It happened in a blink. Malakai leapt toward Zack, making him drop his beer, grabbed him by the shirt, and shoved him against the kitchen island. Though Zack attempted to fight back, Malakai had him pinned. The boys moved to break up the fight just as the girls successfully disrupted my attempt to reach Malakai, pulling me away. Two of Zack’s boys belatedly entered the kitchen, too drunk to make out what was happening, but somehow figuring out that it might be too late to save their man after seeing Ty’s involvement. They made noises that approximated macho aggression and pretended to try and get involved just in case anyone clocked their cowardice.
Malakai breathed hard, his fist hovering as Ty and Kofi held him back. He eventually dropped it with reluctance but maintained his grip on Zack’s shirt. He lowered his voice. “Let me not catch you fucking breathing in her direction again.”
Kofi released Malakai, his eyes on Zack. “We won’t hold him back next time.”
Ty stood between Malakai and Zack, ensuring he was towering down over him. “We’ll help.”
Zack made a strangled sneer of paltry hypermasculine bluster as he pulled himself up and readjusted his shirt. “Whatever, man. Pussies. Party’s dead anyway,” he said before summoning his boys to leave. He nodded at me, “You know where to find me.”
I released a false, wide grin and chirped, “Rot in hell.”
Simi, clearly bored by the absence of a true fight, had already made her way out. The boys made sure Zack and his minions were moving along while the girls assisted with a chorus of cusses, Shanti shouting, “Shoo, motherfucker,” as Aminah released a string of Yoruba curses and Chi made sounds that might have been a summoning of malevolent ancestors. A strange lump formed in my throat as I watched them, and I felt my eyes start to fill.
“You okay?”
I turned to Malakai to see the wild fury in his eyes had now mutated to soft concern. I exhaled heavily. “Yeah, I just . . . I haven’t really had a group of people . . . friends, stand up for me before. It means a lot. And I hate that I brought all this drama to you.”
Malakai’s brows creased as he reached for my shoulders, holding them with gentle hands. “Scotch, we care about you. A lot. . . . And you didn’t bring the drama. Zack did. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you about not following you, I really did try and wait it out, but I couldn’t sit there knowing you were alone with that fucking creep. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I am. Thank you. I just . . . kind of don’t feel like going back to the party.”
Malakai nodded slowly. His unaddressed confession was now radiating heat. “Yeah. Me neither.” He drew his eyes across my face and all our unsaids swirled about and made it stickier, harder to breathe. Questions hung in the air, dripped onto our tongues, made us thirsty. “I have a lot of footage from tonight, and we got enough interviews. Would it be super unsocial if we—”
“I think we should claim our prize. Ty said the master bedroom has an eighty-eight-inch TV. Has all the streaming apps. The bed is Alaskan king sized.” I gestured at the huge kitchen with the equivalent of a Tesco Metro stocked on every counter. “And I think we’re good for snacks and drinks.”
Malakai released a small, sweet smile that trilled a charge through my veins.
“Alright then. After-party. Just us.”
Chapter 22
I flopped down next to where Malakai was reclining on the giant bed, leaning up on his elbow. The bounce of the mattress jostled me so my bare thigh grazed his leg and my arm pressed against his. Everything stilled.
He turned to me and smiled, the amber light from the bedside lamp warming his face further as the movie we’d put on—Brown Sugar, as a half-joke—burred low on the colossal flatscreen. His eyes sent a thrill through me as they skipped across my form. “You should keep that shirt.”
I’d forgotten to pack my pajamas in my confused state, so Malakai had lent me a T-shirt while he had changed into his sweats. His shirt skimmed me in a way that somehow made me hungrier for him. A sudden urgency wrapped an idea around my tongue.
“Let me do you.”
Malakai froze. “What?”
“Let me interview you.”
I slipped off the bed and padded over to the grand mahogany desk at the corner of the Baptistes’ master bedroom, picked up Malakai’s camera, and flicked it on. I beckoned Malakai over, and he sat on the chair in front of me. I perched on the broad desk and lifted a leg so my foot rested beside him on the chair. His gaze jumped to my thigh—inches from his face—then back to my eyes.