by L. B. Dunbar
“Nice floor,” Leon remarks, taking in the newly restored hardwood. It gleams and standing in here under silence reminds me of my own years playing on this court.
“Was your school like this?”
“I didn’t play for the high school. I played on the street,” he says, his voice in awe as he looks around the gymnasium.
I look over at him and stare. “Is that why you like the outdoor court so much?”
He shrugs. His head lifts, and he glances at the ceiling where the hanging banners celebrate the accomplishments of the school’s various teams. We haven’t been the most winning school, but we’ve had our moments. I shared in a few of them, and my eyes drift to the year I played on the state championship team.
“I was short for basketball. Knew I’d never play professionally and didn’t want to. I just loved the game. I coach a girls’ team at the middle school in the winter, hoping I can teach them the basics and get them to love the game as well. I think sports keep kids out of trouble.” The second I say it, I regret my words. Not that I don’t mean them, but I don’t want to imply Leon was trouble.
“Yeah, I think if I have been on a sports team instead of a gang, I might have taken a different path.” His voice falls quiet.
“I didn’t mean . . .” My voice fades as he glances over at me.
“Don’t ever apologize for what you had, Tricia. You’re a beautiful woman with a big heart, and it comes from how you grew up, not from how you didn’t. Don’t deny it.” He shakes his head like he has more to say, but he doesn’t, and we fall into an uncomfortable silence. Leon takes off his jacket and walks over to a ball cart someone must have forgotten to put away. Helping himself, he dribbles a few steps and then shoots a layup. When he misses, I razz him.
“Woman, come show me what you got,” he teases.
“Shirts and skin?” I question.
“That’s how you play the game. You beat me, I get your skin. I win, you show me skin.”
I nod, processing what he said, and then I laugh. “That’s my skin either way.” His eyebrows wiggle, and he dribbles the ball from hand to hand. I’m wearing more sensible clothing tonight in skinny jeans, a school embroidered sweatshirt, and ankle booties. I shouldn’t be playing on the hardwood in the heeled shoes, but I give in, coming at him and stealing the ball. We shoot around, although with the amount of touching he does, it’s more like a full-court press against me, and I get fouled constantly. That is to say, he’s constantly touching me. Palm at my hip. Arm around the waist. When I take a jump shot and miss, I nearly slam into his chest when I land. He tugs me to him, just holding me against him. The ball slowly bounces off in the distance.
“You dance in this gym?” he questions, still pressing me to his body, and I nod. Every high school dance was held here.
“How about kissing in here?” I pretend to think about it, but I didn’t ever kiss anybody in the school gym. Eventually, I shake my head in answer to his question.
“No making out under the bleachers?” he teases, and I laugh. As I’m lowering my forehead to his chest, he picks me up by my waist and drags me under the wooden risers pulled out from the wall. Someone must have forgotten to push them in. After ducking under the edge of the bleachers, out of the line of sight from any door, Leon presses me back against the wall. He leans over me. The position is a classic high school move. A boy at his locker, arm pinned over her head, playing with the hair of the girl under him. We breathe heavily, looking at one another for a long minute before Leon lowers his face to mine and kisses my mouth. He’s slow at first just as he’s been each time. A tender tug, a soft brush, and then his tongue comes forward. I reach for him, hooking my fingers into the loops of his jeans, and pull him against me.
“What happens when the teacher gets caught making out under the bleachers?” Leon teases against my mouth.
“I’d probably lose my job, but you aren’t a student, so I think I’m safe. Sort of.” I’m joking but not completely. I might not lose my job, but it would be embarrassing to get caught, and it’d definitely be a strike on my record.
“You’re always safe with me,” Leon assures me, taking my mouth again, deeper this time. He lifts one of my wrists above my head, pinning me in place as his body rocks against me. He dips his knees, so we line up, and he drags himself upward, rubbing against me.
“Oh God,” I whimper because we aren’t close enough and making out isn’t all I want. He switches his grip on my wrists to his other hand and then he drags his fingers down my side. Along the underside of my arm. Along the side of my breast. Along my waist. His fingers curl into the waistband of my jeans and then slide to the center. He pops the button.
“Let me in,” he whispers.
Here? Does he want to have sex with me here? I work here. I . . .
“Just let me touch,” he says against my mouth as his fingers undo my zipper and his palm flattens against my belly. His long fingers move lower, sweeping inside my panties and dipping between my legs. His middle finger finds the trigger spot, and then he dives into me. I cry out at the welcome intrusion, and Leon swallows the gasp with his mouth over mine.
“Quiet, baby,” he tells me, keeping his lips to mine while he smiles against them.
“Shirts and skin,” I whisper. My free hand tugs his shirt free of his jeans. My palm meets hot skin, and he hisses. Still working at my core, I unbuckle his belt, unbutton his jeans, and lower the zipper.
“You’re asking for trouble, teacher,” he warns, teasing me with his roughened voice.
“How will you punish me?” I whisper against his mouth while my fingers find his seeping tip. He hisses again.
“After school detention,” he groans as my fist forms around his thick length, and I squeeze. He deepens the force of his fingers inside me. We both rock forward, meeting in the middle. His body presses at the back of his hand inside my pants. Then he rocks us in a dance, the motion imitating how he’d enter me. His finger mimics the move. In and out. Thrust and surge. I match him with a squeeze and tug. We move back and forth, the tension building as our tongues tangle, and our fingers stroke each other. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced. He moves faster, adding a second finger and plunging upward. Mine jerks harder, palming him as tight as I can.
“It’s gonna get messy,” Leon warns, his voice straining as we both move. His fingers at my wrist tighten and our hips clash until I stiffen, the rush too much. I hold and clench around his long digits inside me. Then he slams me back, his weight against me as he releases into my hand. His forehead rests on mine, and we both ride the soaring height and slowly come down from the high.
“Fuck, you are beautiful,” he whispers to me, pressing a kiss to my temple. Suddenly, we hear the clank of a metal door. Leon quickly removes his fingers, and I yank my hand from his pants. He uses the edge of his shirt to do a quick swipe of my hand before we each hastily fumble with our own jeans. Taking my hand and leading me to the edge of the bleachers, Leon peeks over the stands. He nods to the side exit door a few feet away as the bleachers begin to collapse. Whoever left them open has returned to close them, and Leon tugs me forward.
“Hey,” an Italian voice calls out. I recognize the late-shift janitor, but I duck my head, hoping he doesn’t see me. Leon pushes open the outside exit door and drags me down the side of the building. Once we are far enough along the side that we disappear into the shadow, he presses me into the brick wall and kisses me hard. His mouth crashes against mine, and my fingers curl against his short hair. His fingers dig into my sides as our tongues take from one another, and then I giggle.
“Holy shit,” I mutter when he breaks away from me.
“Bad teacher,” he mocks with laughter in his tone. I swat at him, only he covers my hand, brings my palm to his lips and kisses it. “But you’re so good.” His eyes lock with mine, and we both smile. I feel like a teenager, and I’m behaving like one as well. I’ve just rewritten my high school history as a horny adult.
“I need to
get my jacket,” he mutters, bringing us both back to reality. “My keys and all my stuff are in the pockets.”
I nod, realizing how close we were to getting caught and how real it might be if his jacket gets to the wrong person. “Let me handle this.”
Leading him around the building and back to the entrance, I re-enter with my key card and find the jacket on the table where people hand in lost and found items. The A.D. secretary is busy, so I slyly reach for the heavy coat and slip it off the table, feeling relieved that I’m free and clear of all discovery.
Leon waits for me just outside the school doors. I hold out his coat for him. He wraps it around me and tugs me to him as we walk to my car. Once there, he leans his back against the driver’s side door, tugging me between his long, spread legs.
“That was the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” I admit, toying with his T-shirt.
“I’m the one who did it, so don’t feel guilty,” he teases me, knowing he started it, but we both finished. “Now, if you want to fuck me in the library, that would really be reckless and the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”
I swat at him. “Oh my God, you did not just say that.”
“I did.” He tips up an eyebrow and gives me a too brief kiss.
“Another time,” I flirt, and he smiles.
“I like the idea of more time,” he says, his voice dropping as he speaks. He doesn’t look at me but reaches up to grab the edges of his jacket, tightening the two halves over my chest. “But I don’t want to be your rebound man.”
The statement surprises me, reminding us both of what Trent called Leon.
“I don’t need promises from you because I know you’re in a holding pattern with the divorce. I just want you to know I’m here for you.” He pauses, and I sense he has more to say.
“Trent didn’t know what he was saying.” Still, Leon’s words don’t sit well with me. I don’t want to bring up the big C-word—commitment—but it would be nice to have someone committed to me. Despite my ten-year marriage, I don’t really know what that’s like. Somewhere along the way, loyalty and dedication fell to the wayside. I’d like to feel the power behind the promise to love, honor, and obey. Not command. Not demand. Not hurt someone else.
“You’re not a rebound.” My lips twist into a slight scowl as I stare at the collar of Leon’s shirt. He’s promised to keep me safe, but maybe telling me he’s not asking for promises means he doesn’t want anything from me. We can fool around, but he doesn’t need anything in return. He doesn’t need commitment from me.
I’m too emotionally raw and out of touch with the reality of dating to know how to respond. Silently, I make promises to myself.
I promise you are not a rebound but a rebirth of my spirit.
I promise I’ll never hurt you if you hand me your heart.
I promise I’ll cherish your love if you let me in.
If he doesn’t want more than what we are right now, I can’t force anything. I can’t make him feel something deeper for me. I’m not that out of touch that I don’t know that some things are just casual. Friends with benefits. Roommates with benefits. The idea tastes bitter, but I don’t reveal my feelings to him. Opting to keep things light, I respond in kindness.
“Shirts and skin,” I tease without humor. Fun and games. Guess that’s all this is to him, which is too bad for me. I don’t want to play any more games when it comes to relationships.
Lesson 19
Commitment is more than a four-letter word.
[Tricia]
Despite what Leon said, I fall for him, heart and soul. And my traitorous body? Well, it just tumbles over and over again. Leon and I spend every night in my bed, exploring each other but not completing the deed. His touch is unlike any I’ve ever known. While he’s tender, he tortures, teasing out my pleasure repeatedly. I’ve never been so sexually satisfied, but it’s more than a fulfilling sensation. I’m happy in a way I didn’t think I’d ever be. Maybe roommates with benefits wasn’t a terrible thing. We don’t discuss the future. We just live in the moment, and for once, that moment isn’t filled with fear of saying the wrong word or responding the wrong way. Leon lets me be free to be me.
Outside of bed, we fall into other routines. Work. School. Dinners with his sisters. When I read at night, Leon usually re-reads his favorite Shakespeare, but some nights, he draws in a sketchbook. I try to subtly lean over and sneak a glance in the book, but he always positions himself away from me or snaps it shut to keep me out.
“You’re a curious kitty,” he teases one night.
“I just want to know what you’re working on.” His face grows intense as he concentrates, and I want to see what keeps him so focused. “I’m not curious. I’m interested. I’m interested in all you do.”
The comment stops his fingers mid-drawing, and his eyes lift from the page to me.
“What do you mean?” he asks, still holding the pencil poised on the paper.
“I just want to know what you want. What do you see as your future? What are your dreams?”
He continues to stare at me as though the question is unclear, and therefore, there are no answers. He closes the book and I expect him to shut me out. While we’re shirts and skins in the sheets, we aren’t going deep.
“You know how I work at Dixon’s . . .” he reminds me. “I’m a graphic artist. Not by trade or anything. I used to tag. Spray painting buildings.” He pauses to let that sink in. From what I know of it, I imagine him dangling off a building.
“Almost falling off an overpass bridge and seeing your young life flash before you will end that behavior. But I didn’t drop the art.” He shrugs. “I was given a sketchbook somewhere along the way, and I tagged on paper instead. I shrunk my medium from the side of a structure to a piece of paper.”
“You could have died,” I quietly blurt, not liking to consider the risks this man has faced. He has a large tattoo on his back with an excessive scar over it, but we haven’t discussed it. “I don’t like to think about you in danger.”
Leon tosses the book to my nightstand and shifts to face me. “I’m not in danger anymore.” His hand comes up to cup my jaw.
“I don’t want anything to ever happen to you.” My fear is partially from my own fears. I don’t want Trent to redirect his anger at Leon. Not that Leon can’t hold his own, but I don’t want to bring that kind of drama to Leon. He’s had enough in his lifetime. I want him to feel safe with me.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he tries to assure me. “What’s going on in that head, pretty lady?”
Am I enough for you? I don’t ask the question. “I don’t want Trent to get to you.”
Leon scans my face. “Baby, he’s not going to get to me. You let me worry about Trent.”
Trent still hasn’t signed the divorce papers, and as far as I know, he has no attorney. My lawyer is taking the next steps, citing Trent’s lack of cooperation.
“So you asked about my dreams,” Leon says, redirecting our conversation. “I’d like to get to where Dixon will hire me to do custom paint jobs.”
Trent is forgotten. “Leon, that’s amazing,” I say, my voice growing higher with my enthusiasm. “Have you spoken to him?”
Leon shakes his head. “Not yet. I want more time to prove myself. I want him to see I’m a hard worker before I spring on him what I really want.”
“Did you know Tom is good friends with Dixon?” He and my eldest brother are longtime friends.
“Jess mentioned it, but I want to do this on my own.” His expression softens, and I read him. I know all about wanting to do something on your own. Something just for you. This house was my plan, only now I’m sharing it with Leon and his sisters. I don’t begrudge them. I’m happy he’s here, but we still haven’t tackled a single house project yet.
“I understand,” I tell him because I do. “And someday, I hope all your dreams come true.”
His mouth opens and shuts, and I’d give anything to know what he wanted to say, b
ut he leans forward to kiss me, distracting me like he does, and my most immediate hope involves his hands on me.
The kiss turns into a heavy make-out moment of hungry lips and wandering fingers. He skims his fingertips gently over my face, pulling back on occasion to look at me, tracing the line of his fingertip along my jaw, over my chin, or down my nose. Then his mouth returns to mine. We continue like this until I lean over him and reach for the sketchbook.
“Are you trying to distract me to get my secrets?” he teases, and I hate to admit how close he is to the truth. I want to know everything about him.
“Just one look.” I pout as I press my body over his chest, my mouth only inches from his.
“Fine, you sneaky little kisser.”
I giggle at the name while he turns to the nightstand and picks up the sketchbook. He still shields his work as he flips the pages and then pauses on one. He folds the book in a manner so I can only see the page he’ll show me. And then my breath catches.
I stare into eyes that match mine—eyes that are mine.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, almost reverently, as I admire his work. He’s made the dull brown-green look deep and rich with specks of gold, illuminating the colors in a way that makes the eyes replicate a forest with sunshine streaming through the thick leaves.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice low while I rest lying over his middle. I turn my attention back to him, looking into his own eyes. I wish I were an artist, able to capture the silver inside his orbs, but I’d never do them justice. I’d never get the depth correct or the metallic tone bright enough. I have no words, and so I do what’s second best with my mouth. I kiss him. The book is closed and tossed to the nightstand without breaking our connection. In the following kisses, I almost feel the sunshine of his sketch.
