Chapter 8 Lyrix #2
This… this is what a good damn day feels like.
Our table was right by the bar, lit in neon colors that bounced off Maison’s gold chain and made him look even finer than usual. The DJ was still going dumb, blending bounce with throwback R&B, and the hookah had the whole section hazy like we were inside a music video.
“I ordered us a blueberry-mint mix,” Maison said, passing me the hookah hose and leaning back.
I took a slow pull and let the smoke float out my lips like a spell. “Oh, this real smooth,” I said, blinking slow like I was in a commercial.
He smirked. “Told you. I don’t miss.”
The waitress brought out our drinks—two frozen daiquiris, one purple, one green, both in glasses big enough to bathe a small child. “Now we official,” I said, clinking mine against his.
“Cheers, girlfriend,” he teased.
“Period, boyfriend.”
We had just started sipping when the couple at the next table leaned over. They looked about our age, matching designer fits, both fine as hell and clearly on the same time we were on.
“You two are so cute together,” the woman said, grinning. “How long have y’all been together?”
Before I could say something basic, Maison said, dead serious, “Five years. She was my waitress at a waffle house.”
I almost choked on my daiquiri.
“She spilled orange juice on me,” he continued, “and told me I looked like the type to cheat.”
The other couple was laughing so hard they had to wipe their eyes.
I played along, fanning myself dramatically. “And he told me I looked like the type to key a man’s car over an Instagram like.”
“You do give that energy,” the other woman said, nodding.
“Exactly,” Maison said, wrapping his arm around me. “That’s when I knew I wanted her forever. Ain’t nothing like chaos to start a real love story.”
We all laughed, but then he turned to me with that mock-serious expression he wore too well. “Ain’t that right, babe? Even though you still bring up that time I forgot our anniversary…”
I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes. “Because you took me to Golden Corral and called it luxury.”
The man at the next table spit his drink out. “Not Golden Corral!”
Maison clutched his chest. “Don’t do that. I let you get the buffet and a to-go plate!”
“Oh, you’re real generous, huh?” I said, fighting my smile.
“You see this?” the woman told her boyfriend. “This is that real love.”
They were eating it up like we were on a reality show, laughing and vibing and taking shots with us. But what they didn’t know and what they couldn’t feel, was how turned on I was by the whole thing.
It wasn’t even the game we were playing.
It was the way he was playing it with me.
The way he was so effortlessly down for the chaos. The way his hand found my thigh under the table. The way his thumb rubbed small circles intentionally. Like we had been together five years, and not just a few days into a thrill ride.
He leaned over, lips brushing the shell of my ear, and whispered, “You like being my fake girlfriend, huh?”
I exhaled slow, drunk off more than daiquiris. “You just like how real it feels.”
He looked me in my eyes. “Well, wait ‘til we get outta here. I’m about to make you forget this whole day was a lie.”
We were drunk. Not tipsy. Not “oops, I feel it in my knees” drunk.
DRUNK drunk.
The kind of drunk where you’re leaning on each other, giggling about everything and nothing, with no real sense of direction but enough adrenaline to power through the wrong turns.
Our feet hit the sidewalk in front of my hotel as he helped me take off my wig, because of course I took it off as soon as we made it like a true heaux in her prime.
“Why you walking like your knees on strike?” he laughed.
“Because my ass has been clapping like an encore since noon!” I threw my head back, laughing. “That was cardio and core strength. Don’t play with me.”
We were wobbling back from an entire day of doing the most. Started with bottomless drinks at that ratchet-bougie trap brunch spot.
Then bar-hopped our way into some hole-in-the-wall with a pool table and a man selling shots out of a backpack like a street pharmacist. Then back to Bourbon Street, where I was twerking on balconies, tables, and one very patient bouncer.
“I got five pictures with bottles balanced on my head,” I said, scrolling through my phone, cracking up.
“And three with random women slapping your ass.”
“It was consensual. You saw me nod!”
He laughed so hard. “And what about when you made that girl pour Patron down your throat off her elbow?”
I gasped. “That was my Mardi Gras baptism and I regret nothing.”
“You damn near drowned,” he said between wheezes.
“And still came up sexy!” I shot back, posing with a fake pout.
We were loud and sloppy and so unserious. It was beautiful.
But we knew it was time to call it quits when, at the last bar, he pulled me onto his lap during a slow bounce remix of “Nice & Slow” and we started making out like we didn’t have homes.
Then… he slid my hand down his pants.
“I can’t believe you made me do that with people around,” I said, reliving it.
He shrugged, smiling wickedly. “You looked too good. I blacked out for a second.”
“You damn near had me giving you a handjob at the bar. What if the camera caught us?”
“They won’t post it. They’ll just frame it,” he said smugly.
I smacked his chest and we burst out laughing again as we stumbled through the hotel lobby.
It was reckless.
It was wild.
It was everything my Heaux Phase needed to be.
We weren’t in love. We didn’t know each other’s middle or last names. But he was unlocking versions of me I didn’t even know I had the courage to release.
Vacation me was that girl.
Maison stepped out onto the balcony first, falling back into one of the cushioned chairs. His robe was still open just enough to make my mind wander.
I followed him out and without saying a word, I sat right in his lap. Like it was mine.
He didn’t flinch. He just wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me closer. I could smell whiskey and spearmint gum on his breath. I could still feel our laughter from the street echoing in my ribs.
“I haven’t had this much fun in a while,” I said, staring out at the lights. “Like… a long while.”
“How long is a while?” he asked, brushing his fingers on my thigh.
“A year,” I said. “I’ve been in the house. Like hermit, but I was trying to be intentional. Let fun, love, happiness… all that… find me. It was just me, therapy, and doordash.”
He chuckled softly. “And how was that?”
“Boring,” I admitted. “Lonely as hell too. I kept thinking being still would give me peace, but sometimes it just gave me silence I didn’t know what to do with.”
He nodded. “Were you… intimate with anybody?”
I shook my head. “Nope. My therapist said it would just be a distraction. She said healing required me to be honest about what I was running from and not just who I was running to.”
“That’s real,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful. “But sometimes… how you gonna know what you want when moving forward unless you explore a little?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Like I didn’t even know I liked that move you do in the bed…”
He smirked. “Which one?”
“The one with the deep stroke, the little ‘whew’ at the end, and that hand on my—”
He cracked up, and I did too.
“That’s a signature move,” he said. “Glad you noticed.”
“Well now it’s a requirement. So I’ll add it to my list of non-negotiables.”
We were still laughing, but then the silence came again.
“You deserve this,” he said suddenly.
I blinked. “What?”
“This peace. This fun. This version of you that don’t gotta perform or shrink or explain. The girl dancing in the middle of the street and moaning over food. That’s her. That’s you.”
I swallowed.
“And just because you were healing,” he continued, “doesn’t mean you gotta put yourself on pause. Growth isn’t punishment. It’s a passport. You get to still go places, still feel things, still touch pleasure without it meaning you’re backtracking.”
“Damn,” I whispered.
“You took time to learn yourself in stillness,” he said. “Now it’s time to learn yourself in chaos, in movement, in messy-ass joy. Let that be okay too.”
I bit my lip, trying not to get emotional. But he kept going.
“Fun can be healing. Pleasure can be sacred. And you don’t owe nobody an apology for enjoying your damn life. The version of you that’s free is not a phase. That’s you in bloom.”
I laid my head on his shoulder, and for a second, I let myself believe I was safe in more ways than one.
He kissed the side of my face.
And right there, on a balcony overlooking a city that refused to dim, I realized that all of that was what the vision board really meant.
Not just the checklist.
But the feeling.
The softness after the storm.
The sweetness in the sweat.
The peace in the party.
His fingers traced my thigh like he wasn’t trying to start something, but my body knew better. Every circle he made sent a signal straight to my core.
I shifted, just a little, just enough for him to feel the warmth between my legs, and he tilted his head like he already knew the storm he was stirring.
“You feel that?” I whispered.
He nodded, lips brushing my cheek. “I been feeling it. You just finally ready to stop pretending you don’t need this.”
That was all it took.
I turned in his lap, straddling him now, and we kissed the kind of kiss that made your spine curve and your toes curl. His hands gripped my waist, then slid under my dress like he was unwrapping something fragile and expensive.
“You gone let me make you feel good out here?” he asked against my lips.
“Out here, in there, on the balcony rail, on the ceiling. Yeah, wherever.”
We both laughed, but he didn’t rush.
That was the thing about him—he never did. Every movement was deliberate, every touch had intention. And when he entered me right there in the soft dark of the balcony chair, it wasn’t just sex. It was a celebration.
My head fell back as his hips moved slow, matching the rhythm of the city below us with jazz in the distance, laughter in the streets, wind in my hair. His lips found my collarbone, then my breasts, then my mouth again.
“I love this version of you,” he whispered.
“I think I do too.”
And just like that, I shattered.
Not just from the orgasm, but from the release. From the joy. From the way he held me through it like I was precious.
When it was over, I stayed in his lap, our breathing finally slowing as we rested against each other under the stars.
He kissed my forehead softly. “I gotta get up early tomorrow. Some work I need to take care of.”
I nodded, tracing circles on his chest. “All good. I was gonna chill and do some exploring anyway. Maybe get lost in the city a little.”
He smiled. “You should. Let the city love on you some more. But be ready by 6, okay? I’m taking you somewhere special for dinner.”
I kissed him once more and whispered, “Can’t wait.”
And I meant it because that day reminded me that my Heaux Phase was less about the chaos and more about the clarity I found in my own pleasure.