Make You Mine. Niobia Bryant

      Karina’s shoe caught on the edge of the bamboo rug as Julius eased her across the threshold onto the porch. His grip tightened on her elbow to make sure she didn’t trip. “I’ll call you,” he said, just before he flashed her his winning smile and politely closed the door on her stunned, open-mouthed expression.

      Julius made sure to lock the door before he turned and jogged up the stairs to his—correction Caress’s—bedroom. He knocked twice.

      Nothing.

      He knocked twice again using his knuckle, the gold from his fraternity ring flashing. “Caress?” he called out softly, leaning his head forward a bit.

      The door suddenly swung open and she walked out, sending a cool breeze over his body as she passed him dressed in her leather coat and snug woolen cap. “I guess we should work out something for moments like this. Maybe a tie on the door or leaving the porch light on,” she told him over her shoulders as she walked like she was trying to win a marathon.

      Julius’s head swung to the right to watch her head and body slowly disappearing as she headed down the stairs. He followed her. “That’s not necessary—”

      Caress was at the front door pulling her keys from her pocket. “I’ll head to Tamara’s or the movies or something to give you privacy.”

      “Caress—”

       SLAM.

      Just like that, Julius was left with nothing but the wind breezing against his face as Caress left the house quicker than he could stop her. Moments later, lights flashed in the depths of his eyes as she backed her car out of the driveway.

      He didn’t bother opening the door and attempting to chase after her. Caress was gone and there was no stopping her. Besides, he didn’t ask her to make assumptions.

      Truth? He didn’t ask her to move in here and interrupt his life either.

      Yes, he had wanted to hook up with Caress again, but live with her? Have a baby with her? That all went way beyond another steamy X-rated sexfest that made his toes curl up and his dick straighten out.

      Releasing a deep sigh, he tried to maneuver his neck to release the tension he felt across his broad shoulders as he made his way back down into his darkroom. As soon as he reached the basement floor he flipped the switch to bask the room in darkness. The red-colored safelight gave him just enough light to see what he was doing without exposing the paper to brighter light that would destroy it.

      His darkroom was his savior. Every element of the process of developing film was a challenge to him. Digital photography helped to make the actual need for film developing archaic, but like a true artist and appreciator of his craft, Julius used any opportunity he could to develop his own photography. From taking the shot to seeing it on print, he was the master of his craft…and that was just the way he wanted it.

      For now, the only thing he wanted to focus on was developing the reels and reels of the black-and-white film he brought back from his trip. His color films were all digital since the process of developing was far more complex than black-and-white film. His book would have an eclectic mix of pictures representing everything he discovered, loved, and cherished during his days in Africa. His Africa.

      For the next two hours he became lost in his work. His photos were about more than just the tribal shots and the large stretches of wilderness. He had those and more. The culture. The food. The modern day amenities. The art. The architecture.

      In moments the slowly developing images in the citric acid stop bath would make him smile at a memory—like the laughing faces of the students at Oprah’s Leadership Academy in South Africa. Or make him feel inspired—like the school in the Njala Kendema village. Or make him sad—like the many faces of the women and children dying from AIDS.

      He would never forget his time there, and he hoped those who purchased his book would feel inspired to experience it all for themselves. There was no denying that a trip back to the motherland was something any and all African-Americans should experience.

       One day when I have kids I’ll take them , he thought.

      His gut clenched.

      One day wasn’t as far off as it had been yesterday.

      Caress was supposedly pregnant with his child. In around six months he would be a father. Jesus.

      Growing up in Stellar Home projects to a mother addicted to dope and never really missing a father who was never around, Julius had made a better life for himself…by himself. His goals were accomplished. He was a college graduate. He was a celebrated and noted photographer. He owned his own homes—one here in his beloved hometown of Newark and an apartment in Miami. Not bad for a orphan kid from the projects whose mother only gave him two things he cherished before she died of an overdose. The first was bringing him into the world, and the second was a used Poloroid camera from a yard sale at some church.

      But now everything was on the verge of changing because baby mama drama had never been a part of his plan. Still, he would never be the deadbeat his own father was. Ready or not, Julius Jones would soon add the label of father to his biography.

      Feeling the tension in his shoulders and neck again, Julius gave up on trying to get any more work done. He crossed the floor to bask the room with light before he washed his hands in the small black sink in the corner of the basement. Before he climbed the stairs, he cast one last look over his shoulder at the dozens of photos drying on the lines stretched across the ceiling.

      In the foyer, Julius checked out the window to see if Caress’s battered little Jetta was parked out front. He frowned a little and glanced down at his watch before he turned and strode slowly to his study. It was a little after midnight and Caress was still making herself scarce for him.

      At this exact moment, Caress was somewhere out there thinking he was with another woman. The whole damn thing was crazy to him.

      The only thing about to get wet was his tongue.

      Julius headed down the hall to his kitchen—his first time in it since his return from Africa. What he saw made him want to walk back to the Motherland. His newly renovated kitchen, complete with Viking appliances, granite countertops, and tiled floors looked like a tornado had gone through it.

      A tornado named Caress.

      Irritation caused his jaw to tighten as his hawk-like eyes took in every infraction on his peace.

      The dishes on the counter. The wet dishcloth balled up on the edge of the sink. The few sandwich crumbs in the center of the island. The row of empty Snapple bottles lined up by the back door like prisoners. The haphazard way the slats of the wooden blinds hung at the window over the sink. The random items atop his normally clear and clutter-free countertop. The boxes of cereal atop his fridge. The sticky stains on the floor in front of his fridge.

      Julius’s frown deepened. Is that Kool-Aid?

      He thought back to the night he spent at Caress’s apartment. True, most of his focus had been on tasting and touching every inch of her body, but he hadn’t missed that her little studio apartment could use some work.

      At first he attributed the mess to a working woman rushing to get ready for a date; now, however, he realized he’d sniffed out a slob.

      Julius turned on the WBGO’s Jazz 88 station and turned up the classic Miles Davis joint as loud as it would go before he got to work making his kitchen look like it was ready for a photo shoot in Architectural Digest again. He couldn’t help but mutter to himself as he worked. He felt like a bear coming back to find Goldilocks had taken up residence in his house.

      A piece of him was tempted as hell to leave the mess for Caress but maybe this was clean to her. The thought of that made him nervous as hell. He’d left the rats and roaches behind a long time ago. Living in a hellhole was not his idea of upward mobility. Far from it.

      “Damn,” he swore, as he continued to work.

      Caress left the movie theater and couldn’t