His Purple Heart

41 - The opposite of frigid

It was as if a heavy stone was sitting on my heart.

This time around, however, there was no heartache and no numbness. Just plain irritation, because talking to Drake was a complete waste of my time. I still didn't know why I hadn't just slammed the door in his face when he showed his trifling ass on our doorstep.

Drake sat on the couch across from me, man-spreading like I've never seen before, his eyebrows still as bushy as I remembered. He'd declined my offer of something to drink, but I still went ahead and made myself a cup of tea. This time, if he so much as got me mad, he was getting a fancy teacup to his skull.

I circled the warm teacup with my hand. "Why are you here?"

"That's not chamomile," he said, pointing at the teacup with his chin. "I thought you only drank that."

"I don't anymore."

"Why?"

I rolled my eyes. "Because it taste like crap now and it belongs in the crappy past."

He stared at me intently, dark eyebrows slashing inward. "So you're with a white man now?"

"Your point?"

He leaned forward to get his point across. "They use black women. They like your bodies and your food, but they don't give a damn about you."

I took a careful sip of my ginger-lemon tea, enjoying the gentle burn on my tongue, before I pushed it away and stood up from the love seat. "You should leave. Now. This conversation is over. I still don't know why you came, and if I'm honest with myself, I don't really give a damn."

"Does he make you come? Make you scream like I used to? I still remember how wet you used to get for me. Your juices running down your ass and thighs, and me licking every drop. Remember that?"

"Yes, because that's the only thing you were good for, lickin' ass. Now get out." I pointed at the door.

"Come on, Debs, don't be like that. I miss you and I just want to talk like we used to."

"I will not have you come into my man's house and disrespect him. Trystan is a good man and he treats me like a man should. He's supportive in ways you've never been. I love him."

Drake laughed. "Of course you do. He moved you into this big fancy house, rent free, and you love that shit. I know how much you hated our little apartment, how angry you were that we couldn't afford something bigger. You held a grudge every month when you had to hand over half of the rent and money for bills out of your precious art income. You're just using this white man for his money. I knew you wouldn't be able to continue paying the rent on your own."

"You're delusional," I whispered. "How did you even know where I was?"

"Old landlord gave me your forwarding address." He shrugged.

God, I hated when he did that.

"I want you back, Debra. That's why I'm here." He stood up and stretched, pushing past the giant coffee table to stand in front of me. "I'm sorry I cheated on you with Olga. Turns out she'd been faking her orgasms. I hate fake bitches. I miss touching a real woman and I miss hearing your sexy ass moans. Olga's just a lot of noise with no spunk. You and I had something good, and I want it back."

I frowned. "If you can talk to me like that about your precious Olga, what did you tell her about me?"

"That you're a workaholic." He shrugged and started pacing around the room, watching the art on the walls. "Do you know how many nights I've had to sleep alone, while you were in the basement rotting away. You say I wasn't supportive, but that's a lie. I fed you, did everything for you, so you could be the painter that you are today. You didn't have to do shit. I mean, you couldn't be bothered to remember a simple doctor's appointment, let alone ask me how my day was."