Page 22 of Played
I don’t need her to explain that last sentence. From her journal entries, I know that her fiancé died within that time frame. And if I didn’t get that, the subtle flexing of her jaw and the rapid blinking of her eyes give all the context needed.
“Are you ... better?” she suddenly asks, and I arch an eyebrow. Clearing her throat, she lifts her hand to the chain around her neck. She toys with the pendant tucked inside her sweater for several seconds before dropping her arm. “It’s been two years, and you’re in therapy. Do you feel any better? Not as”—she shrugs a shoulder and twirls her fingers, as if that gesture can conjure the words she’s searching for—“heavy?”
I inhale a sharp breath, straightening. After a second, I release it on a long, low exhale.
“I won’t lie to you. Some days I wake up and want to knock all this shit over because I’m mad as fuck. Other days I wish God would come down and fight me face to face.”
“You betta ask Jacob how that worked out for him. You and that hip gon’ fuck around and find out.”
I snort. “You got that. But those are the days I blame God and don’t wanna have shit to do with him. Then there are days I have to force myself out of the bed.” Damn near crawl out, when all I want to do is lie there and not move because even that’s too painful.
“Solomon,” she whispers and, reaching out, sets her small, long-fingered, elegant hand over the one resting on my thigh.
I stare down, taking in the size difference, her skin a few shades darker than mine. A circle of heat simmers, then flares to life where she touches me. It doesn’t stay on the back of my hand, though. It radiates up my arm, across my chest, and shit, straight to my dick. Lust, guilt, and disgust at myself are a twisted mess in my blood, my gut. My cock doesn’t give a fuck about the guilt or disgust, though.
“Then”—I swallow past a suddenly tight throat—“there are days when the weight on my chest lifts and I can ... breathe. When I can go hours without thinking of her. Or I can laugh and not feel guilty. Or my heart doesn’t seize up when my son talks about his mother.” I loose another breath, pick up my Sam Adams, and, tipping my head back, down a healthy gulp. “What I’m trying to say, ma, is the answer to your question is yes and no. Grief isn’t stationary; it’s continuous and fluid until it’s not. Day by day we find a way not to be dragged under. And each day you don’t is a win.” I stare into her brown eyes, glimpsing the sadness, the ache there. “Are you winning, Adina?”
“I . . .”
She bows her head and removes her hand from mine, circling the slender fingers around the base of her throat. I’m a piece of shit for wondering how those small hands would fit around me. How the softness of her palm would feel sliding up and down my hard dick.
Fuck.
I need to get the hell up outta here. Away from her before I do something I regret. Something I’ll hate myself for.
“I’m winning more than I’m losing,” she softly admits, dragging me kicking and screaming from the spiral I’m point-eight seconds away from tumbling into.
“Take the win.” I drink down the last of my beer and set it firmly on the bar top.
“You want another one?” she asks, her gaze flicking from the emptied bottle back to me.
“No, I’m good. You?”
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “We can head out.”
“Let me go take care of the tab, and I’ll be right back. Aht. Not interested in hearing whatever bullshit you about to let come out your mouth.”
I rise off the stool and head toward the other end of the bar. But not before I hear a muttered “Mean ass.”
Smirking, I take care of the tab and ignore the phone number scrawled on the back of the receipt. Even if I were in the headspace to date again—which I’m not and don’t know when or if I will be—with this move, she wouldn’t be an option. Hell, she couldn’t even get the dick. For all she knew, Adina and I could’ve been together. It was grimy and rude as fuck for her to slip me her number.
Not caring if she’s watching, I toss the receipt in the trash can near the exit. Adina arches an eyebrow in question, but she turns and opens the door, stepping through to outside, me right behind her.
We silently walk down the sidewalk, which is teeming with people either going into or leaving the restaurants lining the street. It’s habit, but I stay to the right of her, providing a barrier between her and the street. When I took that position, she again arched an eyebrow but still refrained from saying anything.
It isn’t until we’re almost to our cars, parked one behind the other, that she says, “She gave you her number, didn’t she?”
I briefly look at her before returning my attention to our surroundings. “Yeah.”
“Damn,” she scoffs. “How that heffa know we weren’t on a date? I could’ve been your woman, and she up there being shady. I knew she was too nice,” she mutters. Then, a short pause later, “Why didn’t you keep it, though?”
“I don’t do friendly pussy.”
“Oh. Okay. Wow.” Her steps stutter, almost stopping. But then, with a shake of her head, she resumes walking. Another brief pause. “Do you do pussy at all?” she asks.
My head jerks toward her, but she’s staring straight ahead, not looking at me.
“Are you asking if I’m fucking?”
