Zora held his stare for a few moments more. “My Dad wasn’t around much either,” she confided, shrugging. “He traveled a lot between Senegal and the States. I think I was about fifteen before I realized that he and my Mom were basically separated. But divorce … in our culture. It’s just not that common, so I got used to him not being around and thought it was normal.” She shrugged again. “But I guess it was different for you. Seeing your father on television and online but not seeing him that much in person. That had to have been tough.”
Deuce said nothing, momentarily taken aback by how quickly and casually she sensed the exact thing that made the almost-estrangement from his father in his early years most difficult.
“Last night was a trip,” she said, almost as if finally realizing she was treading on delicate ground. “Meeting K Smooth and his wife in your living room, like, just kicking back and drinking, I don’t know. What was that? Egg nog or something, like regular folks.”
“They are regular folks.”
“I know. But you know what I mean. I swear when I walked into the room, even though there were maybe ten other people there, it was like there was a spotlight on him, he’s so frickin’ good-looking. Inhumanly so. I don’t think I could handle a man like that. It would be too damn stressful.” She laughed.
“You have one?”
“What? An inhumanly good-looking man? Ahm, no.” She laughed again.
“Or even an average one.”
Zora shook her head, but her eyes flitted away. Deuce remembered what Kal said about her and Rashad. Everyone knew Rashad. On campus, it wasn’t even necessary to use his last name.
Zora leaned all the way back, and then pushed off to float away. That was a pretty slick bit of avoidance, but just as she was about to float away, Deuce held onto her left foot. Her toes were long and narrow, almost like fingers. The nails were painted a translucent pink. For a brief moment, he had the urge to kiss them. Instead he stroked her instep. Zora shrieked and yanked her foot away, abruptly standing, spluttering water.
“I’m ticklish!”
She was more than pretty when she laughed, she was beautiful.
“You hungry?” he asked. “I could have our housekeeper make us some burgers or something.”
“Or …” She let the word drag. “We could go out. This house is way too comfortable. If I hang out here any longer, you’ll never get rid of me.”
He nodded. “Okay, so let’s go out.”
He watched her get out of the pool, his eyes following the sway of her ass. Zora grabbed her towel off the chair where she’d placed it earlier and looked over her shoulder at him.
“You coming?”
The warmth of the pool, and the heated tiles surrounding it radiated only a few feet outward, so once Deuce told her where they were going, Zora dried her feet and made a mad dash toward the house through the icy cold and brittle grass, squealing the entire way. She waited for him at the threshold, the towel wrapped around her, and he took her hand, leading her down the long hall and toward the stairs leading to the second level.
Hesitating, Zora looked around. “Is this cool? I mean, your family …”
“Yeah. C’mon.” Without releasing her hand, he began his ascent and Zora followed.
On the landing, she tugged at his fingers until he stopped.
“Are you kidding me?” She paused in front of a series of paintings, lining the long hallway. “Are these Kehinde Wiley?”
Deuce shrugged.
Zora leaned in closer. “Oh shit. I don’t think these are prints, either. These are … real.” She lifted a hand and slowly, moved it closer. Her fingers were almost trembling. Just before they made contact with the image, she pulled back and looked at him in amazement as though he was responsible for painting it himself.
“Robyn got them,” he said, indicating the series along the wall. “She’s the art lover in the family.”
“Wow.” Zora made her way slowly down the hall, her eyes still on the images, her hand warm and small in his. “It’s been a long time since we had an artist like him. Whose work is so … politically-relevant.”
Her use of the word “we,” Deuce knew, was meant to refer to Black folks. He didn’t often think in those terms.
Finally pulling her hand from his, Zora made her way to the last painting, still clutching her towel around her.
“What makes it so political?” he asked. “I mean, they’re really lifelike, but …”
“And vivid, right? Hyperrealism is what it’s called. The way he uses that to humanize Black people, especially Black men? That’s part of what’s political. Because Black men are most often de-humanized. This is almost like art as protest.”
“Art is always protest,” Deuce said. “Against conformity.”
Zora’s eyes opened just a little wider at that observation, but he was glad she didn’t express her surprise verbally. And he was glad that when she explained Kehinde Wiley’s work, she did it in a way that didn’t judge him for not already knowing enough about something so unique that had been there, right under his nose and unnoticed.
Deuce turned to look at one of the paintings he had passed countless times without sparing it more than a few seconds’ glance. The young man portrayed was holding his head up, his eyes almost insolent, his chin jutting forward. His neck was marked with a tattoo, and he was wearing a white undershirt and loose jeans. In his hand, he held something that looked like a staff, or a scepter.
“See?” Zora came to stand next to him staring at the painting; he felt her body heat radiating in his direction. “The way he stares at us? How defiant he looks? The … majesty in his posture? How often do you see Black men depicted like that? Most often, they’re slouching, frowning. Angry. This makes them look like nobility. Like …”
“Kings,” Deuce said.
Zora turned and looked at him instead, nodding, her face solemn. “Yeah,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Like kings.”
Taking a step closer, Deuce saw her inhale—her shoulders lifted, and as she released her breath, they fell. Her skin was like polished mahogany. Deuce smoothed his thumb across one shoulder, watching Zora’s eyelids droop, ever so slightly. He could see in them that she was feeling some of what he felt.
“Are we going to eat, or what?” She sounded like she could be talked out of that plan. But the house was overrun with family, so getting out was probably a good idea.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go eat.”
On the table between them, Zora’s phone buzzed. It was facedown, so she reached for it, grimacing when she saw who was trying to reach her.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled, sliding out of her seat.
Deuce watched her walk over to an alcove near the entrance to The Cheesecake Factory where they were having lunch. Around them, there were still traces of Christmas cheer, the booths and walls decorated with red garlands and poinsettias. Zora’s head was down as she talked to the person on the phone. She raised a hand to her forehead, then to the back of her neck, balancing her weight on one foot and then the other. Whomever it was, was making her either uncomfortable or irritated. He couldn’t make out her face, so he couldn’t decide which.
It was a dude. He could tell by her posture.
Reaching for his own phone, seeking a distraction, Deuce dialed the number of one of his friends who lived not too far away. Patrick McKenna was a tall, redheaded kid who, like Deuce, was a child of privilege. They knew each other from the expensive football camps they had both attended in their early teens, and because Pat had a stable of friends that had nary another White boy in sight.
He was the kid that, when they were growing up, you wanted to pull to the side and say, ‘Dude, you do know you’re not Black, right?’ But Pat, or “Paddy” as Deuce once heard his father call him, was cool people, and when Deuce was in Short Hills, he could always be counted on to know where the parties were.
“You’re in luck, my man,” Pat said. “Tonight, the only place yo
u’ll wanna be is Casa McKenna.”
“Word?” Deuce asked. “Where’s the fam at?”
“In Aspen. Or Vail. The fuck if I know. But they ain’t here, that’s the important thing.”
Pat’s family was, like Deuce’s, blended. His father had married a woman who looked basically like a newer model of Pat’s mother, and who had recently had a new baby. And Pat’s mother, too, had moved on to her second family. Because of that, Pat, as the remnants of a failed marriage neither parent wanted to be reminded of, was frequently casting about on his own during holidays. So, on second thought, that was nothing like Deuce’s family, because if it had come to that, he knew his stepmother would have driven herself up to Penn State to get him rather than let him spend a holiday alone.
“So what time you tellin’ folks to come through?”
Across the room, Zora had wound up her phone call and was heading back his way.
“Anytime you want, man. It’s an all-day and all-night bacchanal over here.”
“Cool. I’ma check you out later then.”
He hung up, just as Zora slid back into her seat, signs of strain on her face.
“You good?” he asked.
If he had to guess, he would say the person she had been talking to was definitely Rashad. He could see it on her face, feel the weight of him on her spirit. Because Rashad would be heavy, the kind of dude who would occupy every inch of his woman, or at least try to.
“Yup. Good. Sorry about that. It was a call I had to …” She reached for one of her sweet potato fries and popped it into her mouth, chewing at it desultorily.
“You sure you a’ight?”
She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly intent.
“You know when people have this image in their head of you?” she asked. “And you feel like you’re always doing battle with that image? Fighting to live up to it, or … live it down?”
Deuce nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
A glimmer of realization lit Zora’s eyes. “Duh. Of course you do.” And then after a pause. “Well, it sucks.”
“What’re you trying to live up to? Or live down?”
She shrugged and reached for another fry. “Just … stuff.”
“I have an idea,” Deuce said, grabbing one of the fries off her plate.
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t we just … shed all that? Both of us. Until we go back to school, we just let all that go, and enjoy this time. Enjoy … each other.”
“By that you mean …”
“You know what I mean,” Deuce said.
Zora looked down at the table, tracing a pattern with her finger. Finally, she lifted her eyes to his again, but still, she said nothing.
“You know how hard I’ve been tryin’ not to touch you?” he admitted. “It’s wearing me out.”
Zora smiled. “Then don’t try anymore,” she said.
By the time they got to Pat’s house, the party was in full-swing even though the sun had only just gone down. Deuce held Zora’s hand as they entered, because the foyer was crowded and the music so loud, the only way he could communicate with her was through touch. There was dancing in the living room and on the enclosed porch, but the press of bodies was so thick, it was more like a mosh-pit. Deuce and Zora were pressed together, and jostled back and forth. After a few moments of that, Zora threw her hands up in defeat and started bouncing to the beat.
Deuce laughed and bounced with her, both of them losing themselves in Drake’s raspy and rough voice. There, on the dance floor, they let go of everything that was weighing them down and became just a guy and his girl, dancing.
Around midnight, Pat invited a few people upstairs to his room where it was quieter, and they lay around on the rug, passing a spliff and watching music videos. When the weed made its way around to Zora, she took it and inhaled a long, deep toke, held the smoke in for a long time, and then released it. Her eyes were bleary and unfocused. She looked at Deuce looking at her and gave a half-shrug.
“Karaoke!” Pat announced out of nowhere. “That’s what the fuck we need!”
The two girls flanking him whooped their approval of the plan.
“Lemme go find my shit,” Pat said, stumbling to his feet, and heading out of the room. Deuce’s eyes followed his friend then came to rest on Zora again. She was smiling, the vaguely hazy smile of someone who is as high-as-a-kite, and maybe even a little drunk too.
Standing, Deuce went over to her and extended a hand, pulling her up. With a hand on her waist, he moved her closer, so their chests were pressed together. Her breasts were soft against him, her breath was a little smoky, a little boozy, a little sweet. He was a little high, too. High enough to hold her as though preparing for a waltz, and swaying, a little too slowly for the rapid beat of the music coming from Pat’s oversized television.
Pressing his lips against her ear, Deuce spoke. “Still having a hard time not touching you.”
“You are touching me,” Zora said, her mouth against his neck.
He shivered a little. It had to be the weed, the music … something else. It couldn’t just be her.
“Nah,” he said. “I want to touch you … more.”
Zora pulled back a little and looked him directly in the eyes, motioning toward the door.
Holding hands, they shoved their way downstairs and Deuce looked wildly around, trying to recall where in Pat’s house they might go to be alone. He tried the library, the powder room just off the kitchen and even the pool house. Everywhere they checked, someone else had gotten there before them. Feeling increasingly desperate, he tugged Zora along behind him until she yanked on his arm, pulling him down to her.
“Where’s your car keys?” she asked.
Deuce looked at her inquiringly. “The car?” he cupped his hand at her ear. “But we’re probably blocked in.”
“So we’ll stay there … in the car,” she said.
“For real?”
Zora nodded, her eyes holding his.
It was almost pitch-black outside, save for the dull, yellow glow of the streetlights and the path-lighting leading out of Pat’s father’s house. Together Deuce and Zora made their way past the dozens of other cars and halfway down the street to where they parked hours earlier. With Zora shivering next to him, Deuce fumbled with his keys before his chilled fingers found the fob and finally managed to unlock the doors.
Zora reached past him and yanked open the rear passenger-side door.
“Get in,” she said, her voice urgent.
In the near distance, the music was still loud. Deuce thought for half a second about the neighbors. The houses weren’t too close together, but it was only a matter of time before someone thought to call the police to break things up, or to get Pat to at least tone them down. And if they rolled up and some car was all fogged-up and rocking, having the party come to a premature end would be the least of Deuce’s worries. So whatever was about to happen right now would have to happen quick.
Climbing in ahead of Zora, he slid over to make room for her, but she didn’t need it. As soon as he was in, she clambered in after, and on top of him, slamming the door behind her. Cupping his jaw, Zora kissed him, her tongue sliding immediately past his lips. Deuce grabbed her hips and ass, pulling her closer. Zora’s hands dropped from his face and she fumbled with her bra then grabbed his hands, sliding them under her shirt and over her breasts.
Her nipples hardened under the touch of his still cool hands, and she moaned into his mouth, their tongues unrelenting. His hands moved down to her waist and he lifted her shirt. Zora leaned forward and Deuce bowed to instead capture a nipple in his mouth, tugging at it with his lips and feeling the pliant, almost rubbery texture against his tongue. She smelled clean, and a little like the chlorinated water they’d been swimming in earlier in the day. If he could, he would have swallowed her whole, she tasted so damn good.
“Oh … oh god,” Zora gripped his shoulders. “I need … right now. I need …”
Deuce reached for her
skirt, dragging it upward bunching it into his fists without removing his lips from her skin. Raising herself up, her knees on either side of his hips, Zora grappled with the fly of his jeans.
“Wait.” Deuce lifted his head.
Zora froze. “What?”
Lifting his butt off the seat and reaching into his back pocket, Deuce slid out his wallet, and tossed it onto the seat beside him. “Condom,” he said. “Should be a couple in there.”
“Okay, so get one.” Zora lifted herself almost completely up, and began the painstaking process of removing her panties. And when she had, and Deuce saw it—a frilly white thing—his dick jumped and twitched. He couldn’t get to the damn condom fast enough, and his jeans and boxers seemed to be conspiring against him. Zora batted his clumsy hands aside and released him.
For a few seconds, she looked down, studying his size and girth. Her chest heaved as Deuce worked on ripping the condom packet open with his teeth.
“Shit!” he said. He’d ripped not only the packet, but the condom itself. Tossing it aside, he reached for his wallet again while Zora giggled.
“Ain’t nothin’ funny about this,” he said. “There better be …”
Finding another one, he opened the packet, this time with much more care, and then sheathed himself. By then, both he and Zora were practically panting. Holding her hips, and simultaneously holding her skirt out of the way, Deuce guided her down onto him. He wanted to watch her face, he really, really did. But against his will, his eyes rolled back, and his head fell back against the seat. The car was almost cold inside, but Zora was all heat.
Clasping his arms tight around her, Deuce held her close against him, soaking in the sensation. The scent and feel of her transported him almost immediately back to that night in her dorm room. It wasn’t just a trick of memory, it was just as good as he remembered. Better. He let his hands drift downward, and Zora’s ass filled his hands.
She arched her back with the barest of motions and at the same time clenched her thighs tighter. Deuce opened his eyes and looked up at her. She was staring down at him, her eyes dazed and fixed, her lips slightly parted. Deuce bowed his head, lifting her shirt with one hand, running the tip of his tongue around one nipple and then the other. As he did, he felt Zora squeeze him tighter, heard her make an almost agonized sound at the back of her throat.
Young, Rich & Black Page 5
