Page 4 of Omar

I typed back: I'm good.

I wasn't. But there wasn't a single thing she could do about it tonight.

I put the phone away and made myself think about anything that wasn't Omar Baptiste. My clients the next day. The nail appointment I had to rebook. The dinner reservations for the weekend. Every five seconds I had to push the image of him back down again.

I unstuck myself from the door and went out into the hallway like nothing in the world had happened.

Supreme found me in the kitchenette of the warehouse pouring myself a glass of water and slid his arms around my waist from behind, settling his chin on top of my head.

"You good, baby?" he asked.

"I'm good." The lie came out naturally.

"You seem a bit..."

"It's been a long day. Salon was packed."

He was quiet for a moment. I could practically hear him weighing me in the back of his throat. Then he kissed the top of my head.

"Go on home and get some rest," he said. "I gotta wrap a couple things up here. Imma holla atchu later."

"You sure?"

"Take the Escalade. Mike's got the keys."

I turned around inside his arms and kissed his chin because I knew that's what he was waiting for. His hands came up to hold my face, looking down at me a couple seconds longer than he needed to, reading my expression. I gave him soft eyes. A small tired smile. The performance I'd built over three years and could deliver in my sleep. After a moment he was satisfied, and let me go.

I made it three blocks before I had to pull the truck over. I sat on a quiet stretch of Eastern Parkway with my forehead against the steering wheel, breathing.

Then I drove home.

The apartment was dark when I let myself in. I left the overheads off, turned on only the lamp in the hallway and the small light under the kitchen cabinets. I took the longest shower I could justify. I did my whole nighttime face routine in front of the bathroom mirror without looking once at the woman staring back at me. I put on the silk slip he liked and got into bed and turned the lamp down to its lowest setting, lying there in the dim gold light with my eyes on the ceiling.

Seven crown moulding panels above me. Six rows down. The corner pieces had little carved roses I'd noticed by my second night here. I knew this ceiling like the back of my hand. One month back and I'd already memorized every inch of it.

I told myself I wasn't going to think about Omar Baptiste, and then of course I thought about him.

His hands gripping the back of his chair. The half-second before his brain caught up with what his body already knew. Nah. Never seen her. Flat and quiet, with not one note of recognition in his voice. He'd protected me. He hadn't given Supreme a single thing to grab on to, and somewhere underneath fourteen years of distance, the boy who'd walked me home from school every afternoon was still in there, still doing the same thing he'd always done. Putting himself between me and harm.

I rolled onto my side and pulled the blanket up to my shoulder.

Then I heard the front door.

The sound of his coat hitting the back of a kitchen chair. The fridge. His keys in the dish. The bathroom faucet. The hallway. I knew the sequence by heart. I knew exactly what was coming when he walked through that bedroom door.

I closed my eyes.

The door opened and the hallway light slanted across the bed. He stood there a moment looking at me as I kept my breathing slow.

"Baby," he said softly. "Asha?" he added after a moment.

I didn't move because I wasn't in the mood to deal with this man and his kink. Not tonight. Well, not really ever.

"Asha. You sleep?"

My eyelashes flickered before I could stop them. My body had betrayed me before my brain weighed in, and from the foot of the bed came a low satisfied hum that told me he'd caught it.

"Mmhm," he said, pleased. "I see you."