Young, Rich & Black

by Nia Forrester

  Deuce squeezed her leg and Zora realized she probably sounded sad, so she looked at him and forced a smile.

  “Do you think your mom was wrong?” he asked.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You said she thought God was putting signs in her way, that this was the man who was meant to be her husband. So now, do you think all that was wrong?”

  Zora thought for a moment. “I think there are no signs. Not from Allah, not from anywhere. You just should do what makes the most sense for the life you want. Always. And that’s probably what she should have done.”

  Deuce’s Bedford, NY home was just as impressive as the New Jersey one. Though considerably smaller, its façade was like that of an English boarding school; red brick, with symmetrical rows of windows—eight on both sides—and an imposing front door with a brass knocker. The casual way that Deuce shoved his key into that door, and nudged it open with his hip told Zora how comfortable he was in surroundings that most average people would find intimidating.

  Her parents had made a nice home for her and her brother, a nice life. But nothing like this. The foyer was grand, and everything in it arranged as though for showing a model home. There was not a single item within view to indicate that people lived there—not a pile of mail, nor snow boots at the entrance, nor a coat closet, half-open and bulging with winter wear.

  “Ma!”

  When Deuce yelled out, somewhere in the house, there was the sound of someone approaching. Moments later, there was his mother, standing at the top of the staircase. For a second, Zora narrowed her eyes. Because his mother was beautiful, and looked like no one’s mother. Slender with long, pin-straight dark hair, parted in the center, she had a face that was one of contrasts—an almost angelic rosebud of a mouth, combined with a shrewd and narrow face, and dark, piercing, suspicious eyes.

  But most interesting was the fact that the woman seemed to be completely, and professionally made-up. Though dressed in a baby-blue tracksuit, suitable for lounging around at home, her makeup made her look like a cast member on a reality show.

  And it was that thought, which made Zora suddenly begin to remember, piece by piece, all the little tidbits of information she had heard about Deuce Scaife’s mother. Much of it was unpleasant. Some of it downright scandalous.

  “Took you long enough,” she said as she descended the stairs.

  When she was finally standing in front of Deuce, it was clear how petite she was; no more than five-three, and probably light as a feather. But Zora was intimidated nevertheless.

  “So you don’ live here no more?” she asked, twisting her lips and looking up at her son.

  She hadn’t acknowledged Zora at all.

  “Just hangin’ out with old friends in Jersey,” Deuce said, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. “That’s all.”

  “’Cause you have no friends around here?” His mother rolled her eyes.

  “Anyway, Ma. This is Zora.” Deuce angled his body toward her, and Zora felt visible once again. “We drove up from school together.”

  Deuce’s mother let her eyes drift toward Zora and travel from head-to-toe, then up to her head again, lingering on her Buckwheat hairdo. After what seemed like an eternity, she lifted a small hand and extended it.

  “Hello. I’m Sheryl.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Sher…”

  “No. Just Sheryl. I ain’t hardly old enough for nobody to be tacking Miss in front of my name. Y’all hungry, go ahead get Gayle to make you something.” She dropped Zora’s proffered hand, then turned to head back upstairs. But thinking of one last thing, she paused again to look at Deuce. “And don’t be runnin’ off back to Jersey without lettin’ me know neither.”

  “You hungry?” Deuce asked turning to look at Zora when they were alone again.

  She smirked at him. “Why? Because you’ll have Gayle make me something?” she teased.

  Shifting his weight Deuce’s eyes avoided hers. “Yeah. The housekeeper.”

  “I am hungry,” Zora said. “But let’s not trouble Gayle. Why don’t you give me the house tour and then we can go eat someplace else? Like maybe somewhere you used to go when you were a kid. I want to get the full Deuce Scaife Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous treatment.”

  “This how it’s gon’ be?” he asked, looking amused. “You messin’ with me about how I grew up?”

  “Nope. Not at all. Show me everything. And introduce me to all the servants.”

  Zora followed Deuce through his home, which was no less a showpiece in the other rooms than it was in the foyer. But there were occasional signs that it was occupied by someone who liked things ostentatious—gilded and sometimes gaudy embellishments to a house that did not need it, and lots of labels, even on the crockery displayed in a massive cabinet in the dining room.

  After seeing all the rooms downstairs, Deuce took her to his large bedroom on the second level. It was decorated with football memorabilia, trophies, and posters. Even the comforter represented his favorite team, which was apparently the Baltimore Ravens. This room, unlike the one at his father’s house, was more like that of a teenage boy. Piecing together everything Deuce told her, Zora assumed this was the room he left behind when he went to college; the room that had been his high school room.

  Zora sat on the bed and looked up at Deuce, who was also looking at her, a hard-to-read smile on his face.

  “What’s funny?” she asked.

  “Seeing you here. Sitting on my bed.”

  “Don’t get any naughty ideas,” Zora warned. “This house isn’t nearly as large as your father’s place.”

  “Nah.” He sat next to her, very close. Close enough that she could feel him though they didn’t touch, and smell the light scent of his cologne. Or was that just soap? Either way, he smelled really good, and Zora was the one getting ‘naughty ideas’. “I was just thinking how a month ago, I never would’ve thought you would be here. Of all people.”

  Zora lifted her eyebrows. “We didn’t even really know each other a month ago,” she said.

  “But I knew who you were,” Deuce said, his eyes fixed on hers, searching them.

  Tiny hairs stood up on Zora’s arms.

  “And what did you think of me?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t. But if I had thought of you, I’d probably never imagine you as the girl who’d be here. Sitting on my bed. What’d you think of me?” Then he gave a brief laugh. “Oh yeah. I forgot. You told me what you thought of me on the drive up here.”

  Zora blushed, remembering her words and how harsh they sounded. They were kinds of things you said to someone when you had judged them from afar with limited, and probably faulty information. It embarrassed her now.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t know you. Those were just … I’m sorry I ever said all that stuff. It was … obnoxious.”

  Deuce leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against hers. “I forgive you.” He spoke against her lips then pressed in closer, sliding his tongue in and tasting hers.

  Zora held very still, letting him lead the kiss. He was patient, slow, and sensual in the truest meaning of the word—he used his lips and tongue to explore her, always taking his time as though seeking out the most perfect, and sweetest spot of taste and texture. No one had ever kissed her with that much care before.

  Sometimes when they kissed, she grew dizzy and disoriented with it. Once, in his room in Jersey, when they were going at it, making out like high-schoolers, she lost awareness of anything except Deuce’s mouth on hers. The room, the time of day, the sounds of his father’s busy house had all disappeared from her consciousness, so that when she next opened her eyes, she was surprised to find herself on her back, still fully-clothed, but legs open and Deuce between them.

  Now, he held her lower lip between his, sucking lightly on it and then with the tip of his tongue, enticing hers once again. Zora moaned into his mouth and heard how anguished it sounded, beseeching and begging him for more
. He gave it to her, with his hands in her hair, grabbing and gripping it, holding her to him, and answering her sounds with low throaty groans of his own.

  When he pulled back, that was slowly as well. They parted, but he nudged her nose with his, and his warm breath swept across her mouth. Zora felt a slight tingle in her lips, the nerve endings screaming for contact once again. Deuce’s forehead was touching hers, and he exhaled again.

  “Damn, Zee,” he breathed.

  Chapter 6

  Two nights before he met Zora, Deuce had been dodging phone calls and drop-ins from a senior named Caroline Farber. Caroline was a lean blonde who used to be on the women’s track-and-field team, but saw her track career end with a bad ankle injury. She still hung out with the athletes and went to their parties though, which was how Deuce met her, two weeks before he found himself in the position of trying to avoid her at all costs.

  Standing at the edge of the room, alone with a red Dixie cup she’d been sipping from all night, she looked comparatively cool when almost all the other girls were in that drunk-and-sloppy time-zone that came somewhere around two a.m. Deuce had looked her over, appreciating her long legs, and the way her skin was so tan, contrasting with her almost white-blonde hair. She wore it in a loose top-knot, like she just wanted it out of her way.

  Don’t mess with her, Kal warned, when he noticed him looking. That’s girlfriend material.

  Deuce scoffed at that, because he didn’t do girlfriends. But he didn’t heed the warning and after talking Caroline up for an hour, he asked her back to his room.

  I don’t just go home with random guys, she said.

  She said it three times before she did just that. And in his room, she tried to extract meaningless promises while he undressed her: Promise you don’t think I’m a total slut? Promise you don’t think less of me?

  When he woke up the next morning, she was gone and Deuce was relieved because if they were there when he woke up, he always felt obligated to walk them back to their dorm. And since it was twenty degrees outside, he wasn’t in the mood.

  By the time he showered and got dressed for the day, Caroline’s face was a vague memory. Until he saw her downstairs. She had been waiting for him, she said. After she went back to her apartment to get showered and changed, she thought he might want to spend the day together.

  Spend the day together. That sounded to him like an interminable length of time.

  He told her he had some work to catch up on and she seemed to take it in stride, but asked him if she could call later, and maybe when he was done …?

  And for the next thirteen days, Caroline Farber called him at least twice a day and stopped by his dorm at least once. Each time she left messages that sounded and seemed perfectly casual. Except that there were so many.

  I told you not to mess with her, Kal said.

  You said she was girlfriend material, Deuce said. I thought you meant she was the kind of girl I might want as a girlfriend.

  No, nigga. I meant she’s the kind of girl who needs to believe she could be your girlfriend before she’ll fuck you.

  Zora Diallo was not that kind of girl.

  After their unplanned interlude, when he woke up in her room, in the early morning hours, she was just getting done folding a shirt and tossed it into her suitcase. Her room, which earlier had been a mass of laundry and papers, and bags strewn about, was clean.

  Slept okay? she asked. Her voice was soft, almost tender.

  He nodded and grinned at her. He couldn’t help smiling, because she was standing there in a long, baggy t-shirt, and her messy hair was even messier still. And her bare legs were just long, and dark, and smooth, and … incredible.

  Good, she said. It’s almost dawn. I’m leaving today.

  The timing—her departure from school the morning after a one-night stand—should have been ideal. After all, he had just been through all that mess with Caroline. But he wasn’t relieved, and didn’t want her gone so soon. He wanted to talk to her some more, touch her … give her reason to make those sounds she made when he was inside her.

  You sure you have to go? he asked.

  That’s the plan. But it doesn’t mean we can’t, you know …

  She pulled the sheets away from him, and stepped forward, at the same time lifting the shirt over her head.

  Then she was on top of him. He rose partly to his knees, and she cupped his head, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  Your tongue, Deuce remembered her saying. I want to feel it … give me your tongue.

  Give me your tongue. It sounded strange, like she wanted him to cut it out and present it to her as a gift. But in that moment, he almost would have. Cut a part of himself off from the rest, and given it to her.

  Whatever part of him gave her pleasure, he wanted her to have.

  Zora was laughing with her whole body—head and shoulders tossed backward, a hand at the base of her throat, gripping it as if to hold in her uncontrollable mirth.

  So fucking cute.

  Choking as she swallowed a mouthful of pizza, she finally caught her breath and reached for her cup of soda, taking a long, deep gulp.

  “Now that’s funny,” she said when she could finally speak.

  Deuce looked on as his friend Clarence leaned in for another slice of pizza. He had been giving Zora the rundown of all the dumb stuff they had done together when they were in high school—smoking reefer behind the gym, breaking into the girls’ locker room and showers … the usual stupid high-jinks kids with too many resources and no sense of purpose did. When Clarence first started talking, Deuce inwardly cringed, thinking how it all must sound to Zora, who had probably been organizing protest marches when she was six.

  But instead she listened to every story, nodding in encouragement, rapt, and then amused and then curious. Her explosive laughter had been a response to Clarence recounting how they’d hosted a full barbecue and skinny-dipping party after hours on a weekday at their high school’s Olympic-sized pool, and been caught by school security.

  “Cops were called … the whole damn thing was a cluster,” Clarence concluded, shaking his head. “The girls were freaked out … the guys were naked. And man, when there’s a cop staring you down, the shrinkage is real.”

  Zora spluttered into laughter again. “I bet.” And then, across the table she exchanged a look with Deuce.

  Somehow, he knew she was thinking about his most recent encounter with the police. And more than that, she was probably thinking what he was thinking—that Clarence, who could pass for one of the Kennedys, had a little less reason to be apprehensive about a run-in with law enforcement. Back then, at an exclusive prep school, caught trespassing, Deuce had no fear. But now he realized that was probably because he had a bunch of guys who looked like Clarence with him.

  “You guys hanging out?” Clarence asked. “We could head into the city, hit up some clubs …”

  “I don’t know,” Zora said. “I think I might make it a quiet one tonight. But I’m sure this guy will be into it.” She winked at Deuce as she stood and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

  Clarence watched her leave and leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “So, what’s her deal?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean, you know …”

  “Yeah,” Deuce said, meeting Clarence’s gaze head on. “That’s me.”

  Clarence’s green eyes met his, and his friend smirked, but his brows furrowed in confusion. “How’d you even meet her?”

  “I told you; school. And I don’t know if you’ve heard but there’s like … twenty-five Black people at Penn State so we pretty much all know each other.”

  Laughing, Clarence shook his head. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but just barely.”

  “I’m jus’ sayin,’ man, you have to admit, you weren’t exactly one to seek out ‘the brothas’,” Clarence said, making quotes with his fingers. “Or ‘the sistahs’ either. No matter how few of t
hem there were.”

  “The fuck?”

  “All I’m saying is, she’s definitely not the chick I would expect to see you with. With the hair, the whole look, man … she’s just … different for you.”

  “Y’know what? Just shut the …”

  “Deuce, I was more likely to date a chick like Zora than you were. Admit it. I mean, it’s not a big deal. We all have our tastes, and mine always ran way darker than yours. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  Deuce looked at Clarence, whom he had known since he was about four years old and suddenly in that moment, he had never seemed Whiter.

  By the time Zora returned, the silence was tense.

  “We’re going to roll out,” Deuce said, looking around for the waiter. “Good seeing you, man.”

  Zora looked confused at the abrupt change of mood but said nothing, just watching him as he settled the tab, her eyes fixed on his face as though trying to read it. When he’d paid, Deuce stood and gave Clarence a cursory nod, leading Zora out to the car.

  He opened the door and waited for her to get in then walked around to the driver’s side, taking deep breaths to control his persistent irritation. But it didn’t work, because when he got in, Zora shot him an inquisitive look.

  “What happened in there?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Because I came back, and you both were staring daggers at each other. When I left, you were the best of friends, and then …”

  “Clarence and I were never ‘the best of friends’. I’ve just known him for a long time.”

  “And so what ha…”

  “Have you ever dated White guys?”

  Zora shook her head and laughed. “Whoa. Whiplash! What brought that on?”

  “Forget it,” Deuce mumbled.

  He started the engine and backed out of the parking space, pulling out into the light traffic. Christmas was just a few days behind them, so the streets were still quiet, as people rested and recuperated from the frenzy of spending, celebrating, and overeating.