“Justin! I… Ummm… I’m really sorry. I should have called you. Can we reschedule?” Charlie came out stammering, explaining herself, with a towel wrapped around her body. Demi felt a tug in his chest as he stared at her, body still dripping from the shower, her locs pulled up in a high ponytail.
She was so comfortable in her skin. In front of him in her skin. Hell, in front of Demi in her skin. Was this just her or was this nigga special? Was Demi special? Before Demi could stop himself, he was speaking.
“Say, man,” he said. “I’m up. I’ll get with you another time.”
His irritation wasn’t missed.
“Wait. I need to talk to you about something,” she said. “Can you stay a bit?”
“So, fuck the songs? What about the set?” Justin interrupted.
“Plans changed,” Demi said, staring at Charlie from across the room.
Charlie stared back. She didn’t know if she was turned on or pissed at him for answering for her. It was all in his stance. He was arrogant. Certain. Like he knew that he was really holding back from what he wanted to say and that she shouldbe grateful that he was even being this civil at all. “Umm… yeah, I’m sorry, Justin. I’ll make it up to you,” she said.
“Probably not,” Demi interrupted, again.
“Demi!” she exclaimed.
Justin frowned and shook his head. “Yo, Charlie, for real?” he said.
“I swear I’ll call you later. This is just kind of important,” Charlie explained.
“Wow, Charles. I didn’t think you were that type,” Justin said, sucking his teeth and turning for the door.
“What type is that, my man?” Demi asked.
“Demi...” Charlie intervened. She stopped him. From what? She didn’t know. Maybe the same fate that she was sure Frankie had suffered at his hand because while she hadn’t seen it, she was sure he had done it.
Demi bit into his lip and turned toward her kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator and pulling out a bottled water like he lived there. Charlie turned back to Justin.
“I promise I’ll make time to rehearse the set,” she said.
“I’ll see you at the club,” Justin said, heading out.
Charlie didn’t quite know what to say, so she let him leave. She would diffuse the situation with him later. She turned to Demi.
“What is wrong with you? That is my friend,” she said, scoffing, pissed at herself that she found herself offering clarity.
“Yeah, okay,” he answered, coolly.
“He is!” Charlie argued.
“I said, okay,” Demi repeated, with a calmness that took her temper up a couple notches. “The nigga want to fuck you, though.”
“And you got all that from the one day you’ve known me,” she said sarcastically.
It reminded them both that they had just met. This was a lot for two people who were practically strangers.
“Look, here’s your money,” Charlie said, stalking over to her guitar case to retrieve the bag. She opened it and held it out for him. “I don’t know what you have going on with Frankie, but don’t involve me in it again. Did you do that to his hand?”
Demi stared at the bag like it was infected. “I wouldn’t put you in no bullshit and I don’t know what you talking ‘bout. I’m just trusting you to hold onto that for me. Did you count it?”
“It’s not mine to count,” she said.
“Count it.”
“Nigga, do I look like a bank teller?” she asked.
