Page 6 of Kassir and Rebel (D-Ville Projects #2)

Rebel

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Kassir. Of course I would see him looking like this.

Shit!

“Rebel, did you hear me?” Ma asks but I barely hear her.

“Huh?” I ask while pulling my earbuds out. My music was turned off the moment I almost ran into him, but for the sake of Ma, I pretend like it’s still playing. “Sorry, my music,” I lie.

“Chile, I thought I was talking to myself,” she says with a grin. “But I asked how was your run?”

“Oh, it was perfect.” Until I saw Kassir.

To keep her from seeing my face and reading it, I turn to the drink cooler, open it, and grab a Gatorade.

“I’m just thirsty and need a long shower,” I say, trying to get to the privacy of my room.

Seeing Kassir has my emotions all over the place and I don’t know if I want to scream or cry.

I do know, however, that I need to get away from her so I can do either.

“I’m about to put the food up unless you want some more,” she says.

“No. I’m good but I’ll put it up after I shower. You cooked, Ma. I can put the food up and clean the kitchen. You need to relax and enjoy this week. You’re getting married; stop doing all this cooking.”

“Girl, Jimmy and I have to eat too and I don’t mind cooking.”

“Well, don’t cook tomorrow. Me and you are going to dinner after we find my dress.”

“Where?” she says excitedly.

“Your favorite, Taste of Italy,” I tell her before escaping down the hall. As soon as I’m in my room, I place my hands over my mouth and scream into them. “Ugh!” I sigh, mad at myself for my reaction to him.

Before I left Miami, I told myself that I would not let Kassir affect me.

I cried my last tear over him almost six years ago and I vowed not to shed another one.

Did I think he was my forever? Yes. Did I envision my whole life with him?

Yes. Did I love him with my entire soul?

Yes. But did he hurt me and break my heart into a thousand pieces?

Hell yes and I despise him for that. But most importantly, I despise myself for even giving him this much of my damn energy with his sexy ass.

Frustrated as hell, I strip out of my running shoes and sweaty clothes then hop into my shower. My hopes of this shower soothing my body and mind quickly dissipate as the warm water cascades down my body and my feelings remain the same. I hated the way I reacted to him.

Once out of my disappointing shower, I wrap my bath towel around my body, use my hands to push my damp hair up into a high bun, wash and moisturize my face, then amble back into my room.

Over the years, I temporarily shared it with two foster sisters, but for the most part this was just my room.

It’s exactly the same as it was when I left.

After oiling my body, I toss on my favorite cut off sweats, tank, and fuzzy socks then journey to the kitchen.

Ma has gone to bed and I see Jimmy has arrived.

His shoes are by the door. For now, they are still living apart, but after the wedding, he will permanently move in here with Ma.

As long as I’ve known her, she has been a staunch believer of not living with a man until marriage. She refuses to “shack up”.

The television and the lights are off in the living room. The only light on is the one over the stove. Careful not to disturb or wake them up in case they have fallen asleep, I keep the lights off and creep into the living room to raid the store.

I’m not a total health nut. For the most part, I eat what I want in moderation, but after a run, I always reward myself with electrolytes, carbs, and some sort of healthy fat. From her stash, I grab a pack of fruit and nuts trail mix and another Gatorade then journey to the kitchen.

After transferring the remaining baked chicken, garlic butter rice, and field peas into plastic containers, I place them into the fridge then wash the dishes. As I’m wiping the counters with sanitizing wipes, I hear light taps on the front door.

Who in the hell? I wonder as I practically sprint toward it. To prevent further knocks, I quickly open the door.

“Kassir?” I utter with an obvious frown on my face.

“We need to talk,” he says with too much damn audacity. He doesn’t deserve shit from me, especially not my time or attention. I unintentionally gave him too much already tonight.

“Ma is asleep,” I whisper. “And I don’t have shit to say to you.” As if he’s deaf, he ignores me and starts to step forward. My hand flies up to his chest. “Kassir! She’s asleep,” I grit lowly.

“Then come out here,” he demands, but when I roll my eyes, he changes his tone and language. “Por favor. Háblame,” he says, begging me to talk to him.

Between three years of Spanish in high school and too many nights of hearing it in his deep baritone, my comprehension of the language is pretty good.

There used to be a time when I would practically melt when he whispered Spanish into my ears.

Hell, hearing him now is about to thaw my coldness toward him, but he will not get the satisfaction of knowing that, so I roll my eyes hard then step forward.

“Only because I don’t want to wake her,” I scoff while shaking my head and pushing him back out of the door. “Let me get my key,” I tell him, then shut the door in his face.

For a moment, I contemplate locking it and just ignoring him, but I know Kassir.

He would just knock again and possibly wake up Ma and Mr. James.

So I just shake my damn head as I walk to my room, trade my socks for slides, and grab my cell and key.

When I reopen the door, he’s leaning back on the hall wall, waiting patiently and looking like he just got out of a barber’s chair, too damn good.

There’s a wry smirk on his handsome face and I can see the sparkle from his bottom grill.

I fucking hate him.

“Talk,” I snap.

“Not here,” he says, then stands upright. “Mrs. Johnson’s nosy ass is probably standing at her door right now listening,” he says, then flashes me a smile. “My crib,” he says and that’s a hard no.

“I’m not going to your place, Kassir,” I scoff.

“Then take a ride with me,” he offers and I sigh because neither place is ideal.

Being alone with him, in such close proximity to his handsome face and his damn cologne, seems wrong on too many levels.

To rid myself of him, heal my heart, and stop my tears, I ran far, all the way to Miami.

So to voluntarily be this close to him is insane.

“It’s just a ride,” he says, then reaches for my hand.

Trying to claim some semblance of control in this fucked up situation, I glare at his hand in disgust, roll my eyes hard, then walk toward the front door. I am making the decision to take a ride with him on my own not because he said so.

“Let’s go,” I utter after glancing back at him over my shoulder.

He simply smirks, then follows. He rushes to the door, opens and holds it as I walk out. We walk to the back of the building then head toward a G-Wagon.

The G-Wagon. He finally got his dream car.

As much as I can’t stand him right now, a part of me wants to smile because I know how much this means to him.

On many nights, while I lay in his arms, he talked about this very vehicle.

The minute I climb inside, I take it all in.

Every detail is precise, and although I know this isn’t the latest model but a classic, it looks brand new.

As I buckle my seatbelt, he eases into the driver’s side.

He glances over at me before starting the engine and I turn my head toward the window.

When he pulls off, I find the lever under my seat, let it back, then prop my feet on the extended wood trim on the dash.

The move is to piss him off but it doesn’t land.

He merely chuckles, then says, “Get comfortable.”

“Where are we going?” I fire back, annoyed.

“I want to show you something,” he says before pulling onto the street.

“I thought the purpose of this drive was to talk, not go sightseeing. I’m not trying to spend all night with you. I’m tired and have things to do tomorrow.”

“I just want a little of your time.”

“But you don’t deserve any of it.”

“You got that.” He quickly agrees with me, to my surprise. “I won’t keep you out too late.”

He drives down the street then turns right.

I have no idea where he’s going or what he wants to show me, so I keep my eyes forward, trying not to look over at him, and ride in silence.

The quiet is deafening but I endure it. Clearly, it’s bothering him though because his hand reaches up to the screen and he presses the satellite radio icon.

Some rap song blasts from the speakers and he quickly drops the volume.

Three rap songs later and we pull up to the shopping plaza off Richards.

He pulls into a reserved spot in front of a barbershop.

“Is there a reason why we are here?” I ask.

“Yeah,” is all he says before shifting his ride into park. He turns off his headlights then turns to face me. “The last time we were together?—”

“You broke my fucking heart,” I interject, correcting him.

“I know I did, baby, and I regret that shit every fucking day.”

“What? You what!” I damn near scream.

My feet drop from his dash and I sit all the way up.

Although I have tried a million and one times to push that night out of my mind, I remember every fucking heartbreaking detail, especially his words, and he said plenty.

The one word he never said was regret though.

Not once so to hear it now is surprising to say the least.