Page 11 of Broken Clocks
The way he drawled my name in that deep Southern tone had me creaming in my panties.
“Hey, Donte. I see you waited the customary three days to call,” I teased, trying to keep my voice playful.
“Nah, pretty. I’m grown. I don’t play them games. I’ve just been busy.”
“Okay, Mr. Grown. Busy doing what?” Yeah, I was being nosy. So what?
He chuckled. “I’m in law school. Interning at McMullen and Booth.”
That caught me all the way off guard. I’d definitely misjudged his character by his appearance. I would’ve been less surprised if he said he was a dope boy—he had the swagger of one.
“No way. I’m at Howard, Franklin, and Gandy. But I’m not in law school. I’m a paralegal.”
“That’s what’s up. We should get together and find out what else we got in common.”
The way he said “common” didn’t sound like he meant to discuss our goals and dreams. It sounded like he meant to fuck. I licked my dry lips and pressed my thighs together.
“I’m down. When are you free, Mr. Busy?”
“What you doing right now?”
“Nothing.” Any other time, I would’ve lied—pretended to be busy. Couldn’t let a man have full access to me. They start thinking they got ownership. But I’d been thinking about fucking this man since the café. And it had been three weeks since I’d had sex with another human. I wasn’t about to pretend.
“Meet me at the court on 16th Street, South Side. You know where that’s at?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there for two hours. We can grab something to eat after.”
“Okay,” I replied simply.
Then silence.
“Well damn. No ‘bye’?” I muttered, but didn’t let his rudeness bother me. I jumped up and did my about-to-get-some-new-dick twerk in the middle of the living room floor.
Let me stop and go wash my pussy.
After my shower, I already knew exactly what I wanted to wear. I slid into a black, tight midi skirt that stopped just below my knees and an oversized white tee—because white looked good against my brown complexion and made my titties look evenbigger. It hung off one shoulder. I left my panties in the drawer because, easy access.
I slid my feet into a pair of low-top, snow-white Chucks. Ran shea butter and coconut oil through my locs and tied them in a bun. Face cream. Lotion. Clear lip gloss. A little mascara. I took a moment to admire myself in the mirror.
Casual like I wasn’t trying, but sexy. Just the way I liked it.
I grabbed my keys, my phone, and slid my debit card, ID, and two gold foil packages into my bra. I thought about calling Sinica, then thought better of it.
I pulled up at the court at 6:13—about an hour and twenty minutes after we’d talked. It was crowded as hell. There was eye candy everywhere, male and female. People loitering, dancing, laughing, talking.
Normally, I was nervous in crowds of people I didn’t know. But right now, I was too anxious to care.
I couldn’t spot Donte right away, but I wasn’t about to push through a crowd of sweaty Negroes to look for him. I sent him a text letting him know I was there and took a seat at the end of a set of unused bleachers.
I watched the game, not really knowing what was going on. Kept checking my phone. Got instantly irritated because he wasn’t texting back fast enough for my liking. He knew I was coming. He invited me. He should’ve been waiting. I shouldn’t have to be searching. He had thirty minutes—then I was gone. I wasn’t about to sit in the hot-ass Florida sun for nobody.
I hated that sticky feeling dried sweat left on my skin more than I wanted to fuck him. That said a lot.
After about five minutes of switching between people-watching and pretending to understand basketball, someone spoke behind me.
“Hey, how you doing?”
