“C’mon. You was supposed to be up here forty-five minutes ago. You know how much forty-five minutes costs us, kid?”
My mouth opens, but all I do is breathe in his scent that’s in all the nooks and crannies of the place he calls home. It’s the exact type of place me and Mama like to drool over. Thanks to HGTV, we know all the intricate terms—exposed brick, stainless steel appliances, an open floor plan and so much damn light God himself may as well have cast it through the windows.
“Damn,” I utter.
Rap music thumps from speakers I can’t see, and the space is so big that clacking heels echo throughout it.
“Oh-kay, thickums. You cute.”
The owner of the click-clacking heels is tall, skinny, and possibly a Pavlov girl.
I screw my face up, just in case she is. “Thickums?”
“Yeah, you thick.” She smirks.
She stops in front of us with a smile that’s confusing. Her eyes are the color of ocean water with a tinge of red in their whites. They drag along my chest like Bryson’s and I recognize her. She looks just like she did under Ace’s arm in that prom picture Black Twitter went ballistic over. Too bad Chelsea isn’t here to see that her lips are real.
“I sent you the right sizes?” Ace asks from behind me, kneading his knuckles into the small of my back.
The sweat disappeared, but my hives are still there and now I know what that weird feeling is in my stomach when I think about him. His knuckles stroke my back while I replay the words we exchanged. It’s hard trying to keep up with him in his world, especially when he’s giving me something no other boy has—butterflies.
“Tal vez, tal vez no.” She shrugs. “I won’t know until she gets from up under you,Papi.”
Papi.
That’s the word that confirms my suspicions. She’s definitely a Pavlov girl—a leggy, Spanish-speaking one that’s insinuating she’s going to stay here with us.
“Hold up—hold up. What’s going on?” I frown. “I thought I came to chill with you? Who is she and what the hell you needed to tell her what size I wear for?”
“Cree came to help us get ready,” he replies. “We have somewhere to go tonight.”
The sweat comes back, prickling my lower back.
“We do?”
“Yeah—a gala. You ever been to a gala, kid?”
CHAPTERELEVEN
Lourdes
Cree knows more about my body than I do.
“According to Kibbe, you have a theatrical romantic body type. It’s the sexiest—soft arms and legs.”
I glance at my soft body in Ace’s floor-length mirror, searching for the romance she’s drooling over. My breasts are crying for a break from the push-up bra I shimmied into this morning trying to be cute, and I forgot to put the laundry in the dryer last night, so I have on period panties. It’s a tacky combination for my first Netflix and Chill with a dude.
“Take your bra off too, babe,” she calls from over her shoulder, rifling through a massive rolling wardrobe at the side of Ace’s unmade bed.
She left the door to the bedroom cracked and his voice competes with the music while he talks on the phone.
“You want him?” Cree asks, making my heart jump.
“Huh?”
“You want Ace?” she smirks, lifting an arched brow. “To come help you.”
She glides around his space in her strappy heels. Pretty girls like her are either real nice-nasty like Brandy or just plain nasty like the girls Marcus likes to fuck when him and Chelsea beef. I can’t tell which side Cree falls on. I just know she’sdefinitelya Pavlov girl.
