11. Psalm
Psalm
The warm morning sun pressed against my skin as I settled into the back patio of my parents' mansion, guitar resting across my lap, fingers absentmindedly moving across strings I wasn't paying attention to.
My body was present. My mind was somewhere else entirely.
Wherever that beautiful menace named Juliet Everette was — that's where you'd find me mentally.
Caught somewhere between her bossing up in Hamburger's class, displaying her beautiful smile at Flip'd, or throwing a full tantrum because her online selections read "sold out. "
Fucking brat.
My eyes drifted shut as the memory of her in that fitted grey dress played back in full color. Breasts perfectly stacked, spilling out tastefully, hips looking like they were built to carry the weight of bearing my seed, ass just enough to grip.
Damn.
I could tell wasn't nobody hitting that on the regular. And if they were, they damn sure weren't hitting it right. That attitude on her was too potent. Even her little button nose had the nerve to flare when she was irritated.
I chuckled to myself thinking about how thoroughly I'd gotten under her skin at the festival.
She had the look of a woman who wanted to stab me — but her eyes carried this lustful daze that her attitude couldn't quite cover.
Her body was ready to melt into mine and I would have gladly accepted every bit of it.
I'd cuff her pussy while my tongue invaded her mouth and let the whole city know she was mine.
Licking my lips, my jaw tightened as my thoughts darkened. If I ever got the opportunity to experience her sensually — man. Nah. I'd lose my fucking mind.
I'd ruin her nice and slow. Lay her bare body down and descend deliberately, massaging every curve on the way.
Her body was nice and healthy too — just the way I liked.
Can't speak for every man, but when I bite, I want to feel meat, not bone.
Once I had her positioned exactly where I wanted her, I'd bend her legs back, make sure them feet were planted, part her thighs and devour that pussy.
Licking and sucking every ounce of that attitude out of her body until every sharp little comeback dissolved into broken breathing and begging.
Hearing that mouth fail her would have me ready to bust — but I'd dick her down long before my climax.
Deep and unhurried, until she was drooling and had completely forgotten how much she claimed to hate a nigga.
Her pretty face would twist in frustration because her body had betrayed every stubborn thought in her head and she loved every second of this euphoric ride.
Loving me.
Damn. The way she'd look spread across my bed — I knew I'd fall all the way in—
"Psalm!"
A feminine voice cut through everything. My eyes snapped open.
My mother stood in the doorway leading to the patio, one brow raised. You had to be one powerful woman to dissolve a wet daydream like that.
"What!" I exhaled sharply.
Her expression shifted immediately. The infamous "do I look like one of your little friends" stare — the one that comes automatically coded into Black mothers everywhere.
Selene Mitchel. Olive skin, blue eyes, all of five foot nothing.
What our older family members back south called "passing.
" I didn't know the full depth of her family's history, but I knew it started on the Robertson plantation back in the Carolinas.
And for lack of a harsher explanation, the bloodline got lightened somewhere along the way.
My great-great-grandmother became pregnant with my great-grandmother and was terrified of what that meant for her unborn child.
The way Selene tells it, great-great-grandmother stole money and jewelry from the Robertson mansion and her and her two sisters fled all the way to New Jersey — where she built a life from nothing, shortening her given surname Robertson to Roberts.
"My bad, Ma. I didn't mean to say it like that," I said, correcting my tone.
"Mm-hmm. You better not had — don't let the height fool you, I whup ass," she smiled, pointing that short index finger directly at me.
She nodded back toward the house. "Your cousin Alonse is here."
I groaned immediately. "Why is he here again?" Knowing damn well I didn't actually care — I was just annoyed at the expectation of having to entertain him.
"Because his development in Florida is under investigation. They believe the soil beneath the property contains hazardous chemicals." She explained. "He just needs somewhere to stay while the testing is completed and he figures out his next move."
"And he couldn't take his grown ass to a hotel?" I challenged.
"Psalm!"
"Nah, Ma — he's like fifty, rich and weird. How'd he even get here? Ain't he scared of trees or something?"
My mother pinched the bridge of her nose. "He is in his late thirties. And he has agoraphobia — a fear of open or unfamiliar spaces. It's a condition he can't control."
"That's suspect, because if he don't like outside, how did Doctor Strange get himself here? Teleport?"
My mother opened the patio door and grabbed my arm firmly. "Get your ass up."
"Ma—"
"Now!"
She dragged me off that patio like I was three years old and marched me through the house toward the guest hall.
And there he stood. Alonse. Dressed like his entire personality was golf and political debates. Ole Carlton Banks looking ass — and not the fly one from the reboot. Standing so stiff you'd think somebody had superglued his feet to the floor.
Why does he have those thick ass socks and tennis shoes on?
I was hardly ever around Alonse — family video chats barely counted. But something about him had always given me a bad vibe. Not the "don't leave the kids around him" vibe. More like the "I collect taxidermy and they're my closest friends" vibe.
I don't like him.
"Cuz," I greeted, loud and completely phony, walking up with my fist raised for dap.
"Psalm," he replied flatly, leaving my hand hanging with nothing but an awkward nod.
This motherfucker.
"Isn't this wonderful," my mother said, clapping her hands like she was presiding over a joyous occasion. "You two get better acquainted — your father and I are going to brunch."
My eyes went wide.
"You're leaving me here with him?" I asked, pointing behind me. "No offense," I added toward Alonse.
"Some taken," he muttered.
"Show him around," my mother ordered. "Talk. Bond. Go." She shooed us both and turned on her heels.
"You like music?" I asked.
"I much prefer the sound of natural breathing," he replied, stiff as ever.
"Oh hell nah — aye, Ma!" I called out. She seemed to be in the kitchen so I headed that way. Alonse followed weirdly behind, hands in his pockets.
"Ma, a few of the guys are coming over to use the court."
"Good." She looked past me. "Alonse, you like basketball?" She winked at him, and he returned the gesture with a slight nod and the most uncomfortable smile I'd ever witnessed.
"We're using the outside court, Ma," I said pointedly.
"Well then use the inside court, son."
Fuck.
My father entered the kitchen dressed and ready for brunch, grinning like a smooth criminal — which meant he'd clearly heard every word of that exchange.
My expression of pure aggravation was all the invitation he needed to let out a full, stomach-holding laugh.
There was nothing remotely funny about this situation and he was about to make it worse.
His approach to conflict between my mother and me had always been the same — find a solution that still gave her exactly what she wanted.
Happy wife, happy life, and everybody else figures it out.
He leaned over my mother's shoulder, pressed a kiss to her cheek, dropped his usual kiss on the top of my head and greeted Alonse with a warm handshake.
I watched my father tiredly, already knowing how this was going to go. The judge was about to deliver his verdict — siding with the prosecutor and sending the plaintiff directly to hell.
"Just lift the privacy fences and use the outdoor court, son," he said. Gavel dropped. Case dismissed.
My mother grinned like a Cheshire cat as my father took her hand and escorted her out.
I stood there, lip curled, watching them saunter away.
Get on my fucking nerves.
Alonse cleared his throat behind me. I turned to find him at the kitchen island with a mini eyeglass cleaning kit laid out — except he was using it to clean his cell phone. How he fit anything into the pockets of those tight ass shorts would forever be a mystery.
"All your friends your age?" he asked.
I looked at him. "Yeah, why?"
He shrugged. "Just trying to gauge how 'down' I need to be." His corny ass chuckled.
Everybody's a comedian around here.
But something about the question sat wrong with me. In the pit of my stomach, it felt less like an attempt to relate to a younger crowd and more like a quiet investigation into something else entirely.
Was this nigga afraid of people his own age too?
Sweat, trash talk and competitive energy filled the outdoor court. We had a good five on five going and my team was up by two. Christian jogged beside me as we reset on defense.
"Aye, what's up with your cousin?"
I glanced toward the sidelines where Alonse sat stiff as a corpse beneath an umbrella, writing in a notebook.
"He different," I shrugged.
"Nigga looks like he audits taxes for fun," Christian snorted.
"He probably does. Forget that man, focus — I got money on this game," I responded.
The ball came my way at exactly the right moment. I hit my signature left crossover with a mean lean back.
I took the shot.
Swish.
"That's game, baby!" I shouted.
Groans erupted from the other side while my team exploded in trash talk and celebratory laughter. After we dapped each other up I pointed toward the pool area. The chef had lunch waiting and it was the perfect way to wind down and keep the energy going a little longer.
A spread of burgers, grilled chicken, pasta salad and all types of fruits and drinks adorned the table.