Page 47 of Own It

“Thanks.” I snatched it and slammed the door in his face, smirking when I heard him grunt lowly in frustration at my attitude.

For as long as I was kidnapped, I wasn’t going to make it easy on his ass unless I saw he was angry or wielding a weapon, then I would shut the hell up.

For the next hour, I got myself together moisturizing, dressing, and spritzing on some perfume I’d gotten from Sephora. Once I had on my dress, all that was left was my hair and shoes, but the latter could wait until I was leaving.

Deciding to keep it simple since I wasn’t trying to impress anyone at his dad’s party, I did my Dutch braids over but left out a few tendrils at the front of my head and back to give it some sort of flair. Twenty minutes later, and I was ready to go, meeting Rakim at the door of the bedroom.

“This is actually a nice house.” I took in the home as he escorted me up the stairs to the main floor and through it.

I hadn’t ever seen it, because by the time I came to, I was already in the room I’d been held in.

“Thank you.” He opened the passenger door to his truck for me which was unexpected.

I paused for a beat, caught off guard, but took his hand to climb up into the black-on-black Denali.

It smelled like his cologne mixed with whatever air freshener he had in here, and the seats felt like butter against my skin.

“So can I have a drink tonight, or is that off the menu, kidnapper?” I buckled up as he started the car once inside.

“You can have a few, but try not to get sloppy. You seem like you’ll start fucking talking even more than you already do after too many drinks.” He pulled out of the long ass gravel driveway into the street.

Giggling, I said, “I never get sloppy, but you’re probably right.”

“Few rules though, Daylin.” He ran a hand down his face, keeping his eyes on the road. “Act normal. Don’t walk in there looking all wide-eyed and like you scoping the scene for an escape.”

“What if someone asks who I am?”

“They won’t. It’ll be plenty of women in attendance, and they’ll assume you’re one of my father’s flings or one of the many women my brothers invited.”

I nodded, taking it in.

“They wouldn’t assume I was invited by you?”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “That’s not really some shit I would do.” He glanced my way, and for some reason, we exchanged subtle smiles.

“I’m gonna start thinking you’re asexual, Rakim,” I jested, and he laughed out loud which was a pleasant surprise.

“Does that mean I love pussy but it don’t run me? If so, then I’m cool with that title.”

“No, it means you don’t like anything. You live a sexless life pretty much.”

“Well then, nah, that’s not me. At all.” He stroked his healthy beard. “I’ve learned to be disciplined, though, at first because I had to stay focused on boxing, and then again when I was in prison—the latter I had no choice but to abstain. So I don’t sit up fiending for the shit. Hopefully that gives you some clarity on my sexual identity.”

When he smiled, I returned the gesture, unable to deny it.

“I like that,” I admitted. Nothing was sexier than a man who didn’t act like a starved dog anytime women or vaginas were in the room.

“Okay.” He laughed some, speaking sarcastically.

“Anyway.” I smacked my lips playfully. “So, are you kind of on edge thinking I may make my great escape at this party?”

“No, but if you do, you won’t make it far. And if you can run in them high ass heels you got on, you deserve the freedom.”

I chuckled, watching his lips tug up in the corner some as he kept his eyes on the freeway traffic before us.

His side profile rivaled his frontal making him 100 percent fine as fuck. When you were sexy from the front and the side, you were undeniably fine, and that was Rakim. His dark skin, that healthy beard, the lips, nose, his build, low-cut fade, and even that scar on his face all added to his appeal. The name Helen was scribed on his neck in ink.

We made it to the party about forty-five minutes later, and Rakim helped me from his truck. I refused to look at him as he did so, because I was tired of smiling so much for no reason. I had a crush on him, sadly, and I couldn’t even blame Stockholm syndrome, because it wasn’t that. This was pure, unadulterated attraction.