And like always, as she knew it would, it was the emotion, not just the pleasure that pushed Jamal—and her with him—into the abyss.
~12~
“Townhouse, or country house?”
“Townhouse.”
“Sedan, or SUV?”
“I don’t drive,” Kayla laughed. “I mean, you know that I can, but we live in the city, so …”
“But what if I wanted to buy you a car, which one would you want?”
“I want a tricked-out, fully-loaded, eight-cylinder …”
“Don’t front like you know anything about cars,” Jamal interrupted her.
She laughed again.
“Boy, or girl?”
A dreamy smile crossed Kayla’s lips, as she turned her head to the side to look at him.
Sensual. That was how she looked after lovemaking. Her locs were fanned out on the pillow around her head, their dark-brown, threaded with auburn, contrasting with the stark white of the sheets. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, and she was having a difficult time keeping them open. The reddish glow that came with exertion still lingered beneath the dark caramel of her skin.
Jamal had lifted her up, and carried her back into their bedroom after that first time in the den, and they spent the next hour here, this time going much slower.
“Boy, or girl what?” Kayla asked.
He grinned. Her mind was so damn sex-cloudy right now that she really didn’t know what he was talking about. Taking a breath, Jamal said the word slowly.
“Babies.”
What the fuck was he doing?
Hadn’t he just told Robyn not too long ago that he didn’t want her planting ideas in Makayla’s head, about the kids he supposedly wasn’t ready to have?
Kayla’s smile slipped away, and Jamal watched her bite her lower lip.
“Both,” she said finally.
Relief. That was what he felt. Relief, and then he felt foolish. How was it they had never talked about this before? They were getting married, and this was the first time he had even raised the question.
“How many?” he asked.
At that, Makayla opened her eyes fully. They weren’t playful anymore. Now they were intent, and serious.
“As many as you’ll give me,” she said, slowly. “As many as you want.”
Jamal let his head fall to one side. He was balanced on his elbow, looking down at her, lying on her back next to him.
“As many as I want?”
“Why?” She sat up partway, until he pressed a little against her sternum to make her lie down again.
He didn’t want her to get up. He didn’t want to get up. Not yet.
“How many are you thinking?” she asked, sounding slightly alarmed.
“I don’t know. Three, maybe?”
She contemplated that for a moment then relaxed against the pillow again. “I think I could do three.”
“When?”
Man, shut up.
“Whenever,” Kayla’s eyes had become dreamy again.
“Whenever?”
“Jamal, why do you keep repeating what I said?” She shook her head, amused.
“Because I ‘on know if you know what you sayin’. You all drunk in love right now, so ...”
Kayla laughed, tossing her head back further, and pressing it into the pillow so her chin was raised, her throat exposed. Leaning in, he kissed her there, and her laughs subsided. Jamal felt her hand on the back of his head. Whenever she did that—that hand, on his head—it meant she was still down for more. He was, too. But this was an important conversation, and one that was long overdue.
“You mean that?” he asked her, speaking against her skin. “Like if I wanted us to start tryin’ right now, you’d be into it?”
She shrugged. “Yeah. If that’s what you really wanted.”
Jamal raised his head then vaulted himself over her, parting her legs with his knee, and resting between them, his weight on his elbows.
“For real?”
Kayla shrugged again.
“You’re … young, though,” he reminded her.
“Yeah, but you? Not so much,” she said with a mischievous look in her eye.
“Hey!” he said, pretending to take offense.
“No, but seriously,” she said. “I saw lots of young mothers where I grew up …”
“I did, too,” he reminded her.
“Some were too young, and obviously not ready to be anybody’s mother. And they were terrible at it. My Nana looked after lots of those kids. But y’know what else I noticed?”
“What?”
“Some of them were amazing at it. None of them had a lot of money, and they struggled, but I saw some incredible mothers. Even among the younger ones. And believe me, I was like, studying them because I didn’t have a mother-mother. I had my Nana and she mothered me, but I was always …”
Jamal said nothing. He knew very little about Makayla’s mother, except that she lived across the country now. After spending most of her life caught up in her addiction, she had moved somewhere out West for a rehab program sometime when Kayla was a teenager, and had finally gotten clean.
Kayla once told him once how hopeful she had been when her mother finally straightened out, how excited she was at her possibly returning and becoming a “real mother.” But that hadn’t happened.
Instead, she decided to stay where she was, unsure that she would have the strength to resist the lure of the “people, places, and things” that triggered her drug use. And since then, Kayla had rarely seen her, and only on momentous occasions, like, most recently, the funeral of her Nana, her mother’s mother.
“I always watched other kids’ mothers,” Kayla continued. “And some of the young ones …” She shook her head in what seemed like wonder. “They got three weeks’ worth of groceries out of twenty dollars, took two trains and a bus just to get to some bargain emporium in the Bronx to buy their kids’ clothes for the season. They bargained with those dudes who sell sneakers out of the trunk of an old Cadillac just to get their son the latest kicks … I mean. I never saw them get the credit they deserved … I know the rest of the world probably looked at stuff like that, them dressing their baby in Jordans as like, messed up priorities. But me? I just saw the love. They wanted their babies to have the best, like every other kid. They didn’t want them to look, or feel poor. Even if they were.”
Jamal smiled, and nodded.
He had known mothers like that as well. Not his mother, but in his neighborhood, there had been a few. Women who had children “too young” by society’s standards, but who managed against all the odds stacked against them to provide, even when their men weren’t around, or were ill-equipped, or unwilling to contribute. He remembered keenly, those young women and girls in his neighborhood, who seemed to have a stroller as an extra appendage.
“Anyway,” Kayla said. “I learned that sometimes age doesn’t have anything to do with being a good mother. And that you can live life—a full life even—with a baby on your hip. I’m not afraid of doing that. If that’s what we decide.”
Staring down at her, Jamal swallowed hard, humbled by the sudden understanding that, without knowing it, without thinking about it, he had chosen exactly the right woman to be the mother of his kids. He reached for a loc resting on her cheek, and gently moved it aside his fingers making delicate contact with her skin and then lingering there.
“Is … is that what we’re deciding?” Kayla asked after a moment when he still hadn’t said anything. “To try now?”
It was his turn to shrug. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Biting in her lower lip, Kayla looked thoughtful.
“But,” he added. “Keep in mind that I’m an old man.”
“Thirty-seven is not that old,” she said, serious once again. “But, yeah, I don’t think I’m ready, like right now. Maybe … after we’re married? Like in a year?”
“Cool,” he said, masking how pleased he was with a nod, and the twist of his lips like he wa
s contemplating the compromise. “And, baby?”
“Yeah?” She had begun squirming beneath him again, opening her legs a little wider, lifting her hips in invitation.
“When the time comes, we got plenty a money. Buy our kids all the damn Jordans you want.”
Makayla blinked at him laconically, the way she always did when she thought he was being silly. Then, reaching down with both hands, she gripped him tighter, and pulled him even closer.
jamal’s brother, damon, was almost as handsome as Jamal. Almost. Makayla watched as he made his way among the sea of tables, toward where she was sitting, and admired his confident gait. There was just something about West Indian men.
Clearly, no one had ever taught them a lick about cultivating the appearance of humility, not even for their self-protection. So, that swagger, that native arrogance that most Black men had? They just let it all hang out.
Damon, and Jamal’s other brother Marlon, had grown up in Jamaica for most of their teen years, and only immigrated to the States when their mother brought them over. They, and Jamal, had different fathers, but Makayla still saw a definite resemblance—they all had the same shade of dark skin, square-jawed good-looks, thick, silky brows, and formidable physique. But where Damon was concerned, that was where the similarities ended.
While Jamal pulled people in with a warm smile, Damon was the opposite. There was intensity in his gaze that made a person want to look down, to check just in case they’d forgotten to pull up a zipper, or had exited the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to their shoe.
Still, once his assessment was done, and once he decided he liked you, Damon’s smile could be just as open as Jamal’s, just as seductive. But while Jamal gave smiles freely, unless he had reason to not to, Damon’s smiles came only once you had passed some unspoken test.
“Ah, c’mon, don’t tell me he left you here all alone,” Damon said when he was only steps away from the table.
“In the men’s room, or taking a call or something,” Makayla said smiling as he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek.
She inhaled him, liking his woodsy, masculine scent.
“Always working,” Damon said, taking the seat opposite hers at the table for four and shaking his head.
He unfurled his napkin and spread it on his lap then turned his attention to Makayla once again. And when he did, he stared for a moment, then leaned in and reached forward, tugging on one of her locs in a way that reminded her of how Jamal played with them.
“Nice,” he said, holding it between two fingers and running them along it, until he reached the end, and released it entirely.
When Jamal told her they were going out, she had washed and braided them, then sat under the dryer. When they were dry, and the braids unfastened, it had a pleasant wave that made Makayla’s already thick locs look thicker still.
“Thank you,” she said.
Damon treated her to one of his rare smiles and mouthed the words, ‘you’re welcome’. He was flirting with her. She wasn’t so clueless that she didn’t recognize it. And it wasn’t as though it was the first time it had happened, either.
“What’s the mission tonight?” he asked.
“What d’you mean?”
“My brother only ever invites me out to be his focus group of one. When he wants to check out a person, or a place.”
“Damon, that’s not true,” Makayla said chidingly, though there was some truth to it. “But actually …”
Damon laughed. “Yeah. I knew it.”
“A friend of mine is performing here. It’s a little bit of a different type of venue for him. And if Jamal asked you to come, it just means he respects your opinion.”
“’Sup, man?”
Jamal was back. Both Makayla and Damon jumped a little at the sound of his voice, because they hadn’t noticed his approach. He sank into the seat closest to Makayla’s, after leaning in to give his brother some dap, then scooted his chair even closer, and draped an arm across the back of hers.
“You ordered anything yet?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Waiting for you.”
Already, she detected slight tension in his posture. And his moving closer to her was no casual gesture. Ever since she had been introduced to his brothers—but more so with Damon—Makayla noticed the undercurrent of competition between them. Jamal, who was in almost every other arena incredibly confident, seemed to have just a little something to prove whenever he was around Damon.
And the feeling appeared to be mutual. Despite the growing fraternal affection between the two men, there was sometimes also some bite in their tone when they spoke to each other.
Makayla could only imagine that seeing Damon’s hand in her hair as he approached the table hadn’t amused Jamal one bit. The way he’d staked out his claim to her by moving in closer didn’t surprise her at all. Jamal was always more possessive, and more tactile after sex.
Under the table, she shifted a hand from her own knee to his, and felt the muscles in Jamal’s thigh twitch in response to her touch, and then relax. Turning her head slightly in his direction, she offered him a smile, and felt when he leaned his head a little to the side, so his cheek made momentary contact with her locs.
“Who’s this friend we’re here to see?” Damon asked.
“Devin Parks,” Jamal said. “Heard of him?”
“Nah. Can’t say I have. He any good?”
“He’s amazing,” Makayla said. “I think you’re going to really like …”
“Don’t try to stack the deck,” Jamal said, nudging her. “Let him decide for himself.”
“Well, he asked if he was any good …”
“Hey.”
Makayla looked up. “Harper.”
“What’s up? You here for Devin?” Jamal asked.
Harper nodded, and Makayla saw her swallow, and the way her eyes flitted away a little.
“You want to join us?” she asked. “We haven’t ordered yet.”
“Ahm …”
“Yeah, c’mon,” Jamal indicated the lone unoccupied chair at the table, and Harper finally sat. She shifted in her seat a little and offered a brief smile to Damon who leaned in a little and held out a hand.
“I’m Jamal’s brother,” he explained, after telling Harper his name.
“Harper.” She took his hand they shook. Damon held hers a little longer than was necessary.
Narrowing her eyes, Makayla turned her attention to Harper and Damon again, hoping that neither of them did anything that made it awkward for her. Not that Devin was likely to care if Harper had other diversions.
While Damon tried his hand with Harper, Makayla took the opportunity to look her over.
Harper was pretty. She had always noticed that, but never dwelled on it. Her prettiness was edgy, and at times almost hard, and tomboyish, like early Alicia Keys. But now, she was wearing lipstick. This was the second time now, that Makayla had seen her look like she was trying, suddenly, to look more like a girl. And both times was it related to Devin’s gigs. She wondered how serious this thing might be, at least on Harper’s end.
“What’s up, baby? You okay?”
“Hmm?” Makayla turned to look at Jamal.
“You’re quiet.”
“No, it’s nothing,” she said, leaning into him again. “Just … a little tired from, you know, earlier.”
Jamal smiled, satisfied with her answer. Makayla forced a smile of her own, ashamed of herself for telling the lie.
~13~
“This is the first one, Jamal. The very first one.”
Grimacing and then biting down onto his lower lip, Jamal reminded himself that the person he was angry with was not Kayla.
“I know,” he said, between his teeth. “You know if I could have avoided this, I would have.”
“I don’t believe you. I just don’t fucking believe you anymore.”
“Makayla …”
“Don’t! Don’t even bother trying to explain. I never asked you to make that b
ullshit promise. You did it all on your own, and then I relied on it. I …”
“Makayla …”
“Stop calling me that!”
Jamal held the phone away from his ear. She was hot. And he couldn’t say he blamed her. The thrice-a-week dinners weren’t something she extracted from him, it was something he offered up. Hell, he’d offered her dinners at home every night, and now, here he was, on the night of their very first dinner, breaking that promise. And for what?
Looking up, he saw the reason, sauntering into the room, a bored, expression on his face, like someone who had awoken after a long nap, and recalled that there was something that was somewhat important for them to do, like move their laundry from the washer to the dryer.
“Kayla, I’ll be home as soon as …”
“Don’t bother. Stay out as long as you want. Maybe I won’t even be here when you get back.”
“What does that …?”
Before he could finish his question, the line went silent. Jamal looked at the face of his phone and exhaled an impatient breath once he realized that she really did it. She’d hung up on him.
He considered for a second calling her back, but by then, his ‘date’ was standing directly in front of him, the maddening don’t-give-a-damn look still on his face.
Glancing pointedly at his watch, Jamal narrowed his eyes and took a breath before speaking.
“You know you’re like forty-five minutes late, right?”
“Yeah,” Devin said, pulling out the other chair at the table and falling into it. “Sorry. I got caught up with some other shit, and …”
“You got a phone?”
Devin said nothing, a vague smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
“Y’know what,” Jamal said, almost to himself, and shaking his head. “I don’t have to be here …”
“So we got somethin’ in common. Neither do I,” Devin said, making as though to stand.
“Man, sit yo’ ass down,” Jamal gritted out between his teeth.
Devin’s nostrils flared, and Jamal could feel the tension in the other man’s muscles, even from across the table. He could tell Devin wanted to hit him. The feeling was mutual.
The Takedown Page 13
