I don’t think I’m supposed to like a boy’s fingers in my mouth. I can hear Chelsea getting on my head just like she got on Brandy’s, but the weight of Ace’s fingers still sits on my tongue. She won’t understand how good they tasted gliding down my throat or how the gruff voice he talks in makes me do crazy things.
“What thefuck...” I mutter, staring at my clothed reflection in the mirror I’ve been in front of all afternoon.
I look too good in this expensive ass piece of fabric Cree wrapped me in and I’m craving a boy’s fingers. I want their texture, their smell and even their taste in the back of my throat again while he reminds me of the shit he taught me in my driveway.
There’s an open valley down my chest where the gown’s fabric splits. The tag on it saysDior. I don’t know what to make of that or the double Cs on the clutch Ace tossed on the bed after he zipped me into my gown. I’ve never seen real Dior or Chanel in my life. It all even smells expensive.
“Lourdes!” he yells.
There’s no urgency in his voice, but my body moves like there is. I’m still trying to get used to someone saying my real name so much—especially a boy that can say it in as many ways as he can. I’m worse off than I was before because now I’m stuck on this planet with him and I like it no matter how much shit Chelsea talks about what he might’ve done.
When I round the corner to the living room, he and Cree stand in the kitchen talking in hushed whispers. She tugs the tailored suit jacket he has on and I finally understand what rappers like Dough mean when they say they don’t need a stylist. The only person Cree came to dress was me, because after twenty-one years of being rich, Ace can drape himself in a designer outfit with his eyes closed and look like sex and money rolled into one.
He smiles at me with bloodshot eyes. “Fix me something—”
“Nah. You’re good for the night. Dior does a shit job of covering the smell of 1942.” Cree pries the glass out of his hand. “Come here, Phat. Let me show you something before Gus gets here.”
I walk up to them as she yanks his arm into her stomach.
She glances at me. “You ever put on cuff links before?”
Instead of blurting out the first smart-aleck response I can think of, I shake my head, heeding to Ace’s warning.
Shiny little pins stick up from his sleeves and he’s smiling at me like he was when he stuck his fingers in my mouth.
“Let me show you,” she mutters. “It’s easy.”
She weaves the links in and out of his sleeve’s cuffs real easy, like she said.
The air is thick between the two of them. Whatever they were whispering about before I came in the kitchen has them looking at each other like star-crossed lovers instead of the homies they keep claiming to be.
“You gon' send me the invoice or you want cash?” he asks, slurring his words just enough to make my palms moist.
“Cash.”
“You gon' be back in time for Javier?”
“I don’t know, Ace.” She sighs. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s his first game of the pre-season. That’s a big deal.”
“Okay... and there’ll be others.”
“But there’ll never be another first pre-season game for him,” he mutters, smacking his lips.
Pre-season game. First. Basketball Camp.
Now I know the Javier that’s been lurking through tonight is the rookie from the most recent draft that everybody’s been impressed with, except Marcus. He’s something like a hometown hero for Los Angeles—born and bred to die on his home turf with his home team. He rode the bench in that game against Villanova where Ace shot that buzzer beater. People are always saying he’s everything Ace was supposed to be, and his sister is here in Houston, fussing over a boy I hate and like.
Her eyes dart around.
There’s something else wrong, and she knows it.
“Lourdes...” Ace says while his eyes dash from the glass he tried to hand me to a bottle on the granite countertop.
“Yeah?” I squeak.
“I can finish this.” He twists his left arm where the unopened cuff links dangle. “Go get Cree her money from my nightstand.”
