14. Gage
Gage
I couldn’t sleep.
Paris was curled up next to me in my Baldacchino Supreme bed, her skin soft like silk, her perfume light and airy. Her body looked appetizing as she rested, wearing one of my T-shirts, with nothing else underneath.
I met Paris on the set of one of Desmond’s projects.
She was an extra in a book-turned-film called A Ride to Remember , written by Neveah Jayne.
Our first encounter was a bit confrontational—she was being cut out of the diner scene because her ginger hair was deemed too distracting, and she refused to dye it.
She was a natural-born redhead, myself; I couldn’t blame her.
She stormed into Desmond’s office and called him everything but a child of God.
I was instantly drawn to her boldness, her refusal to be dismissed. She was also very attractive. After I made sure Desmond or Jason hadn’t fucked her (because that was usually how the extras secured roles), I got her number, and the rest was history.
Baby was cool for a while, but then I noticed her ambition dropped, and the swipes on my bank cards increased.
I paid top dollar to send her to acting classes with some of the world's best coaches.
I would bring home scripts and roles for her to audition for—although the audition was just a formality.
She had the part as soon as I told the booking agent to give it to her.
But Paris would never do her part to seal the deal. Instead, she became a passenger princess and my damn shadow.
She was nothing like my Dollface.
Mahasin was a rare gem—smart, graceful, classy, independent, and the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on. God really blessed me with her as the mother of my child.
My baby would be raised with love and direction—destined to become the next big thing in whatever career path they chose. And I’d be there every step of the way. They would never miss my presence, because I’d be the first person they’d see waking up, and the last before they went to bed.
“Babe,” Paris called, sliding her leg over mine.
“Mm?”
“I need it,” she begged.
Normally, I would’ve smiled, flipped her under me, and fucked her until she tapped out. But tonight, my mind and body just didn’t respond to her.
My head was consumed by thoughts of my unborn child and all the things I needed to prepare for her arrival. My body… My body was yearning for Mahasin.
Since she sporadically popped up at the production studio, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Her hair, her skin, and the way I remembered how she felt—how she tasted —had me wanting to jack my dick more often than I’d like to admit.
Paris began to rub the bulge between my legs, and my mind immediately took me back to that one night with the love of my life.
“There goes my baby,” Paris moaned as she released my extremely hard dick from my boxers.
She used my precum as lube and started stroking me like the sensation might bring me back into the present.
Smiling, she licked her lips with confidence.
I assumed it came from the fact that she thought she was the reason I was aroused.
That couldn’t have been further from the truth.
I felt her warm, wet mouth on the tip of my dick, causing me to throw my head back and moan. Slowly, Paris took me in, inch by inch, letting saliva build up in her mouth.
Knowing her limits when it came to my length, I placed my hand on the back of her head and guided her up and down my shaft at a speed I preferred.
“If you gonna do that shit for me, love, then do that shit,” I moaned.
After losing my virginity to Mahasin, I craved sex like oxygen. But no one could make me feel the way she did.
Sex with Mahasin was an experience —one that healed a nigga’s past traumas and prepared him to take on the world. I went through women like a serial killer, collecting body after body, trying to relive the high that was Dollface.
Paris—with her once-strong ambition, her looks, and her wet pussy—came close... but no cigar.
“Fuck, love, that’s right, bring your man where he needs to be, fuck.”
Paris went to work on my shit, sucking, stroking, twisting, and now teasing my balls.
“Talk to me, nasty, P,” I requested.
No woman had spoken nastily to me during sex since Mahasin—and I never asked them to. But seeing my Dollface at the studio made me crave everything about her.
“Huh?” Paris asked, removing me completely from her mouth. “Why you stop sucking?” I replied with a question of my own. “Because—what the fuck was that request about? Talk nasty to you? Since when you be on some weird freak shit like that?”
“I can’t try new shit with my woman, P?” I asked.
“Or is it you want your woman to do new shit that your old bitch used to do?” she huffed, removing her face from between my legs and wiping her mouth.
“Fuck you talking about?” I asked as I put my dick back into my boxers.
“The little groupie bitch from the studio the other day. Your whole face brightened when you saw her—and not to mention, you went ghost for thirty minutes to have a conversation with her that I still don’t know what it was about.”
“She’s a friend.”
“She’s not just a friend, Gage. When did you stop a whole set for thirty minutes for a friend? Jason popped up on set with a dislocated shoulder from doing God knows what, and you made him sit quietly until the scene wrapped. But this bougie bitch appears, and the whole world stops?”
You fucking right. That’s what I wanted to reply with, but I knew I’d have to sleep with one eye open.
“Ayo, P, don’t make something out of nothing, aight? Mahasin is an old friend—someone I never thought I’d see again—so her showing up at the studio the other day caught me off guard, that’s it, that’s all.”
I sat up a little, cupped the back of her neck, and began to lightly massage. “I got some things I gotta handle in the morning. Let me take care of that, and I’ll talk to you afterward.”
“Nigga, whatever. You’re lying—and you suck at it.
If you think I’m about to sit here and get played, you've got another thing coming with your big-headed ass. I tiptoe around a lot of shit to be understanding to your preferences, but I ain’t tiptoeing around another bitch.
Your ass is autistic, but I see you still a nigga at the end of the day,” she scowled.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean, P? You know what, don’t even answer. I see your ass still tiptoeing around in them dingy-ass white socks I told you not to wear. Fucking psycho—take your ass to bed,” I barked back.
Paris had this bad habit—one that most women did when I revealed I was an autistic adult.
They used it against me, as if I should feel honored, they were dealing with me and my exceptionalities.
But let’s be honest—autism aside—every living person has preferences, quirks, and a place on the spectrum somewhere. Real love saw past all that.
Now, I never expected someone to give up on themselves to be with me, but I also never wanted to feel like someone was doing me a favor.
When she rolled over, I stared up at the ceiling. I told myself I was defensive because she had started an unnecessary argument, and that I hadn’t told her about my conversation with Mahasin because there was no need to drop a bomb when there was no war.
Both were bullshit.
I was defensive because I felt protective of Mahasin—and I didn’t need Paris speaking on her name, making her out to be some pregnant side chick homewrecker. And I could’ve easily told her about our conversation, but I was being a coward and didn’t feel like dealing with Paris’s reaction.
“Lord, just have that joy you promised waiting for me in the morning,” I prayed, then turned over to get some much-needed sleep.
I woke up way earlier than I normally would.
Paris came into the kitchen still wearing my t-shirt, face freshly washed, looking refreshed and pretty.
“You going into the studio early?” she asked, grabbing a mug. “I can be ready in twenty minutes.”
“Naw. Remember, I said I have something to handle this morning.”
“Something or someone?” she asked, her eyes narrowing over the rim of the cup.
“Don’t start.”
“There wouldn’t be a reason to start if you’d just be honest with me and put an end to my curiosity.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, P,” I said low and stern.
“But satisfaction brought him back,” she replied.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. Checking for my wallet and phone, I grabbed my keys and headed toward the door.
“Do you love her?” she called out to my back.
“Paris,” I sighed, not in the mood to be annoyed before Mahasin’s appointment.
“What? I just want to know what lane I’m in.”
I turned around and stepped close enough to give her a kiss on her cheek. “Your lane is your lane. You’re the only one in it. I’ll talk to you later.”
She didn’t respond, but I felt her eyes on my back the whole way to the door.
Serenity Women’s Medical Group wasn’t at all what I imagined. The air wasn’t stale, the temperature wasn’t cold, and there weren’t any torn chairs huddled around a coffee table with outdated magazines—including a Highlights copy just in case some kids were present in the waiting room.
The lobby was huge and luxurious, with refrigerators filled with bottled Fiji waters, exotic plants, fresh roses, and a huge tank that filled an entire back wall, containing all types of colorful fish and turtles.
The floors were shiny, the furniture looked comfortable, and it smelled like rainbows and vacation.
Mahasin even had the sounds of running water playing—lightly, but loud enough to soothe even the iratest person.
This shit felt more like a spa than a birth center.
I didn’t beat Mahasin here, but I arrived thirty minutes earlier than she scheduled. Dollface needed to feel that I was committed—and that I wouldn’t fail her.
I heard a clear voice and turned around to see Amber.