I swear I was coolin’. Sitting at the bar, on my 3rd (or 6th shot) of Patron, laughing, texting a little, nodding my head to Fabo and Neyo, laughing at the busted broads who had their hands up feeling the song but could be an upgrade to no one. (Oh stop looking at me like that. You KNOW it’s the truth. And you KNOW you’ve wanted to say it.)
Katy Girl is doing her usual, giving some guy the business of the dance floor, Gucci Girl is next to me, goin’ hard with the shots like me, I’m chilling and talking shit, texting and emailing a few folks. The waitress brings me a SoCo and lime with a note.
Beside every great man you can find a woman like a soldier, holding him down.
My head snaps up and I feel eyes on me. It’s a struggle to focus through the strobe lights and crowd, couples with the fact that I am quite possibly the least sober person on earth right now. But I feel his eyes on me. I find him, up in VIP leaning over the balcony, Blackberry in hand, smiling at me. We get our nigga technology on.
I’m pretty sure you’re stalking me.
Cross my heart.
Who’s the model chick you’re with?
Friend. I’m a force when WE’RE together.
She’s bad as hell.
I wouldn’t kick her outta bed.
LMAO! You’re a mess. How throwed are you?
Throwed enough to know I should stay down here.
Did you think about me when this song came on?
I ignore that text and get on the dance floor when they play “Tattoo”. (Yeah, worst song ever. It’s still my shit. Don’t judge me.) They play a couple ATL songs and after I’ve walked-it-out-rocked-my-hips-cranked-that-soldja-boy, I head back to the bar to reclaim my seat and get a cran and goose. My phone vibrates at my hip.
Dude in the red behind you is staring at your ass.
I lean a little bit more into my hip, perfectly round out the curve of my backside. Phone goes off again.
Don’t make me come down there and fuck you up.
I laugh and swivel long enough to blow him a kiss just as the bartender puts my drink down in front of me. I lean over and tell Gucci Girl he’s here. We talk in each other’s ears as the DJ switches the song. I feel his fingers sweep my hair over my shoulder, his lips on the tattoo on my shoulder. Without turning around:
“This isn’t exactly what I meant by us staying away from each other.”
“Purely coincidence mama.”
“So Katy Girl didn’t tell you I was here?”
“No. Actually, I was supposed to be over at Red Door tonight.”
“And you’re here because…?”
“Batman wanted to come through. Some girl he’s trying to get at is one of the bartenders.”
“Which one? The light skinned one with the huge boobs or the light skinned one with the huge boobs.”
We laugh because we both know Batman’s type pretty well. I notice that Gucci Girl has discreetly vacated the seat next to me. Traitorous bitch.
“Come with me.”
He grabs my hand and leads me to the dance floor. We start out timid since most of our club outings together didn’t consist of much dancing since he was mostly working. With every verse, we get a little closer, his hands slip a little further down my back, he says something else in my ear.
And then the DJ started to spin “Oye mi Canto”.
Don’t remember too much after that. After about 30 minutes of reggaeton, we retire to a plush purple couch up in VIP, a bottle of Grey Goose and some cranberry juice waiting on us. Dammit if this man doesn’t notice EVERYTHING. We talk and laugh and flirt. I’m existing on a totally different hemisphere given the liquor running through me. Every once in awhile he breaks away to go meet someone or talk to someone who needs to feel important and I send emails I should probably not be sending but that’s another convo for another day. I lean back on the couch and close my eyes until I feel his hands on my thighs.
“You’re not gonna get sick on me are you?” My head snaps up.
“Nigga don’t try and play me.” He laughs at me.
“I love how your accent gets thick when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m just not as sober as some other people might be.” He laughs at me again.
He sits next to me and pulls me under him, his cologne invading my senses and making me feel quiet. He’s playing in my hair and dammit if I’m not a sucker for that shit. And dammit if he doesn’t know that shit. He’s talking in my ear. I’m just about to turn to him and say something extra ignorant when Katy Girl comes up.
“Hey La we’re about to get outta here.” She looks at him. “You coming K.B.?”
Somehow we all end up back at K.B.’s place. I wander off, find my way to sitting on the stairs, sending some text messages. (I think. I was drunk. Did I mention that?) He peeks around the corner, looking up at me.
“Depends on your definition.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not talking about being drunk?” I sigh and lean back.
“Because you actually listen.” My phone chimes in my hand signaling I’ve just gotten a new email. He wanders back to the kitchen.
That’s the last thing I remember.
The next morning I wake up, chocolate colored sheets bunched up near my head. I feel like a fat girl is tap dancing on my temples. I sit up and look to my right. There’s tylenol and beer sitting there. I realize that I’m in a tshirt, my clothes neatly folded in the big lounge chair near the window. I have fuzzy red socks on my feet. It’s bright outside but I barely notice because the shades have been drawn. I’m in bed alone.
I pop the tylenol and wander downstairs. K.B. is stretched out on the couch, still in his club clothes, sleeping with his hands on his chest like he’s been laid out by a mortician. I sit down in the chair across from him and watch him for awhile, thinking. He stretches, grumbles like an angry puppy, and works his way back to sleep. I laugh.
I get up and start making breakfast…