Page 12 of Blurred Boundaries

“What does your aunt do for a living?” Austin asks, staring up at it. “I may need to change my hustle.”

Roland chuckles beside him as he heads for the boot. “You’re always changing your hustle,” he grumbles, but his tone is fond.

I swear, I’m still surprised by this new Roland Johnson. He has moved from a terrifying football god to a soft boyfriend who dotes on his man.

“Just think about it,” Austin says, following Roland while he lifts their bags. “We can live in Nehdaddy forever.”

“Nehvizdy,” Taj corrects as he unlocks the door and steps aside for the lot of us to file in. “And to answer your question, she owns international schools in Nigeria, and also in Prague and Brno. And also, one university in Nigeria.”

Every follow-up question dies in our throats the second we step inside. Bloody hell! I’m not unfamiliar with money, but there are levels to this shit. The entryway alone is bigger than my apartment. The ceiling stretches high above us, fitted with hanging lights that spill a golden glow over polished floors, the air smelling faintly of cedar wood and expensive candles. One wall is lined from end to end with white wardrobes. Taj opens one and reveals rows of hanging rails, shelves, and storage drawers. He then takes our coats one by one and hangs them before producing Crocs for all of us. We swap our shoes, and Taj carries them to a fitted shoe rack behind another wardrobe door.

“Uhm, like I said, there are three floors, and you guys can pick whichever rooms you want except the locked ones on each floor, those are already occupied.”

Austin doesn’t waste a second. He grabs Roland by the hand and starts hauling him towards the stairs. “We’re taking one on the third floor,” he announces. Then he twists back to look at us over his shoulder. “Give us one hour to shower the trip away and we’ll be ready to eat.”

“I’ll stay on the first floor,” Paul says dryly. “As far away from them as possible.”

“What about you?” Taj asks, turning to me.

“Wherever is fine,” I say.

“Okay, second floor with me it is then.”

8

MICHAEL

—Why Am I Like This?

by Orla Gartland

Before I can pretend I have opinions, Taj takes my bag from my hand and starts up the stairs, and I follow him without any argument. The room he shows me is also, to no surprise of mine, bigger than my apartment. The bed is neatly made, the windows overlook the garden, and there’s an en-suite bathroom with fluffy towels folded in perfect stacks.

He sets my bag down near the wardrobe. “I’ll go start heating the food. Find me in the kitchen, it’s the door to the right from the living room,” he says and leaves.

I strip off and step into the shower, washing away the stale feeling of being in a car for too long. After, I pull on something comfortable and head downstairs. The kitchen smells incredible the second I walk in, and my stomach rumbles.

Taj is already moving around. There are different serving bowls spread across the counter, something is turning slowly in the microwave, and a pot of water is bubbling on the gas cooker.

“What are you making?” I ask as I park my arse on a high chair at what I assume is the breakfast bar.

Taj glances at me, then back to what he’s doing. “I’m heating egusi soup, I want to make poundo yam.”

“Wow.” I lean forward. “I can’t remember the last time I ate that.”

He lifts one shoulder. “Weren’t you engaged? She wasn’t cooking for you?”

I’m pretty sure I never told him that. “How did you know that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I looked you up and saw the engagement announcement.”

The microwave beeps. He opens it and takes out one bowl then places another one in before turning back to me. “Did I cross another one of your lines?”

I stare at him instead of answering, taking in the way his muscles flex as he moves the bowl, the shift of his shoulders under his shirt, the small path of skin that shows when he stretches to reach the top cupboard.

I swallow against my dry throat, something unfamiliar stirring in my chest. I get off the stool and step closer, reaching for the bowl before he can grab it. He gives me that one-of-a-kind smile, curving slow across his mouth. And for one reckless moment, I nearly forget every reason why I shouldn’t cross the line with him again.

Taj turns to the counter and gets back to work, preparing the food and moving with so much fluidity that I can’t help but keep staring. Within minutes he’s finished making poundo yam for five people.