Young, Gifted & Black

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The above poetry is done by Ebony Stewart - check her out on YouTube! I love her!

Stepping off the small round stage, Mira makes her way through the clapping and cheering crowd to disappear into the backstage area. It's dim, sparsely furnished and cold. Her hands wrap around her abdomen, hanging onto the warmth of her performance before she slips her black leather jacket across her shoulders.

It was late, almost 2 AM by the time she took the stage. The delayed time was intentional. It always made the crowd a little antsy when she was one of the last performers. They always waited, always wondered.

They wanted to hear her words from her lips. They didn't want to hear it from someone else. They didn't want to see the clips that would skyrocket across social media.

She grinned at an old friend as she left the backstage area and made her way over to him. He took her against his chest, banding his arms around her waist in brotherly affection. Another smile, then a nod, came from her as she left him to his friends.

A few people stood and shook her hand, congratulating her and giving her praise. She took it, still smiling, even though she hated the recognition. Mira never wrote for others. Her words were for herself.

They spoke about the lives of those she encountered. They recounted the painful truths that haunted her past. She had made it out. She had made a life, but it didn't make the reality of what she left behind any better.

Just as her feet crossed the threshold, she pressed her wild black hair away from her face and glanced up. Fuck. He was here. He had be watching.

She had hoped to disappear without a word in his direction. The man was as infuriating as he was attractive, and he knew it. He was giving her his signature smirk; it pushed the sides of his cheeks upward until a smile exposed his teeth.

Dressed in black Timberlands, dark wash jeans, and a red long-sleeved t-shirt that was so tight she could count his abs, Erik was a sight to behold. He was muscled, intelligent, sexy as fuck, and had an aura of danger that made her heart beat faster and her hands clammy. Sloppily she stabbed her fists into her back pockets and turned around, prepared to head in the opposite direction.

"So that's how it is?"

Mira didn't stop walking. She continued, getting further and further away from the hard hip-hop beat coming from inside the small club.

"Mira..." he called, his patience was wearing thin. "Come on. You and I both know I'm not going away."

Suddenly, Mira halted, and spun around, fixing narrowed eyes on his form. He was a few feet away, already wearing a self-satisfied grin. Amazing, the man barely knew her first and last name, but he could push all her buttons unlike any other man she'd ever met. Her lips thinned as she pressed them together.

"What do you want?"

"Rude."

"Niggah," she sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple, "it's cold and I have shit to do. So, what do you want?"

"Seriously," he raised an eyebrow, "you treat e'rybody like that? Or is it just me?"

"Do you stalk every woman you meet or just me?"

He smiled devilishly, "you askin' if you special, Mira Sickle?"

"Nah, I'm askin' if this," she motioned between them, "behavior is normal."

"You won't tell me much about you. All I'm askin' is for an inch." He stepped closer to her as he spoke, ignoring the glare on her attractive face. Chocolate eyes partially covered by wild charcoal hair were staring up at him with unbridled hatred. He loved to annoy her. He loved to push those buttons of hers.

Mira was an island. He couldn't seem to reach her. Meeting her had been purely accidental. A stop at a coffee shop and a chance meeting where he sat in a seat she considered her own domain. He could still remember the look of pure inconvenience that twisted her plump lips when she set eyes on him.

Every morning since then he'd found himself sitting across from her. They sparred constantly, trading words back and forth like missiles. He enjoyed her cheeks that reddened with emotion; it was easy getting a rise out of her. Getting more information about her personally? Well, he wasn't doing very well on that account.

The little information he had gathered were from the looks of longing that crossed her face when he was reading certain novels. Art seemed to catch her attention the most, then poetry, and few historic biographies that spoke to true black history. Over the last few weeks he'd gone deeper into his bookshelves, hoping to find more works that she would have a connection with.

Getting her name had been a challenge. Then finding out from another coffee customer that she was this infamous poet, activist and all around badass made his cock hard. Shit... it certainly helped when he saw just how fine she was up close.

The woman was practically poured into every outfit she wore. Those jeans... he was still trying to figure out how the hell she had gotten her hips into the jeans that she wore right now. She always sported tall thin high heels, but tonight the white t-shirt that adorned her body hugged her breasts and cinched waist. The leather jacket on her shoulders was worn, but well taken care of. Every time she stepped, the charms on her bracelet jingled lightly.

The woman is fine. Damn fine. So damn fine he couldn't breathe the first time he saw her.

Erik couldn't lie. He had found out all he could about the beautiful black woman in his face. She posed quite the conundrum; he knew her first and last name, but there was virtually nothing available about her. It was as if she suddenly came into existence only a few years ago.

And he'd checked, then double and triple checked.

Calling in favors with people he knew who knew everything and everyone. But this young beauty who had spiraled into a local kind of fame was unknown across the net. She created an explosion whenever she stepped onto the stage, but faded to near nonexistence in between.

Her voice online was big, loud. She stomped through people with intimate knowledge on subjects some people only dreamed of. Current events, historical references, political affiliations, observations, science, law, technology, language... everything was on point.

Mira Sickle was unapologetic about what she thought and felt. And though she was single minded in her pursuit for knowledge, she took the time to slow down and educate others. And if they had something to say that was backed by facts, she did something most in her position didn't. She listened and learned.

"Hello? Hello?" He came back to the present with her hand in his face, snapping her little red-tipped fingers in frustration. "Are you even listenin' to me? You know what—?"

"An inch, Mira." He cut her off, firmly standing in front of her.

Those big eyes of hers zeroed in on his serious expression, narrowing even further to slits. He choked back a laugh, finding her anger attractive. He reached his hand up, aiming to cup her cheek in his palm.

"One date?" His voice distracted her from his movement temporarily, "that's all I'm asking."

Just as his hand passed her shoulder, Mira flinched hard, yanking her body away from his with speed and determination Erik didn't know she possessed. He tipped his head to the side. This time, it was his eyes that were narrowed. She stared at him, a dare in her hostile gaze.

"I don't owe you an inch, Erik." She spoke the words with chilling finality, "I don't owe you anything. Men like you... men like you claim to want an inch and end up taking a mile."

"I'm not like—"

"Save it." Her hand came up, cutting off his next sentence. "I'm not interested, so just drop it."

His gaze was trained on her back as she walked away, Mira was sure of it. The steely intent is his gaze whenever he glanced at her always made her legs shake in fear and something else. It was dangerous.

He intrigued her. Ignited passion inside her that she thought was long dead. Mira knew, without a doubt, that if given the chance, Erik would consume her completely. And she knew the moment they met, that it didn't matter what words came out of her mouth — he would win.

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