“Nah, they wouldn’t. This hall’s also an emergency exit. I locked the door on my way back here,” he confessed as he rose to his feet and fixed his clothes.
“Hunter—” my eyes widened. “That is not okay. Don’t do no crazy shit like that again.” I laughed, caressing his face.
“You make me crazy—in the best way. You remind me life is meant to be lived, baby,” he murmured against my lips.
“Yeah, but I don’t wanna live that shit in jail,” I smiled.
Our lips rested together, soft at first, until the kiss deepened—long, hard, nasty, like it could be our last.
And why… why did it feel like the last time?
I heard keys jingle and a lock click. I dove for the nearest plan we had: both of us split—him to the men’s room, me to the ladies’. Besides, I still had to pee. As I moved to dash through the restroom door, Hunter caught my hand.
“Baby, relax.” He kissed my forehead and let me go. Between the anticipation of finding out who was opening the illegally locked emergency exit and the pressure from my bladder telling me it was now or never, I ran into the bathroom and relieved myself in the nearest stall.
While I washed my hands, a woman’s voice shredded the hallway—loud and furious.“So you went and fell in love with this bitch?” she hollered. “You told me you just needed time, a little space, but that you’d always come home—no one could ever take my place. Why the fuck did I get served divorce papers by a sheriff officer?”
Damn. My heart squeezed for the woman on the other side of that door—been there, felt that humiliation. God really did His big one when He blessed me with Hunter.
“Oh, so now you're speechless? Cat got your tongue. Answer me, Hunter Knox!” she screamed.
I tossed the paper towel and swung the restroom door open, joining Hunter, Nova, and the angry woman in the hall.
“What’s going on?” I asked, voice steady.
“Oh, and she’s a cute little homewrecking bitch,” the woman spat.
“Mhmm—let’s beat her pretty little ass. I’m sick of this job anyway. The boss be acting like nobody can fuck one of her fine-ass brothers; said she’d blow my head off or some shit,” Nova sneered.
I was down for whatever, but I wasn’t about to get jumped. Hunter better not let these bitches touch me. Just in case things went left, I grabbed my phone and shot Amber a text.
Me:702 — restroom nearest the entrance.
Amber:Say less.
“Hunter, what the fuck is going on? I want the truth,” I demanded.
“Baby, can we talk about this at home?” he asked.
“At home? So, you've been playing house with this bitch? All this time you told me you were staying with a friend—I didn’t know you meant girlfriend.” I bristled.
“Fiancé,” I corrected automatically, fingers now tight around my ponytail holder—wrapped around myCartierbracelet in case my hair needed taming. Never thought I’d use it to secure my hair to beat a bitch’s ass, though.
“Oh, fiancé—how cute. Hi, fiancé. I’m Morgan. The wife.” She reached out like she hadn’t just ripped my world open.
Gage Blaque
“Not everything that is faced can be changed; but nothing can be changed until it is faced,” I read aloud from James Baldwin’sI Am Not Your Negro,while my girlfriend of three months, Kelsey, paced back and forth, upset that I hadn’t taken care of her.
“Not even on Valentine’s Day, Gage. I mean, what the fuck is wrong with you?” she screamed.
Besides the fact that I’m organized, persistent, clear with my intentions, and brutally honest? Nothing.
Kelsey Singleton, 31, was what society might label perfect. About 5’6”, slender frame, smooth caramel skin, and thanks to Dr. Angie Seguoy—pleasantly sculpted with the kind of ass andtits that made men stare. Add her hostess personality—life of every party, knew her way around a kitchen, spotless house, and my parents tolerated her. More so my father than my mother.
My mother felt like Kelsey had a hidden agenda, but let’s be honest, I was my mother's favorite son—any woman who approached me, my mother would say had a hidden agenda. But, if perfectionism had a leaderboard, Kelsey would be in the top ten.
You see, the world thought of her as perfect. But as a high-functioning autistic adult, I didn’t think like the world. I was intentional, strategic, and never bent myself to fit anyone else’s mold. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t an asshole—at least not on purpose. But lying to make someone feel better? Forcing myself to appear physically, mentally, or emotionally “acceptable” to people who were going to talk shit anyway? That was never going to be in my genetic makeup.
