differentworlds-fiction
DIFFERENT WORLDS, THE FICTION
"...There's so many different worlds, so many different suns. And we have just one world, but we live in different ones." -- Mark Knopler
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
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KIRA+DOMINIC — 03
It wasn’t often that Kira Mosley ventured out of the quieted comforts of Nassau County without adult supervision.
There were times where, after much pleading with her parents for permission, she’d commute into the Manhattan with a few of her classmates.
Those instances, however, were far and few between.
Unlike those previous occurrences of wandering aimlessly through Central Park until sunset or perusing the liveness taking place at Times Square before embarking on the tedious quest to find somewhere to ear, Kira commuted without her usual group of friends to keep her company throughout the prolonged commute. Rather than resorting to hearing the latest gossip pertaining to whose crush was smitten with who, she commuted to Queens by her lonesome and busied herself with listening to the playlist she spent a majority of her morning curating.
The randomly selected sounds of nineties R&B floated through her headphones throughout the entire duration of her train ride and settled her never ending case of nerves as gathered her belongings and exited the train.
As she hurried up the steps of the 169th Street Subway Station, her stare roamed up the length of the individual sporting a familiar reserved grin. His hands had been stuffed into his pockets.
Before uttering a meek ‘hello’ the moment she raced up the last step, Dominic simply removed her earbuds and toyed with the ends of her cornrows.
“I was startin’ to think you weren’t gonna show.”
“I told you I was.”
Dominic shrugged, “You don’t really know me from nowhere.”
“I know you well enough.” Kira murmured. The fullness of his lips contorted into a blatant smirk that disappeared all within a matter of seconds. “And you still came to see if I’d come.”
“...Yeah,” was all he bothered to say. For some reason, his meekness intrigued Kira. Not because of his sudden tamed behavior was appealing in any way, but because she could see that her arrival to the borough was appreciated. It was almost as if the slight gesture was extraordinary.
Remarkable, even.
“Your people know that you’re out here...with me?” Dominic asked as they waited for the opportunity to cross at the intersection.
“No,” she quickly admitted and later revealed that she used her friend Autumn to cover up her actual whereabouts.
“I’on want you getting in trouble ‘cause of me.”
“I won’t.” Kira said with certainty. With her mother currently vacating with old friends from her alma mater and her father stationed at one of the three hospitals within the county that he happened to have affiliations with, Kira was sure she’d dodge facing any trouble from her parents.
Without saying anything else about her parents or the plausible what-ifs that would ultimately land her in a heap of trouble, Dominic guided Kira across the congested intersection of 169th Street and Hillside Avenue.
She smiled inwardly when he took her hand in his.
Though the stint of hand-holding lasted all of but two minutes due to him luring her into a pizzeria, Kira couldn’t disregard the elation momentarily flooding her.
“For what it’s worth, I’d like to remind you that I was honest with you the moment your mother and I found out about this whole fixer upper nonsense. I said you were in over your head then. And, sweetheart, I’m afraid my stance on it still hasn't changed.”
Huffing, Jackson Mosley pulled his daughter into an embrace in which they separated quicker than expected.
The unfavorable news of her failing to put the foreclosed townhome back on the market was a tough pill to swallow for the fifty-six year old man, apparently.
They shuffled from his parked Land Rover Sport that idled the decent-sized driveway, and up the back steps; the path paved evenly with asphalt was about the only task Kira didn’t seek out to reconstruct. She did, however, plan to have contractors completely gut out the kitchen and bathrooms strictly for remodeling renovations. She also wanted the flooring to be taken up and replaced with brand-spanking-new wooden planks.
Using the duplicate set of house keys she had made a month ago, Kira entered the home and groaned from the displeasing stale stench wafting into her nose.
“What’s wrong with your apartment? Are they increasing the rent?”
“No. Nothing’s wrong with the apartment.” Kira muttered. She trudged through the foyer and headed straight for the dated kitchen simply just to look out towards the expansive yard space. At the sliding glass door, her father joined her. “It’s just that...I don’t know. I think I’m beginning to hate living there. Well, it isn’t so much as I think. I know I’m beginning to hate living there.” Kira admitted. “Gosh. I can’t even believe I’m saying this…”
Years ago -- when enduring the expected slump in freelance journalism and conceptualizing ideas for her own forthcoming blog-site -- Kira would have never imagined she’d eventually grow tired of Brooklyn and actually miss the quieted comforts of the suburbs.
She fled to college not only to earn her degree, but to also be catapulted into a new environment. While studying at Howard University she vowed to never move back to Nassau County indefinitely and made sure to occupy all of her summer breaks with internships that required her to frequent places far from her hometown. Kira had made strides in straying far from Hempstead and established residency in Brooklyn right after graduation to make sure she never had to dwell there too long during. Aside from the holidays where her mother would have to beg her to stay for days at a time, or a massive gatherings (that tended to occur far and few between as of late), Kira hardly dwelled there and regarded herself as a proud Brooklyn transplant who tended to stay within the borough.
In her early twenties, she had fallen in love with everything Brooklyn had to offer; the convenience and close proximity trumped every other amenity.
Her best writing happened in Brooklyn.
Her best years were in Brooklyn.
Some of her more memorable sexual encounters happened to be with Brooklynites.
Kira couldn’t believe it was even possible to loathe Brooklyn as much as she had within the last two years. The neighborhood of Williamsburg had become too crowded for her liking.
Sadly, neither the restaurants, bars, lounges, nor the generous coffee shop barista who gave her fresh pastries due to her being a faithful subscriber were not enough to keep Kira residing there any longer.
Now, in an ironic twist of fate, Kira sought out to move back to Nassau County in a timely fashion.
Among the homes she came across while perusing several online real estate sites, was a foreclosed property in Long Island’s town of Oyster Bay. It reminded Kira of her childhood home in Hempstead although the properties differed greatly in acreage.
“Do you really need all this space?” Jackson asked.
“Yes. The space would be a benefit.” Kira defended. No matter how persistent Jackson Mosley was about putting the three-bedroom home back on the market, Kira was certain she’d make use of the space.
He father heaved a hardly audible sigh and ran his hand over his face. “What I’m saying is that having all this square footage may be a bit overwhelming. Realistically speaking, Kira, you are a single woman with no children. What on Earth do you need with all of this space? You’d be better off looking for another apartment.”
“Whether I want the space or intend to utilize every square foot is subjective, daddy.” Kira replied sternly, crossing her arms over her chest. “It was a steal. I purchased this home considerably way cheaper than what the homeowners in this area purchased theirs for.” She further noted. “I’m gonna fix this up and use as much or as little space as I please. It’s mine.”
A contemptuous grin etched across her father’s expression, and faltered the moment he advanced towards the old-fashioned kitchen peninsula. The counter space was made of a material Kira couldn’t bear to look at for too long, due to the previous owner’s poor choice of granite that conflicted with the cherry wood cabinets.
“Have you even made the attempt to contact the contractors your mother referred you to?”
“Yes, and I chose not to give those assholes --”
“Kira,” Jackson warned, “watch your mouth.”
She glanced at her father over her shoulder. “Sorry. It slipped out.”
“Now what were you saying about the contractors? And mind your language this time.”
“They were pulling my leg about requesting a quote for a kitchen and bathroom remodel. It’s safe to say I won’t be using them.”
“Kira if you can’t even find the proper contractors to help you make this place liveable, then perhaps you need to put it back on the market like I’ve advised.”
“I’m not doing that. But I will be looking for a contractor this week. I’ll make sure of it.” Kira insisted, catching her father’s blatant eye-roll as he ambled back towards the front of the home. “You don’t believe that I have any intention of finding suitable contractors, do you?”
Rather than sparing his only daughter of having to hear the harsh admission by allowing a prolonged silence to loom over them, Jackson Mosley simply confirmed Kira’s preconceived suspicion by uttering, “No, I don’t.”
“Well,” she took a step, “if you don’t have faith in me to actually find someone for the job, you must have no faith in me at all.”
Adjusting the strap to the crossbody bag onto her frame, Kira made a beeline for the door and muttered to her father that she had no intention to head back her parents’ home after locking up. Almost immediately, she felt immense regret for opting to commute to Long Island by way of public transportation on account of her having to solely rely on her father.
“Take me back to the transit station, please.”
Back in Brooklyn, Kira busied herself with composing drafted reviews of complimentary cosmetics and hair products she picked up from an expo she attended the previous week.
The event specifically curated to gain exposure for black-owned beauty start-ups provided Kira with new content to publish onto her site. Typically, she uploaded the drafted posts throughout the approaching week in an effort to keep maintain her quota of visitor traffic to her blog. The frequent postings not only fed her loyal audience, but also provided her with a substantial amount of monthly revenue from advertisements and contracted branding partnerships.
While thoroughly delving into personal pros and cons she experienced while using a manuka honey leave-in conditioner one of the business owners provided her with, Kira halted in typing another word onto the document and retreated back to the list of contractor companies the web browser’s search engine had provided.
As she skimmed the lengthy list in search of a company that were either within close proximity of the home in Oyster Bay or advertising their willingness to commute to other towns within the state limits, her apartment door opened; a pair of keys jingled as the individual padded down the narrow hallway.
Besides herself, only two people were provided with a set of keys into the private dwelling. Not even her parents were equipped with manufactured duplicates.
“Autumn?” Kira called out, forming the presumption that her childhood friend and infrequent roomie had decided to pop up without calling in advance.
Teeth smackings emitted from Kira the moment her eyes settled on the short crop of coarse curls belonging to her brother Lawrence.
“Shoes --,” Kira chided, “-- remove them.”
Huffing her brother four years her junior turned swiftly on the soles of his bulky basketball sneakers and retreated back down the dimly lit hallway.
“You could’ve called.”
“Didn’t think I needed to. You know, since I got the keys and all.”
Instead of plopping onto the dull grey couch positioned against the adjacent wall, Lawrence raced into the kitchen, failing to wash his hands before rummaging through the refrigerator. When he returned, vegetable lo mein was served on one of the marble plateware she hardly put to use. Her fingers drummed along the wireless keyboard paired to her iMac.
By then, Lawrence sauntered towards the couch and reclaimed his usual seat on the couch’s far left; his feet propped atop the mirrored coffee table riddled with books and flea market knick knacks.
“Any progress on the new place?”
“No, not yet. I’m still in the process of looking for contractors.”
“You’ve been saying you were looking into contractors since before you took your trip. You’re making the task harder than what it needs to be.”
“I know. I’ve been a bit sidetracked this since I’ve gotten back.”
“Back from Long Island, or back from L.A.?”
“L.A.,” Kira retorted and mussed with her hair. “If I didn’t have to go and check on the property, I would’ve slept the entire day away. I’ve been back for two days, and I’m still I’m a bit jet lagged.”
“Shit. I forgot to ask. How’d the meeting go?”
“Fairly well, considering that all my terms are going to be contractually upheld.”
The trip in which she traveled strictly to negotiate the preliminary stipulations to her pending collaborative venture left Kira jet-lagged, but more so afflicted with procrastination. Well before making the trip to Los Angeles, company bigwigs -- a duo consisting of a marketing strategist and a branding consultant -- were ardent on gaining consumership with women of color. In the wake of teasing the release of a new formulated foundation produced in a broad range of shades, the renown cosmetic company’s marketing specialist specifically sought out to acquire black beauty bloggers and other online beauty content creators to assist in advertising the brand’s forthcoming fall release.
Kira’s site traffic and faithful readership coupled with her previous ventures with a cosmetic startups and well-known brands were three components that happened to land Kira on the strategist’s radar. Over brunch, at some pretentious eatery, the twenty-seven year old pressed for the rather extensive amount of money she sought out to obtain for the collaborative venture. And by dinner the following evening, Kira was mulling over a newly drawn up, non-binding contract that had already been both faxed and emailed to her lawyer.
Given the approval from the lawyer she kept on retainer, Kira happily signed the contract, and prematurely relished in acquiring the approaching lump sum by overindulging in drinks.
And, of course, Omari Grant.
At the mere thought of the retired quarterback and their tryst in his hotel room, Kira shuddered and rubbed her neck.
“I’ll have a number to a contractor by tomorrow. Mark my words.”
“Ai’ight,” Lawrence expressed with great doubt, “I’ma hold you to it.”
Kira’s eyes narrowed, “Hold me to it?”
“For whatever reason, you’re prolonging the process. If you aren’t one-hundred percent invested in this whole remodeling project, then you shouldn’t even be bothered. Either get the ball rollin’ on hiring contractors for the renovations or put the shit back on the market.”
“Alright. That’s enough. I can’t take any more of you lecturing me on what I need to do. You sound like dad.” Kira rushed out. She resumed with perusing the list of established general contracting companies.
At random, she selected Johnson & Parsons Home Improvement. As stated on their website, The New York-based contracting firm offered services throughout the listed cities, including the town in which the foreclosed property was located. “Dad’s fine, by the way. Just in case you were wondering.”
Kira averted her eyes from the desktop’s massive screen and peered over at Lawrence.
The sudden disinterest in the conversation as it pertained to their father was aparrent in his deadpan expression.
“He asked about you this afternoon.”
Her eyes rolled instinctively when recollecting the awkward drive to the train station. Jackson Mosley simply couldn’t take the hint to keep the conversation to a minimum.
Instead of commuting in silence, he turned on the radio, hoping that the songs playing from the Hip-Hop and R&B station would lure Kira out of her momentary irritation. But when that was proven to be unsuccessful the middle-aged man followed the stint of humming along to the catchy instrumentals from yesteryear by asking about Lawrence.
“He’s fine.” She remembered tersely retorting, later mentioned the creative strides her brother was making, as of late.
For some reason, Kira hoped that Lawrence would have perked up the moment that tidbit of information swept past her lips. Sadly, to no avail, her younger brother sported the same look of indifference he often had whenever the topic of conversation reverted to Jackson Mosley.
A deafening silence loomed over them subsequent to Lawrence sticking a fork in the cold helping of leftover takeout. In that discomforting lull, Kira could feel the harbored resentment radiating from her younger brother as he remained silent; the marbled plateware balanced atop the couch’s broad armrest. Lawrence mussed with the hairs sprouting from his chin.
“Call him, Lawrence.”
The agonizing contempt evaded him.
His pursed lips gave way to a smirk of sudden amusement. Laughter escaped him soon afterward.
“What’s so funny?” Kira queried.
“Nothing.”
“No. Tell me. I wanna know.”
“Nothing,” Lawrence fixed his lips to say again before releasing an exasperated sigh, “It’s just funny how you’re advising me to speak to him when you’ve been on the outs with him before, too.” Lawrence spat prior to grasping the fork and stuffing his mouth with noodles. He ate with gusto and hadn’t thought to stop until the plate was bare. “I can recall a time where you and dear old dad weren’t on the best of terms.” Lawrence recounted. “You and mom weren’t so amicable back then, either. In fact, I could vividly remember you went nearly a whole semester without speaking to them.”
“I was a freshman in college --
“ -- I know you not about to cop out with that excuse again.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“It’s a bullshit excuse. It always was.” Lawrence insisted. “You’re gonna hold onto that, aren’t you? Will you ever be honest and say that you still had that chip on your shoulder from senior year. So much so that you insisted on staying with Autumn and her family during winter break.”
Silence pervaded the room, prompting Lawrence to sigh inwardly.
“I guess not.” He muttered. “Sometimes I believe you only interact with him now because I choose not to. Dad could hardly stomach the fact that you and him were estranged all that time. I couldn’t even imagine how crushed that man would be if both of his children decided to steer clear of having any interaction with him at the same time.”
It wasn’t until Kira jotted down the number to Johnson & Parsons Home Improvement on a nearby post-it note that he muttered, “he should’ve made a better attempt at being a father.”
Lawrence’s statement hung in the air, prompting Kira’s shoulders to visibly contract as she set the ballpoint pen down beside the mouse and it’s respected stark white mousepad; the tension pervading the living room was thick and also somber the longer Kira continued to ponder on not only her underlying grievances with her father, but her brother’s as well.
The children of Jackson Mosley idled within the confines of Kira’s Williamsburg apartment, failing to utter anything to each other.
The weight of their father’s disastrous approach to parenting evident as time progressed.
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KIRA+DOMINIC — 02
The unrelenting summer sun beamed onto Kira’s exposed back, causing her to shift throughout the duration of her sitting on the bleachers. One hand nursed a bottle of water while the other continuously smoothed over the kempt cornrows dangling past the nape of her neck. The style she hadn’t sported since her elementary school days took some time getting used to due to the tightness forming at her scalp. Huffs swept past her lips riddled in tinted lip balm, her attention rearing from the ongoing basketball game.
When the team her brother Lawrence played for somehow foiled the setup to score from the free-throw line, the recurrence of regret set in; immediately Kira wished she took her friend Autumn Nelson up on her offer to lounge around her pool all afternoon. Releasing yet another huff, Kira placed her water bottle beside her; her finger briefly grazed over a hand belonging to the occupant of the space to her left.
A toothy smirk played the foreground to an immaculate complexion similar to the unrefined cocoa powder her grandmother sifted over the top of her homemade cakes. Under the afternoon sun the pigment of his skin deepened, and appeared richer than it had the moment Kira’s eyes initially settled on him.
“Sorry. I didn’t see you sitting there.” Kira said apologetically. She gathered the personalized purple water bottle dampened with condensation and placed it in between her exposed thighs. The wetness surrounding the aluminum sports’ bottle temporarily cooled her fervent skin, quelling her frustrations for making the rash decision to sit out in the heat for a majority of the afternoon.
This summer, the directors of the annual summer tournament were making strides to incorporate other other promising summer league teams into the scheduling. Teams hailing from other counties were typically unauthorized to compete; the longstanding rule inevitably prevented outsiders to recognize the athletic prowess the players possessed.
The new band of players were ultimately hidden gems; undiscovered talents that were often kept under wraps.
“Nah, you good.” The young boy murmured. His deep baritone startled Kira upon her hearing the bass-filled utterance.
Boys as young as she presumed him to be hardly possessed voices that deep. Even the voices belonging to the guys she attended school with hadn’t had such resonance as the no-name sitting beside her. “You starin’.”
“What?”
“I said you starin’, ma.” The young man repeated evenly. A round of snickers pervaded the sweltering air, emitting from a group of slightly older looking guys he must’ve known.
The gruffness lacing his words prompted Kira to apologize yet again, her attention reverted back to the ongoing basketball game that had finally reached halftime. Kira’s brother Lawrence retreated to the respected benches positioned on the court’s opposite end. He and a few of his teammates crowded around the water cooler, filling the provided wax paper cups generously with Gatorade. Kira's eyes remained affixed to her brother’s lanky frame as he goofed around with classmates she often spotted idling around their kitchen or living room after school, and sighed inwardly as the guy beside her began playing music directly from his bulky black iPhone lacking a proper case.
Rap -- the type of music that her parents chided she and her brother for listening to, the type of rap that hardly made it to radio due to the raunchy misogynistic lyrics and obscenities -- penetrated her hearing.
Before Kira’s mind could register her forthcoming actions, her head bopped along to the piano cadence easily muddled by the lyrics spewed out in a sing-songy rhythm. The lyrics bellowed out in a throaty rasp were vulgar, albeit, but the almost melodic approach to the familiar beat was infectious.
Kira could feel the eyes belonging to not only the young man sitting to her right but the guys seated behind him as well. Her body halted in its aimless swaying while under their watchful stares; her heightened cheeks turned a tinge a red. “I like the beat.” Kira bashfully admitted simultaneous to hearing the referee blow his whistle. Kira’s brother Lawrence and his teammates retreated back onto the court subsequent to tossing the paper cup into the nearby trash can. “I don’t think I’ve heard of him before.” Kira murmured.
A look of amusement etched its way across her face when the young man seated beside her titled his phone in her direction, unveiling the screen displayed the album artwork of a man sporting cornrows just as thick as hers with a fitted cap concealing the top of them. Amidst a horde of cash that had been photoshopped onto the cover art the rapper’s moniker was emblazoned in bold lettering. “...Young,” Kira read aloud, “Ah, Young Travie.”
Her warm and earnest smile was met with one the young man meagerly offered in return.
“He ain’t mainstream. Not yet, at least.” The young man informed.
As the group of guys averted their attention elsewhere, the stare between her and the boy with impeccable dark skin never faltered.
“Kira.” She mumbled.
“Huh?” The boy muttered.
“Kira -- my name’s Kira.”
He nodded sparingly. “Dominic.”
Her mind often wondered to thoughts of him.
Even in the height of merriment, shaking him was proven to be a difficult feat to achieve.
Whenever the opportunity to travel arose, Kira toyed with the idea of running into him somewhere.
Maybe at a mall shopping for kicks.
Or maybe, by chance, they’d run into each other at a random grocery store where they would ultimately have to engage in conversation.
The optimist in her would’ve wanted nothing more than to reunite with him if only for a brief moment.
However, from a realistic standpoint, Kira Mosley was almost certain she and Dominic Parker would never cross paths again.
Her manicured hand enclosed around the highball glass containing the disproportionate amount of vodka and tonic she flagged down the slim bartender for; the incessant urge to guzzle down the glass’ contents grew dire the longer she pondered on what her mother formerly regarded as Kira’s delayed stage of rebellion.
A slight chortle escaped the twenty-eight year old as she brought the glass coated in condensation to her lips and chugged half of the lime garnished beverage before placing it back on top of the sopping wet napkin the bartender provided.
Lipstick, a vibrant shade of currant, smudged the glass’ rim.
“Celebrating?”
A voice queried from behind her, belonging to a man sporting a suit she noticed upon her arrival to the swank rooftop bar. Her eyes lingered on him only briefly, almost as if she recognized him from somewhere.
Kira shifted atop the lucite stool. Hints of her skin exposed by the burgundy jumpsuit she wore felt sticky, courtesy of the L.A. smog.
Kira took a moment to ponder on the unknown man’s inquiry, confirming his suspicions with a subtle nod. “I am, actually.”
“Well, would you mind if I joined you?”
“I wouldn’t. Have a seat” She replied after a short pause. From the adjacent barstool Kira she retrieved her clutch and smartphone.
With intent she watched as the caramel complected man unbuttoned his blazer; his muscular build easily made out through the cotton white button-down and navy trousers. “You like whiskey?”
“I don’t dislike it.” Kira answered blankly, catching the barest hint of a smile creeping up the side of the man’s lips. He waved down the bartender, his eyes solely trained upon Kira as she finished the rest of her vodka and tonic with haste.
In under five minutes, two Manhattans rested before them. The man sporting the tailored suit waited for Kira to reach for one of the cocktails before he sought out to do the same.
“Cheers.”
In unison, the two generously sipped from their glasses.
The initial sharp taste of the whiskey and vermouth combination burned the back of Kira’s throat, but she recovered and downed a great amount of it.
“If I may ask, what are you celebrating?”
She set the glass down, her tongue ran over the fullness of her slightly parted lips, savoring the bittersweet aftertaste. “A new business venture.” Kira sparingly divulged. She had yet to inform her parents of the lucrative finalizations pertaining to the latest venture. She wasn’t about to be as forthcoming about her business matters with some random simply because he ordered her a drink. Kira tucked one of her fine tendrils behind her pierced ear, revealing the faded crescent moon and stars behind her dainty lobe. “I would tell you more, but I don’t wanna jump the gun and speak too soon. The ink on the contracts haven’t dried yet.” She fibbed.
“I understand.” The man retorted, smoothing his hand down the length of his pants. “Where are my manners? I’m Omari -- Omari Grant.”
He extended his hand forward, the width of his palm nearly covered Kira’s entire hand.
“Kira. Kira Mosley since we’re being all formal.” She initiated the separation of their ongoing handshake to sip the remaining brown contents idling the bottom of the rock glass. “Omari Grant --,” she murmured to herself, “-- I’ve heard that name before. Where have I heard that name?” As her mind trailed off into deep thought, her lip stained with a ruddy red hue embedded itself between her teeth. “ The Essence 2013 Men’s issue. You landed the cover feature.” Kira muttered faintly. “You had me, for a second. I, uh, almost didn’t recognize you without the locs.”
She smirked once noticing the kempt tapered fade that made him look even more polished than she recounted.
During a brief period of contributing content exclusively through the publication’s website she was lucky enough to land an opportunity to write a feature on the infamous Baltimore Ravens quarterback who earned the franchise their second Super Bowl championship on the heels of winning announcing his retirement.
“I wrote that feature. Among other pieces I wrote up until that point, that feature about you was regarded as one of the publication’s most raved about exclusives that year.”
“It was nicely written.”
“It was a fixture in cleaning up your image, is what it was.” Kira replied, and pushed the empty rock glass aside. A tight, contemptuous grin etched its way across her face. “And it wasn’t what I initially wrote. Your PR team practically strong-armed me into rewriting the feature hours before my deadline. They threatened to contact the magazine’s editor to complain if I didn’t rewrite it.”
Kira’s statement hung in the air while Omari continued to nurse the chilled Manhattan; her inberiation set in as time ticked away.
“Perhaps I should’ve known better than to email your people an outline of what the article entailed. That was my fault for being so foolish.”
Failing to hear Omari Grant utter anything pertaining to the power moves that could’ve potentially tarnished Kira’s reputation and livelihood, she padded over the bar’s surface in search of her belongings. When Kira recovered her iPhone and clutch, she paid her bar tab which consisted of the two vodka and tonic beverages she drank prior to Omari joining her.
Rising onto the heels of her staggering ankle-strap sandals, Kira ambled towards the entrance leading to the rooftop’s elevator embankment. She navigated past the stragglers pouring in by the groups.
Omari Grant steered close, however. His cologne wafted into her nose before she felt the immense presence of the two-hundred and fifty pound retired quarterback behind her. Rather than uttering a disingenuous apology for enforcing her to revise her original write-up and pander some sugar-coated PR orchestrated bullshit to the public, Omari placed his hand on her exposed shoulders, grasping them gently as the elevator doors diverged and granted Kira entry inside the cab.
An inward sigh slip pasted her lips when he shuffled in behind her.
While in the elevator Omari Grant never expressed his remorse.
Kira did, however, hear his blatant advances to accompany him to his hotel suite.
Slightly buzzed, albeit, she willingly obliged.
The same man whose team successfully disintegrated his former controversial reputation of misconduct both on and off the field, had ushered her into his suite, without a care. The same man whose hired professionals could have potentially severed her professional relationship with one of the few respected black publications she frequently worked for attempted to engage in awkward small talk by the balcony doors; a breathtaking view of the ocean quelled Kira’s flourishing nerves as Omari gathered her tightly wound curls and sloppily kissed her neck. She flinched beneath his touch and at the same time welcomed him to remove her snug jumpsuit after she removed her heels.
By the end of the heated encounter that took place on the floor, while riding out the orgasm coursing through her, Kira’s body completely stilled upon hearing the only two words she desired to ever hear from Omari Grant.
Kira had no ounce of care to hear how pretty he thought she was, or how great of a lay she happened to be.
A wave of emotions afflicted her when he finally uttered that he was sorry for placing her in that tough predicament. She took satisfaction in finally hearing the retired quarterback’s apology for the brash power play he subjected her to simply because of her position.
His near breathless expression delivered with mild gawking at Kira’s naked frame diluted the moment, however.
The act in itself made her feel dirty and even a bit foolish for screwing the man and receiving a half-assed apology afterward.
Instead of joining him in the suite’s bedroom he retreated to, Kira redressed and made a beeline for the door.
Kira failed to bid Omari a proper farewell
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KIRA+DOMINIC — 01
“I’m so proud to be your father.”
Kira Mosley winced at her father’s admission.
Days prior, at the height of what she considered to be her family’s most heated quarrel to date, Jackson Mosley was singing a completely different tune -- one far different from the jubilant expression he had uttered to her as they awaited at for the cue from the announcer.
“You look beautiful tonight, babygirl.”
He was laying it on a little too thick, Kira thought.
Certainly Jackson Mosley was over exaggerating when he made the decision to compliment her on the stark white, a-line number her grandmother took the liberty of altering herself. The subtle changes to the now snug lace bodice weren’t enough to disregard the mount of tulle covering her heel clad feet, nor was it enough to overlook the massive frilled sleeves both her mother and grandmother regarded to be nothing shy of ‘lady-like’.
‘Lady-like’.
Since sacrificing her Sunday afternoons to prepare for the debutante ball, she began to loathe all things associated with the foolish term. As of lately, it seemed as though nothing Kira did was considered to be appropriate. Her recent actions were apparently a stark contrast to the prim and proper young woman the Mosley clan raised her to be.
“You’re just saying that because you feel obligated to, daddy.” Kira muttered. The grasp she maintained around her father’s calloused hand weakened just as his went slightly limp. Beneath the tacky frills she decided against removing herself the previous night, her meager shoulders contracted as the buxom announcer brought the microphone to her mouth again.
For what seemed like an eternity, she waited at the bottom of the atrium’s steps; her heart nearly thudding out of her chest the moment the announcer’s voice resonated throughout the banquet hall.
“Introducing Debutante Kira Cherise Mosley. She is the daughter of Jackson and Deidra Mosley, and the granddaughter of Malcolm and Bernadette Mosley…”
A round of applause followed subsequent to her father hooking his arm around hers, prompting Kira to showcase the hours she spent strutting around in her heels. A smile parted her set of lips coated minimally in a lipstick from her mother’s personal horde of cosmetics. It mirrored Jackson Mosley’s, although her father’s showcased his momentary contentment for the evening’s festivities while Kira’s expression feigned the joy she wished she possessed.
Through the massive turnout of folks seated around the provided tables, Kira was able to spot her mother practically beaming with excitement beside her grandparents. Her lips twitched a bit from the sight as her father initiated their separation; her designated debutante escort — Kareem Bryant — took her hand in his and guided her towards the front.
“...Kira Mosley attends Hamilton High School in Hempstead, New York. She has completed sixty hours of debutante community service. Kira is a member of the black student union. She is also a member of Hamilton High School’s scholars program. Upon graduation, Kira plans to attend Howard University in Washington, D.C. to study Journalism.”
“Nice dress.” Kareem snickered before they made it to the steps. She had the urge to somehow pinch him but unfortunately for her, the long, satin lined gloves she donned prevented her nails from sinking into the exposed flesh of his hand.
Rather than making the attempt anyway, Kira softly advised Kareem to ‘go straight to hell’ while he assisted her up the three steps leading to the constructed stage. She faced the ball's announcer briefly before turning swiftly on the four-inch heels, and stared out towards the crowd, offering those in attendance the curtsy and smile combination she seemed to have perfected.
At the end of the stage, Kareem idled, waiting for his cue to emerge from the stage’s edge. His hand enclosed around hers again, and he ushered her down the steps toward the awaiting chair draped in cloth.
“Tonight, Debutante Kira Cherise Mosley is escorted by Kareem Bryant. He is the son of George and Camille Bryant. He is a senior at Hamilton High School in Hempstead, New York. Kareem is a running back on the varsity football team, and also a member of the Cartwright mentorship program. Upon graduation he plans to attend Ohio State University in Columbus, Ohio and major in Business Management...”
A pang swelled in Kira’s chest and dropped right into the pit of her stomach. Tension the size of a fist formed at the base of her throat just as her eyes threatened to brim with tears. The back of her honey colored eyes stung the harder she tried to keep the onslaught of tears at bay, though the rumbling at the base of her throat was a sure sign she wouldn’t win the battle of restraining them.
“...Ladies and gentlemen, Debutante Kira Cherise Mosley.”
Sparing tears released from each of her ducts when the applause commenced. By then, her mother, father, younger brother, and surprisingly her Nana were on their feet proudly expressing their approval for the joyous moment. Her ailing grandfather, however, remained seated on the cushioned chair. Her grandfather’s dark brown eyes were weakly trained upon her; lifelessness evidently evading him.
As she locked eyes with her mother yet again, her shoulders slumped once she made out the inaudible advisement to wipe away the tears that trickled down the height of her cheeks.
Kira Mosley simply tucked a lock of bone straight hair behind her ear, instead; thoughts lingering at the forefront of her mind wholly captivated her attention, causing her to nearly miss Kareem’s blatant hint for her to occupy the empty seat so the following debutante could advance past the entryway.
When seated the young woman just a few weeks shy of her eighteenth birthday sighed inwardly, feeling every bit of unhappiness the longer she pondered solely on one individual.
Dominic Parker.
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Retribution
01
Fighting the sleep that threatened to pervade her had become quite the norm for Corrine Clarke; a habit she wished she hadn’t subjected herself, among other unfavorable practices.
Throughout the week, in the wee hours of the morning, she tended to stand idle in front of the window and look out towards the manicured front lawn.
There, in the foyer – uncomfortably nestled between a massive banana leaf plant and other terra cotta potted greenery she cared for – the twenty-six-year-old woman waited rather impatiently for a familiar set of halogen headlights to advance beyond the property’s automated gate. On nights where her eyes grew heavy from exhaustion, she drifted to the same area which happened to provide very little wiggle room and stood upright, sometimes as hints of morning broke over the slender birch trees surrounding the stately New Jersey home.
On those nights, her harbored contempt for her significant other and his lucrative illicit dealings resurfaced, further fueling the recurring worry of wellbeing.
Thankfully for her, albeit, Marcus – her better half– typically arrived well before daybreak; his anticipated emergence momentarily quelled the unfavorable scenarios that typically drifted to the forefront of Corrine’s mind whenever he departed from home.
A sigh of relief escaped the young woman when she made out the gate barriers diverging by the tree-lined boulevard; the Mercedes-Benz SL 450 Roadster veered around the property’s meager curve and cruised up toward the home’s abutted driveway. In haste, Corrine trekked from the console table, nearly knocking into one of the potted plants as she haphazardly turned the lock and pulled the carved door open just simultaneous to her lover exiting the two-seater.
He hadn’t bothered to look up from the walkway emblazoned with surrounding orange azaleas until he stopped twirling the key fob in his hand. He gazed longingly at Corrine as she stood in the threshold, her weight shifting from one leg to the other.
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If you’re interested in reading possible future one-shots, drabbles, and/or short stories, follow my writeblr @writtenbyandria
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Angst/fluff Prompt List
Please don’t repost (stealing isn’t cool, but reblog if you wish) <3 <3
“I love you, please don’t go.”
“Stay here tonight.”
“Please don’t walk out of that door.”
“I thought things were going great.”
“Don’t you love me?”
“You make every day worth living.”
“I’ll keep you warm.”
“I’m never letting you go.”
“You meant too much to me.”
“I won’t let you.”
“How could you ask me that?”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“I won’t let anyone hurt you, you’re safe with me.”
“You look amazing tonight.”
“Shouldn’t you be with him/her?”
“I’ve got you.”
“I can’t sleep, can I stay here?”
“It’s late. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“How are you feeling today?”
“You look amazing tonight.”
“We’ll figure this out.”
“This isn’t goodbye.”
“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”
“Wanna go grab a drink?”
“What the hell were you thinking?!”
“Here, let me help you.”
“Kiss me.”
“I care about you.”
“You could have warned me!”
“That was unexpected.”
“You haven’t lost me.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t cry.”
“Please don’t do this.”
“You make me feel safe.”
“You’ve shown me what love can feel like.”
“Thank you, for everything.”
“All I wanted was for you to be happy.”
“I can’t do this on my own.”
“I wasn’t lying when I said that I loved you.”
“Don’t be afraid.”
“You’re always on my mind.”
“You have no idea how much I want you right now.”
“You’ve always felt like home.”
“I can’t imagine this world without you.”
“Dance with me.”
“Trust me.”
“Why are you crying?”
“Who hurt you?”
“Nothing is wrong with you.”
“You make me feel alive.”
“I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”
“Who cares about what they think?”
“Let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“You’ve always got me.”
“I’ve waited for this moment for a long time.”
“Is this okay?”
“You look like you could use a hug.”
“Did you need something?”
“Do you have a ride home?”
“I am home.”
“What happened back there?”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
“Why me?”
“I’m right where I belong.”
“Fine.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t think that I love you?”
“You’ve been drinking tonight, haven’t you?”
“You need sleep.”
“Excuse me?”
“What are you doing?”
“What did you expect?”
“You’re not alone.”
“We’re meant for each other.”
“You’re worth it.”
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
“I’ve always been honest with you.”
“It’s cold, you should take my jacket.”
“Just breathe, okay?”
“When I’m with you, I’m happy.”
“Going somewhere?”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Don’t be scared, I’m right here.”
“You’re so adorable.”
“I’m better, now that you’re here.”
“I could never forget you.”
“Forget it.”
“That’s in the past.”
“You make me happy.”
“You’re more than that.”
“I won’t lose you too.”
“Come cuddle.”
“Can’t you stay a little longer?”
“It’s not that easy.”
“I’ve had enough.”
“I fell in love with you, not them.”
“You’re the only one I wanna wake up next to.”
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Yessssss!
I feel like a kid in a candy store because you updated! I would’ve waited forever for you! I pray that everything is okay with you. Thank you! ❤️
________________________________________________________________
Thank you so much for your patience. It’s always very much appreciated. And I’m so glad that you’ve enjoyed the story thus far.
submitted by @kandy1990
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what I'm really worried about is what this lil singer's intentions are by having Tarin have lunch with him. Like it might be innocent but for some reason I'm getting a bad feeling that he may try and put the moves on her. But Tarin is way too infatuated with Hill and vice versa to even think about doing that. I just can't wait to see Hill and Tarin's relationship grow and develop further. They're not exclusive yet right? It seems like they still have their guard up but slowly taking it down
Tarin having brunch with Haneef is purely innocent lol. As you said, Tarin’s too infatuated – perhaps even too immersed – with Hill at the moment to be receptive of Haneef if he were to make an advance. He does have a pregnant girlfriend. That should mean something, shouldn’t it?
As of right now, at this point in the story, Tarin and Hill are not exclusive, nor are they in a monogamous relationship.
Slowly but surely, it does seem that both Tarin and Hill are letting down their guards. They’re more comfortable with each other than ever before. Tarin certainly is.
I wish I had the power and the ability to dish out chapters and give you what you want. I know this story has been set up as some slow-burning romance between these two due to my pacing and I apologize for that.
Thank you so much for reading! I always look forward to your feedback!
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I think eventually when I have the time I'm just going to read the story all over again since it's been a while but nonetheless an amazing journey. The last two chapters picked up like it never left and blended in effortlessly with everything else. I was surprised to read that Tarin is slowly letting Riche go in the most simplest of ways. I understood he is a very big part of her life even without him being around any longer, but that couldn't hold her stuck in time any longer. What I'm really-
By all means, feel free to reread. I hope it lives up to the standards of being a decent read after all this time. Being that there was a substantial amount of time had passed previous to posting the two latest chapters, I can totally understand if you (and any other readers) need a refresher of the plot and recent events leading up to the recent chapters.
At this point, Tarin is coping with the acceptance of her great loss. Although one can never mind the time in which it takes an individual to properly grieve, Tarin’s endured the weighted emotional throes of her former love for several years. Perhaps with Hill present in her life (in some capacity), she can now find a healthier avenue to cope and move on emotionally.
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Photo
Cindy Bruna for Flaunt Magazine April 2018, shot by Matt Easton.
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24
Third Person Perspective
“Call him, now,” There was nomisunderstanding Adrian and his thought process. Although he might not have been the clearest with his thoughts from outsiders looking in, down the line it would click, and people would commend him for his wise actions. Bailey might not have understood him now and why he was so persistent on having her call her ex, but she wasn’t seeing the bigger picture. Even when Adrian throws out a random idea that no one seems to understand or grasp, he already has it figured out in his head. Adrian wasn’t a full fledge pessimist, but he considered the consequences thoroughly and is still sticking by his judgment call. Bailey’s hesitance was only making him question her and the probable uncertainty she had with this whole plan from the start. This is what he’s been waiting for all this time, there was no turning back. Little did she know, if she was to make this phone call, all power and control was in her hand. For Bailey, that was a blessing in disguise, but she was too timid to realize that. Adrian was taking a risk by doing that since this would be his first time ever trusting someone to do right and Bailey was making it no better by making Adrian doubt her.
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I’m tryna figure out of Haneef is gonna be a slight problem... 😬 maybe I’m just paranoid af tbh
Lol, yes. Perhaps your paranoia is just all in your head! Why do you believe Haneef could possibly be a problem?
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31
TARIN
In terms of hair, complacency with the regularly recurrent had never been Marjani Hunter’s forte. Whether she sacrificed a good night’s rest to scrounge the depths of Youtube for in-depth protective style tutorials, or she begrudgingly put her trust in the hands of a beautician from around the way with hopes of an end-result that exceeded her expectations, my friend tended to experiment with her hair quite often; leaving no style – or color – unattempted.
Over the years, I bore witness to the multitude of drastic hair transformations – the burnt orange dye job I happened to grow fond of after a week of loathing, the effervescent bubblegum pink travesty she soon followed the former up with that haplessly damaged her hair by the onset of summer, and the befitting buzz cut she wore proudly subsequent to vowing she would ‘never allow an ounce of relaxer touch her head again’.
In true Marjani fashion, she revoked her pledge. And by that very same summer’s end, she commenced to relaxing, chopping and dyeing her short amount of hair that barely made it past her ears, settling on an auburn rinse styled into the cut reminiscent to Halle Berry’s in Boomerang.
However, this particular ‘do she chose to sport trumped them all.
She emerged from the sitting area in the lobby of my building wearing a wig the color of slime green; the neon colored locks cascaded down her back and its feathered fringe strands continuously grooved against her eyelashes. By the front desk, my eyes widened in astonishment; the sight alone prompted me to stuff my phone into the tiny satchel that draped along my shoulder and stare longingly at her as she gaited towards me, scooting by the passersby who’d failed to properly excuse themselves.
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30 (Part II)
TARIN
While shrouded in darkness, my lips went in search of his.
Contentment coursed through me when the smooth, plump flesh of his lips pressed to mine. The corners of my mouth hiked up, producing a meager grin as Hill nibbled and sucked on the fullness of my bottom lip. In an instant, I was rendered breathless, while, internally minimizing the dreaded moment Hill pulled away to rest back onto the herd of pillows, all at the same time.
In an effort to lessen the bit of space between us, I settled against him.
Words were failed to be exchanged as we delighted in the quelling silence pervading the suite. Nothing but the barest hints of his even breaths sweeping past his lips were heard when he pulled me close and sluggishly guided my head onto his damp chest. As our bodies remained sparingly covered by the wrinkled sheets Hill had enveloped us both in subsequent to his return from the ensuite, our fervent hands set into motion, exploring depths we’d just previously worked up the courage to touch; areas in which I hadn’t had the gall to roam on another individual in years.
Hill’s calloused hand moved toward my navel, inciting me to release a hollow noise that sounded more like a timid moan than a muffled breath.
The roughness of his fingertips teased me throughout the instinctive parting of my weakened limbs.
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Photo
Cindy Bruna by Mickey Asanin for CR Fashion Book
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