After eight years of estrangement, the untimely death of her father calls Keyser Gooding back to her family home, forcing her to relive the physical and verbal abuse she endured growing up at the hands of her foster brothers, Deon and Joel.
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Keyser hasn't left her room in hours so I know she hasn't eaten. The TV plays quietly in the background, but I can't concentrate on it, I can still hear how she sounded earlier, her sobs echoing in my ears.
I'm downstairs now, laying on the cool leather couch, resting on my forearm with a throw blanket draped over me, hoping that she'll at least come down to the kitchen so I can talk to her. I know Keyser, she's stubborn as hell. When she's hurt, she prefers to lick her wounds in solitude, and I respect that.
I don't know what Deon did to her, but I know he probably crossed a line with her that I can't forgive. I've seen him in action, before. How he treats women... in bed.
He always uses them like they're objects, to satisfy his fucked up needs, and then discards them without so much as a second thought. I'm getting agitated just thinking about it, but then my attitude dissipates as I hear her bedroom door open.
I sit up abruptly, listening closely over the flickering noise of the TV. Her light footsteps cascade down the staircase and I grab the remote to fidget with so it doesn't look like I've been waiting for her all night, but then again, I don't really care if she thinks that. I want her to know that I care about her, that I want to protect her.
She enters the room, looking like she'd just woken up. Her damp curls from earlier had puffed up a bit and taken their natural, beautiful shape since our shower this morning. She's wearing a tank top without a bra and thigh-high shorts, her brown skin glowing, even in the darkness of the living room.
"Hey." I said softly and she picked up on my pleading eyes, knowing that I want to talk.
"Hey... Gimme a sec." she says quietly and I nod as she walks past me, heading for the kitchen.
I see her open the fridge and take out a water bottle. Her shirt lifts up a little as she swallows it down, and I cock my head to the side, swallowing hard. I feel guilty, biting my lip as my eyes rake over her body, her exposed midriff. It's only a glance but it sends blood rushing to my dick and I have to force myself to look away.
She grabs another bottle, then moves to the other side of the kitchen where I can't see her, and I hear the sound of a cabinet opening, a bag being opened.
I smile when I hear her munching on what sounds like chips and I start to picture her, what she'd look like, in my kitchen with nothing but a T-shirt on, raiding my pantry for late night snacks. But I push those thoughts down, waiting for her to come and join me on the couch.
She leaves the kitchen moments later, her mouth full of tortilla chips, the water bottle hanging loosely in her right hand. Her eyes find mine again, and she curls up beside me, giving me an apologetic smile, almost as if she's sorry for keeping me waiting.
But I shake my head slightly, a silent way of telling her it's okay. Her body relaxes into mine as my arms automatically wrap around her, and for a second, I forget about the conversation I wanted to have with her.
