Chapter 10: Let’s play
The silence after Devon hung up wasn’t quiet. It was a physical weight pressing down on Cherry’s chest, thick with the ghost of his voice – the incredulous disgust, the raw recall of her own abandon. Friends. The word echoed in the hollow space he’d left. She stared at the dark phone screen until the burn of unshed tears blurred the reflection of the ceiling light. The cold tea sat forgotten, the reality show chatter an alien buzz against her raw nerves.
She couldn't stay here. Couldn't just… be with this suffocating aftermath. Action. She needed movement. Something to scrub the shame and the lingering phantom sensation of his touch from her skin. She shoved off the couch, staggering slightly with the force of her own pent-up energy. The apartment felt too big, too empty, too full of him.
The cleaning supplies cabinet offered salvation. Bleach. All-purpose spray. Microfiber cloths that felt rough and purposeful in her hands. She cranked the volume on the old radio perched on her bookshelf – a local station playing smooth R&B, something with a deep, thumping bass that vibrated in her bones. Loud enough to drown out the thoughts.
She started in the kitchen, attacking the invisible grease film on the stove with a ferocity that surprised her. The lingering ghost of burnt bacon finally met its match. She scrubbed counters that were already clean, polished the faucet until it shone blindingly. The rhythmic motion was hypnotic. Scrub, rinse, wipe. Scrub, rinse, wipe. The scent of artificial lemon and bleach filled the air, sharp and chemical, a welcome assault on her senses. It drowned out the jasmine tea, drowned out everything but the beat and the physical exertion.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickling down her temple. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, leaving a faint smudge. Her locs, heavy and damp at the nape of her neck, swung against her back. Time became elastic. The kitchen gleamed. She moved to the living room, dusting frames holding vibrant prints of Adinkra symbols and contemporary African landscapes – gifts from her grandmother. She fluffed pillows on the spotless couch, rearranged books on the low table, straightened the colorful woven rug. The rain started then, a sudden downpour lashing against the windows, turning the city lights outside into watery smears of gold and white. It only made the inside feel cozier, brighter, safer. A sanctuary she was fiercely polishing into perfection.
The physical exhaustion was creeping in, a pleasant counterpoint to the mental static. That’s when she remembered the little tin in her bedside drawer. Gummies. Brightly colored, vaguely fruity. Maya had given them to her months ago ‘for emergencies.’ ‘Girl, sometimes you just gotta turn the brain off,’ Maya had said. Cherry had scoffed then. Now? Now it felt like the most brilliant idea ever conceived.
She popped two. Then, figuring the universe owed her a serious break, popped a third. Waited. The cleaning frenzy continued – organizing the tiny linen closet, wiping down baseboards. Then… it crept in. A soft, fuzzy warmth spreading from her stomach outwards. The sharp edges of the world began to blur. The radio’s bass felt deeper, vibrating pleasantly in her chest cavity. The lamplight seemed softer, warmer, haloing everything in a gentle glow. The relentless rain outside transformed from a lashing assault to a soothing, rhythmic drumbeat against the glass.
A giggle escaped her, sudden and unexpected. She was standing in the middle of her immaculate living room, holding a dusty duster, and everything was just… funny. The sheer intensity of cleaning, the ridiculousness of Devon’s anger, the cosmic joke of it all. She giggled again, the sound light and airy in the cozy space. The shame and tension? Melting away like butter left on the warm stove she’d just scoured.
The Merlot. Yes. That felt right. A reward for her industriousness. She poured a generous glass, the deep red liquid catching the lamplight beautifully. She took a long sip. It tasted rich, complex, and somehow amplified the pleasant fuzziness wrapping around her brain. Much better. She sank onto the plush rug, leaning back against the couch, cradling the wine glass. The rain drummed. The radio crooned. Her vibrant apartment, clean and glowing, felt like a warm hug. She took another sip, smiling dopily at the geometric pattern on her favorite throw pillow. High Cherry was definitely winning today. Take that, messy feelings.
Ding-dong.
The sound sliced through the cozy haze. Cherry blinked slowly. Who? Maya wouldn’t ring; she had a key. Delivery? At this hour? In this rain? The chime came again, more insistent.
“Cominnnng!” she called out, her voice sounding thick and syrupy to her own ears. She pushed herself up, a little unsteady. The room tilted gently. High Cherry giggled. Wobbly legs. Okay. She shuffled to the door, the plush rug soft under her bare feet. Peered through the peephole.
The distorted fisheye view showed… a wall? No. Someone very tall, very close, drenched. Dark jacket plastered to broad shoulders. Water streaming off… locs? Short, neat locs plastered to a skull she knew. Devon.
Reality slammed into her high brain with the force of the rain outside. Devon? But… phone call? Anger? Begging me to stay? The pieces wouldn’t click together properly. The fuzziness made the connection lag. Why was he here? Was he a mirage? A very wet, angry mirage?
She fumbled with the deadbolt, her fingers feeling thick and uncoordinated. Turned the knob. Pulled the door open.
He filled the doorway. Rainwater dripped from his jacket, his locs, plastering his t-shirt to the hard planes of his chest. He looked… intense. Water streamed down his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dark intensity of his eyes fixed on her. Not angry, exactly. Something else. Calculating. Predatory. Amused?
Cherry stared, her mouth slightly open. The cool, wet air rushed in, a shock against her warm skin. The scent of rain and damp earth mixed with the lingering lemon bleach and jasmine. Her high brain, lagging several seconds behind, finally processed: Devon. Here.
“H… hey?” she managed, the word ending on a slightly bewildered upward lilt. She blinked slowly, trying to focus. The wine glass was still in her hand, halfway to her lips. She lowered it clumsily.
A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face. It didn’t reach his eyes. It was a hunter’s smile. “Hey yourself, Cherry.” His voice was low, rough, cutting through the drumming rain and the radio’s mellow tune. His gaze swept over her – the oversized, soft t-shirt she wore for cleaning, the messy locs piled haphazardly, the faint smudge on her cheekbone, the half-empty wine glass. His eyes lingered on the glass, then snapped back to hers. “Having a party?”
Her brain fumbled. Party? Just me… and the dust bunnies I murdered. She shook her head, the movement making the room sway gently. “Nuh-uh. Just… cleanin’. ‘S raining.” She gestured vaguely towards the downpour behind him with the hand holding the glass, sloshing a little wine. “You’re… wet.”
That predatory smile widened a fraction. “Observant.” He took a step forward, invading the threshold. His presence, damp and electric and overwhelmingly male, filled the small entryway. He didn’t come in, but he blocked the exit, forcing her to tilt her head back to look up at him. The rain plastered his t-shirt even closer. She could see the defined lines of his abdomen. Her traitorous high brain supplied a vivid, unwelcome flashback of running her hands over those lines. She swallowed hard.
“Saw the lights on,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur that vibrated in her bones despite the rain. “Thought I’d stop by. Since we’re friends now.” He lingered on the word, letting it hang with dark humor. “Friends check on friends during storms, right?”
Cherry’s mind scrambled. Friends. The word felt like ash in her mouth now, especially delivered with that look, that tone. This wasn’t friendly. This was… something else. A game? A trap? She took an involuntary step back, bumping lightly against the small console table. “Y-yeah. Friends. That’s… nice?”
His gaze was locked on hers, unblinking. He reached into the pocket of his soaked jacket. Not for a phone. He pulled out a small, neatly folded square of vibrant, patterned fabric. Maya’s scarf. He held it up between them, water dripping from his fingertips onto the clean floor she’d just mopped.
“Brought your friend’s scarf,” he said, his voice deceptively smooth. He dangled it slightly. “Since it caused such a fuss.” His eyes never left hers. The challenge, the reminder of her catastrophic misunderstanding, was palpable, wrapped in silk.
Cherry stared at the scarf, then back at his face. The high made the connection slow, confusing. Shame warred with the pleasant fuzziness. “Oh. Thanks. You… you didn’t have to…”
“Oh, but I did,” he cut in softly, taking another half-step. He was fully inside the doorway now, the door still open behind him, letting in the wet, cool breath of the storm. The scent of rain intensified, mingling with his damp skin and the lingering sharpness of the bleach. He was close. Too close. The heat radiating off him cut through the apartment's warmth. He leaned in, just a fraction, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine – fear or anticipation, the high blurred the lines. “See, Cherry? I’m a good friend. Bringing scarves. Checking in.” His dark eyes held hers, trapping her. "But friends usually invite other friends in out of the rain. Don’t they?”
He paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the air between them, thick with the drumming rain and the thrumming bass from the radio. The scarf dangled from his fingers like a dare. The open door framed the storm behind him. His intense gaze didn't waver. He was waiting. Would she slam the door shut, clinging to the fiction? Or would she let the dangerous, drenched reality of him step fully into her carefully cleaned sanctuary? The cozy glow of the lamps suddenly felt fragile, the storm pressing in. Her high brain hummed, slow and syrupy, while every nerve ending screamed.
The silence stretched, thin and electric. Rainwater dripped from Devon’s jacket onto the gleaming floorboards she’d just scrubbed raw. His presence, damp and overwhelming, filled the small entryway, the storm raging behind him. Every nerve in Cherry’s body screamed danger, but the high wrapped her panic in a thick, fuzzy blanket, slowing her reflexes, blurring the edges of fear into something languid and strange.
He didn’t move. Just watched her, that unsettling half-smile playing on his lips, the scarf dangling like an accusation. The beat from the radio thumped softly against her ribs, out of sync with her racing heart. Friends. The word echoed stupidly in her syrupy mind. Right. Friends stand dripping in doorways.
“Uh,” she managed, the sound thick. Her tongue felt too big. She gestured vaguely with the wine glass still in her hand, almost spilling the remaining Merlot. “You’re… really wet. Like, super wet. Like… drownin’ rat wet.” She giggled, the sound high-pitched and nervous, startling herself. “S-sorry. That’s rude.”
Devon’s dark eyes gleamed, tracking her clumsy movements, the flush high on her cheeks. “Observant and honest,” he murmured, the low rumble cutting through the rain’s drumbeat. He took a deliberate step further inside, forcing her back another shuffle. The scent of rain, damp cotton, and something uniquely him – warm skin, a hint of cedar – flooded her senses, mixing with bleach and jasmine. It was disorienting. “So,” he prompted, raising an eyebrow, the scarf still held loosely. “Invitation? Or should I drip on your welcome mat all night?”
The fuzzy warmth warred with the sheer impossibility of him being here, now, like this. Logic was a distant memory. He brought the stupid scarf. He stood in the rain. It felt… huge. And scary. But the edibles whispered soft couch, warm light, just stop standing in the damn doorway. Her brain-to-mouth filter was utterly offline.
“Yeah. Okay. Fine. Come in.” The words tumbled out, awkward and too loud. She flapped a hand towards the living room, nearly knocking over a small ceramic vase on the console table. Saved it with a clumsy fumble. “S-sorry. I’m like… really high right now. Maya’s gummies. Super strong. Did a deep clean.” She gestured vaguely at the spotless apartment, the lemony scent suddenly very present. “Whole place smells like… industriousness.” Another giggle escaped, nervous energy bubbling over.
Devon stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that felt incredibly final. The storm’s roar muffled instantly, replaced by the radio’s thump and the sudden, heavy awareness of him contained within her space. Water pooled around his boots on the clean floor. He finally lowered the scarf, placing it carefully, deliberately, on the console table beside the rescued vase. His gaze swept the room – the gleaming surfaces, the vibrant art, the plush rug – before settling back on her with unnerving intensity. “Deep clean, huh?” His voice was low, speculative. “Keeping busy.”
Cherry nodded, the movement making the ceiling lights swim slightly. She set her wine glass down carefully on the table, needing both hands free to gesture. “Yeah. Needed to… you know. Scrub things. Brain things. Mostly.” She swayed slightly, catching herself on the edge of the couch. The cozy glow now felt claustrophobic with him filling the small room. “Look, Devon, I… I’m sorry. For being so… awkward. And high. It’s just… hitting me kinda hard.” She rubbed her temples, trying to focus. “I think… I think I really need to go to sleep soon. Like, soon soon. Edible sleep. The deep kind.”
He didn’t move towards the couch. Just stood there, dripping slightly, radiating a heat that competed with the room’s warmth. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes never left her face, tracing the flush, the dilated pupils, the exhaustion warring with the chemical buzz. “Sleep,” he repeated, the word rich with implication. He took one slow step towards her. Then another. Stopping just out of arm’s reach. The air crackled. The scarf lay forgotten on the table.
“Seems a shame,” he murmured, his voice a velvet scrape that vibrated deep in her belly despite the haze. “Wasting all that… industrious energy.” His gaze dropped, lingering on the curve of her mouth, then traveled slowly down the oversized shirt that suddenly felt far too thin. “Just when things were getting interesting.” He took the final step, closing the distance. The scent of rain and him enveloped her. He reached out, not touching her, just brushing a stray loc back from her damp forehead with a knuckle. The contact sent an electric jolt through the fuzziness. “Go ahead,” he said, his voice impossibly soft, dangerously close. “Try to sleep, Cherry.”
Cherry’s laugh bubbled out, high and unsteady, a nervous reflex escaping her slack lips. The sound bounced off the vibrant Kente cloth wall hanging, too loud in the sudden stillness. Her head felt stuffed with warm cotton, Devon’s proximity a confusing blend of threat and magnetic pull. "Sleep?" she echoed, her voice thick and slow. "Yeah. Sleep sounds... solid. Like a rock. A big, comfy rock." She swayed slightly, blinking hard against the pleasant fuzziness trying to swallow Devon’s sharp edges.
Devon didn’t retreat. He remained a looming, damp presence radiating heat into the cozy space smelling faintly of jasmine and lemon cleaner. His gaze, dark and unreadable, tracked the flush creeping up her neck. "A rock," he repeated, his voice low, devoid of humor. He took another deliberate half-step forward, invading her personal space completely. The scent of rain and damp earth clung fiercely to him, mingling with the cedar undertone she remembered from his skin. "Funny. Five months felt like waiting on a rock. Patient. Still." His knuckle brushed her jawline again, feather-light, sending a jolt through the haze. "Then last night." His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip, the touch deliberate, assessing. "That wasn't rock-like, Cherry. That was...seismic."
The explicit reminder sliced through the edible fog. Heat flooded her cheeks, unrelated to the wine or the gummies. She tried to pull back, but her limbs felt leaden, uncoordinated. "Devon..." His name was a breathy protest lost under the drumming rain outside.
"Shhh," he murmured, his voice a velvet scrape against her raw nerves. His hand slid from her jaw to cradle the back of her neck, fingers tangling gently in the roots of her locs. It wasn't tender. It was possessive. Anchoring. Preventing retreat. "You offered friendship." His eyes locked onto hers, holding her captive. "After you shattered like that. For me." He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, his words precise, devastatingly casual. "Tell me, friend. How exactly does that work? Do friends describe how wet you got just thinking about them later? How loud you screamed?" He pulled back just enough to watch the impact, his expression coolly analytical. "Do friends promise they'll make you beg?"
Panic, sharp and sudden, pierced the pleasant haze. This wasn't teasing. This wasn't reconciliation. This was dissection. He was laying her own vulnerability, her own desperate sounds from last night, bare and weaponizing them. Her breath hitched, ragged. "Stop it," she whispered, the plea thin and useless.
"Why?" Devon countered softly, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse point beneath her ear. His proximity was suffocating, his calm terrifying. "Friends talk, Cherry. Honest friends." He tilted his head, a predator studying trapped prey. "You wanted honesty on the phone. You got it." A ghost of that unsettling smile touched his lips. "Honesty is messy. Like last night. Like right now." His gaze dropped pointedly to where her nipples had hardened against the thin fabric of her shirt, a traitorous betrayal her high brain hadn't registered. "See? Your body remembers what your mouth denies. What your 'friendship' tries to erase."
The humiliation was scalding, complete. He saw everything – the lingering arousal warring with fear, the chemical haze making her defenses porous. He wasn't touching her intimately, yet she felt utterly exposed. His words were hands peeling her layers back. "Please," she choked out, tears pricking her eyes, a mix of shame and the disorienting high. "Just...go."
Devon held her gaze for a long, excruciating moment. The radio’s bass thumped softly. Rain lashed the windows. Then, slowly, deliberately, he released his grip on her neck. He stepped back, the sudden absence of his heat leaving her shivering despite the room's warmth. He didn't look at the forgotten scarf on the console. His eyes never left hers, coldly assessing the wreckage he’d wrought.
"Sleep well, friend," he said, the final word dripping with dark irony. He turned, opened the door. The roar of the storm rushed in. He stepped into the downpour without a backward glance, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft, definitive click.
Silence crashed down, heavier than before. Cherry stood frozen, trembling, the phantom pressure of his hand on her neck, the echo of his cruel honesty ringing in her ears. The cozy apartment felt violated. The industrious cleanliness mocked her. The pleasant high curdled into a sickening churn of shame and residual, unwanted heat. She stared at the closed door, the drumming rain outside sounding like relentless applause for Devon’s performance. Her carefully constructed world felt paper-thin, ripped apart by a drenched man who hadn't come to play. He’d come to win. And he’d left her drowning.