Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 112755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
She started laughing again, but this time, she sounded nervous. Silence reared its head again, the sexual tension rising. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her breasts, practically ready to pop out of her shirt.
After a short while, she broke the silence. Sliding her long leg along the couch, stretching out, her foot almost touching his pants. He looked down at her foot. The skin looked well moisturized and cared for. Her toes were perfect. The dark polish reminded him of a moonless night, navy blue, unchipped and glossy. He wouldn’t call himself a foot man, but he appreciated it when a woman kept up her hands and feet.
“Legend, you asked why I didn’t try and choose someone else to buddy up with in class. Well, I have, but I have less in common with them, and as far as my inner circle, I don’t have a lot of friends really who are trying to do something with themselves,” she said with a sigh as she leaned forward and grabbed one of the decorative furniture magazines on her coffee table. After rearranging it to her liking, she rested against the couch. “There’s only two Black people in our class, and one of them has missed a number of days, so I imagine she’ll be gone soon enough.”
“What’s that got to do with me? I’m not Black, either. People say I act Black, including my own mama, whatever the hell that means, but at the end of the day, I’m still not. There’s no transracial situation goin’ on here. I hate that term, too. It’s bullshit. We’re born the race we’re supposed to be, and race isn’t even real, if you think about it. It’s just a category, so there’s no need to try and define ourselves in the first fucking place. I appreciate African American culture, I naturally gravitate towards it, but at the end of the day, I know who I am, and I’m comfortable in my own skin. People can say whatever they want to about me. I like what I like, and move how I move. Still not Black though, and never will be.”
“That’s true, but I still see similarities in us.”
“Like what? Besides the love of cooking?”
“We’re both determined. Driven. Responsible. You make people laugh, but you get real serious when it’s time to get down to business. I’m the same way. I like that.”
“You got all of that from a few weeks of class with me?”
“I did.”
“I don’t believe you. I think you’re just sayin’ what sounds good.”
“And what motivation would I have for that? Sayin’ what sounds good? What could I possibly want from you that requires me to tell a lie?”
“I don’t know.” He looked at her up and down, grabbed the glass of lemonade he’d poured himself, and gulped it while she looked on. After he finished guzzling it down, he placed it back on the coaster on the table. “But I’ll find out.”
Chapter Seven
… The next day
It was like déjà vu. Legend sat on the lady’s couch, his belly full from a delicious steak dinner. He couldn’t believe his luck. That afternoon, he’d received a call from Desiree right after he’d gotten off work, stating that hell had frozen over because Kaylee’s father had called and wanted to pick her up, and take her for the day. It was Saturday, and she didn’t have to work or go to class. She had her apartment to herself, and since she’d enjoyed his company so much the day before, she wanted him to come back so she could return the favor, and cook for him. Netflix. Hulu. And Chill.
They were now engrossed in a heated conversation.
“You’re paranoid.” She stretched her toes, and they brushed against his thigh.
“Nope. Just careful.”
Today, she had on a black robe and matching satin pajamas. Same boobies bounced about all carefree, teasing the hell out of him.
“With the life I had growin’ up, Legend, I’m careful, too. That’s why it never takes me long to see who’s full of shit, and who’s not.”
“Then how did you get tripped up by your daughter’s father? According to the argument I overheard you having with him, he’s a whole clown.”
She sighed. “I was still young then. Fallin’ for the trickery, dickery, dock. He talked a good game, believe me, and we have a history. That made it even more complicated.”
“High school sweethearts?”
“No. Same foster care parent.”
He cracked his knuckles, mulling her words.
“I bet I know you better than you think I do,” she offered, her lips twisted, and a mischievous expression was on her face.
“Oh, really?” He slowly stood and stretched. “Well, before you get started, hold that thought. I’ll be right back.” He grabbed his empty glass which had been filled with red wine, made his way into the kitchen, replenished it, and returned to the couch. After taking a quick sip, he put it down again.