7. Gage
Gage
I couldn’t say I was heartbroken that Kelsey and I didn't work out. Being heartbroken would require a betrayal of love, admiration, and affection you’d given to someone.
Kelsey wasn’t even allowed to stay with me more than three nights in a row, and by the afternoon of that third night, I’d make it clear it was time for her to go—with the famous, “So… what you about to do?” question.
Naw, heartbroken wasn’t it. If I had to put a verb on what I felt, I’d go with disappointment.
But not disappointment in Kelsey. I was disappointed in myself for wasting my time, letting misery settle in over someone who cared more about me stretching out her passed-around pussy than getting to know me.
I couldn't care less about that girl.
And yet, oddly enough, I still found myself at RYZE with my boys, Jason and Desmond, toasting to the single life.
“There’s some fine-ass women in here tonight, ooo wee!” Desmond cheered.
“Nigga, calm yo ass down. This ain’t Chuck E. Cheese’s,” Jason scoffed.
“Might as well be, ’cause I’m definitely about to pay for a few rides,” Desmond laughed.
I shook my head, laughing at them both. The three of us couldn’t be more different—Desmond Givins, the funny one; Jason Connor, the dapper, prim-and-proper type and borderline ignorant; and me…
well, just me. But our love for film and brotherhood kept us tight.
We met on the set of a reboot of a classic ’90s Black sitcom, and we’ve been locked in ever since.
“And this our boy Gage—he’s the big-time producer on the film,” Desmond said, pulling me out of my thoughts. Apparently, three gorgeous women had approached us while I mentally drifted off.
"But nine times out of ten, you'll catch him on set as if he was the line producer and not the executive," Desmond continued.
"Nigga thinks he's the producer and the director. He yells, 'Be quiet!' and 'Cut!' more than me — but fuck it, makes my job a lot easier," Jason chimed in.
“Okay, so let me make sure I got this straight,” the woman, whose name I later learned was Amber, clarified. “Jason’s the director, Desmond’s a screenwriter, and Gage over here—with his fine, mysterious ass—is the producer?”
“That’s right, love, and he’s happy to meet you. Ain’t that right, Gage?” Jason asked.
“Huh? Yeah,” I said, caught off guard. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.
” I stuck my hand out for a shake. She accepted it and, while firmly holding on, said, “No worries, Mr. Gage. I ain’t on the prowl tonight—I’m a happily taken woman.
But best believe if I wasn’t, I’d be twirling my fingers in those thick curls of yours. ”
I smiled. Part of me was flattered, the other part, relieved since Amber seemed to be too rich for my blood.
Don’t get me wrong, her man was lucky to call her his, with her petite, slim-thick frame, hazel nut skin, and bowlegs, but her upbeat personality reminded me of Kelsey, and I’d basically be insane to do the same thing and expect a different result.
“Thank you,” I replied. “Well, if you’re already taken, I guess you’ll just have to send another one of your friends my way.
Just make sure she’s as beautiful as you.
” I winked. That line was straight out of Desmond’s playbook—he’d pull it quick anytime a woman shot him down. His way of saving face.
“No, she doesn’t. I’m a why-choose type of girl,” another woman chimed in, her words completely slurred.
“And on that note,” I said, raising my now-empty glass, “I’m going to head to the bar. Good evening, ladies.” I walked away from the table.
What was humanity’s obsession with connection?
Clearly, we were designed for it—but it was the obsession I couldn’t digest. Were the self-proclaimed boldness and security we all swore we had really that lackluster?
So much so that we craved attention and validation from people who, if we spent time with them, really got to know them, we’d realize we weren’t even compatible with them.
Did the idea of needing to be with someone cloud our judgment so badly that we stopped seeing people for who they truly were and instead saw them for who we wanted them to be?
Was the potential we bet all our chips on ever there?
Or were they just placeholders, stand-ins for the overhyped, unscientific “couple goals” narrative social media fed us?
But what the hell did I know? At thirty-five, I’d never been with anyone longer than six months mentally—and no one at all physically. Maybe I should just say fuck all the formalities, let loose, get me a baby mama, and call it a day.
"Get out of your head, nigga," I muttered to myself.
RYZE had a good crowd for a weekday—not overly packed but buzzing enough to enjoy.
I found the perfect spot at the bar, right across from the television.
The Rosemoor Titans highlights were playing tonight, and star quarterback Easton Banks was on fire this season.
It was no surprise they won the Superbowl.
I pulled out a barstool just as a woman turned her head toward me, her eyes locking with mine.
Fuck, she was beautiful. Smooth almond-brown skin.
Full, heart-shaped, pouty lips lined perfectly in chestnut with a nude tint that made my knees weak.
Her eyes—dark brown yet so shiny and clear—looked like they belonged on a porcelain doll.
And that hair—thick, full, curly. I could already imagine losing my mind if she ever wore it in one of those “pineapple” styles the natural-hair gurus talk about.
As she shifted on her stool, a faint wind carried her scent to me.
Strawberries dipped in caramel with hints of sweet milk and powder.
She smelled sweet and innocent enough to eat, but woman enough to leave white musk and burning wood in my senses.
Inhaling her made my dick twitch, woke up the lion in me, and for the first time ever, I didn’t just want someone—I desired her.
I wanted to protect her, to rid the world of anything that could dim that glow or steal a smile from her lips.
I wanted to be the one to put those smile lines around the deep dimples I’d just noticed when she gave me a shy grin.
I wanted to build her the most perfect home from the ground up, with 24/7 armored security, guarding her as if she were made of glass.
Because she was.
And she was mine.
My porcelain doll.
My Dollface.