Page 5

5

Raya

I’ve become convinced that little kids keep you young.

Like right now, I’m running around the playground with a bunch of four-year-olds. They insisted on chasing me, and I needed to get my steps in, so around and around I go, dodging their dirty little hands as I periodically check my Fitbit.

I’m already at 4,299 steps for today.

That’s the good news.

The bad news is, I’m back at work.

Ordered Steps Children’s Learning Center is hell. Not the fiery, eternal damnation kind of hell. It’s the kind where sticky fingers, nap-time rebellions, and toys that squeak for no reason conspire to drive you insane.

I see why that Toy Story bear crashed out.

The daycare sits next to my aunt Tori’s church. She hooked me up a few years ago when I needed a job, and it’s been downhill ever since. I have plans to move on soon, but in the meantime, I tell myself I’m a teacher at a private school. In my head, I teach third grade because…well, I don’t know why. Eight year olds seem like a better age than these assholes I’m dealing with now.

Most of these kids here are okay, but there’s this one girl in my class. Aniya. I can’t stand that little heffa. If she was my kid, I would have listed her ass on Facebook Marketplace by now. She looks sweet with her perfectly symmetrical afro puffs, pink chucks, and dimples that could sell a thousand of those brittle ass “Please donate to my dance team” candy bars, but her cuteness doesn’t fool me. That girl is the spawn of the devil.

She’s about four kids behind me, running around giggling like shit is funny. Probably back there leading a mutiny against me. I’m not sure what her endgame is, but she’s rallying her troops faster than I can dodge their grubby hands. It’s bedlam. I’m weaving through the swings, running laps around the jungle gym, ducking under the slide, my Fitbit chiming happily with every step.

“Ms. Raya, I’m gonna get you!” she shrieks, her little legs pumping behind her.

I turn around and point a finger at her, smirking at her as I say, “Sweetie, you will never catch me.”

Then I dart off, leaving her in the dust. She screams and runs after me, and I wonder why she thinks I’m playing.

I take small wins where I can get them, though, and it’s delightful to see her storm off in frustration when she sees the space I’ve created between us.

As I make my way toward the door, I slow to catch my breath. When I glance back to make sure she hasn’t snuck up behind me, I see her little fists balled up, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in determination. Something about her expression hits me like a slap across the face.

It’s familiar.

Too familiar.

That same stubborn set to her jaw. The same refusal to back down. She’s fierce, and too much for people to handle sometimes. Just like I was.

Just like I still am.

I shake the thought away, determined to stay on my Michael Jordan.

Fuck them kids.

It’s 7:05 when I walk into La Belle Vie. I arrived on time, but Ace’s Mercedes was in the parking lot when I pulled up, so I waited a few minutes on purpose.

It’s an upscale place, but a quick scan of the restaurant reminds me I’m still in Atlanta. The faint scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne mingles with the sound of French music, the kind of vibe that screams sophistication—if you can ignore this city’s version of it. Everywhere I look, my eyes are assaulted by cheap bodycon dresses, stripper heels, Snuffleupagus lashes, lace front wigs sitting three inches off the head, and contouring so harsh, even RuPaul would scoff at it.

It wasn’t always like this. We like to blame transplants, but sometimes, the call is coming from inside the house. We’re all out here looking a mess.

And the men aren’t much better.

If this wasn’t Atlanta, we wouldn’t see the ratchets in a place like this. The class system in this city is more like a Venn diagram than a hierarchy.

I bet I’d fit in well in New York.

My eyes skim, rolling involuntarily at a group of women posing for selfies by the bar. The black mecca is a circus, and tonight, the clowns are out.

Whatever. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to seduce.

I spot my man at a table near the window, backlit by the fiery glow of the city lights. He looks disturbingly good. A crisp white shirt hugs his shoulders. His Rolex glints under the light. The way he leans back in his chair exudes confidence, and I’m momentarily taken aback. I almost forget to be mad at him for not calling.

Almost.

He stands as I approach the table, flashing me a big grin. I keep my face neutral, watching as his eyes drop to my body-hugging yellow dress. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering long enough to make my skin prickle.

“Damn,” he says as he pulls out my chair. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks.” I slide into my seat, crossing my legs slowly. I feel his eyes on me, studying my every movement.

He takes his seat. “You know you didn’t have to show out like this.”

“Show out?” I smile at the compliment. “This is just who I am, Ace.”

He chuckles, his shoulders relaxing. “Fair enough.”

I hang my purse on the back of my chair as he looks around for the waiter.

“Need a drink that bad, huh?”

He laughs. “You make me nervous . I can’t say that happens to me a lot.”

“Why is that, Ace?” I put an elbow on the table and rest my face in my hand, staring at him with all the interest I can muster, but not so much that it looks creepy.

“I can’t call it,” he says. “It’s a new feeling. You seem different.”

Men always say that about me. Men say a lot of things to get what they want. They’re the ones who taught me the game.

I’ve been hurt plenty of times, but every heartbreak is a lesson. I have journals full of the lessons I’ve learned.

No man will ever hurt me again.

“I hope you’re different, too,” I tell him. “I’m a once-in-a-lifetime kind of woman. The man next to me needs to match.”

His eyebrows raise slowly. “Is that right?”

“You’ll see.”

The waiter finally finds our table. I order a club soda with bitters and lime. Ace shoots me a look, then orders Hennessey, the official drink of basic niggas everywhere. It’s okay, though. I still love him.

“You don’t strike me as a club soda kinda girl,” he says, watching me as the waiter leaves to fill our orders.

“Why not?”

“Too tame.”

I laugh, leaning forward slightly. “Don’t let the drink fool you, babe. There’s nothing tame about me.”

He swallows hard, and I can tell I’ve thrown him off balance. Good.

“So…I’m thinking I want you to order for me.”

He smiles. “That’s a lot of pressure. Y'all can barely decide what y’all wanna eat on any given day. Now you want me to guess?”

“I don’t want you to guess,” I say. “I want you to look at that menu and decide what I’ll like. I trust you.”

His brows furrow. It’s so cute.

“You trust me already?” he says.

“Shouldn’t I?”

He gives a slow shrug. “I mean, yeah, but you don’t know me, yet. Women are usually more cautious.”

“What have we already established about women and me?”

He smiles sheepishly like my students when I ask them a question they’re supposed to know the answer to. “You’re different.”

“Look at you. So attentive.”

He laughs. “Alright. Answer this for me. Do you have any allergies?”

I shake my head.

“Do you eat meat?”

“I love meat.”

His eyes darken, and I know he received that exactly how I intended it. I push my menu to the side and let him puzzle over his choices. The waiter returns with our drinks, then takes our dinner orders. After, Ace turns his attention back to me.

“So what do you do?”

“I’m a teacher,” I say quickly.

“What grade?”

“Third.”

“How you likin’ it?”

“It’s cool,” I say, then I pivot to something less boring. “Do you wanna get married one day?”

The question lands about as softly as a grenade. His forehead creases, his shoulders stiffening. For a second, he looks like he might get up and run out of here, and I realize I probably shouldn’t have asked that question.

I don’t know if it’s that raggedy ass Y chromosome, or American men, or maybe just black men, or if perhaps there’s even some other identity that’s unknown to me that makes the question so offensive to these idiots. If anybody should run screaming at the thought of tying one’s self to someone else forever, it’s women. Yet here I am, eagerly anticipating the day Ace slips a ring on my finger.

But, whatever.

New tactic.

“I only ask because it seems like every man I meet wants to tie me down.” I smile seductively. “Personally, I prefer to live in the moment and see where things take me.”

His body relaxes, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“I feel you,” he says. “I think marriage is dope. My parents have been married for…shit…thirty years? That’s cool as hell to me. But not everybody is built for that,” he adds.

I nod. “That’s very true.”

“Your folks still together?”

I’m not ready for this question. I hesitate, just for a moment.

“They are,” I lie. “It’s such an inspiration.”

He watches me carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly. I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch in the face of his scrutiny.

“Well,” he finally says, “it sounds like you got high standards. Out here turning niggas down left and right.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all.” His juicy lips curve into a smile. “I like a challenge.”

I resist the urge to laugh at that. Famous last words, baby.

When the waiter brings our food, Ace beams proudly as I dig in. He chose perfectly—steak, medium rare, with a side of truffle mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus.

“You’re good,” I say, slicing off a piece of the meat. “Most men wouldn’t have gotten this right.”

“I ain’t most men.”

“No,” I murmur. “You’re not.”

The air shifts between us, heavy with unspoken things. My heart pounds relentlessly, but I keep my expression calm, my smile steady.

“Do you live near here?” I ask to break the tension, but I already know.

“I’m in Decatur. You?”

“Close enough.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna tell me, huh?”

“Not yet."

“I thought you said you trust me.”

His boyish grin melts my panties, but I maintain my composure. I can’t fold just yet. Not before dessert.

“I trust you with my dinner order, not my address.”

His laugh is low and rough. “You smart.”

When the check comes, Ace pays, and I let him, because chivalry isn’t dead, and my mama didn’t raise no fool. But I offer to pay the tip so he’ll think I’m cooperative and generous. He refuses. Good boy.

Outside, I thank him for dinner.

“My pleasure,” he says, leaning over to say it right in my ear.

He’s on go. I’m not too far behind him, but I need to hold him off. It’s for his own good.

“So…” he says, his voice soft, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Do I get to see you again?”

My eyes flutter, then slowly drift shut. His voice is like silk.

With my heart pounding, I say, “We’ll see.”

He chuckles like he can see the lie spelled out in the air around us. “Lemme walk you to your car.”

I freeze. The last thing I want is him seeing my beat up Corolla. So I call an audible, turning to face him head on. He’s so handsome, I almost fold.

“I know how to get myself to my car,” I purr. “But I appreciate that you’re a gentleman.”

His body is a wall of heat, and his cologne—something warm and woody—wraps around me like a snare. I stand on my toes and lean in, still a few inches shy of his six foot height. Thankfully, he ducks his head, and our lips meet.

The street hums around us, cars rolling by, laughter spilling out of the restaurant every time the door opens, but all I hear is my own pulse, loud and insistent in my ears.

His lips are warm, firm, and demanding. His hand finds my waist, pulling me in, eliminating the last bit of space between us. I sigh against his mouth, which is all the encouragement he needs to slip his tongue past my lips, sliding it against mine, savoring the taste of me. I wrap my arms around him, bringing a hand to the back of his neck, scratching him lightly with my nails. It’s just enough to make him groan into my mouth.

The sound sends something wicked spiraling through me.

I press closer, molding my body to his, so close I can feel the faint shudder that runs through him. He grips my waist tighter, like he’s trying to ground himself in me. But I think it’s too late. He’s already lost.

Good. Because so am I.

When we finally part, we’re both breathing like we just ran a marathon.

“Damn,” he mutters, his forehead resting on mine. “That was…”

“Yeah,” I breathe. My head is spinning.

His fingers dance at my waist. “You’re dangerous.”

I smile, sliding my hands down his chest, feeling the hard lines of his muscles beneath the crisp white fabric. “I told you not to let that baby drink fool you.”

He chuckles, but it sounds tight, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “I wanna take you home with me.”

“I know,” I say, licking him off my lips.

His eyes are dark and full of need as they flicker over my mouth. “You coming?”

I want to. Both ways. But I let the question hang in the air between us before I pull away, stepping back to smooth my dress.

“Not tonight,” I say softly.

Ace lets out a slow breath, watching me like he’ll lose me if he looks away. “So you’re really gonna leave me like this?”

I tilt my head and give a sympathetic smile. “You’ll survive.”

His laughter is low and strained. “If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow, you’ll know you were wrong.”

I smile, blow him a kiss, and walk away. I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look back. This is part of his training. His new student orientation.

But this isn’t over.

Not even close.