“Kiki.”
I didn’t turn around, focusing instead on the incredibly expensive-looking chandelier above me, my words rushing out, stumbling over themselves, clumsily stretching out tangled conclusions. “Malakai, it’s calm. No stress. You didn’t want to kiss me. And even if . . . a part of you wanted to kiss me, you changed your mind. You’re entitled to do that . . . physically wanting to kiss someone and mentally not wanting to are two different things, and I respect that. And I get it, because let’s face it, the reality of it . . . of me is messy.” I took a deep breath. “My ego is bruised, but that’s all it is. It was for the best, anyway. You don’t have to explain yourself.”
I didn’t think it was a terrible speech, considering. The main points were conveyed. I was above the drama and I was evolved enough to accept rejection. I would have got an easy pass if this was a seminar presentation.
Malakai cleared his throat. “I was gonna say that our room is the second on the right.”
I closed my eyes and willed the chandelier to fall on me. When it refused my command, I nodded in grim acceptance. “Noted. Thank you.”
I walked primly up the broad, spiraling staircase with the firm knowledge that I needed to get thoroughly drunk tonight.
“Keep still.” I wound my arms around Malakai’s neck and hitched my legs tighter around his waist. His grunt reverberated through his chest to mine and his hands slipped under my legs for a firmer grip, but he continued hopping from one foot to the other. Our faces were inches apart, so close that our hot tequila-tainted breaths were mingling.
“The hell are you doing?”
“Warming up.” He decided to dip and stretch a leg with me still clamped on to his chest like a marmoset on a branch.
“It’s a race to the end of the room, where I have to direct a blindfolded you to a table that holds a shot of tequila that you have to pick up with your teeth and pour into my mouth without spilling it. You don’t need to warm up for that. Light work.”
Malakai smiled and even with the silk scarf I had used to tie around his eyes I could see the spark in them.
“I’m an athlete, Kiki. Let me do my ting.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You just rolled your eyes, innit.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t need to see you to see you.”
My belly twisted. Fucker. Bold of him to say those words while we were in a position where it would only take a slight consensual shifting for there to be a real risk of pregnancy.
While it was true that I had entertained tiny vignette fantasies of climbing on Malakai like I was a squirrel scurrying up an oak tree, this wasn’t quite how I envisioned doing it. Malakai was a finalist in the Lit-Lympics, a competitive event founded by Ty Baptiste in which participants had to partake in a series of athletic challenges that ended with one or more shots of alcohol. The prize was the master bedroom with the en suite hot tub with a consenting partner of one’s choosing. The notion of group games usually made my blood turn icy, but due to the high stakes of this particular one （the hot tub） and the fact that Malakai’s participation necessitated my involvement, here I was. As the second of Ty’s three dress codes had been beach chic （he had turned the heating up in the house to create a tropical Sussex microclimate）， I was wearing a neon-yellow sleeveless crop top and stone-hued denim booty shorts, while Malakai had unbuttoned a red, blue, and yellow geometrically patterned shirt that was paired with board shorts. His bare skin bumped against my chest as he warmed up.
“You’re just flexing for your boyfriends.”
Ty was currently doing squats with Shanti fastened to him, keeping count. Kofi had made up with Aminah after she gave him a shoulder massage to prep him for the previous event. Right now he was doing some kind of intricate warm-up dance footwork while Aminah smoothed down her hair. Neither of them had their blindfolds on yet. I’d made Malakai put his on early as a safeguarding precaution for myself. Eye contact was still too dangerous.
Ty’s family’s conservatory was large, running almost the entire length of the house, and all pool tables and exercise bikes had been cleared for this last event. More people had since arrived for the party and so each side of the floor-to-ceiling glass room was lined with Blackwellians with red cups in hand, buzzed by the notion that Ty might actually be beaten by a newcomer.
Both Malakai and I had had more than a couple of drinks by now, muddling through interviews that got easier as the alcohol released dormant flirtatious energy that ran hot over the awkwardness. I knew I was supposed to be uncomfortable, knew that I was meant to be mad at him for playing with me like this, but I allowed myself the indulgence of feeling the sweetness of the lie before I repressed the instinctive quickening of my pulse. This was a performance and Malakai was nothing if not a showman—the playful hollers and whistles couched us so warmly it made me feel cold. All Malakai was doing right now was running drills to flex and train flirtatious muscles. He was trying to avoid Fuckboi atrophy. This was purely medical. I was a physiotherapist.