Chapter 7
DESIREE
The fact that Theodore Joseph Kelly legit went to sleep should be illegal.
I’m still in my feelings. He put me on my knees, shot my mouth full of cum, let it be known he wasn’t fucking me, had the nerve to tell me he’s leaving for not one but two weeks, kissed me with a passion unmatched and then took his funky ass to sleep. Dirty bastard.
I must have stared at the ceiling for at least twenty minutes, pissed enough to file a complaint with somebody. Who? I don’t fucking know. But clearly somebody needed to hear about the emotional damage this man caused me.
Then, oh and then! He had the audacity to wake up this morning all cool, calm, and collected.
He showered, got dressed and made coffee. Now he’s putting on his watch with his beard immaculate per usual, standing in our kitchen like his ass hadn’t committed several acts of personal disrespect against me and my damn patience.
“You’re still mad, Honey,” he says, not looking up from his coffee.
“I am not still mad.”
He looks at me like that damn Omar Epps gif.
“You’re mad.”
“I’m going to work.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“You didn’t ask one.”
He sets his straight black coffee down, steam rolling into the air, and finally turns all the way toward me.
Then crosses the kitchen without rushing, his shirt fitted across his burly shoulders.
I’m still in my robe, because my first client isn’t for another two hours and I had planned on enjoying my morning like a normal woman with peace.
Clearly, God had other plans.
Theodore steps in behind me at the counter, all six-three of him at my back and nothing about him pretending last night was enough.
Both his hands come around me to land palm first on the counter, boxing me in without grabbing me, without raising his voice, without giving me anything to fight except the fact that his dick is bricked against my ass like last night didn’t already put me through enough.
“You don’t think it’s too early for an attitude,” he says, his breath tickling my ear. “Come on. Don’t be like that.”
I press my palms into the marble and follow one gray vein through the stone instead of looking back at him. “Like what?”
“Like I don’t love you.”
This man’s voice can melt butter and I’m too weak for this shit with him.
“I didn’t say that.”
Lifting one hand, he wraps his fingers around my throat, gently guiding the back of my head to his chest.
“You didn’t have to.”
His mouth touches the side of my neck, one slow kiss, not enough to fix anything and definitely enough to make me madder.
“I have to get to work,” he says. “But we’ll talk later.”
“Talk?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what we’re calling it?”
He turns me to face him, takes my face in both hands, kisses me, and says, “Have a good day, Honey.”
Then he steps away.
Just like that.
Oh, I’m ‘bout sick of this negro.
A few minutes later, I hear the garage door open, then close, and I stay exactly where I am because moving feels like admitting he won.
And I refuse to let that be the case. Thankfully, I’m interrupted from lying to myself by my phone buzzing on the island.
Lizzie. I swear this woman has a sixth sense or something. My girl has an inconvenient gift for calling when I’m trying to pretend I’m fine.
I answer and put her on speaker because I need my hands free to stand here and keep being dramatic in private.
“Good morning, my little honey bunches of oats,” Lizzie says.
See? That right there is why I love her. She calls with a greeting soft enough to make me remember she’s not the problem.
“Good morning.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Oh no ma’am. That wasn’t convincing at all.”
“I said good morning.”
“Okay, yeah, you did. But you said it like somebody’s attorney told you not to admit guilt.”
I look toward the garage door Theodore just disappeared through. “I’m fine.”
“Desi.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I, which is why I’m going to ask you this one time. Did that man leave you in that house mad, horny, or both?”
I close my eyes. “Lizzie.”
“Both. Got it.”
“That is not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to. You answered the phone with restraint. I know what restraint sounds like on you, and it usually means somebody fine did something foul.”
I hate that she knows me this well. I also love that she does.
“Girl. He went to sleep,” I say.
There’s a small pause on her end.
“Like, after?”
“After enough.”
“Enough for who?”
“Clearly him.”
Lizzie makes a sound like she’s trying to hold back a laugh because she values her life. “Okay, wait, wait. I’m listening.”
“He put me through a whole situation basically. Told me I wasn’t getting fucked, then casually mentioned he’s leaving for two weeks.”
“Two weeks? Where his ass going?” she asks, and now she sounds like my friend instead of my personal comedian.
“Business in Africa.”
“Well damn.”
“Right.”
“And he told you this after he denied you?”
“Correct.”
“Oh yeah, baby, that’s nasty work.”
“Thank you.”
“No, I mean strategic nasty. That man knew exactly what the hell he was doing.”
I grab the edge of the counter and look down at the marble like it might offer me anything like hope.
“He always knows what he’s doing,” I say.
“And that’s what you can’t shake.”
Lizzie gives me room without making it feel like pressure. That’s the gift of her. She can talk mess all day, but she also knows when to stop playing in my face.
“I’m not mad that he has to work,” I say finally. “I’m not even mad that he’s leaving. I mean, I am, but I understand it. Business is business. I have my own.”
“I know, friend.”
“I’m not falling apart over two weeks,” I say.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I have things to do. He has things to do. We’re grown.”
“Very grown.”
“And I’m not the kind of woman who acts like my whole life stops because a man has to leave town.”
“No, you are not.”
Her answer is too smooth, and I already know she’s setting me up.
“But?” I ask.
“But you are the kind of woman who likes that man in your bed, in your kitchen, in your space, and in your business when you want him there. So being irritated that he’s leaving after turning you all the way on and then going to sleep like a retired deacon is not the same thing as falling apart.”
I press my lips together because laughing would only encourage her.
“A retired deacon is crazy.”
“But accurate?”
“Unfortunately.”
“And he really went to sleep?”
“Lizzie, that man pulled the cover up like he had earned rest.”
She laughs then, not too loud, because she must remember she wants to live.
We go back and forth for the next fifteen minutes before I tell her I love her and will call her later. I have to get myself together before leaving home.
I’m fastening my bracelet when my phone lights up on the vanity.
Theodore.
I answer and put him on speaker. “If you’re calling to ask if I’m still mad, I’m working on becoming a better person.”
“So yes.”
“Did you need something?”
“You.”
I pause with the bracelet still open around my wrist.
I look at myself in the mirror. Cream outfit. Diamond studs. Face done. A woman with a full schedule, a good business, and too much pride to let a man hear how fast he can interrupt her morning.
“Theodore.”
“I know,” he says.
“Do you?”
“Yes. And I meant what I said.”
“About not fucking me?”
“About talking later.”
My fingers stop on the clasp.
“Before I leave,” he says, “you know I can arrange company for you.”
I know what that means. Theodore would make the call and sit back while another man did what I’d allow. That’s familiar territory, easy pleasure, and usually that would sound like a perfect night.
Today, I could give two fucks about that shit.
“No,” I say.
“No?”
“I don’t want company.”
The line goes silent long enough for me to know he heard everything I didn’t say.
“What do you want, Honey?”
I close my eyes because this man knows good and goddamn well.
“I don’t know why you keep asking me that. You. You know I want you.”
“Good,” he says finally.
“I’m sicka you.”
“No, Honey. You’re not.”
The call ends before I can decide whether I want to smile or throw my phone.
Then I grab my bag, check my reflection one last time, and head for the door looking like a woman who has every part of her day under control.
Except, apparently, when it comes to Theodore Kelly.
My phone buzzes again before I make it to the garage.
The clinic app.
New client request pending approval.
B. Kinsley.
I pause with my hand on the door.
B. Kinsley.
My mind starts to take that somewhere, and I shut it down fast. Nah, that could be anybody.
I tap the notification open anyway.
Private Wellness ConsultationRequested Provider: Desiree PerkinsRequested Date: Tuesday, 10:30 a.m.
Tuesday.
I scroll once more and stop at the referral line.
Referral: T. J. Kelly
Now see that? Theodore referring someone to my clinic without telling me? That’s that unknown shit I don’t like.