Shadow of the Afro

The first thing I notice is the air. It’s thinner up here. Cleaner. And it smells like him. Sandalwood and something sharp, like ozone before a storm. My bare thighs press against the cool leather of his car’s passenger seat, and I have to crane my neck, tilt my head all the way back, just to see his face.

He’s looking down at me. Down. A long, slow descent from his eyes to mine. A journey of at least a foot.

“You okay?” His voice is a low rumble, the kind that vibrates in the chest before it reaches the mouth. It makes my own chest tighten in response.

I nod, but I’m not okay. I’m something else. Something I haven’t put a name to yet. My fingers find the hem of my dress, the black silk that’s ridden up to my hips. I tug it down, but it’s a useless gesture. The dress was short when I bought it. On me, it’s a long top.

“I’m fine,” I say. My voice sounds small. Like a child’s. I hate it.

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the way his jaw tightens. He’s got a jaw that could cut glass. A jaw that belongs on a statue or a superhero. Not in the front seat of a Maserati, parked outside a club that costs more to get into than I make in a week.

But that’s where we are. That’s where I am.

I met him an hour ago. He was at the bar. I was at the bar. He ordered a whiskey, neat. I ordered a vodka soda, because it’s the only thing I know how to order. He looked at me. I looked at him. And then I looked up. And up. And up.

He’s six-foot-five. I’m five-foot-one. On a good day. With heels.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t make a joke. He just smiled, slow and crooked, and said, “I guess I’ll have to lean down.”

He did. He leaned down, his mouth brushing my ear, and asked if I wanted to get out of here.

I said yes. I don’t know why. I’m not the kind of girl who gets into cars with strangers. I’m the kind of girl who checks her locks twice and carries pepper spray. But something about the way he looked at me, like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve, made me forget all the rules.

Now I’m in his car, and he’s watching me with those eyes. Dark. Almost black. The kind of eyes that see too much.

“You’re nervous,” he says. Not a question.

“I’m not.”

“You’re pulling at your dress.”

I stop. I drop my hands to my lap. I feel the heat of his gaze on my skin, and I realize I’m not nervous. I’m something else. I’m aware. Hyper-aware. Of every inch of space between us. Of the way my feet don’t quite reach the floor. Of the way his arm rests on the center console, the muscle of his forearm thick and veined.

He reaches out. His fingers brush my chin. He tips my face up, forces me to look at him.

“I like the height difference,” he says.

“You would.”

He laughs. It’s a real laugh, not a polite one. It fills the car, warms the air.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrug. “It means you get to look down at everyone. Must be nice.”

His thumb traces my jawline. Slow. Deliberate. “I don’t want to look down at you, Lena.”

My name on his lips. He remembered. I didn’t think he would.

“Then what do you want?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me, and I feel the weight of it. The weight of his attention. It’s like standing under a waterfall. Overwhelming. Inevitable.

He leans in. His mouth is close to mine. I can feel the heat of his breath. I can smell the whiskey on him. My eyes flutter closed.

And then he stops.

“Not here,” he says. “Not in the car.”

He pulls back. He starts the engine. The Maserati purrs to life, a sound like a satisfied animal.

I don’t ask where we’re going. I don’t care.

He drives fast. The city blurs past, a smear of neon and headlights. I watch his hands on the wheel. Big hands. Capable hands. I imagine them on my waist, my hips, my thighs. I imagine the pressure of them, the weight.

I shift in my seat. The leather is warm now. It holds my shape.

He glances at me. He knows. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. I can see it in the curve of his mouth.

“Patience,” he says.

“I’m not good at patience.”

“I know.”

He pulls into a garage. Underground. Private. The gate slides shut behind us, and the world goes quiet.

He parks. He kills the engine. The silence rushes in, thick and charged.

He gets out. I hear his footsteps on the concrete. He opens my door.

I look up at him. He’s a silhouette against the dim light. Tall. Broad. Unmoveable.

He holds out his hand.

I take it.

His fingers close around mine. They’re warm. Rough. They swallow my hand whole.

He helps me out of the car. My feet hit the ground, and I feel the difference again. The distance between the top of my head and his chin. The way I have to step back to see his face.

He doesn’t let go of my hand.

He leads me to an elevator. We ride up. The numbers climb. 10. 20. 30. He doesn’t speak. Neither do I.

The doors open. A hallway. One door. His door.

He unlocks it. He pushes it open.

And then he stops.

He turns to me. He looks down. His eyes are dark. His voice is low.

“Last chance,” he says. “You can walk away. I won’t follow.”

I should. I should walk away. I should go back to my apartment, my cat, my life. I should forget the way he smells, the way he looks, the way his hand feels on mine.

But I don’t.

I step forward. I cross the threshold.

And he closes the door behind us.