"My bad." He held up a hand. "Sensitive subject. I get it."
We stood there in silence for a moment, me sipping my drink, him watching me with those intense eyes.
Then his whole energy shifted. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice was different, harder, more demanding.
"Who you here with, Yah?"
"I told you, that's none of—"
"And I'm telling you I want to know." He stepped closer, invading my space in a way that should've made me uncomfortable but somehow didn't.
"Who the fuck you here with? And why the fuck you looking this good?"
My mouth opened, then closed. I wasn't used to a man talking to me like this, he acted like he had some kind of claim on me, like he had the right to demand answers.
"Yah-Yah, there you are." Mr. Clyde appeared at my elbow, smiling politely. "I was looking for you. The Commissioner wants to meet you."
"Oh," I said, grateful for the interruption but also weirdly annoyed by it. "Um, Mr. Clyde, can you give me just a minute? I'm talking to... an old friend."
Mr. Clyde glanced at Sosa, sizing him up in a subtle way that rich powerful men did when they encountered a young Black man in their spaces.
"Of course. I'll be over by our table."
"Thank you."
He walked away, and I turned back to Sosa, who was staring at Mr. Clyde's retreating form with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Mr. Clyde?" Sosa repeated slowly, turning that intense gaze back on me. "That's who you here with? That old ass man?"
"So what if it is?" I snapped. And his jaw clenched.
"You selling pussy, Yasani?" My eyes went wide.
"Fuck you just say to me?"
"You heard me." He stepped even closer, his voice low but sharp.
“Are you selling pussy? My pussy?"
"Your—" I sputtered, shock and offended all at the same damn time.
"Nigga, what are you talking about? Your pussy?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about." His eyes bored into mine. "Now answer my fucking question."
"That's none of your business!"
"It is my business, I aint gon’ tell you that again.” His hand came up, and for a second I thought he was going to touch me, but he just gestured at my dress, my hair, all of me.
"This ain't you, ma. So what's going on?"
"I'm working," I said defensively. "Not that I need to explain myself to you."
"Working," he repeated, like he was tasting the word. "Aight. Cool. You done working now."
"What?"
"Put the drink down." He said and I knew it wasn't a request. It was a command. "We bout to go."