Page 25 of The Brooklyn Way

I threw up my hand in mock frustration. “Aww, come on, girl. How’re you gonna say something like that when we’ve been having a good night? We’ve eaten together, chopped it up, you’ve told me your secrets, we’ve shot the shit. Of course I see you.”

“You just started seeing me earlier this week. You never saw me in the past.

“Stop bringing up old shit.”

We were both quiet as the sun finally dipped below the horizon.

“That was beautiful. We should make a date to watch the sunset together every Friday that you’re free.”

“Why we gotta wait ’til Friday?” I touched my phone to hers as it rested on her thigh. When the contact card came up, I tapped it to save her information.

She did the same.

Saturday was my mother’s debutante ball. I made it my business to shut my phone off, park my truck in the garage, lock all my doors and hide in the crib all day. In years past, she always managed to find something for me to do on Debutante Day (as she called it). Some years, I would need to escort young ladies whose fathers were unable to attend. Some years, I was on the set-up and break-down crew. Other years, I had to be the impromptu DJ, waiter, or gopher. I wasn’t interested in doing any of that. Instead, I spent my day chilling, sleeping, playing Call of Duty and working on restoring my fifty-year-old classic car.

My head was under the hood of the black Plymouth Barracuda when my phone buzzed in my pocket indicating that I had an incoming text message. I grabbed the towel I had been using to wipe my sweat and ran it across my entire face. I’d turned my phone back on around five o’clock, once I was sure that the debutante ball was over. It was now around seven, and the number flashing across my screen wasn’t my mother’s, so I read the message.

Brooklyn Way: Hey. It’s Saturday night and you’re probably busy, but if you aren’t, do you wanna watch the sunset tonight?

Me: I’m doing stuff, but you can still come through and watch the sunset.

Brooklyn Way: Nah, it’s cool. I don’t want to bother you.

Me: If you bring food, you definitely won’t be bothering me.

Brooklyn Way: I don’t have food. All I have is me. You got NBA money. You can order us something.

I had to chuckle at that response.

Me: You’ve got cotillion and debutante money. Your treat.

Brooklyn Way: You’re about to be watching the sunset by yourself.

More laughter from me.

Me: And you’re about to be watching the reflection of the moon off that pool back there.

Brooklyn Way: Don’t worry about it. I’m pretty sure I can see the sunset from the beach. I’ll head over there.

Me: Cool. Enjoy!

Brooklyn Way: (Frowny face emoji) Are you really acting like this?

Me: You’re the one being a spoiled brat, lil mama. I’ve been told you to come on.

I watched the dots appear and disappear at the bottom of the screen. For some strange reason, I could hear her thoughts.

Me: Did you forget how to get over here from the guest house?

Brooklyn Way: Maybe.

I gave her directions and a few moments later, I saw a feminine figure come into view at the bottom of the expansive driveway.

“Hey.” A light sheen of sweat covered her face as she greeted me.

“Hey.” I cast a quick but thorough glance at her, taking her in completely. She wore what looked like a linen set—a short white miniskirt with a pattern of green palm trees, and a matching top that was tied in the front and showed her stomach. I didn’t know much about fabrics, but I knew when a garment was quality. I had a personal tailor back in Chicago who cut my suits and draped me in some of the finest textiles for important events and appearances. Quality was in the hand of the piece and the way it laid on the body. Brooklyn’s clothes were quality.

Not only was her clothing nice, Brooklyn was nice. She was pretty with skin the color of creamy peanut butter that looked smooth as silk. Though she often hid her deep hazel eyes behind sunglasses, I knew that they were expressive and kind. She could look at you in a way that made you feel like she would have compassion for all your burdens. My favorite thing about her face was the barely-there smattering of freckles just under each eye—oh yeah, and that small mouth with those pouty ass lips. Her mouth looked almost too small to accommodate my dick, but the plushness of those lips made me sure that the stretching would be worth the struggle.

---