Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
“…and uh, though your question about my job rubbed me the wrong way, I meant what I said to you. But there was just something about you as we were out there talkin’ beside your car. That goofball gave me a chance, an opportunity if you will, to hit the rewind button. I was out there to make sure you got to your car okay, and that he didn’t follow you, but then, more happened.”
“And what was that?” She dipped a Rangoon he offered her in the sweet red sauce, and popped it into her mouth.
“You grabbed my attention is what happened. I wanted to give it another try in case I was wrong about you.” He shrugged. “I’m usually not wrong about people though, to keep it uh buck wit’ you, but I know that whatever I think I know, first impressions aren’t always accurate, no matter how good I am at scoping bullshit. People get nervous, or might be in a bad mood and stumble over their words. ’Specially when alcohol is involved.”
“Thank you. That’s true, too.” She smiled at him.
“You want some of this Coke? You probably need something to wash that down. They put a lot of salt in the food, sometimes too much. Makes ya thirsty.”
The moonlight stroked his face, and his hair glowed around the softness in his gaze. Axel typically appeared hard. He spoke hard. He acted hard, and it didn’t seem phony either, but in that moment, his smile seemed gentle. She liked it. She liked it a lot.
“Yeah, I’d like some.”
He slipped the lid off his cup and handed it to her. How thoughtful of him to remove the straw and such for me…She took the cup and swallowed hard, only to have some of the liquid dribble down her chin onto her shirt.
“Shit.”
She went for a clean napkin to dab at it. Axel immediately jumped into action, removed the cup from her hand, and started to do the honors.
“I got it,” he offered.
He dabbed gently along her face with the papery brown napkin, then down her neck and collarbone. When he got down to her breast, he didn’t hesitate, but she noticed the pressure of his hand was softer.
“There you go.” He balled up the napkin and tossed it in a bag.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“So,” she picked up her fork and resumed eating. “You’re from here? Louisville?”
“Yup. Born and raised in Portland, Kentucky. You said you were from Dry Ridge on the night we met, right?”
“Yes. Most of my family is there, too.”
“I got some associates ’round that way. Not much going on out there is it?”
“No. It’s fairly quiet. Peaceful.” She paused. “I’d like to talk to you about your job. It seems so interesting. What kind of—”
“Naw.” He burst out laughing, food in his mouth. “Baby, you don’t wanna talk about that while we’re sittin’ here tryna eat. I can talk about it just fine, but I’ve learned from experience that it’s not what needs to happen when food is close by. Ain’t nothin’ pretty about what I do, and I ain’t got nothing to hide, but that’s not dinner conversation, sweetheart. Ask me some other time.”
“You’re right!” She laughed. “Never mind.” She waved her hand about in surrender. “Point taken!”
“Let me ask you something though.” He swiped his napkin across his mouth and turned her way, looking rather serious. “So, you study African American history, go through those old books and what not, and you seem like an activist, I guess you could say? Is that right?”
“I wouldn’t call myself an activist per se, no, but I’m knowledgeable on the African American experience as documented in books, their growth and struggle from the time my ancestors’ journey began non-consensually from the continent of Africa, ending with their arrival in the United States. Mainly, it was people from Gambia, Senegal, Mali and Guinea-Bissau and west-central Africa. My focus is on the post-slavery experience, particularly the 1920s when the music and poetry scene erupted and became a movement of its own. Also, the Great Depression of the 1930s, as well as the 1950s and ’60s civil rights movement. Besides, I have studied texts written by the Black Panther organization founded by Huey P. Newton, as well as the Black Lives Matter movement.”
“BLM… Didn’t that founder lady trick that money off and she up in a big fifty-room mansion in California right about now?”
“Look, there’s been some questionable behavior with BLM, I will admit that, but I’m not their spokesman. My focus is on historical texts. One day, they will have historical texts, too. I am still following current events like you and everyone else, but not studying them per se.”
“I mean, I wasn’t tryna get you off focus or nothing. I just thought maybe you knew. Isn’t that a shame? She’s a deceiver and a thief.”