Wet For A Savage

The next evening came easy.

The air was warm but not too heavy. Sun slipping down over the edge of the skyline, casting soft gold across Simone’s bedroom as she finished tying her laces. Her outfit was casual, but it did everything it needed to do. Red and white crop top hugging her just right, high-waisted jean shorts showing off soft brown thighs, and her red and white Jays tied tight. Her hair was bone straight, slicked down her back like silk. Laid. Simple. Sexy.

She gave herself one last look in the mirror before grabbing her keys and heading out.

Naysha had already texted her a picture of Heaven and Savannah in full princess mode—tiaras, fake pearls, and sparkly slippers. The girls were twirling in the middle of the living room while Dre watched from the couch with a juice box in one hand and a tiara on his head.

Naysha:
We good over here. Take your time. And don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do.

Simone sent back a smirk emoji and slid her phone in her back pocket.

When she pulled up outside Cello’s spot, he was already waiting by the curb. Posted up in a white tee, black jeans, and fresh sneakers. Clean cut, chain resting low on his chest, his whole vibe chill but ready. The way he looked at her when she stepped out the car made her stomach flip, but she didn’t show it.

She walked right up to the passenger side and unlocked the door.

“I’m driving,” she said without even looking at him.

Cello opened the door and gave a slow nod.

“Cool with me.”

She could feel his eyes trail over her when she turned and slid behind the wheel. The crop top rode up a little when she reached for the gearshift, but she acted like she didn’t notice. He didn’t say anything either, just got in and closed the door, relaxed and easy like he’d done it a hundred times.

She started the car, music low and smooth, some R&B track floating through the speakers.

He glanced over once they hit the road.

“So what’s the plan?”

“You said you wanted to see Miami my way,” she said, eyes on the road, one hand resting on the wheel. “So that’s what you gettin’. Ain’t no tour guide shit, just the real.”

“That’s all I want.”

They rode for a while like that. The windows down. Streetlights blinking past. Her playlist riding soft in the background. She didn’t feel the need to talk too much. And Cello didn’t push. He watched the city. Watched her. Let the energy speak for itself.

She took him to a food truck spot near Little Havana first. Hidden in a small lot behind a rundown liquor store, but the food? Unmatched. No menu. No English. Just the best pan con bistec and fried plantains money could buy.

They ate on the hood of her car under string lights hung crooked between two palm trees.

Cello finished his plate first and leaned back, licking his thumb.

“You always eat like this?”

“When I’m out late,” she said. “Ain’t nothin’ better after a long ass night.”

“Spot is fire. I wouldn’t have found it.”

“That’s the point. You weren’t supposed to.”

He gave her a look. Something in his eyes dark and still.

“You always this private?”

She smiled a little, looking away.

“I just don’t waste time showin’ people pieces of me they ain’t earned.”