Jamal rubs the underside of his chin. “Do youwant a prize?”
“Thatwasmy prize.” I grin at him in the mirror.
“You’re a dick.” He runs his fingers through his loose, wet hair.
“My dick is the ultimate prize.” I raise a suggestive eyebrow. All his muscles tense, and I curse myself.
“For who?” he asks, meeting my steady stare.
The question takes me by surprise, and my usual comebacks sound pathetic in my head.
“Truth. No one loves to worship a dick more than a gay man, so keep your mouth in check when speaking in mixed company.”
His smug expression almost gets the best of me, but I hold back telling him that Iammixed company, and he’s welcome to worship my dick. To regain the upper hand, I twirl his long locks around my finger. His hair is longer than I expected, and so, so soft. It’s thick, it’s hard to imagine how much hair he has on his head.
Jamal slaps my hand away and sighs. “Have you heard of consent? Don’t touch people without asking. Thank you for helping me, but don’t turn into a shithead.” He frowns at me.
“My hands have been in your hair all night,” I snap. “What’s the difference?”
“Seriously?” he balks. “There are so many reasons.”
He’s really offended. “You’re the one who said you wanted to be friends. It’s not a big deal.”
“See, that’s the problem. Itisa big deal, and instead of asking why, you’re arguing with me. You know why I couldn’t stay mad at Benz for saying ‘One thing is not like the other?’ It’s because he immediately apologized when he wasn’t sure what he did wrong. He didn’t focus on his intention. He was concerned about my feelings and about making it right.”
“What, are you after Benz’s dick now?” My mouth can’t stop. Jamal’s right about me sabotaging any chance of friendship with him. It’s easier to be an asshole than have people let me down.
“As a straight guy, you are very,veryconcerned about dicks in general and mine in particular. Why is that?” His eyes bore into mine as if he can extract my secrets.
“You’re projecting.” I take a step back.
“Mm-hmm.” His mouth quirks up on one side.
The bastard. “No need to thank me just because you never could’ve done it without me,” I sneer, and flee like a child.
“Thank you,” Jamal hollers before I slam his door.
There isn’t anyone in the hall, and I sink into a crouch with my back against the wall. Sometimes the truth is uglier than the lies combined. I’m not fascinated with Jamal because I was constantly compared to him.
I’m fascinated with him because I’m attracted to him.
The guy who made my life miserable. But it wasn’t him. It’s like the universe is playing a trick on me. It can’t happen.
He’s the last person I should ever be with. Neither of us would survive the consequences.
Time to focus on something else. Jamal’s devastation over his hair seems extreme. The only thing I can think of to get answers is a search.Why are Black men sensitive about their hair?
I expect a sentence or two, but there’s an in-depth response, breaking it down into categories. Skimming the major bullet points, I realize this isn’t a quick answer, and it’s not something I’ll understand crouched in a hotel hallway. The three bold headings are: Historical Context and Discrimination, Cultural Significance and Identity, and Personal and Social Pressure. There is so much information.
Objectively, I’ve got a great head of hair. People comment on it all the time, but it’s hair. It grows and I cut it. I’d be furious if someone shaved my head against my will.
Something is wrong with me. I can’t stop myself from pushing his buttons and loving the result. Jamal gets under my skin, and…more inappropriate thoughts flood my brain that have no business being there.
When he pinned me to the wall last year with his arm at my throat, I excused my erection because his thigh rubbed against me. I can’t admit his anger is a turn-on. That’s fucked up. And confusing as hell.
I bang my fist against my forehead with a need to apologize. Nothing says I’m sorry better than a gift.
Chapter 17
