Demi leaned onto her countertop and put his face in his hands... big hand... tattooed hand... she wondered who he trusted enough to let touch him to do them in the first place... Then, he scratched the top of his head, before lifting irritated eyes to her.
“You look like you don’t mind how dirty money is. Can you just quit arguing with me about everything and count the shit, man?”
Charlie was stubborn but she rolled her eyes and opened the bag, pouring the contents out onto her coffee table. Her hands flicked through the bills and when she was done, she looked up in shock.
“It’s a hundred thousand dollars, Demi. I can’t keep this for you,” she said.
“It ain’t a big deal. You got it,” he said.
“You don’t even know me like that to be trusting me with your money,” Charlie said, frowning.
Demi pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and looked off to the side and then separated her blinds with his finger, peering outside. Always aware of his surroundings. “You gon’ steal from me, Bird?” he asked, finally placing his eyes back on her.
Charlie flicked through the thick knot of bills. All hundreds. Who carried around all hundred-dollar bills?
“Probably,” she smirked, shrugging.
This fucking girl. Demi laughed. Always so lighthearted around her. He dug back into his pocket and pulled out another knot. “That’s on you. Now, you ain’t got to dip into the stash,” he said.
Charlie plucked it from his fingers. “Guess not,” she answered, smiling. She shook her head in disbelief. “This is nuts.” She didn’t know if he was crazy, if she was, or if they both were, but this felt insane. This sudden thing that they were dancing around, this impromptu invasion of him into her life. “Is this all you came here for or are you planning to stay?”
“I’m a little pressed for time tonight,” he admitted.
“You should never come by when you’re pressed for time,” she said, shaking her head. “Cuz I’ma make you late. Now you can’t leave.”
She reached for his hand and she felt his palm go wet. Sweaty palms were a thing for him when he was uncomfortable.
The touching,she thought. She had forgotten just that quick.
She stepped close to him and smiled as he stared down at her. Brooding. Wound so tightly. Charlie placed her hands on the sides of his face, cupping it and he gripped her wrists.
“You’re going to have to deal with it, Demi, because I like to touch,” she whispered.
“Bird, you killing me,” he said.
She wiped her hands all over his face and he grimaced, cringing, and nodding. “You think this shit funny, yo. I’ma fuck you up,” he said, irritation lacing his tone. “You been touching that money and shit.”
“Are you freaking out right now?” she asked.
“Fuck you, man,” he snickered.
“I mean, you could clean up here. Stay here tonight,” she offered.
“I told you I got somewhere to be,” he insisted. Charlie reached for her towel and opened it, exposing pretty perky titties that made Demi’s dick stiffen.
“Well, I had plans too, but somebody felt like he had the right to change them. So now, I’m changing yours,” she said.
“I got to go,” Demi said, voice just above a whisper as she stood so close to him that his skin crawled, and his stomach hollowed.
“Do you?” she asked.
It was Charlie’s skin that pulled him in. She had scars all over her body that told a story of pain. Like her mother had lost control during childhood beatings. He wanted to ask questions but opted not to. He wanted to put his lips to those scars, but he opted not to do that too. He cleared the lump in his throat and swept a hand down his mouth as she backpedaled toward the stairs.
“Let me clean you,” she said, smirking.
He took heavy steps her way, his pants hanging low off his hips as the thud of his sneakers echoed off her floors. His eyes met her ass and never left as she ascended the stairs. She didn’t have much, just enough like a delicacy, some of the best shit to put on your tongue came in small portions. He was a look-but-don’t-touch type of nigga and he enjoyed the visual as she led the way to her bedroom and then into her bathroom.
She turned on the shower and then came out of her panties.
