Political Gratification (Interracial-BWWM Novel)

Chapter 10: Inertia

The dress above is for next chapter, which should be written... when it's written. Lol. The quote is where I got the name for Nelly's blog. I love Maya Angelou so much. Her novels. Poetry. It was a sad day when she died. 

Btw. The way to pronounce Neslande's name is:
Neh-luhnd

Enjoy, Muppets.

$$$

Nelly couldn't sleep. Piercing brown eyes and a face conjured only by your wildest dreams laid a heavy burden on her mind, keeping her hot and bothered, but his holier than thou disposition and demeaning, condescending attitude threw a bucket of frigid, cold reality on her every time she'd slip into REM.

Her anger was still close to the surface and she knew if she didn't do something about it now, no way was she going to get any sleep.

Groaning and grumbling curses under her breath she got out of her bed and reached down for the bag that held her precious laptop, Maya, after the one and only Maya Angelou, of course.

Opening her up, the glare of the light in the computer hit her face in one quick swoop making her wince. She quickly lowered the brightness of the screen and reached for her pair of glasses.

On the day to day, she wore contacts, but at night when her hair was twisted and wrapped in a silk scarf for a fresh hairstyle in the morn and her makeup free face was looking as greasy as they came, she had no cares to give for anyone else's opinion.

Getting comfortable in her seat, Neslande began typing. Poetry, blog posts and videos about the latest political news, and fashion forward trends all added up to what was known as the Untold Bearing and as popular as it was, it would always merely be a hobby that sometimes paid the bills and most of the time didn't.

Writing what was on her heart always put her mind at rest as she no longer had any stresses to put a blockade between her and her much needed sleep. Tonight was not about a well-dressed, privileged white boy with seemingly no cultural sensitivity or experience for that matter. Tonight was about a black woman with thoughts and feelings and prayers and emotions that meant something to someone. Whoever that might be. Tonight was about Neslande.

At some point she must have fallen asleep after deleting her most likely meaningless midnight foolery, because the brightness of the Sun was now streaming through the windows of her extravagant Virginian-style room. Slipping from under the covers she dressed in her robe. Letting out a quick yawn and having a good stretch she walked to her bathroom, seeking out her toothbrush in her suitcase.

Looking herself in the eyes through her mirror she heaved a heavy sigh and after putting toothpaste on her toothbrush, stuffed it into her mouth.

She had two large sacs of evidence of her sleep-deprivation under her eyes.

Getting the rest of her morning routine done as slowly as she thought humanly possible, she climbed out of the shower and into her closet where she'd seen towels before. She dried herself off and wrapped a silk robe around her chest to cover her torso to mid-thigh.

She began to rub her body down with her favorite Vaseline Cocoa Butter moisturizing lotion. She was just at her legs when she heard the rapid beat of knuckles against her door, before the knob was turned and the door promptly opened.

Looking up she saw none other than Preston standing in her doorway, anger clear in his features, light auburn, brown hair disheveled from what she could only guess was sleeping, brown eyes aflame, along with the small purple bruise she'd given him on his cheekbone, chest heaving, hands tightly gripping an iPad tablet.