I try to look at Marcus, but Ace still has control of my neck, so I’m forced to stare at his lips while he talks for the both of us. Moisture pools underneath my armpits as Marcus slams the car door and his sneakers scrape against the driveway.
“Shit… some drank,” he replies. “Mama ain’t no good. Got you assed out, knowing we ‘bout to put that midnight work in.”
Their conversation is so smooth it’s like I’m invisible until Ace pulls me by my neck again as Marcus staggers closer to us. He pulls me so close I stumble and Marcus’ contagious laugh rises above the chirping crickets.
Ace keeps soothing my irritated welt. His finger dances along it while he takes the last swig of Hennessy to the head.
“Hm. Here.” He pushes the glass toward me, swallowing. “Go put some alcohol on your neck.”
“What happened to your neck, fat girl?” Marcus asks, swiping a blunt from behind his ear.
My eyes bulge. I don’t know how to tell him that Ace makes hives prickle my skin and they itch so bad and sometimes his touch makes them angrier.
“I—I uh,” I stammer with a heavy tongue.
“You,uhwhat?” Marcus laughs, taking a sip out of the double cup in his hand.
It’s like the calm before he realizes Ace lets me try his alcohol, makes my panties wet, and that I open my mouth when he tells me to.
“Mosquitoes,” Ace replies for me, forcing our glass into my hand. “Go in the house with Mom ‘fore they get worse, Lourdes.”
And I think I want him inside of me despite what that white girl said he did to her back in Los Angeles.
CHAPTERSIX
Ace
“You fuck yet?”
That’s always the topic in the locker room. There’s no talk about the weak ass shots they put up or half the team’s lack of endurance on the court.
Fuckingis always what’s most important.
Bryson snatches his wife beater over his curls and looks away from Marquise. “Man... come on. Fuck who?”
I nod my head while I tune in to their conversation. I have the volume turned down on Dough just enough to hear the one name I’ve been listening for since I touched her for the first time after dinner. It’s a torturous way to get my fix since she stopped showing up to our practices.
“Phat, nigga,” Marquise replies. “You said that was her name, right?”
“Oh my God.” Bryson covers his face.
“‘Oh my God,’ you beat and the pussy was hittin’ or ‘oh my God’ you still a virgin with no rizz?”
Their laughter rumbles throughout the locker room and I don’t find nothing funny about Phat’s pussy being a part of today’s hot topic. In fact, my neck heats likemypussy is the hot topic, but it’s not even mine.
“Nah. Like ‘oh my God,’ get out my business.”
“Bryson, Bryson, Bryson...” LaQuan cheeses. “Freshmans don’t got no business, man. You a child.”
“A wee lil’ pipsqueak!” Marquise hollers in his best Scottish accent, inching behind Bryson and hooking an arm around his neck.
“Fuck outta here, man. I’m not telling ya’ll shit.”
Marquise cocks his head to the side. “So something happened?”
A simple sentence always opens the door for nosey ass dudes beating on it from the outside, but Bryson isn’t old enough to understand that. He’s exactly like Marquise described him—a pipsqueak.
LaQuan whips his head so hard his twists smack him in his beady eyes and the rest of the team inches closer to our lockers to get the CarFax on Phat’s pussy—even Lucas Schmidt comes running and he’s the only white dude on the team and speaks German.
