8. Mahasin
Mahasin
N ow I know I’m drunk, but I ain’t that damn drunk.
Since when did RYZE start hosting fine ass men like the one in front of me?
His rich brown skin wrapped that warrior physique, making me want to take a bite.
A full, thick beard framed his lips, while tight curls crowned his head; his sides tapered sharply, shaping his face into a captivating blend of danger and perfection.
Have mercy. From what I could tell, he was tatted across the whole top half of his body, and I found myself wishing I could sneak a peek at how those Amiri jeans were holding his ass.
Facing forward, the fitted black tee stretched over what I could only imagine was a perfectly etched chest. Indeed, I’d let him ruin me in the worst way.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, his voice sultry enough to strip me down where I sat. Hunter’s voice was deep, commanding, but this man. His voice could talk my panties off through a pair of slacks.
“No,” I said shyly, praying he was staying and not stealing the stool away.
When he sat, my body betrayed me—heat pooling, pulse quickening, my pussy instantly wet.
And then he had the nerve to smell good, too.
His scent was unforgettable—dark chocolate intertwined with smoked leather and bergamot.
I leaned in without even realizing—my body was drawn to him, like it knew where it belonged before he even said hello.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked, eyes lazy from whatever he’d just ordered another round of.
“No, please—be my guest,” I said, smiling way harder than I wanted to.
The bartender set his drink down—and she was smiling way harder than she needed to, too.
“And if you need anything—and I mean anything else—make sure you wave me down. I’ll stop whatever I’m doing to make sure you’re taken care of,” she purred, her voice dipped in lust. She strutted to the other end of the bar so hard I was sure her back would hurt in the morning from the way that ass was dipping with every stride.
“Well damn, could she make it any more obvious that she wants to fuck you?” I said—unknowingly—out loud.
“Well, yeah,” he replied, chuckling. “She could’ve just said it. But I’m going to assume she thinks I’m good at picking up on clues… and horny enough to take her up on the offer.”
“Well, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Good at picking up on clues—and horny?” I asked, turning my head to face him.
“Touchdown, Banks!” the football commentators shouted, and the whole bar—including my mystery man—cheered.
You would’ve thought this was a live game and not a replay with the way these men were reacting.
Well, it was the first Super Bowl ring for our state in 13 years, so I guess the barbaric behavior was called for.
“Let’s fucking go, man!” he yelled, before turning back to me. “Gage,” he said, reaching his hand out for me to shake.
“Mahasin,” I said, taking it.
“Mahasin, huh?” he repeated, his tone smooth enough to make my knees buckle. “That’s very fitting.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, blushing.
“The name Mahasin is of Arabic origin—it means beauty, goodness, and excellence. May I ask what you do for a living, Mahasin?”
Damn. The way my name rolled off his tongue, I was ready to let this man ask me for my hand in marriage. Gage was just so smooth, so composed—like he could calm a savage beast. There was this directness about him, as if he couldn’t tell a lie even if he wanted to.
There was no reason my body should be reacting the way it was, but here I was—three minutes in, and my pussy was talking louder than my common sense.
Where the hell was Amber? Because if I leaned on this Hennessy and not my own understanding, I’d be just like that hoe of a bartender—ready to plain-out ask for the dick.
“I’m a doctor—OBGYN, to be exact. Serenity Women’s Medical Group is my birthing center,” I said proudly.
“Okay, talk your shit. That’s wassup,” Gage said with a slight chuckle.
“No, I didn’t mean to come off like I was bragging,” I rushed out.
“It’s just… There are many types of doctors, and naming my practice eliminates the need for you to ask which office I worked for.
I mean, it is the best place for Black maternal health—just ask Women’s Health Magazine —but that’s not a flex. ”
I covered my face with both hands, trying to hide my mouth and my embarrassment.
Why the fuck was Gage making me so nervous? I thought to myself.
“Aye,” he said calmly, gently removing my hands from my face.
“It’s absolutely a flex, and I’m honored to be speaking with a successful African American doctor.
I mean, it’s always something to celebrate when a person of color is in a white-collar position—but when it’s someone who looks like my mom, my sister…
the epitome of beauty and the blueprint of civilization as we know it—it feels safe, familiar, and loving. ”
He paused; eyes locked on mine. “Which is why your name fits you. You are beauty, goodness, and excellence, Mahasin.”
A small smirk tugged at his lips. “And hopefully, mine.”
I heard him. Even though he whispered it.
My ass was blushing so hard I couldn’t even manage a thank you.
Gage was so handsome and charming it knocked me off my square.
That part wasn’t new—the whole state of Rosemoor was full of fine men—but a Havenbrook man was a special recipe: most came from two-parent households where daddy both provided and nurtured, so they knew how to pay bills and treat a woman.
But every pond has its toads, and I should know—I think I kissed every fuck boy this city had to offer.
So why would Gage be any different? Naw.
He was the same wack-ass prize you find at the bottom of a cereal box.
Unless it was one of those Trix color-changing spoons from the '90s—those were fire.
Just like those old prizes, they don’t make men like they used to.
Guys now want to be treated like kings but act like jackasses—cheaters who, instead of uplifting a successful woman, feel intimidated and get jealous.
And then there are the Hunters of the world—fellows who come into your life to wreck it and leave you without a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of.
Fuck that. I’m over getting played. The next nigga is going to have to drown a fish to impress me.
For tonight, Gage was simply eye candy.
“Well, gosh, Mr. Gage, here you are saying sweet nothings to me based on my name alone, and when I think of the name Gage, the only thing that comes to mind is that little nigga the daddy buried in Pet Sematary, and he came back alive killing everybody,” I smiled.
“Damn!” he said, causing us both to laugh—me so hard that tears escaped my eyes.
That laugh was exactly what I needed. It felt like a ton of bricks lifted off my chest and I could finally exhale.
Like the clouds parted to let the sun through.
Gage felt like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Like that instant book-boyfriend love—the kind of unhinged MMC energy that only exists in fiction.
Which is how I knew what I was feeling for him wasn’t real.
I was living through the three H’s right now: hurt, horny, and Hennessy-drunk.
Anything a man said to me tonight would sound like a love song.
“ Gage is Old French—it has a few meanings around measurement, but my favorite interpretation is ‘guarantee.’ And before you copy me by asking my occupation, I’m a producer for film and television,” he said.
“Oh, so you’re just gonna answer my next question before I even ask it?”
“Yes, Doctor…”
“St. James,” I clarified.
“Yes, Dr. St. James,” he repeated smoothly, “unfortunately, you’re going to have to actively contribute to this conversation.” He winked.
“There’s nothing unfortunate about talking to you, Gage.”
And I know I looked like a high school girl talking to her crush when I said that shit. My goodness, I was down bad tonight. Clearing my throat, I said,
“What projects have you done—or are you currently working on?”
“I was blessed to produce the entire reboot of The Hill. Are you old enough to remember that show?”
“Remember the show? Are you kidding me? You couldn’t tell me I wasn’t Olivia!” I said excitedly. Olivia was to The Hill what Lisa Turtle was to Saved by the Bell, except The Hill was unapologetically Black.
“You produced that reboot? That shit was fire! And here you are talking about me flexing—you’re a visual genius.”
“Thank you, Mahasin. And to answer the second part of your question, I’ve been cast as the producer for the movie Tomorrow Never Arrives. ”
“Get the fuck out of here! Not that movie with that sexy-ass actor, Guy Hanson?” I gasped. “The things he could definitely do to me—the movie would have no choice but to be X-rated.” I bit my index finger without even realizing it.
“He aight,” Gage said, his tone holding a twinge of jealousy I didn’t miss.
“Can you introduce me to him?”
“I can, but I’m not.”
“And why not?”
“Because you already declared a sexual infatuation for him,” he said, eyes fixed on mine. “If I introduce you two, he’s guaranteed to fall for you—given how beautiful you are. I mean, your scent alone is alluring. No. Doing that would be dumb on my part, because then you couldn’t be mine.”
I know he was joking, but his tone didn’t match. He didn’t smile when he said it. It wasn’t possessive either; it was like his heart slipped up and told the truth before his mind could stop it. And I couldn’t lie; it felt good hearing that roll off his tongue.
Get it together, bitch.
Not wanting to linger over “being his”, I switched the conversation. “So, The Hill has won several awards, and anything with Guy Hanson’s name on it is an automatic box office hit. Is this your subtle way of telling me you’re rich?” I raised an eyebrow, and he laughed.