I shrugged. Instead of telling her that she was the only woman whose bed and crib I had ever slept in, I let it go. “What the fuck you over there doing anyway?”
“About to smoke, watch a movie, and pass out.”
“Sounds about right. You know how to cook?” I asked, knowing I probably should have been going to sleep and getting off this phone, but I couldn’t.
“Yeah, but I don’t like to, and I'm a selective pescatarian.” She giggled after she said that shit.
“You what?” My face had to showcase my confusion.
“I only eat fish and shellfish most of the time. I don't mess with pork, chicken, and beef like that. I have to really have a taste for it.”
I nodded. “So, you're on a fake ass diet is what I’m hearing.”
She laughed, tone so angelic I swear I could get some good sleep under her. “Whatever, Rennix. Why are you still on the phone with me knowing you should be letting your body fall asleep?”
“Because I’m waiting for you to invite me over.”Yo, what the fuck type of corny shit was that?
“How do you know I want company right now?”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, but you're bringing your ass over here to sleep. Remember that.”
I laughed. “Aight man, I’ll be over there. You want something while I’m coming?”
“No. I used the mobile corner store and ordered everything I needed.” We hung up a little bit later because I needed to check in on the club before I headed her way. As usual, the general manager, a woman by the name of Boe, let me know everything was good and that I didn’t need to come in tonight. It was a Friday, and nine times out of ten packed, but I knew she had it. I also knew my back couldn’t take another night of that lil ass couch Jade picked out.
I arrived at Caya’s house a little after nine, and just like she said she would, she had the garage door lifted for me to pull right in. When I walked in the door, I heard the TV. The further into her place I walked, the louder the TV became. When I turned the corner, I was faced with the back of her head and a big ass seventy-five inch with what looked likeRush Hourplaying.I was able to infer that much from Chris Tucker asking Jackie Chan if he understood the words coming out of his mouth.
She giggled. “Took you long enough. Where do you live anyway?”
“Why? So you can call yourself showing up to my spot?”
“Nope. I’m not that crazy…well not anymore,” she rationalized.
“I like that crazy shit.” I walked around the couch and took a seat at the end she was on.
“Yeah, that’s what all men say until they send a bitch into a strait jacket and realize they want a meek bitch who they didn’t damage.” She turned and those deep brown irises rested on me. Her lids were low, indicating she had remained true to her word and smoked something.
“Nah. I’m for real. If a motherfucker doesn't nut up for you, how do you know it’s real?”
“Spoken from a man who doesn't want anything serious, right?” She dropped her head against the back of the couch and just looked at me.
She had the type of eyes that had me wanting to spill everything to her—packed up childhood trauma and adult irritations.
“Don’t mean I can’t like what I see, huh?” I leaned over and pushed a piece of stray hair from her face.
“Maybe.”
I had to look anywhere but in her eyes. “What did you get over there to eat?”
“A little bit of everything that will indeed have me running for a while longer in the morning.”
“You work out?”
“I try to, three times a week.”
I nodded, eyes traveling her seated frame back to her eyes. Then, as if my body realized how comfortable this couch was, my eyelids became heavy.
