Neevah’s laughter floats down to me from upstairs when I walk in the front door. Thoughts of all it will take to finish Dessi Blue—shoot the last few scenes, go into post-production, editing, not to mention promotion and the work Monk still needs to do on the score—crowd my mind. A lot of time has passed since the day I found that little green sign footnoting Dessi’s life on Highway 31. There have been a series of delays, stops and starts, but the fire to tell her story, which is the story of so many Black performers from that era, is no less bright than the day I found her. Once Neevah is cleared to finish, and not a minute before, we will get it done. I didn’t just find one amazing woman when I saw that sign. I found two. The other one is upstairs, filling my house, which used to be so empty; hell, lonely, with the sound of her happiness. I want to see that sound on her face, so I set aside all the to-dos that came out of our meeting with Galaxy, and quietly make my way up the stairs.
I pause in the door, watching her on the bed. She’s lying on her stomach, her legs bent and swinging back and forth as she grins at her iPad screen. Her niece, Quianna, whom I think looks as much like Neevah as she does Terry, laughs, displaying her new braces.
“So you think Canon will be okay if I come visit for a few weeks this summer?” Quianna asks.
“I think he will be,” I speak up, walking farther into the room and into the camera’s view.
“Hey, Canon!” The young girl’s pretty face brightens. “I won’t stay long, and I won’t break anything.”
“You have to ask your parents first,” Neevah says, her chin resting in her palm.
“Oh, you know she already did,” Terry says, walking into the frame. “Think I’ll turn down some time where I’m not worrying about this child? Shoot, I’ll be what? Unbothered.”
“We’ll make a plan,” Neevah says, smiling. “Maybe you can convince your grandmother to fly out to Cali again.”
“You spoiled Mama, Canon.” Terry laughs. “You’ll have to charter her another private plane for that.”
“I’ll see what we can do,” I tell her.
“Quianna, come on,” Terry says. “Wrap it up. You gonna be late for dance.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Aunt Neevah,” Quianna says, “and we’ll make plans.”
“Definitely.” Neevah waves. “Love you guys. Bye.”
Once they sign off, Neevah flips onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. “Never could have seen that conversation happening a few months ago.”
I lie down beside her on my back. “I think recovering from the surgery in North Carolina was smart.”
“I mean, at the time I didn’t have any choice.”
“You could have come back to Cali after the first week or so, once they cleared you to fly, but you stayed there to heal. Not just your body, but your relationship with them.” I link our fingers between us on the bed. “I love that you did that. It’s paid off.”
“Seems to have.” She turns onto her side, looking at my profile. “I have some good news, by the way.”
I turn my head to look at her and have to smile. The malar, or butterfly rash, that splayed its wings across her nose and cheeks has faded now that we’ve got that flare under control. With a functioning kidney, the healthy tone of her coppery skin has been restored and most of the lesions and rashes on her arms and legs have faded. She lost so much hair, she decided to cut it off, leaving a short cap of natural curls. There are still a few spots growing back in, but her scalp seems to be recovering along with the rest of her.
“Sooooooo,” she says, sitting up on one elbow to peer down at me. “I had an appointment with Dr. Okafor today.”
“Good. I bet she’s tired of you by now.”
“Not as tired as I am of her. We’ve seen each other, like, every week for the last two months.”
I tense, but keep my expression unchanged. I haven’t wanted to pressure Neevah at all about finishing the last scenes of Dessi Blue. The flare was so bad and so obviously triggered by the stress of filming. Dr. Okafor wouldn’t even entertain Neevah going back until we saw clear signs things were turning around for the better, in addition to making sure her body didn’t reject the kidney and that she was recovering from the surgery well. I completely agreed and have been the loudest voice making sure Neevah follows every one of the doctor’s instructions.
My tension comes from my own fear that something will go unexpectedly wrong. I’ll never forget carrying Neevah off the set, terrified about what would happen to her. I’ve actually been talking through my fears with my therapist, especially since I’ve lived through chronic and, in Mama’s case, terminal illness with a loved one before.
And Neevah is so loved.
“So what did the good doctor say?”
“I asked if I can go back to work.” Neevah glances up at me through long lashes.
“And?”
“And yes!”
“I need to talk to her for myself.”
“Canon! You don’t trust me?”
“I do, but I want to hear any parameters or restrictions from the doctor with my own ears. I’m responsible for the actors in my movies. I’d want something clearly stated in writing with anyone, not just you.”
“And would you ask the doctor if any of your other actors were cleared for sexual activity?”
“I’m sure I—”
I stare up at her, taking in the mischievous gleam in her eyes and the siren’s smile.
“Don’t play with me, Neevah.”
“I’m not.” She leans down, aligning our faces, looking deeply into my eyes. “I’m all cleared for takeoff.”
“Oh yeah?” I don’t want to pounce on her, which is what my dick tells me to do, that hard slab of steel in my pants.
“Yes.” She traces the bow of my mouth. “I love your lips.”
“Hmmm.” I settle for a grunt because anything else that comes out of my mouth would be the nastiest shit ever. I’m trying not to be that dude, whose girlfriend recently had surgery, but who might break her the first time we have sex if not very careful.
“Let’s make love,” she whispers, her breath misting my lips, her eyes boring into mine with an intensity that goes straight for my cock.
“Are you sure?” I ask hoarsely. “Did Dr. Okafor—”
I choke on the question when she grabs me through my jeans.
“What you’re not gonna do,” Neevah says, squeezing, pulling, “is fuck me like I might break.”
For the last few months, it has felt as if she could break, and I don’t trust my hands on her. I lay back, letting her strip me, touch me, explore the muscles of my chest, my abs, trace my cheekbones and lips, but I don’t move to reciprocate. She leans down, sealing her lips over mine, slipping her tongue inside and going deep with sweeping licks, searching for and finding my reciprocal hunger. She frames my face in her hands and pulls my lip between her teeth. Bites hard. She’s provoking me. I know it, but my hands knot into fists at my sides.
“Are you sure?” My breath comes out heavy, stunted between our lips.
She stands, tugging at buttons until the panels of her sundress fall away, revealing a transparent bra and panties, sprigged with lace flowers. With her smoldering eyes snaring mine, she reaches behind her to unfasten the bra. My mouth goes dry at the sight of her breasts, the areolae a dark halo crowning their fullness. She skims her fingers over her stomach, teases the silk at her hips, and slides the underwear over the legs of a dancer. They slip down her calves and pool around her bare feet. She stands waiting at the edge of the bed.
“How do you want me, Canon?” she asks, her words an open invitation to fantasy.
My eyes rove greedily over the expanse of satiny skin. The taut muscles of her stomach and the slope of her shoulders; the elegant line of her collarbone. Her breasts are ripe and round and tipped with nipples like blackberries.
I notice her scar immediately. I’ve seen it so many times since the transplant. It sprouts from her belly button and grows around her back like a vine. I sit up and trace it with reverent fingers, awed that this smooth strip of raised skin is the reminder of how I could lose her. Evidence of how she was saved.
There was a time when she would have shied away from my touch, from my eyes, but we’re well past that. True intimacy, laced with trust, curls around us like tendrils of smoke.
I pull her to the bed and press her naked shoulders into the down of our comforter, permitting my fingers to trace her lips, the delicate construction of her face. I lavish kisses behind her ears, opening my mouth over her throat, worshiping her breasts, drawing her nipples between my lips, first one and then the other. My name tumbles from her lips, carried on heaving breaths and ragged sighs. She grips behind my neck to keep me against her, her hands and hold imperative. My appetite for her is a barely checked thing on a straining leash.
I want to make slow love to her, sweet and stretched out like taffy. A dish peppered with we’ve-got-all-night kisses. But we can’t convince our hands, our lips, or tongues that there is time. The urgency of banked passion blows across the flame, and we are clothed in fire. Naked skin hot to the touch. Our hearts are talking drums through our chests, saying all the words when desperation steals our voices.
I bracket my knees on either side of her thighs, and she is naked beneath me. I push one knee up and then the other until her legs are open and she is wet and exposed. Breasts, thighs, pussy—she is a table set for me, and I dip my head to lick her from top to bottom. She jerks, her breath catching and her hands gripping the sheets. I spread her lips and suck on her clit like a cherry, delving my tongue inside until her desire flows and I’m drowning in her essence.
“I’m coming,” she says, her back bowing, her knees collapsing, pressing into my head. Her hands claw my hair, urging me deeper into the cleft of her body.
It is all I’ve wanted, but been afraid to have in case I couldn’t control it. There’s still a part of me that wants her to set the pace—control it until we are sure of her body’s limits.
I lie down, positioning her on top of me, her knees spread over mine.
“I know why you’re doing this.” She grins, her eyes dilated and her lips kiss-puffy. “And I’ll let you get away with it this first time, but next time no holding back.”
“I promise you’ll have no complaints.”
“Hard as I just came, I already have nothing to complain about.” She takes me in her hand, the firm grip riding up and down my stiffened cock. Seeing the most vulnerable part of me in her small hand affects me deeply.
Only that’s not right. The most vulnerable part of me is my heart, and it is in her hands as surely as my cock is. She holds it just as tightly, her eyes caressing my face as surely as her hands run over my body. The long seconds of our eyes locked, seeing each other, conjures an inescapable intimacy. A spell we can’t break that lures her body to mine. She takes me inside, the hot, tight oneness suspending my heartbeats.
She starts to move. At first, it’s a tight undulation of her hips, rolling over me in measured motion. It’s unbearably erotic, the way I feel her all around me like a vise. I thrust up, needing to take some control, and I plunge so deep she goes still, contracting her muscles around me, dragging me past pleasure to delirium. She plants her palm on my chest for leverage, raises her body and lets it fall, lets it rock, each time tightening the rope that binds me to her. Her breasts bounce and her eyes glaze over as she tips her head back, baring her throat and torso to me.
This is everything I’ve missed, and my body laps at it like a starved stray, taking not one drop for granted. I slip my thumb between her legs, stroking the nub of nerves every time she rocks and rolls, takes me deeper into her body.
We pound out a rhythm of you are mine and I am yours.
And mine and mine and mine and mine.
And yours and yours and yours and yours.
Our bodies don’t let go, wet and wondrous and welded by sweat and lust and desperation.
“Oh, God,” she cries out, linking her hands behind her neck and riding me harder, her face twisting in ecstasy. I’m not far behind, spilling into her, my voice broken, harsh, hoarse, nothing but strips of sound. I come so hard it’s bright behind my eyes, and we are incandescent. The dying rays of sunlight—the last breath of day.
Golden.
Magic.
Light.
I sit up while she’s still astride, while I’m still inside, and press my palms to her back. Through the smooth skin and through the latticework of her bones, her heart bellows. Somehow this union, more than the transplant, more than the last two months of healing, confirms that she is alive—that she is safe—and it moves me. I’m not sure if I’ve held it back on purpose, or if this reuniting of soul and flesh razes my defenses, but I taste tears. Mine, hers, relief, joy, mingling on our cheeks.
“I love you,” she sobs, clenching her knees at my waist, folding her elbows around my neck, holding me so tightly I can’t breathe and I don’t care.
“And I . . .” My voice fails. The moment palpitates with the unevenness of my breaths and I give up on controlling anything. This is a free fall and I surrender. “I love you back.”
We stay that way, her head tucked into the curve of my neck. For a few moments, the scent and feel of her comprise my entire universe. When she finally rolls off and falls to her side on the bed, her fingers find mine immediately. I lie down, too, drawing her into me, kissing the top of her head. I pull back a little so I can study her face, commit every curve and line to memory. I wish I had my camera to capture not just her beautiful body, which still bears the scars of her fight, but to capture my life molded into flesh and bone—formed into a person. To capture the picture of my contentment, mixed into her molecules and layered in her skin and bones.
And then I remember that we have captured it.
“Hey,” I tell her, cupping her cheek. “I want to show you something.”
