“Seriously? At a time like this? Where the hell is your charger?”
“In the trunk,” I admitted.
“That’s a fantastic place for it to be,” she replied, tone laced with sarcasm.
“Shut up.”
“Okay. Well, call me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”
“You already know I’m safe, Soleil. I’m about to run into the store, get my Butta Bean some yummy snacks, and I’ll be back home in a jiffy—end of story. I’ll be fine,” I repeated like a mantra for the hundredth time.
“Don’t you be speeding either, or I’ma call Mama!”
I rolled my eyes. “You so damn petty.”
“Yo’ mama.”
“Bitch, she yo’ mama too, so what sense does that make? Dummy. Get off my line, peasant. Love you. Bye.” I giggled.
“Love you too.”
But before I got to hang up myself, my phone died. “Shit. I gotta make this the quickest trip in history,” I muttered before swinging into the first available parking spot I found in the lot and jetting into the store.
“Butta?” I called out as soon as I opened the door to my apartment. “Butta Bean, where are you, boy? Mommy’s back!” I continued before flicking the light switch.
The minute the room illuminated, all the color left my face, and my pulse escalated to a level I knew was unsafe. Sitting inthe middle of my couch was the most handsome, dark chocolate creature I’d ever seen, and he was as naked as the day he was born.
Every single hair raised on the nape of my neck as I dropped the grocery bags to the floor. I could tell by the brooding look on his face that he was a dangerous man to cross. But that didn’t explain how the fuck he’d gotten into my apartment or who he was.
“Welcome home, gorgeous,” he grumbled, voice deep and gritty like sandpaper.
Our silent standoff dragged on for thirty seconds or more before he stood to his feet and inched forward with one of my throw pillows covering his package. He looked to be at least six feet three and easily weighed a good 250 pounds, all muscle. The nigga looked like he ate dumbbells for breakfast, and if I weren’t careful, I’d be next.
There was a sea of black tattoo ink all over his skin. The only place I saw without tattoos was his face and whatever he was hiding behind that pillow. His cocoa brown eyes were low, and his wide nose came to a nice curve that led straight to his dark pink lips. He had a low wave fade and a full goatee that wrapped from ear to ear. The wood floor squeaked underneath me as I instinctively took a step back, pressing my back against the door before locking my knees in place.
Anyone else who came home to a nigga they’d never seen before, sitting bare-assed on their fucking couch, would’ve lost their mothafuckin mind. I, on the other hand, couldn’t fucking move. I forgot how to walk, talk, and, most importantly, scream for help. Every nerve in my body iced over.
All I could do was stare at him as panic surged through my body. Finally, my legs started to thaw, and my voice returned. I parted my lips to let out a scream, but instead, I heard the familiar howl of my traumatized pet.
“H-how did you get in here? W-where the fuck is my dog? What the fuck did you do to him?” I hissed as quietly as a shadow on the ground.
“Chill, aight? He’s fine.”
I didn’t appreciate him telling me to chill, even if my shoulders were wound as tight as a yo-yo. He acted as if I didn’t have a right to be up in arms about finding a naked stranger in my apartment.
“Don’t tell me to chill. I don’t know you. Are you on bath salts, nigga? Why the fuck are you naked in my apartment? What the fuck is going on? Tell me, or tell the fucking police when they get here.” I warned, feeling myself seconds away from breaking out into hysterics.
I had no weapon or anything to defend myself with, except maybe the bag of dog treats, candles, and batteries I’d dropped to the floor, and I was completely drenched from the trip to the store and bringing all my things in from the car. All I had was my sass, and that wasn’t saying much.
The stranger inched another step closer, and I flinched but kept my back glued to the door, in case I had to make a mad dash back into the hurricane brewing outside my walls. I nervously gripped my phone so tight that my knuckles began to turn white. He lunged forward and quickly smacked it out of my hand. We both watched it slide across the hardwood floor.
Anger was laced in his baritone voice. “You think I’m fuckin’ stupid? Don’t try to be the fuckin’ hero,” he warned, clearly aware of the panic feature on the iPhone. “It ain’t worth it.”
“It’s dead!” I yelled. “The battery died like fifteen minutes ago. P-please don’t hurt me. I want to check on my dog. He doesn’t like storms.”
“Listen, I’m not here to hurt you,” he said calmly, his palms raised toward me.
“Then why are you here?” I quizzed for what felt like the umpteenth time.
