Brad's thumb pressed into the rubber tread of the toy car. The plastic was still warm—Dawit's small hands had been gripping it minutes ago, before everything became something else. The bedroom door was closed. The sounds from inside had changed, gone from sharp and urgent to something wetter, deeper, a rhythm that had settled into itself.
He turned the car over. Red. A little Hot Wheels thing, the paint chipped on one corner where it had hit the floor. The wheels spun freely under his thumb. Smooth. Still new enough to roll straight.
"Brad." The voice came again, low and unhurried, carrying through the cheap hollow-core door like it had all the time in the world. "Bring it."
The lamp in the living room threw his shadow long across the beige carpet. He could see himself in the dark mirror of the TV screen—a man holding a child's toy, standing in a stranger's apartment, the taste of bakery sugar still faint on his tongue. His reflection looked calm. It always did.
He walked.
Three steps to the door. His footsteps made no sound on the carpet. The car was light in his hand, a thing made for a seven-year-old's grip, the scale of it wrong in his grown fingers. The wheels kept spinning as he moved.
He stopped at the door. The wood was cheap, the kind that flexed when you pushed it. A bead of light showed at the bottom seam. Inside: the wet sound of skin on skin, a man's low grunt, then Makeda's voice—not quite a moan, not quite a word, something caught between. Then silence. Then the rhythm starting again.
Brad's hand found the knob. Cold metal. He turned it without knocking.
The door swings inward, the cheap wood flexing under my palm. I step over the threshold.
The room is dimmer than the living room—a single lamp on the nightstand, its shade angled to throw a tight circle on the bed. The curtains are drawn, streetlight bleeding through the seams in thin orange lines. The air is thick with sweat and the metallic smell of sex, the kind that settles into fabric and stays.
Makeda is on her back. The red mini dress is bunched around her waist, one strap slipped down her shoulder, her braids spread across the pillow like dark rivers. Her legs are hooked over the shoulders of the man between them—the second one, the one with the quiet voice. He's driving into her with a steady, unhurried rhythm, his hands gripping her hips, his face buried in the curve of her throat.
She turns her head.
Her eyes find mine. Dark and wet, half-lidded, the pupils blown so wide there's almost no brown left. Her mouth is open, breath coming in short pulls, a thin sheen of sweat on her collarbone. She looks drugged. She looks like she's been falling for hours and hasn't hit bottom yet.
She doesn't look away.
The toy car is still in my hand. I can feel the weight of it, the little wheels still spinning against my palm.
The second man grunts, slows, pulls back until only the tip is inside her. He holds there, watching her face. She makes a sound—small, broken, a whimper that catches in her throat. Her hips twitch, trying to take him deeper.
He doesn't give it to her.
"Brad," he says, not looking up. "You see what I see?"
I don't answer. I'm looking at Makeda's face. At how her eyes stay on mine even as her body arches, even as her nails dig into the sheets, even as the man above her shifts his weight and pushes back in, slow, so slow I can see the muscles in her thighs tighten.
The third man is on the other side of the bed, sitting against the headboard, his cock still wet. Dawit is between his legs, small and still, his head bent forward, his shoulders trembling. The third man's hand is in Dawit's hair, not pulling, not pushing—just resting there, like he's waiting for something.
Dawit doesn't look up. Doesn't turn his head. Just stays there, small and quiet, his fingers pressed flat to his own thighs.
"Brad."
Makeda's voice. Low, rough, scraped raw from sounds I didn't hear her make. She reaches one hand toward me, fingers splayed, the red mini dress sliding further down her arm. The second man doesn't stop. If anything, his rhythm picks up, faster now, the wet slap of skin filling the room.
"Come here," she says. "Please. Brad. Please."
The way she says my name—like it's the only word she remembers. Like she's been holding it in her mouth, waiting for the door to open.
The second man laughs, low and warm, and shifts his angle. Makeda's breath catches, her eyes fluttering, her hand still reaching toward me.
I step forward. One step. Then another. The toy car is still in my hand, the wheels still spinning, and I don't know what I'm going to do with it.
But I'm moving.
The carpet is worn under my shoes, the pile thin and gray. A patch of light from the lamp falls across my arm as I pass the nightstand. I can see Makeda's face clearly now—the flush across her cheekbones, the way her bottom lip is bitten raw, the line of sweat tracing down her throat to disappear between her breasts.
She's beautiful. Ruined and reaching and beautiful.
The second man slows, easing back, pulling out of her with a wet sound that makes her gasp. He kneels upright, his cock slick and hard, and gestures with his chin toward the space beside her.
"Your turn," he says. "She's been waiting."
Makeda's hand finds my wrist. Her fingers are hot, trembling, her grip surprisingly strong. She pulls me down toward the mattress, the springs creaking under my weight, the toy car falling from my hand and landing on the carpet with a soft thud.
She rolls onto her side to face me, the mini dress riding higher, the curve of her hip bare and gleaming in the lamplight. Her other hand comes up to my face, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw, her eyes searching mine.
"I knew you'd come back," she whispers.
The third man shifts behind her, his hand still in Dawit's hair. I can hear the boy's breathing—shallow, quick, the sound of someone trying very hard not to make a sound.
I can hear my own pulse in my ears.
Makeda's hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, her breath hot against my lips.
"Don't stop," she says. "Whatever happens next. Don't stop."
Her mouth finds mine. She tastes like salt and something sweet—the muffins, still on her tongue—and she kisses me like she's been starving for it, like I'm the first thing she's touched that's real. Her body presses against me, the heat of her seeping through my clothes, her thighs parting against my hip.
The second man watches. The third man watches. Dawit's head is still bent, his shoulders still trembling, his hands still pressed flat to his own thighs.
And I don't stop.
My hand finds her waist, the fabric of the mini dress damp with sweat. I slide it higher, feeling the curve of her hip, the soft skin of her belly, the slick heat between her legs. She moans into my mouth, her hips rolling against my hand, her fingers tightening in my hair.
The lamp's bulb buzzes. The curtains shift in a draft I can't feel. The wheels of the toy car have finally stopped spinning.
I don't stop.
The second man's voice comes from somewhere above us, easy and unhurried. "Take your time. We've got all night."
Makeda's hand finds mine, guides it where she wants it, her breath hitching as my fingers slide into her.
She's wet. So wet. Slick and hot and ready, her body opening for me like it's been waiting for permission. She gasps against my mouth, her hips pressing into my hand, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Yes," she breathes. "Yes, Brad. Yes."
And the third man's hand tightens in Dawit's hair, just enough to make the boy's breath catch.