Chapter 1: Last Call for Love
The Neon Grail’s flickering sign promised a mysterious allure Barry’s date had assured him was “authentic,” which he now translated as “in a part of town where the sidewalks glittered with broken glass.” He sat hunched on a wobbly stool at the sticky bar, his thin frame looking like it was trying to fold into itself. His pale skin practically glowed under the sickly orange neon, and his mop of unruly brown hair seemed to defy both gravity and good sense. He pushed his thick glasses up his nose, a nervous habit that did nothing to make the predominantly Black patrons and the bartender regard him any less like a lost baby deer that had wandered into a wolf den.
He’d been excited she’d picked somewhere so specific, so real, thinking it signaled a departure from his own sheltered life. Now, an hour past their meet time with no replies to his “You here?” texts, the dejection was a cold, hard lump in his stomach. That feeling was now underscored by a low-grade, prickling unease at being the only white face in the place, which immediately made him feel guilty, which in turn made him feel like an even bigger asshole. He was a walking cliché of awkwardness, drowning in a sea of his own making.
He was a walking cliché of awkwardness, drowning in a sea of his own making.
From a scarred vinyl booth in the corner, Keesha Johnson tracked the sad spectacle with the focus of a predator assessing particularly pathetic prey. She took a long sip of her Long Island iced tea, the sweetness barely masking the gasoline-kick of liquor, and nudged her best friend’s ankle under the table. “Toy. Clock that little white boy at the bar,” she said, her voice a low, smoky rumble. “Swear to God, he’s been posted up there for a full damn hour, checking that phone like it’s gonna sprout a diamond.”
Keesha was a force of nature contained—barely—by a tight, leopard-print dress that celebrated her full, magnificent figure. Her hair was a masterpiece of honey-blond streaks piled into a chaotic but intentional updo, a few strategic curls framing a face made for drama: bold, arched eyebrows, sharp eyeliner wings that could cut glass, and lips painted a dangerous, glossy purple. Every gesture was amplifed, every expression a proclamation.
Latoya Jackson followed her friend’s gaze, her warm brown eyes softening. “Looks like his map got blown off in the wind, Kee.” Where Keesha was fire, Latoya was earth—steady and grounded. She wore a simple but elegant royal blue wrap dress that complimented her own soft curves, her dark hair cascading in gentle waves around a face that was round, kind, and punctuated by a shrewd, knowing smile. She didn’t command the room; she calmly observed it, a quiet satellite to Keesha’s blazing sun. “Poor thing. You can practically smell the rejection from here.”
“Mmm. Smells like Axe body spray and despair,” Keesha snorted, watching Barry’s shoulders slump another inch. “Tinder date stood his narrow ass up.”
“Probably some girl who realized her ’projects’ come with a ninety-day return policy.” Latoya swirled her own drink, the ice clinking softly.
Keesha’s eyes, sharp with mischief and a sudden, decisive compassion, locked onto Barry’s dejected form. “Ain’t right,” she stated, finality in her tone. “Letting a little gentleman drown in his own self pity like that.” She slid out of the booth, the movement smooth and purposeful, her spiked heels clicking firmly on the grimy floor. “C’mon. Time for a public service.”
Latoya shook her head, but a fond, amused smile played on her lips as she gathered her purse. “Lord, here we go.”
The click of Keesha’s heels was a deliberate percussion section cutting through the bar’s grumble. Her walk was a rolling, confident affair, her hips swinging in a rhythm that seemed to defy the static-laden classic soul leaking from the speakers. The leopard-print dress stretched taut over the generous, soft curve of her belly, and strained against the full, heavy swell of her chest with every step. The fabric clung to the powerful sweep of her thighs, outlining a body that was uncompromisingly present, a lush landscape of womanhood moving with purpose.
Latoya moved beside her, a softer, quieter harmony to Keesha’s dominant melody. Her body was a series of gentle slopes and warm planes; the soft roundness of her arms, the pillowy fullness of her breasts under the blue wrap dress, the generous, inviting curve of her hips that swayed with a natural, grounding grace. Where Keesha was a statement, Latoya was a comfort, a presence that filled space without demanding it.
Keesha planted a hand on the sticky bar next to Barry’s elbow, the scent of her perfume—something bold with vanilla and amber—cutting through the stale beer haze. “Alright, Clark Kent. We’ve been conducting a sociological study from our booth, and the hypothesis is you’re having a real bad fuckin’ night.”
Barry jolted, his glasses slipping down his nose as he swiveled. His eyes went wide, drinking in the reality of these two women now flanking him. It was like being approached by a vivid, breathing sunset and a deep, calm ocean—both utterly mesmerizing and completely out of his league. His brain short-circuited, syntax dissolving. “I… uh… it’s… Barry. My name is Barry.”
“Barry,” Keesha repeated, as if testing the flavor. “I’m Keesha. This vision in blue here is my girl, Latoya.” Latoya offered a sweet, genuine smile that made the crinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen. “Hey, Barry.”
He stared, his mouth slightly agape, utterly disarmed. Keesha leaned in, her gaze staring him down. "Your Tinderella ain’t coming, Barry. She’s basic and probably a bitch. So you got two choices now.”
Barry blinked up at her, utterly paralyzed.
“You can sit here turning the same shade as this nasty bar stool,” she continued, “or you can bring that beer and your cute little awkward self over to our booth and upgrade your evening,"
Keesha delivered the line with a smirk that was all confidence, one eyebrow arched high, her tone a cocktail of command and amusement that left no room for debate.
Latoya watched Barry’s face with gentle amusement, her warm eyes tracing the flicker of panic, the dawning hope, the sheer adorable disbelief playing out across his features.
Behind the bar, Marvin, a grizzled giant with a salt-and-pepper beard, wiped a glass and smirked, having seen Keesha’s rescue missions before.
“I, uh… yes. Okay. I’ll join you,” Barry stammered, his voice squeaking slightly as he grabbed his half-finished beer.
“No duh you will,” Keesha said, already turning. “Marvin! Baby, bring two more Long Islands and a real drink for Clark Kent here. Something that with enough kick to get him to chill out.”
Marvin nodded, his smirk widening into a full grin.
Latoya laughed, a rich, warm sound, and placed a reassuring hand on Barry’s bony shoulder. “Don’t mind her, Barry. She’s like a human avalanche—all momentum and noise. But she’s right about one thing: you shouldn’t drink alone.”
But she’s right about one thing: you shouldn’t drink alone.” Keesha’s hand, warm and firm, closed around Barry’s thin forearm. “Aw, look at him, Toy. He’s trembling,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr meant only for him. “Relax, baby. The scary part’s over.” She began leading him back toward their booth, her grip unwavering.
Latoya followed, her smile a silent testament to her friend’s glorious, unpredictable madness.
Keesha guided him through the crowded space, her full, soft body pressing against his side as they navigated between tables. The heat of her, the lush curve of her hip and the generous swell of her breast against his arm, sent a jolt through Barry’s nervous system. He was too surprised to even categorize the feeling—shock, yes, a tremor of anxiety, but underneath it, a pure, electric strand of liking it, liking the solid, warm reality of her.
She was everything his lonely nights had never been.
He dared a glance down as they walked, his eyes tracing the leopard-print fabric stretched taut over the dramatic hourglass of her figure. They reached the booth. Releasing his arm, Keesha slid into the worn vinyl seat with a practiced shimmy, the movement causing her dress to ride up just enough on her thick, powerful thighs. Barry stared, utterly hypnotized.
“You have all night to stare, baby. You might as well sit down,” she said, her tone amused and playful. She patted the space right next to her, the vinyl squeaking softly under her palm. “c'mon,"
She was smiling as she said it, a wide, predatory grin full of genuine amusement and glittering purple mischief. Barry slid onto the squeaking vinyl, his body rigid with awareness. Latoya, with a soft sigh, slid in from the other side, hemming him in completely, her thigh settling firmly against his. He dared a glance at her; the gentle curve of her hip in the blue dress, the soft fullness of her waist, so close he could feel her body heat through his cheap jeans.
They scotched inward in a synchronized motion, two waves of warm, perfumed pressure closing the final millimeters. Keesha’s hip, lush and commanding, pressed against his left side, a solid, grounding presence. Latoya’s right hip was softer, a gentle yet insistent curve molding against him. He was sandwiched, immobilized by their generous, confident flesh.
“Alright,” Keesha declared, her voice cutting through the dizzying haze of his senses. She held out a manicured hand, palm up. “Let’s see her. The Dumb Bitch of the Hour.”
Barry fumbled for his phone, his fingers clumsy. He tapped it open, navigated to the dating app, and pulled up his date’s profile picture—a heavily filtered shot of a woman posing with a cocktail. Without a word, he handed the phone to Keesha.
She took it, her eyes scanning the screen. She sucked her teeth, a sharp, dismissive sound. “Mm-hmm. Exactly what I pictured. All face-tune and desperation.” She angled the phone so Latoya could see. “Looks like she got lost on her way to the basic bitch convention.”
Latoya leaned closer to see, her soft breast pressing against Barry’s arm. She shook her head, a small, pitying smile on her lips. “Oh, honey. She wasn’t for you anyway. Her eyebrows are entirely too angry for that sweet face of yours.”
Barry’s nervous system was a fireworks display of conflicting signals. “She… she seemed nice online,” he managed to squeak out.
“Online is a lie, baby,” Keesha said, handing his phone back. “We,” she gestured between herself and Latoya, their hips still firmly lodged against his, “are the upgrade.”