My laugh comes out as a snort.
“I’m guessing that’s a self-proclaimed moniker.”
“I see you’re immune to it, but you do catch more bees with honey.” Grip offers this sage, if unoriginal, advice. “Or in my case, with chocolate.”
“Where’d you read that? The Player’s Guide to Catching Bees?”
“No, I learned it the way I learn most things.” His eyes dim the tiniest bit. “The hard way.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything for a few seconds, and neither does he. It should be awkward, but it isn’t. Our eyes lock in the comfortable silence.
“So before Darla buzzed through,” I pause for effect, waiting for his quickly becoming familiar grin. “You were telling me about the School of the Arts. You’re a musician?”
“I write and rap.”
“As in you’re a rapper?”
“Wow, they said you were quick,” he answers with a grin.
“Oh, sarcasm. My second language.” I find myself smiling even though it’s been a crappy day with too many complications and not enough food. “So you rap. Like hoes, bitches, and bling?”
“At least you’re open minded about it,” he deadpans.
“Okay. I admit I don’t listen to much hip-hop. So convince me there’s more to it.”
“And it’s my responsibility to convince you … why?” he asks with a grin.
“Don’t you want a new fan?” I’m smiling back again.
“I just doubt it’s your type of music.”
“We’ve known each other all of an hour, and already you’re assigning me ‘types’. Well, I’m glad you have an open mind about me,” I say, echoing his smart-ass comment.
I halfway expect him to volley another reply at me, but he just smiles. I didn’t anticipate conversation this stimulating. His body, yes. Conversation, no.
“So are you any good?” I ask. “At rapping, I mean.”
“Would you know if I were good?” he counters, a skeptical look on his face.
“Probably not.” My laugh comes easier
than most things have today. “But I might know if you were bad.”
“I’m not bad.” He chuckles. “I think my flow’s pretty decent.”
“Sorry,” I interject. “For the rap remedial in the audience, define flow.”
“Define it?” He looks at me as if I asked him to saddle a unicorn. “Wow. You ever assume you know something so well, that it’s so basic, you can’t think of how to explain it?”
“Let me guess. That’s how it is with flow.”
“Well, now that you asked me to define it, yeah.”
“Just speak really slowly and use stick figures if you need to.”
Rich laughter warms his eyes. “Okay. Here goes.”
He leans forward, resting those coppery-colored, muscle-corded arms on the table, distracting me. I think I really may need stick figures if he keeps looking this good.