Chapter 3: The Date and the Truck Kiss
The drive to the restaurant took twelve minutes, and Ritchie spent every one of them trying not to stare at Kymani's legs.
She'd worn a dress. Not the kind of dress he expected from a girl who'd shown up at the station in ripped jeans and a tank top and called him a nigga to his face. This was something else—dark blue, fitted, stopping just above her knees, with a neckline that made him feel like he should look away even though there was nothing indecent about it.
She'd done her hair different too. Curls loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back, and she smelled like vanilla and something floral, and when she'd opened her grandmother's front door and smiled at him, Ritchie had forgotten how to breathe for a solid three seconds.
"You gonna say something, or you just gonna stand there looking stupid?"
That was what she'd said. And he'd laughed, actually laughed, and opened the truck door for her, and now they were here.
The restaurant was called Giovanni's, and it was the nicest place in town—which wasn't saying much, but it had tablecloths and candles and a wine list that went on for three pages. The owner, an old Italian guy named Sal, had known Ritchie since he was a kid. His dad used to bring him here for birthdays.
"Officer Stevens," Sal said from behind the host stand, his eyebrows going up when he saw Kymani. "You got a date tonight?"
"Something like that."
Sal grinned and grabbed two menus. "Best table in the house. You know I got you."
He led them to a corner booth, private and dim, with a candle flickering between the salt and pepper shakers. Kymani slid into her seat and looked around, and Ritchie watched her take it all in—the checkered tablecloths, the Chianti bottles hanging from the ceiling, the faded mural of the Italian countryside on the wall.
"This is nice," she said, and she sounded surprised. "Like, actually nice."
"What'd you expect?"
"I don't know." She shrugged, and the strap of her dress slipped a little on her shoulder. "Somewhere with like, mozzarella sticks on the menu. Or a Pizza Hut."
"Pizza Hut has mozzarella sticks?"
"I don't know, nigga, I'm just saying." She picked up the menu and started scanning it. "This place got breadsticks at least?"
"They bring bread to the table. With olive oil and herbs."
"Oh, so we fancy fancy."
Ritchie laughed. He couldn't help it. She was ridiculous in a way that made his chest feel light.
"Just order something," he said. "Anything you want."
"Anything?"
"Anything."
She looked up at him over the top of her menu, and her eyes had that glint in them—the same one she'd had when she asked him out at the station, the same one she'd had when she told him if he wasn't gonna arrest her he needed to move. He was starting to learn that glint meant trouble.
"Even the lobster?"
"There's no lobster on the menu."
"Then the most expensive thing that is on the menu."
Ritchie shook his head and smiled into his water glass. "You're something else."
"I know." She set the menu down. "What you getting?"
"Chicken parm."
"Boring."
"It's good."
"So's the lamb. That's like, forty dollars."
"Get the lamb."
Kymani raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
She stared at him for a second, and something shifted in her expression—something softer, almost vulnerable, before she covered it up with a smirk.
"Aight, Officer Stevens. You asked for it."
Sal came back and Kymani ordered the lamb, and Ritchie ordered the chicken parm, and they got a bottle of wine because Kymani was nineteen but Sal didn't card anyone who came in with a sheriff's deputy. The wine was red and bitter, and Ritchie wasn't much of a drinker, but Kymani seemed to like it, so he didn't say anything.
The bread came first. Warm, crusty, with a little dish of olive oil and garlic and herbs. Kymani tore off a piece and dipped it and made a noise that Ritchie felt in his spine.
"Okay," she said, mouth full. "This is good. Like, really good."
"Told you."
"Don't get cocky." She pointed the bread at him. "It's just bread."
"It's good bread."
"It's bread."
They ate in silence for a minute, and it wasn't uncomfortable. Ritchie was surprised by that. He'd expected awkwardness—expected her to be sharp and guarded, expected himself to fumble and stammer. But the quiet between them felt easy. Natural. He found himself watching her without meaning to, the way her lips closed around the bread, the way her fingers moved when she talked.
"So," he said, and she looked up. "Tell me something about you."
"Something like what?"
"Something real. Not the tough-girl stuff."
Her eyes narrowed. "What makes you think the tough-girl stuff ain't real?"
"Because I've seen it before." He shrugged. "People who are actually tough don't have to work so hard at it."
She didn't say anything for a long moment. Just looked at him with those dark eyes, and Ritchie felt like he was being weighed and measured.
"I grew up in Atlanta," she said finally. "West side. My mom was on drugs, my dad was in prison. My grandma—not Wendy, my other grandma—raised me until she died when I was twelve. Then it was just me and my mom, and she wasn't—she wasn't really there. Even when she was around."
Ritchie didn't say anything. He just listened.
"I got into some stuff." She tore off another piece of bread but didn't eat it. Her fingers shredded it, and Ritchie watched the tiny pieces fall onto her plate. "Stupid stuff at first. Shoplifting, fighting. Then it got worse. Running with the wrong people. Doing things that could've landed me in real trouble."
"That's why you're here," he said. "Living with your grandma."
"Yeah." She picked up her wine glass and took a long drink. "Wendy's my dad's mom. White lady married a Black man back when that was still a big deal. My dad was her only kid, and he—he's not around. She's the only family I got left."
"That's not true."
Kymani's eyes flicked up to his. "What?"
"You got her. And she loves you." He shrugged, feeling his ears go red. "That's more than some people get."
She stared at him. And then, slowly, she smiled—a real smile, not the smirk she usually wore.
"And now I got you," she said. "Taking me to fancy restaurants. Buying me lamb."
"You haven't eaten it yet."
"It's coming." She leaned back in her seat. "So what about you? What's your whole deal? Small-town hero, sheriff's deputy, goody-two-shoes with a savior complex?"
"I don't have a savior complex."
"Mmhmm."
"I just—" He stopped. Thought about it. "I wanted to help people. Keep the town safe. My dad was a cop too. It's what I know."
"Your dad still around?"
"He died. When I was sixteen. Heart attack."
The words came out flat, the way they always did. He'd said them a hundred times, to a hundred different people, and they never got easier. But Kymani didn't say sorry. She didn't tell him how sad that was. She just nodded, slow, and her eyes told him she understood.
"Guess we both got dead parents," she said. "That's fucked up."
Ritchie laughed. Short and sharp and surprised out of him. "Yeah. It is."
"Here." She pushed her bread plate toward him. "You need this more than me. Emotional support bread."
"Emotional support bread."
"Bro, I don't know." She snorted, and the sound was so undignified and unexpected that Ritchie laughed again, louder, and Kymani clapped a hand over her mouth.
"You just snorted," he said.
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Nigga, I did not—"
"You did. It was adorable."
She went scarlet. Actually, visibly scarlet, from her collarbone to her hairline, and Ritchie felt a fierce warmth bloom in his chest.
"Shut up," she muttered.
"Make me."
The words hung between them. He hadn't planned to say them. But there they were, and Kymani's eyes went dark, and the air in the booth got thick.
Then Sal showed up with their food, and the moment shattered, and Ritchie was glad for it because his heart was pounding like he'd just run a mile.
The lamb came on a sizzling platter with rosemary potatoes and a green sauce Ritchie couldn't identify. Kymani cut into it and took a bite, and her eyes rolled back in her head in a way that made Ritchie very grateful that he had a tablecloth covering his lap.
"Okay," she said, mouth full. "Okay, that's worth forty dollars."
"Told you."
"You told me to get it. You didn't tell me it was gonna be life-changing."
"I'm full of surprises."
She looked at him across the table, and her expression was a mix of something Ritchie couldn't name. Something that made his chest feel tight.
"You really are, huh?" she said softly.
They ate. They talked. Kymani told him about her friends back home, about the one who got her into shoplifting, about the teacher who believed in her when no one else did. Ritchie told her about his mom, who still lived twenty minutes away and called him every Sunday, and his little sister who was in college in Iowa City, studying to be a nurse. They talked about music—she liked rap, he liked country, and they agreed to hate each other's taste. They talked about movies and TV shows and the kind of small, stupid things that make up a life.
And the whole time, Ritchie watched her. Watched the way she laughed—head thrown back, shoulders shaking—and the way she got quiet when she talked about her mom, and the way she kept glancing at him like she was checking to make sure he was still there.
By the time they finished eating, the restaurant was mostly empty. The candle had burned down to a nub, and Sal was wiping down tables at the other end of the room, giving them space.
"We should probably get going," Ritchie said.
"Yeah." Kymani wiped her mouth with a napkin and set it down. "Probably."
But neither of them moved.
"Thank you," she said. "For dinner. For—" She gestured vaguely at the room. "This. All of it."
"You don't have to thank me."
"Doug says I should." She smirked. "I don't know, something about manners and how I don't have any."
Ritchie laughed. "I think your manners are fine."
"You just like me."
"Yeah." He heard the words leave his mouth and knew they were true. "I do."
She looked at him, and her smirk softened into something real. Something that made Ritchie's chest ache.
"Come on," he said. "I'll walk you to the truck."
The parking lot was dark. There were maybe five other cars in it, and the streetlight above them flickered and buzzed. Ritchie walked beside her, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin, and when they reached his truck he fumbled for his keys and reached for the door handle.
He never got there.
Kymani grabbed the front of his shirt and shoved him back against the truck, hard enough that the breath left his lungs. And then she was kissing him—her mouth hot and open and hungry, her hands fisted in his shirt, her body pressed against his from chest to thigh.
Ritchie didn't think. He didn't plan. He just responded.
His hands found her waist and pulled her closer, and he kissed her back with a force he didn't know he had in him. She tasted like wine and garlic and something sweet underneath, and she made a sound against his mouth—frustrated, desperate—and he turned them so she was the one against the truck, his body caging her in.
"Officer Stevens," she gasped, when he broke the kiss to breathe. "Didn't know you had it in you."
"You keep calling me that," he said, and his voice came out low and rough. "See what happens."
She shivered. He felt it.
"Get in the truck," she said.
"What?"
"Get in the truck. Now."
She pulled open the back door—not the passenger side, not the cab, but the back seat—and climbed in, and Ritchie stood there for one frozen second before following her.
The back seat was small. Cramped. Not made for two people six feet tall, but Kymani didn't seem to care. She pulled him on top of her and kissed him again, and her hips rolled up against his, and he groaned into her mouth at the friction.
"Oh," she said, surprised. "Oh, you're—"
"Shh."
"Nigga, is that your—"
"Kymani."
She laughed against his mouth, breathless and wild, and then she kissed him quieter, slower, her hands sliding down his chest to the front of his jeans.
Ritchie caught her wrist.
"Not here," he said.
"Why not?"
"We're in a parking lot."
"So?"
"Sal might come out. Someone might—"
"Nigga, it's a Thursday night in Iowa. Ain't nobody coming out."
He wanted to argue. He should have argued. But she was looking at him with those dark eyes, and her legs were wrapped around his waist, and he could feel her heat through her dress and his jeans, and every rational thought in his head had been reduced to static.
"Fine," he said. "But we keep our clothes on."
"Boring."
"You asked me out. I paid. I make the rules."
Her eyes widened. Then narrowed. Then went dark and hungry all over again.
"Okay, daddy," she said.
Ritchie's entire body went rigid.
"What did you call me?"
"You heard me." She grinned, and it was sharp and knowing and more than a little evil. "Daddy."
"I—you can't just—"
"Can't just what?" She rolled her hips again, and he bit down on his lip to keep from groaning. "Can't just tell the truth? You're the one setting rules. You're the one in charge. Ain't that what you wanted?"
He didn't have an answer for that. Because she was right. Something about this—about her—woke up a part of him he'd never known was there. A part that liked being in charge. A part that wanted to tell her what to do and watch her do it.
"You're gonna be trouble," he said.
"Probably."
"That's not a good thing."
"Depends on what kind of trouble." She reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged it loose from his jeans. "Now stop stalling and kiss me."
He did.
He kissed her, and she arched up against him, and her hips found a rhythm against his thigh that made her breath go ragged. He could feel the heat of her through his jeans, the dampness she was leaving on the denim. She was grinding on him like she couldn't help it, and the sounds she was making—small, needy whimpers—were driving him out of his mind.
He got frustrated by the dress. It was blocking too much of her, covering her up, and he wanted to feel her.
"Can I—" he started.
"Can you what?" Her voice came out rough. Her eyes were half-lidded, heavy with want. "What you need, daddy?"
"Stop calling me that."
"You don't want me to."
He didn't. That was the problem. He wanted her to keep saying it, wanted to hear the word in her voice, wanted to find out just how far this game could go.
Ritchie pulled her dress up—just the top, just enough to expose the smooth brown skin of her breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra. He should have noticed that earlier, but he'd been trying so hard to be a gentleman that he'd missed it.
"Fuck," he said.
"Problem?"
"You're—" He shook his head. "You're gonna kill me."
"I'm gonna do a lot worse than that." She reached up and cupped one breast, offering it to him. "Come on, officer. You gotta search me for more contraband."
He laughed. A real laugh, surprised out of him, and Kymani laughed too, and for a second the tension between them softened into something sweet and silly.
Then he put his mouth on her.
"Time out," she said. "Time."
Ritchie pulled back so fast he hit his head on the truck roof.
"Shit—are you okay? Did I hurt you? I'm sorry, I—"
She kissed him to shut him up. Hot and wet and used up.
When she pulled back, her eyes were glazed, her lips swollen, her whole body loose with pleasure. She looked wrecked. She looked like she knew it.
"You got room in your bed for two?" she asked.
Ritchie's brain short-circuited.
"What?"
"Your bed." She sat up slowly, tugging her dress back into place, and Ritchie sat back to give her room even though every instinct told him to pull her close again. "You got room?"
"I—" He swallowed. "Yeah. I got room."
"Good." She opened the door and stepped out into the cold, then turned and looked at him over her shoulder. "Cause I ain't finished with you, nigga. Not even close."
She climbed into the front seat and closed the door.
Ritchie stayed in the back for a long moment, staring at the ceiling of the truck cab, trying to remember how to breathe. His whole body was throbbing. His jeans were uncomfortably tight. His heart was doing something stupid in his chest.
He thought about the casserole she'd brought him three days ago. The way she'd smirked at him across his own front desk. The way she'd looked tonight, candlelight flickering in her eyes, laughing at his jokes and calling him daddy and grinding on his thigh like she wanted to crawl inside him.
He climbed into the driver's seat.
"Your place or mine?" he asked.
"Mine." She yawned, stretching her arms over her head. "Grandma's got bingo till midnight."
Ritchie put the truck in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, and the whole way to Wendy's house Kymani rested her hand on his thigh—high enough to be a promise, low enough to be a tease.
He didn't remember the drive. He didn't remember the walk to the door. He didn't remember anything except the sound of her key in the lock and her hand in his and the way she pulled him inside and shut the door behind them.
Then she was kissing him again, and the world fell away.