“Oh, sweetheart,” he groaned into the phone with full sarcasm. Sarcasm that stung my nipples. Stupid! “you don’t want to take that tone with me. You must remember, I am the fuckin’ man around these parts, and very much capable of turning your birthday into the biggest party on the campus with one call to the Greeks’ line.”
My eyes ballooned. I was now fully awake and had to remind myself to keep my voice down. The last thing I needed was Samantha to know Ashton Spencer called me in the middle of the night. It would be…weird.
“You wouldn’t!” I exhaled.
“Oh, my favorite queer, Nabby-girl, I can and will.” His threat so promising and so…masculinely sexy.
I couldn’t believe I got turned on by a guy—by anyone! Hated the dark magic he held over me.
“How am I supposed to pull off another fake date, Ashton, and so late at night?”
“Don’t worry about that. I got it covered. You just need to get your grooming done and be ready at ten tomorrow night for the party bus to pick you up.”
“Tonight.”
“Huhn?”
I rolled my eyes. “You mean tonight. It’s almost one in the morning.”
“Yeah. Whatever.” He dismissed my correction. “Just be ready on time. Wear the black mini dress with the cut-out in the back and the Valentino heels. Those are the ones—”
“With the silver studs. Yeah, I know.” I shook my head. “Is that why you called me? To rub setting me up in my face then be the bossy human you are, and tell me what to wear on my birthday?”
“That and to tell you to get up and pack an overnight bag.”
“What bag?”
“An overnight bag.”
He was crazy. “For when?”
“For today, and one for your birthday ‘date.’ You’ll need something to wear after your rendezvous, or whatever your ‘date’ has planned for you.”
My pulse began to race and mouth went dry. “Where are you, Ashton?”
“In the back of your dorm, on my bike, waiting for you and your overnight bag.”
A pocket of air escaped my lungs. “When were you going to tell me?” I was voiceless. Excitement shouldn’t be so painful.
“After I told you what to pack, which I did,” he growled, peaking my nipples. I could actually feel that shit. “It’s cold as shit out here, so hurry the fuck up, Nabby-girl. I’m sleepy.”
I swallowed hard, eyes squeezed. “Give me a few minutes to pack. I’ll have to be quiet and move slow.”
“Hurry,” he growled again.
I hung up and crawled out of bed on my assigned mission.
“See, that’s your problem, yo!” Al’s eyes were shrinking with each sip he took. “You think anything European mixed with Black is exotic, Dre, or that anything lightening authentic maroon blood. That shit is fuckin’ wack in 2006, bruh.”
Dre formed the most identifiable humble smirk. I’d seen it when he would come around Samantha, talking his sweet nothings bullshit. But I’d also seen him talk shit in the gym with other athletes to know he wasn’t always Mr. Suave.
“Here you go with this bullshit,” he singsonged over Dem Franchize Boyz’s “I Think They Like Me.” The party bus filled with twelve of us—me being the only girl—hit a bump, causing him to spill an ounce or two of his Jack Daniels before catching it in a plastic cup. “I think all women are exotic. Fuck outta here.”
“Nah, my nigga.” Al’s jolly, belly-shaking laughter filled the smoky air of the party bus. “I been watching you and, in the three years you been here, I ain’t seen no chocolate on your arms.”
Dre’s face wrinkled hard and he tossed his head back, offended. “You met that chick I was fucking last spring.” He managed the bottle to the floor between his feet and snapped his fingers, trying to recall. “Tashanique.”
“Yeah. The one from Howard you was only fucking. You ain’t never claim her or take her out like that.” Al laughed again. “Only reason I know of her is because I flew out there with you for the bitches, not for you to go see your ‘lady’.”
Dre waved him off. “Man, I like what I like. Everybody got their preferences.”
“But that shit ain’t cool, my nigga.” Al’s permanent smile was intact. “My mom wrote a song about that shit for Black girls.”
“What was the name of it?” Sherman, a football player, asked.
“It was ‘Black Girls Are Exotic.’ She shot the video in South Africa.”
“Man, ain’t nobody listening to no DeeDee Baker!” Dre clowned him, busting out laughing. “She ain’t even sing that. Alicia