Dylan eyed me with a smarmy grin, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together appreciatively. “Oh she fine fine,” he said.
“Thank you?” I replied, cocking my head at him.
CJ shook his head, pressing his hand against the small ofmy back. “Don’t pay him no mind,” he whispered. “He’s harmless but has no damn home training.”
“Whatever, nigga,” Dylan laughed as we walked off.
The kitchen was a mess of liquor bottles and sodas. Open bags of chips were scattered next to containers of dip, and a cooler packed with ice sat on the floor. The bass from the speakers pulsed through the walls.
“What you wanna drink?” he asked, grabbing two cups and filling them with ice.
“Whatever you’re having.”
He moved around the kitchen, plucking bottles, pouring, tasting, and adjusting until he was satisfied with his concoction. He handed me a cup and watched while I took a cautious sniff.
“This is one of them sneaky drinks,” I quipped.
“It’s only sneaky if you can’t hold your liquor, ma,” he teased with a smile.
I took a tentative sip. The fruity sweetness masked the bite from the liquor underneath. Warmth spread through my chest almost immediately. “You trying to put me on my ass?”
He chuckled and leaned in close. “Only if you want me to,” he said low in my ear.
I took another sip, unsure if the heat spreading through me was because of the drink or his words.
“Yerrr!” Our heads snapped toward the kitchen entrance as a group stumbled in.
“Oh shit! —what up, O.G.?” A skinny dude in his early twenties crossed the room to greet CJ, grinning the whole way.
“Poncho,” CJ nodded, locking into the Reapers handshake with him.
Poncho slung his arms around two women on either side of him and glanced at me with open curiosity. “This you?” he asked, his eyes moving between me and CJ.
“Be easy, bruh,” CJ said as he took my hand and steered meout of the kitchen before Poncho could say anything else. We moved through the house, people pressing themselves against the wall to make room for us.
“Where are we going?” I asked, when we reached a staircase at the back.
“Somewhere quieter.”
The stairs creaked under us as we climbed. CJ pushed open the door at the top and hit a switch. Dozens of string lights came on across the rooftop patio. There were a few chairs, some tables, and a grill neatly arranged—a stark contrast to the party downstairs.
I exhaled and settled into one of the chairs.
“Nah, c’mere,” CJ said, patting his lap.
“You don’t?—”
“Nairobi.” The warning in his voice was more playful than anything. “Don’t even play with me right now.”
I narrowed my eyes at him as I stood and walked over to him.
“Was that so hard?” he murmured, his hands slid around my waist as I sank into his lap. “Whatever,” I muttered.
He chuckled and handed me his cup to hold as he reached into his pocket for a pre-rolled blunt and lighter. I set both cups on the ground and adjusted myself, straddling him so we were face to face. CJ lit the blunt, keeping his eyes locked on mine while the flame briefly cast a shadow over his face. He took a slow pull and tilted his head back, exhaling into the open air.
His hand moved to my hips as he brought the blunt to his lips again. The heat from the palm of his hand seared through my jacket as it trailed up my back to the nape of my neck and guided my face towards his until our noses almost touched.
His lips parted. I opened mine.
