the arch of my foot. “That tickles.”
“You’re adorable.” He kisses my forehead and stands to undress.
I ogle him shamelessly as he removes all his clothes.
Broad and thick with a network of ink, his body is a masterpiece of contrasts: hard and soft, rough and smooth.
His ass, two perfect globes, and his penis is like a silk-covered rod—all the textures I crave.
He pulls his afro into a man bun and ties a durag around the crown of his head, fitting snugly and framing his gorgeous face.
“I need my camera. You’re like a work of art.”
“As flattering as that is,” he drawls, looking at me slumped over, “you’re in no shape to take pictures.”
“Okay then.” I lift my hands, making an imaginary frame, and close one eye. “Click. Now I have a mental snapshot.”