Page 21 of In Too Deep

Placed along a wall was a beige sectional, decorated with pillows in the shade of creams, browns, gold, and beige. At the very end was a cream colored throw blanket. There was a rug intricating the same colors as the pillows. A coffee table was beautifully decorated with essential shit like a bottle of wine and a half empty glass with a lip gloss stain on the corner. On the side of the couch, in the middle, was a stripper pole, which sort of piqued my interest. The 60-inch flat screen television was mounted on a wall playing something probably significant, but it was muted. I also noticed she had a thing for pretty ass art pieces that suited for wall decor. Placed in the opposite corner was a fye ass white bookshelf, with gold edges. There were books lined up on the shelves, taking up two rows. Pictures of her friends, her family, and many of her and Trecee when they were younger. Something else that piqued my interest was her vinyl collection. She had some great taste in music.

“I hope you saved room for what I cooked up,” her sweet voice spoke from behind me, jarring my attention away from her bookshelf.

“Hell yeah, I ain’t ate shit but a bowl of cereal when I woke up this morning,” I muttered seriously, getting a laugh out of her.

“Sit down, I’ll fix you a plate of everything.”

She didn’t have a dining room table, and her kitchen was only big enough for appliances and countertop space, so I assumed she was telling me to take a seat on the couch. The music she was blasting was loud as fuck, but I fucked with it and the lil’ vibe she had going on.

“I ain’t know you danced,” I yelled out, loud enough for her to hear over the bass.

She poked her head out and furrowed her brows. “Huh?”

“I said?—”

“Hold on, let me cut this music off.”

Once the music was muted she reappeared back in the living room. She appeared back in the living room holding a plate with enough food to last me for days.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I cook better when I play music.”

“You ain’t got to keep apologizing for shit, baby. You’re gracing me wit’ yo presence. This yo shit. I’m in yo spot.”

“Let me get you something to put this on.”

My eyes followed her ass as she walked away. That fat motherfucker stuck out like a sore thumb, and she walked like she knew that she was the shit in her own universe. She had a ghetto booty, giving ode to her ancestors and who raised her, making her eat pinto beans, jiffy cornbread, yams, and fried chicken.

Returning, she carried a TV tray and set it in front of me, grabbing the plate of food from me to place it on the tray.

“Do you need something to drink? I got cold bottles of water, Kool-Aid, Coke, Sprite, and homemade sweet tea.”

“Damn girl you treatin’ a nigga like a king,” I chuckled as my eyes glanced over the colorful plate.

It was covered with low vibrational foods covering the plate. The fried chicken looked crispy, the macaroni was cheesy, the yams were candied, and the corn bread looked soft and sweet. She was teasing a nigga. I ain’t used to this shit at home. If I wanted a home cooked meal, I’d have to go to my parents’ spot in Germantown.

“I’m sure you’re used to being fed and catered to like this,” she giggled and plopped down next to me, but she was inches away, on the other side. “I made green beans instead. I didn’t have time to let the greens simmer overnight, but I promise to have them the next time you come over, or I can bring them to you,” she offered.

I took a bite out of the fried chicken, trying to eat like I was used to eating like this when I really wanted to demolish this shit, including her, immediately after for dessert. If she kept on at it, I’d make her wifey, give her a spot in my castle.

“Hell naw, I ain’t used to no fuckin’ shit like this. You ain’t believe me when I said yo cousin can’t cook? I got to stand over her when she boils water.”

She threw her head back and cackled, making me join in with her as I ate a bit of everything. “This shit the bomb, man. A nigga be grateful when a girl can cook. That’s a survival tactic.”

“I definitely slaved in the kitchen while she chased all the boys. She’ll get better at it though. Cooking isn’t hard at all.”

“Hmm Hmm, tell her lazy ass this shit.”

“What did you want to drink? To wash all of that down.”

“You,” I mumbled.

“Huh,” she responded, dumbfounded.

“You,” I glanced over at her. “Let me drink you. Fuck all that other shit.”

“Rome,” she reached over and playfully hit me before getting up again.

It was natural for me to watch her ass anytime she got up. Shit damn near felt magnetic. I was staring hard enough to know she ain’t have no panties on. Jealously wavered over me, wishing I was those gray leggings, swallowing her ass, inhaling her booty juice instead of this fucking food. A two for one would be nice.

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