Page 30 of Ella Gets the D
Seventeen minutes later, here we are, in the back corner of a twenty-four-hour spot, far away from any prying eyes at four a.m. The way I makeWalking Deadzombies look put together, you’d think I was the one who traveled across the pond after working a thirteen-hour day.
Not Julian.
Morgan’syoungerbrother.
The man sits on the other side of the checkered table, unfazed about giving a home intruder the business through his basketball shorts. He's chewing through a Paul Bunyan of a platter, loaded with every fried American breakfast staple the chef could pack on a plate.
Stuffing your face shouldn’t be sexy, but Julian makes it an act of foreplay the way his thick lower lip wraps around the fork and drags it into his mouth. The same one that devoured me without hesitation.
Morgan and her family bring up Julian all the time, but the most I’ve seen of him are old family photos with acne and awkward smiles. We’ve never met, but he’s certainly grown since rocking braces as a preteen.
Last I heard, Julian was overseas, running his father’s office. Which begs the question why he’s back.
“I take it the food was okay?” He nods to my empty plate, which I all but licked clean, and smirks.
When it comes to meals, I don’t play. Life is too short to eat diet kale and do Common Core math counting calories. I don’t eat junk—outside of a conservative chocolate stash and Wendy’s on the occasional Fridays with the kids—and I appreciate fresh eggs and beef. Pap-Pap worked on a farm and taught me the meaning of eatin’ good.
Minus chitterlings. I’ll be damned if I try those ever again.
“No complaints here.” I return the nod. “You gonna finish all of that?”
If I could bottle and sell Julian’s smile, I’d be a millionaire with a line of customers stretched around the block for their next hit. It’s laid-back, like he doesn’t need to put in effort because fine is a default setting.
And he has dimples?
Oprah would ask me for a loan.
He scratches at his chest, now hidden under a white tee, and leans back against the booth. “It’ll fit.”
Down, Ella.
If you squint, the outline of his tattoo on his left pec, which goes over his shoulder and down to his elbow, is visible. I almost choked on the drool pooling in my mouth when the bedroomlight illuminated him in all his glory. Charles kept in shape and has what you might call a swimmer’s body with long, lean muscles.
Julian is in a different league.
The thick muscles in his shoulders and biceps flex without effort. They also make surprisingly soft pillows. His abs are flat, his six-pack evident of the work he puts in at the gym. Mix that all together, dip it in melanin, and you have a man who lit up my body like a utility company and scared the life out of me. After I came, of course.
“So.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin and pins me with a stare. “Divorce.”
Note to self: add forearm veins to his list of attractive features.
I gulp my water to extinguish the coochie tremors tightening my thighs. Julian stretches out his tree trunks for legs underneath the table. He’s cool, calm, and collected in sweatpants.
The haze of my buzz has cleared, stripping me of the liquid courage to continue this discussion. I did move into the man’s house, and we did hump each other like we had season passes to a sex party. If only hiding under the table was an option.
You’d catch a glimpse of that peen indent hanging to the right.
Stop.
“You okay, Ella? We don’t have to talk if you’re uncomfortable.”
I wave him off. “I’m comfortable!” His brow furrows at the rise in my pitch. “I’m”—horny, possibly homeless, and trying to keep my shit together—“fine. I told you at the house I heard my ex having sex with another woman in our bed.”
He exhales and rubs the back of his neck with an awkward nod that’s half pity and half apology.
My focus drops to the empty plate in front of me. Either from exhaustion or the reality of how effed up my situation is comes crashing into me with hurricane force. I wrapped myself in armor to battle the goliath that is my husband and his social status. I’m prepared for constant questions and side-eyes in public, ready to roll up my sleeves and push through the mess. What I’m not ready for is the gentle hickory eyes of the man across from me. A total stranger, yet an extension of my second family which makes it easier to lower my guard.
My breath hitches when his hand covers mine. “I’m sorry,” he says in a whisper, his thumb rubbing circles against my skin. “Not that it matters, but how long were you two together?”
