Chapter Three
🔥 The Chamber of Awe
The air upstairs is thick with the kind of energy that pulls you in, whether you’re ready or not. As we climb the stairs, the faint sounds of moans and laughter from earlier become clearer, sharper. By the time we reach the top, it’s as if we’ve crossed into another world.
The room is alive, a symphony of passion playing out before me. Bodies intertwined, the heat radiating off them like a living, breathing organism. I stand there, frozen—not out of fear, but awe. This is surreal, like I’ve stepped into some kind of fever dream, the kind of story that feels too wild to retell but too unforgettable to keep to myself. From the club to meeting Joe, to this… whatever this is, it feels like I’ve stumbled into a travel story for the ages.
The scene is overwhelming but impossible to look away from. Women everywhere, maybe six or seven, and just two men. It’s a free-for-all, unapologetically uninhibited. And then there’s Jo, right beside me. I can feel her energy shift before I even see her move. Her hand slips from mine, and she steps forward. She turns to me with a smirk that says everything, her one-piece dress sliding off her shoulders as effortlessly as her inhibitions. Nothing underneath. She lets the fabric pool around her feet and strides straight to a woman lounging on the couch, legs parted in invitation.
Jo doesn’t hesitate. She kneels between the woman’s thighs like it’s second nature, burying her face there without preamble. The sounds that follow—sucking, slurping, the wet smack of lips and tongue—are impossible to ignore. She eats this woman like a **starved predator**, devouring her with a skill that’s as mesmerizing as it is arousing. The woman’s moans escalate into screams, her back arching as Jo pushes her past the point of control. Every cry of pleasure makes the room pulse with more energy, and I feel my own arousal build just watching them.
The Invitation
Jo glances back at me briefly, mouth glistening, her eyes daring me to do something—anything—but I can’t move. She smirks, wipes her lips, and dives back in, her friend’s legs trembling as she nears another climax. Around us, the chaos continues: women on women, a strap-on driving one woman into a frenzied state, and the two men taking turns with another woman whose cries rise above the rest. It’s raw, unfiltered, and wild, like a living porno unfolding in real-time.
I can feel my body responding, the tension in my pants becoming undeniable. My hands betray me, slipping down to adjust myself, and that’s when Jo notices. Her eyes catch mine, sharp and knowing. She pauses, leaving her friend trembling on the couch, and starts walking toward me, slow and deliberate. She never breaks eye contact, her gaze locking me in place as she crosses the room, still glistening from her earlier escapade.
She stops in front of me, close enough for me to feel the heat of her body. Her hand reaches out, brushing against my pants, testing me, teasing me. Her touch is firm but unhurried, like she’s savoring the buildup. Her fingers work my button loose, my zipper sliding down with an agonizing slowness. She pulls me free, her eyes dropping just for a moment to take me in before her lips press a soft, deliberate kiss against the middle of my shaft. Then the tip. Just light pecks, like she’s tasting me, teasing me.
I’m barely holding it together when she finally takes me in her mouth, inch by agonizing inch. The warmth, the wetness—it’s almost too much, and yet I can’t bring myself to stop her. Around us, the room continues to pulse with activity: a woman screams in ecstasy as the two men double-penetrate her, her cries cutting through the air. Another couple is tangled in a frenzy of limbs and straps, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing off the walls. But all I can focus on is Jo and the way she’s devouring me, her movements steady, her pace relentless.
**“This is unreal,** I think to myself, my mind spinning. Nobody back home will believe this. Hell, I’m not sure I believe it, and I’m living it.”
After what feels like forever, she pulls back, her lips leaving me with a final kiss. Her eyes meet mine again, and she asks, “**You ready to leave?**” Her voice is steady, casual, like she hasn’t just turned my entire world upside down. I hesitate, glancing around at the chaos, but she doesn’t wait for my answer. “Let’s go,” she says, tugging me toward the door. As we pass through the room, I catch one last glimpse of a woman being utterly destroyed in the best way possible, her screams echoing in my ears as her eyes roll back in pleasure. It’s a sight I know I’ll never forget.
We make it to the stairs, but Jo isn’t done yet. Halfway down, she stops me, drops to her knees again, and takes me in her mouth like it’s the only thing she wants in the world. This time, there’s no teasing. She’s insatiable, her tongue and lips working me until I can barely stand. When she finally stops, she tucks me back into my pants, zips me up, and looks up at me with a wicked grin.
“Let’s go,” she says again, her tone dripping with satisfaction. To be continued…
🌃 The Night Clings On
The night hadn’t let go of us. It clung to my skin, thick in my breath, tangled in the charged silence between us as we slid into the backseat.
Jovel moved beside me, slow and deliberate, her presence like gravity, impossible to resist. Her scent—coconut oil, sweat, the remnants of rum—wrapped around me, intoxicating, suffocating in the best way. My pulse pounded. Neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to. I felt the heat of her body before I even touched her. My fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh, her breath hitching just slightly. She shifted, parting her legs just enough to let me know—she was ready for whatever came next. She exhaled a quiet, knowing laugh. Testing me. I clenched my jaw. If we weren’t in this car—She bit her lip, eyes dark with challenge. She already knew. We weren’t going home yet. Jovel had one last stop in mind.
The Pepper Sauce Test
The car pulled up to a roadside food stall—far from the tourist-heavy strips, deep in the city’s heartbeat. Smoke curled from oil drums, thick with the scent of pimento, charred meat, and the sharp sting of Scotch bonnet peppers... Behind the grill, a woman worked with practiced speed... She glanced up and spotted Jovel, lips curling into a knowing smirk. **“Mi know yuh woulda come,”** she said, grabbing a cleaver. “Yuh late tonight.” Jovel smirked back. “Mi haffi show mi fren di real ting.” The woman’s gaze flicked to me, taking me in with a single glance. She knew exactly what I was about. She grinned. “Him can handle it?” Jovel’s smirk deepened. “Oh, him handle everything.” I smirked back. “Damn right.”
The woman cackled, her cleaver hitting the board in sharp, rhythmic chops... Jovel dipped a finger in the sauce, brought it to my lips. “Taste.” I let her press it against my tongue—sweet at first, then heat creeping slow before hitting hard. I swallowed, jaw tight. That shit burned. She smirked. “You good?” I refused to react. **“Like I said. I handle everything.”** She laughed, low and knowing. “We gon’ see.”
The Five T'ousand Confrontation
The second we pulled up to the Airbnb, the mood shifted. We should’ve been inside already. We should’ve been on each other. But the driver had different plans. “**Five t’ousand**,” he said, leaning against the hood. Jovel’s posture changed instantly. She inhaled slow, deep—too deep. The kind of breath you take when you’re deciding whether to let something slide or burn it all the way down. “Eh?” her voice razor-sharp. “Tonight different,” the driver muttered. That was all he said. But we both knew. Jovel exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled. Letting the fire build. “Yuh did haffi do dis?” The driver shrugged. “Tings raise up, man.” Bullshit. He saw me—the chain, the kicks, the fact that I wasn’t from here—and decided to take his shot. But he forgot one thing. He wasn’t dealing with me. He was dealing with Jovel.
“Mi pay yuh di same ting every time,” she said, voice low and dangerous. The tension snapped. Fast patois, sharp as a blade, slicing through the air like gunfire. **“Mi use yuh all di time an’ yuh never pull dis!”** The driver sighed. “Jo—” **“Bloodclaat!”** Jovel ripped the bills from her purse, slapped them against his chest, and turned away. **“Move from yasso!”** She stormed inside, still muttering under her breath. “Mi cya believe di fuckery—tink mi a some eediat gal—damn disrespect…” I followed her in, caught her wrist before she could pace. “Breathe.” Her chest was still rising, still burning with fire—but when her eyes met mine, that fire shifted. Something hotter. Something darker. Something hungry.
The Reckoning: Full Submission
The Bathroom Prelude
We barely made it to the bathroom. She pushed me back first. My spine hit the tile, water running over my shoulders as she sank to her knees. Hands gliding up my thighs, mouth inches from where I needed her. She waited. Let me feel it. “Jovel.” She looked up, all challenge. “Wha? You not ready?” My jaw clenched. She was testing me. Again. I grabbed her wrists, flipped the moment on her. Had her against the wall now, water streaming down her body, rolling between her breasts, over her stomach, down her thighs. Pinned. Mine. She moaned into my mouth, hips rolling, friction unbearable.
I spun her around. **“Wash mi back,”** she whispered. I dragged my hands down her spine, over the perfect arch of her back. Gripping her waist. Kneading. **Owning every inch.** She turned, lathering her hands, sliding them over me. Over my chest, my abs—lower. Her fingers wrapped around me, tight, slow strokes, teasing, gripping, dragging her nails up my length, watching my face like she knew she was driving me insane. **“You feel ready,”** she murmured. I gripped her throat lightly. “Jovel, stop playing with me.” She licked her lips. “Then take me.”
Devoured
I threw her onto the bed—gently, but with purpose. She landed with a soft gasp, and I positioned her further up, spreading her legs wide before sinking to my knees. And then, I devoured her. **Starved. Deprived.** I indulged in her the way a man does when he’s been waiting, needing, craving. I savored her like a tasting menu at a Michelin-star restaurant, every flick of my tongue a course, every moan a review. And she was vocal. Her body spoke in ways that words never could—moaning, squirming, fingers clawing at the sheets before grabbing at my head, then the air, unsure where to hold on. Like she was unraveling under me, coming apart at the seams. That only made me hungrier.
And as I licked, sucked, flicked, I thought about something. There’s a stigma—that Jamaican men don’t do this. I wondered, for a brief second, if that was why she responded like this. Was this an entirely new experience for her? Had the men before me never taken their time to worship her the way she deserved? If so, that was their loss. Because right now, I was the only man in the world who knew exactly how good she tasted. Her clit—larger, rounder, extra sensitive. The kind you can suck, roll, flick in slow teasing circles just to watch her body shake from the aftershocks. And she did shake. Every flick of my tongue sent another ripple through her, her thighs trembling, her hips lifting, chasing my mouth like she couldn’t stand the distance. She had earned every inch of my tongue tonight. And I gave it to her. After the slow, teasing buildup, I went deeper, faster, harder, pushing her to that place where her pleasure stopped being soft and pretty and became something raw and desperate. Her back arched, her hands twisted in the sheets, and when she came, her body locked up completely before she shattered. I didn’t stop. Not yet. One last flick. One last roll. A final cry—louder, sharper. Then I let her breathe.
One Sound, One Rhythm, One Band
By the time we moved to the main event, the room was dim, the only light a faint glow from the full moon creeping through the curtains. The fabric was thin—anyone standing outside could’ve seen us. We didn’t care. We moved like we had something to prove. Like the night wasn’t just pulling us in—but consuming us whole. We switched positions, reversed, tangled, untangled, reconnected. **Animalistic. Instinctive.** When she got on top, she rode me with precision, hips moving in slow, deliberate circles before picking up speed. And she was dripping. I could feel it—every movement, every climax, every time she lost herself and let her body take over. It got messy. And messy was good.
At some point, she slowed, chest heaving, and pulled off me. Slid down. And then her mouth was on me. Wet. Warm. Insatiable. But it wasn’t just that. It was how she did it. The way she **licked herself off me.** The way she locked eyes with me as she did it—deliberate, slow, letting me know exactly how much she enjoyed it. How much she enjoyed us. I groaned, hand tangled in her hair, hips twitching as she worked me. It was damn near impossible not to lose it right then and there.
But there was one thing I had been waiting for since the moment I met Jovel. And now it was time. She pulled away, wiped her lips, and climbed onto the bed. Face down. Ass up. Her back arched perfectly, knees spread, body ready, waiting. And the moonlight—faint but strong enough to catch the curve of her back, the roundness of her ass. If this had been a photo, it would have been the perfect shot. But this wasn’t a photo. This was our moment. And I went for it.
Slow at first. Deep strokes, listening to her rhythm, her breath, her moans. Learning her. Then I started playing with it. Two short strokes. One long, deep thrust. She gasped. Two more short. Another deep. She moaned louder, body pushing back against me, matching my movements, matching my hunger. And then we found the rhythm. The right balance. And I went all in. Filling her, stretching her, slamming into her in powerful, deliberate strokes, the sound of our bodies clapping against each other the only thing filling the room. No music. Just us. What Dr. Lee said—one sound, one rhythm, one band.
The sound was us—the slap of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed beneath us, her moans rising... One sound, one rhythm, one band.
I let the words drag out, slow, commanding. “You feel that? All this dick stretching you out? “Cum for me, wicked girl.” She whimpered... “Mi…waa…feel yuh—” She gasped. Another thrust. “Breed mi—deep—choke mi—” Her voice broke. “Mek mi cum til mi cya move” That was the fucking trigger.
I snapped my hips into her, deep, deliberate, punishing. She screamed. **“Fuck mi! Fuck mi deep! Ooh mi a cum—lawd, mi a cum!”** Her body convulsed, jerked, then collapsed forward, legs shaking, pussy clamping down on me so hard I nearly blacked out. I let go. Final thrust. Deep. Buried. No holding back. My muscles locked, every nerve in my body on fire, pulsing, drowning in her heat. The pressure burst, white-hot, rippling through me in waves as her walls squeezed every drop from me. She collapsed onto the bed, face-down, still spasming, still moaning. I pulled out slowly... then dropped onto the mattress beside her. Neither of us moved. For a long time, all we did was breathe... Then, finally, she sighed... A slow, lazy smile crept across her face. And that’s when we turned toward each other. And burst out laughing.
I Wasn't Stopping Till You Begged
“That’s it,” I murmured against her lips, my fingers circling, pressing deeper, dragging her into it, pulling her under. “Let it go, baby.” Her head hit the wall, her breath breaking into pieces, her body coiling tight—too tight—until it snapped, pleasure rolling through her in waves, pulse after pulse, wrecking her from the inside out. A long, shaking gasp, her fingers digging into my skin, her legs locking around me as she took it, as I gave it, as her body pulsed, trembled, broke in my arms. I held her through it, letting her ride the wave, whispering against her ear, my hands steadying her, keeping her from slipping too far. And when it was over, when her body finally sagged against mine, breathless, sated, her skin hot and damp against me—I pressed my lips to her temple, whispering, **“Told you I wasn’t stopping till you begged.”** She laughed, soft, spent, still catching her breath. And then she reached for me—And I knew she wasn’t done yet.
She was still catching her breath, body loose and warm against mine, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. But there was something in her touch—something slow, searching, greedy. She wanted more. So did I. I ran my hands down her sides, feeling the subtle tremor still lingering beneath her skin, the aftershocks of what I’d just given her. She was soft, pliant, wrecked—but not satisfied. Not fully. Her fingers slipped lower, tugging at my waistband, her lips brushing against my jaw. **“You ready for me now?”** she whispered, voice thick with exhaustion, with want.
I exhaled, slow, steady, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, my lips dragging down the column of her throat. My hands found her thighs, lifting her easily, pressing her back against the wall. She gasped, legs wrapping around my waist, locking me in. I could feel her—heat pressing against me, her body open, aching. I teased her first, dragging myself along her center, making her feel every inch of what she was about to take. She whimpered, hands gripping my shoulders, her breath a soft plea. “Bruce…” I pressed my forehead against hers, holding there, keeping her waiting just a little longer. “You sure?” I murmured, voice low, rough. She tipped her head back, breathing deep, body trembling, and then—Her gaze locked on mine, dark, daring. **“Stop playing and give it to me.”**
I did. I slid into her slow, inch by inch, stretching her, filling her, feeling her body tighten around me, take me. Her breath broke, her fingers digging into my back, her nails biting, but she didn’t tell me to stop. Didn’t tell me to slow down. She just took it. All of it. And when I was buried inside her, when she clenched around me, gasping, shaking—I stayed there. Made her feel it. Made her take it. Her lips parted, her breath hitched, a shudder running through her body like she was already close again, like I’d barely done anything and she was already there. She tightened her arms around my neck, pressing her forehead against mine, her voice breaking on a whisper. “Bruce… move.”
I did. Slow at first, dragging my hips back, feeling the way she clenched, the way she fought to keep me inside, then pushing back in, making her take me deep. Her breath stuttered. Then again. Then she broke, her whole body snapping tight, her breath catching, her hands fisting in my hair, pulling me closer like she couldn’t take it, like it was too much—but she still wanted more. A sharp, shaking cry ripped from her throat as her body clenched, held, dragged me with her—pulling me so deep I nearly lost myself right there. I groaned, gripping her hips, barely holding myself back. She was still shaking, still moaning, still coming undone around me—but I wasn’t done with her yet. Not yet.
I pressed her harder against the wall, angling myself deeper, and when I moved again, when I thrust, it wasn’t slow anymore. She choked on a gasp. Then a moan. Then my name—over and over, broken, breathless, like she couldn’t hold on to it. And then—I felt it slipping. My grip on control, my grip on everything, unraveling with every tight pull of her body around me. I tried to hold back, tried to breathe through it, but she **dragged me under—took me under.** And I lost it. A deep, guttural groan ripped from my throat, my body jerking, crashing into hers, helpless against the heat tearing through me. Every muscle tensed, tightened, my hips locking against hers as pleasure wrecked me—pulse after pulse, dragging me under, pulling me into her, making sure she took everything I had to give.
The only thing left was the sound of our ragged breathing, the reggae song humming in the distance—muted, far away, like we’d left the rest of the world behind. Her body was still trembling against mine, her skin damp, heat lingering between us, like the moment refused to let go. Like we refused to let go. **Spent. Satisfied. Mine.** And I knew—I’d never get enough of this woman. Not tonight. Not ever.
🌞 The Golden Morning
The next morning, we woke up in silence. No lingering words. No playful teasing. Just the quiet hum of a slow-moving sun stretching over Montego Bay. Something thick and unspoken sat between us. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… there. Like a question neither of us wanted to ask. Jovel stretched, unbothered, slipping back into her skin like nothing had shifted. She reached for her clothes with the same easy fluidity, rolling her shoulders like she was shaking off the night. **“Get dressed,”** she murmured, her voice still husky from sleep. “Mi nuh wait pon yuh, Bruce.” I smirked. “You sure? Seem like you enjoy bossin’ me around.” She side-eyed me, slipping into a snug crop top that hugged every curve. **“An’ yuh love followin’ mi lead, so move wid it.”** I let her win. Again.
The View and the Vibe
We stepped outside, the sun already burning high. From the upper deck of my condo, the city unfolded below—Montego Bay stretching toward the sea, cruise ships creeping into port. But getting down from here? That was another story. The hill was steep. No sidewalks. Just a narrow road with blind corners, where taxis and scooters whipped past like pedestrians were an afterthought. I kept close to the edge, cautious. Jovel, on the other hand, barely glanced at the traffic. “You good?” she asked, peering back at me. “I’d be better if we weren’t playin’ chicken with these cars.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Bruce, stop move like yuh fraid. **Walk like yuh know where yuh goin’.”** Easy for her to say. She moved with the confidence of someone who had walked this path a thousand times, her steps light, effortless.
I let my head fall back against the couch. “It’s hot as hell.” She laughed, the sound rolling through the room. “And sticky,” I added. She propped her elbow on the back of the couch, chin resting in her palm, watching me. “But?” I exhaled slowly. “But it’s real. I feel… connected here.” Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “Connected how?” I glanced at her, searching for the right words. “The energy, the vibe—it’s different. It’s not just a vacation spot. It feels… alive in a way I wasn’t expecting.” She smirked. “What yuh did expect?” I hesitated, running a hand over my jaw. “I don’t know. A tropical getaway? Pretty beaches, resorts, rum punches. That’s the version they sell you.” She sucked her teeth, shaking her head. “Yuh tink we one big all-inclusive?” I chuckled. “Before I got here? Maybe a little.” Her expression softened, though the teasing didn’t leave her eyes. “Yuh learn fast.” I nodded, letting my gaze drift. “Yeah… the minute I stepped off the plane, I felt it. The rhythm, the way people move, how everybody just exists here—like they know who they are, where they belong.” I paused, glancing at her. “It was nice. For the first time, I wasn’t the minority. Everybody looked like me. A whole country of Black people, just… being.”
Jovel studied me... **“Dat nuh odd fi mi,”** she said finally, her voice softer now. “Mi grow up seein’ mi face reflected everywhere. Mi skin color normal here. But mi know dat nuh true fi everybody.” I nodded. “It’s not. Where I’m from, you’re always aware. Even when it’s not loud, it’s in the background. A feeling you can’t shake.” Her eyes searched mine for a beat. Then she exhaled, stretching her arms over her head. “Mi cyaah imagine leavin’ mi yaad an’ feelin’ like mi don’t belong.”
“What about you?” I asked. “How do you feel about Jamaica? What’s it like living here?” She snorted. “Dat depend—yuh want di tourist version or di real version?” I smirked. “Give me the real one.” She stretched her legs across my lap, shifting so she could meet my eyes. **“Jamaica sweet, yuh see. Mi love mi country.** Di food, di music, di people—di way we move, how we talk, how we feel tings deep.” She tapped her chest. “We nuh hide emotion. We loud when we happy, loud when we vex. We live wid sense of freedom, even when nutten easy.” Her tone shifted... **“Mi tink tourists see Jamaica one way... But di real Jamaica? Di real Jamaica is a survivor.”** I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle. She grinned. “Yuh finally get it now?” I smirked. “I’m starting to.” She studied me for a moment, then leaned in, her voice lower now. **“Mi tell yuh dis—Jamaica nuh just somewhere yuh visit. If yuh let it, Jamaica tek yuh over.”**
She returned with **escoveitch snapper**—crisp skin, vinegar bright as a bell, peppers singing lead. Rice and peas, cabbage, plantain. I took a bite and could only say, **“Damn.”** She grinned. “Mi tell yuh.” I chuckled, shaking my head. “I ain’t doubting you again.”
Calling Her Name: "Fimi"
At the bottom of the hill, the city pulsed with life... Then it happened. **“Fimi!”** A deep, gravelly voice called out from across the street, and suddenly, it was like the whole city saw her... A vendor manning a fruit stall whistled. A group of women standing by a shop door grinned as they waved. I glanced at her, confused. Fimi? She didn’t even break stride. Just smirked as the fruit vendor leaned over his stall, grinning wide. “Ayyye, mi nah see yuh in weeks, Fimi! Yuh dash mi weh or wah?” Jovel scoffed. “A lie yuh a tell, man. Mi pass ya di odda day, yuh just blind.” The man grinned. “Yuh betta buy supm’ now, mek up fi yuh disappearance.” She rolled her eyes but plucked a mango from his stall, tossing him a bill before he could even argue. “Gimme one sweet one, nuh di likkle bruk-up ting.” I watched the whole exchange, something clicking into place. Jovel wasn’t just moving through the city—she was part of it.
“Fimi?” I murmured as we walked away. She licked mango juice from her thumb, throwing me a lazy glance. “What?” I tested the name on my tongue. “So, Fimi…” She stopped mid-step, her eyes flicking to mine. Just for a second. A flicker of something unreadable. Then she smirked. **“Yuh haffi earn dat.”** The way she said it, it wasn’t just a name. It was a part of her I hadn’t unlocked yet.
Before I could respond, she veered toward a narrow street where an old woman sat on a stoop... “Miss Patsy,” Jovel greeted, crouching beside her. “Yuh good?” The old woman nodded, eyes soft. “Mi deh yah, chile. Mi see yuh runnin’ up an’ dung di place again.” Jovel laughed, pressing a few bills into her palm. “Mi a keep busy, Miss Patsy. Mi tell yuh grandson check pon yuh?” “Yuh did, yuh did.” The woman patted Jovel’s cheek. **“Yuh a good gyal, Fimi.”** I stood back, watching. It wasn’t just the men on the street flirting with her, or the shopkeepers greeting her like she was their own. It was this. The way she moved through Montego Bay like it was stitched into her bones. She didn’t just belong here. Here belonged to her. We walked on, and I was still thinking about it when she glanced up at me. “Yuh see how mi run mi city?” I shook my head, smirking. “Starting to.” Another voice called out, this time a woman’s. “Fimi, mi chile!” Jovel grinned, slipping effortlessly into Patois. “Miss Ling! Mi did haffi bring mi fren fi come taste di good good soup.” Miss Ling waved a hand at me. “Mi hope him can handle it—yuh know **mi nuh water down mi seasoning fi nobody!”** Jovel laughed. “Dat’s why mi love it!” She placed our order—two big bowls of chicken soup with extra spinners—then turned to me with a knowing smirk. “Yuh gon’ feel di spirit when yuh drink dis.”
The Barber Shop Revelation
The soup was fire—rich, spicy, packed with flavors that settled into my bones. I wasn’t usually one for foreign food when I traveled, but this? This was something different. “You still doubtin’ mi taste?” Jovel asked, watching me over her spoon. I scoffed. “Never said that.” Her grin was lazy, knowing. “Yuh didn’t haffi say it.”
When we finished, we stepped outside, and before we even got to the road, someone else called out to her. “Fimi, look how yuh just glowin’ inna di sun! Wah gwan, baby girl?” A man leaning against a shop entrance smirked at her... I shook my head. “Everywhere we go, it’s Fimi this, Fimi that.” She winked. “What can mi say? Mi own mi place.” She flagged down a route taxi, the driver already nodding before she even spoke. We slid in, and the city blurred past... She led me down a side street, then turned into an alley... She cupped her hands around her mouth and called out in Patois. “Mi deh yah fi di bess hairdresser pon di island!” A woman leaned against the doorway, rolling her eyes. “Fimi, yuh come fi di bess, an’ mi nuh see yuh fi months?” Jovel laughed, striding up the steps. “Mi busy, man. But mi bring mi fren fi fix up him headtop.”
Inside, the shop buzzed with movement. Barbers working. Kids playing... The scent of hair grease and warm air wrapped around me. Jovel’s friend ran her fingers through my hair, assessing the length, the texture. She smirked. “Yeah, mi fix dis up proper.” Then she disappeared downstairs for supplies. Jovel stood to leave, but before she did, she leaned in, her voice close to my ear. “Call mi when yuh done.” Then she was gone, and I was **alone in a room full of strangers.**
A kid sat across from me, watching me like I was some kind of puzzle. “Yuh not from yah, eh?” he finally asked. “Nah.” He nodded like he already knew. **“Mi coulda tell. Di way yuh siddung quiet. Americans always quiet ‘til dem get comfortable.”**
I watched Jovel at the window, silhouette cut from light. The city didn’t just belong to her. It answered when she called.
By evening, the day had stitched itself into me — pepper heat, roadside smoke, a city that renamed us both. I didn’t know how long I’d stay. **I only knew I wasn’t done listening.**
