Page 11 of Cause When You Love Someone

I spun around to address Khalil. “You okay with your lady walking around looking a mess. That’s your business. I just don’t want to witness the train wreck. Find somewhere to chill.”

“Ishmael, I can celebrate Church,” my mom blurted out. “If it were a problem, the big niggas at the door wouldn’t have let me in.”

“They let you in because my name is good in here. Your best bet is to leave before I put you out.”

Mariah’s weepy stare sliced through me.

“You would do your mama like that, Ishmael? You hate me that much?”

“My mama has done worse to me. Go home, Mariah.”

She talked shit and cursed my name, but she grabbed Khalil’s hand and staggered off. Silently, I prayed she made it home safely. Despite my feelings for my mother, I didn’t want Isabella to have to deal with losing her.

The mixture of cigar smoke and my thin patience pointed me through the back exit in search of fresh air.

The instant the warm breeze swept over my face, my clutched fists became undone.

However, my moment of silence was interrupted by a call from Clarke.

When I answered, I listened to her background instead of speaking.

I didn’t hear Clarke’s voice, but the sound of breaking glass and roaring engines put me on edge.

“Ishmael? Ishmael, can you hear me?”

The slur in her tenor scorched my eardrums. “Where are you, Clarke?”

“Somewhere I don’t want to be. The plan was to go out for drinks with Simone and Pinky.

I don’t know how that turned into being in the bathroom with bitches taking pictures with cocaine mustaches.

I know that shit is already hitting the blogs,” she explained in a low tone.

“They’re trying to go to another club, but I don’t want to.

Can you come get me? Please. Pretty please. ”

Though I wondered why she didn’t call Rock, I didn’t hesitate to tell Clarke to send me her location. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened to her after she called me for help, and after the ugly exchange with Mariah, I deserved to look at something pretty.

“Baby, why are you over here by yourself?”

A deep voice touched the line, and I cringed at the image of someone in her face.

“Did you get it?” Clarke asked, rejoining the call.

“Yeah,” I spat out. “Tell whoever’s in your face to back the hell up. I can hear him breathing over the phone.”

Clarke’s giggle faded in the background before I heard her say, “Excuse me. Can you back up? My man can hear you, and he doesn’t like niggas all in my space.”

As she addressed her surroundings, I stuffed my dinner jacket in my trunk and removed my helmet. I had a thought to go home and get my truck, but Clarke’s speech didn’t sit right with me. Her shaky tone urged me to go to her before doing anything else.

Thankfully, Clarke wasn’t too far from the clubhouse. I hopped on the freeway, and after passing two exits, I sped down Obama Road. The area had a bar or club on every block for miles, and celebrities were known to hang out and get high in the VIP sections.

I weaved through parked cars and people who loitered in the streets until I pulled up to where Clarke stood with her friends in front of a Venetian-style building.

Everyone around her socialized and danced to music that could be heard outside the club.

Still, Clarke leaned against a poster-filled wall with her arms crossed and her eyes covered with shades.

She looked like a rockstar dressed in a cropped leather jacket, boots made of the same material, and a silk dress that stopped above her knees.

For a second, she didn’t seem to recognize me, but by the time I lifted my helmet, Clarke found me amongst the crowd. A smile graced her face as she removed her glasses and met me in the middle of the sidewalk. “You came for me.”

“You called. That’s my job.”

“Is that the only reason you came?”

“No,” I confessed. “Are you all right? Smells like you had too much to drink.”

She squared her shoulders. “I did not. I can walk a straight line and all!”

Clarke stepped back, attempting to prove her sobriety. However, she tripped over her own feet. Without missing a beat, I caught her back before she hit the ground. From the outside looking in, we probably looked like lovers enjoying a dance.

“It’s time for me to get you home.”

She frowned when I lifted her upright. “No. I don’t want to go home.” She pleated her arms across her cleavage. “At least let me tell my friends I’m leaving.”

I glanced at the women Clarke pointed to. She was concerned with her friends, and they didn’t even look back before climbing into their Uber.

“Send them a text,” I suggested as I led her to my Kawasaki Ninja.

“Wait! You want me to ride that? My condo is forty minutes from here, and I have to pee!” Clarke whined and gripped my hand. “Lord, my head is already spinning.”

“You came out and got drunk to bury whatever you’re feeling and look how that turned out.” I shook my head. “Do you feel better?”

The shackle of her squint sealed me in place as she said, “I do now.”

“I bet.” I cut free a laugh. “Put the helmet on, get on the bike, and get comfortable.”

Clarke did as I said, and once we were on the road, she rested her head against my back.

Every so often, she squeezed my sides. In return, I reached back and tapped her thigh.

Any plans of steering clear of Clarke outside of work slipped away with every out-of-work encounter.

The day we met, I spotted the facade she upheld, and now, I wanted to pull it apart, then piece her back together.

We made it to my house about twenty minutes after leaving downtown, and I didn’t have the chance to give Clarke a tour of my home before she tossed her purse on the couch.

“Where’s your bathroom?” she quizzed.

“Down the hallway, second door on the left.”

Since the trip to my neck of the woods was supposed to be a pitstop, I waited by the door with my keys in hand. However, after standing in the same spot for minutes, I decided to check on my houseguest.

“Clarke.” I tapped on the bathroom door. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” she answered too fast for me to believe, but I didn’t pry.

While she handled her business, I went to my master bedroom and changed into a pair of lounge shorts, a black tank top, and a pair of Birkenstock slides.

By the time I made it to the front of the house, I found Clarke stretched out on my couch.

Her dress had crawled up her thighs, and the safety pin hairclips that kept her mane off her face sat on the end table.

Her tresses rained down the arm of the couch, and her lips were puckered, even in her sleep.

The dramatic, overstimulated beauty that met me in my dreams lately appeared to be at peace. She looked beautiful—innocent.

A flood of ideas of what could have happened had we met under different circumstances played in my mind. By the way I judged her after our first conversation, I’d be lying if I said we would have been anything more than passing strangers.

Instead of disturbing Clarke, I decided to call and check on Isabella.

“What’s good, little one? Did Mariah make it home yet?”

She smacked her lips. “Yeah. She’s outside, smoking with Khalil.”

I wanted to complain that she still wasn’t in the house with her kid, but instead, I accepted the situation for what it was.

“Did everything go good with the drop off?”

“It went okay,” she whined. “The lady who came over kept asking if I could put in a good word with Loso for her. Please don’t send that one over here again.”

I chuckled at her dramatic attitude. “All right, I got it. Let me call you back. I have company, and I don’t want to be rude.”

“You can’t be serious. It’s not like you have Beyonce or C. Rose over there.”

I gloated at the idea that the know-it-all knew very little. I wanted to tell her who I was working with, but I knew that would start arguments about her coming to work with me.

“Ish, one more thing. I won’t be able to go to the cooking class in Haywood next weekend.”

“The cooking class is in Chandler,” I corrected her. “Why can’t you go?”

“A spot in the braiding class at the YMCA opened. I’ve been on the waiting list for six months, so I have to show face if I want to claim the seat.”

Isabella’s ambitious nature provoked my lips to relax into a smile.

“I respect the hustle. Let me know if you need anything.”

“You know I will. I love you.”

“I love you more.”

Clarke cleared her throat the second I ended the call.

“Who was that?” she asked with no hesitation.

“That was my little sister. You met her.”

“I remember. The pretty girl with dimples like yours,” she recalled. “You seem like a good big brother.”

“I try to be. Isabella deserves the world, and my mom isn’t equipped to make sure she gets it.” I grimaced. “Are you ready to go?”

“No.” Clarke buried herself under a throw blanket I kept on the couch. “I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to be alone.”

A low whistle slipped through my lips. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I have a few ideas, but feeding me feels like the safest choice,” she answered from under the thin material.

Unsure of how to respond, I removed my glasses and pinched the bridge of my nose.

I may not have admitted it, but I didn’t want Clarke to leave.

If I took her home, I would spend the night staring at my Kindle and thinking of everything else.

On the other hand, I wasn’t sure how long I could practice discipline before I made her sit on my face.

“Damn. Do I annoy you that much?”

“You don’t annoy me at all, Clarke,” I corrected her. “There’s something brewing between us. This shit just feels dangerous.”

“Speaking of dangerous, I like your bike,” she said, changing the subject. “I never took you for the type to ride a motorcycle.”

“Why?” I asked, making my way to the kitchen with her on my heels.

“Because you seem . . . mild-mannered. Most men who ride motorcycles are aggressive, belligerent, and covered in tattoos.”