Author's Note: This story is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places described in this narrative are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This is a short story that I have written to address some comments that all of my White male characters have very little agency and essentially get cuckolded in every story. I hope everyone enjoys this slightly different story from my usual style and characters.
As always, all comments and feedback are welcome.
HF
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The night shift at St. Vincent's had been brutal. Three gunshot victims, a near-overdose, and a drunk college kid who puked all over her scrubs. Just another night in New York. Having been born and raised in a small blue collar town in Virginia, the daughter of an African-American father and a Dominican-American mother, Maya Delgado had always wanted to move to the big city, to escape her small-town upbringing. By the time she dragged herself through the door of her small apartment in Queens, all she wanted was a scalding hot shower and a sleep so deep she wouldn't even dream. Or remember.
She stripped off her scrubs, tossing them in the hamper, and tied her thick, black curls up into a bun as she turned on the water. The shower helped a little bit. At least her caramel-brown skin didn't smell like dried puke anymore. Washed and dressed in a loose tank top and boy shorts, she collapsed onto the bed, sighing in relief as the mattress cradled her exhausted body.
New York City outside hummed outside like it always did, but she'd learned to tune it out years ago when she first moved there. Despite the honking of cars outside, she was just starting to drift off to sleep...
Then the music started.
The bass thumped through the thin walls, a heavy, pulsing beat that sent vibrations through the floor and started to shake the picture frames on her nightstand, causing one to fall over. It was only a picture of her and Trey that she hadn't gotten around to throwing out. Figures, she thought irritably to herself.
The music paused for a moment, and she was about to let out a sigh of relief. Then it started up again. Someone had just changed the song. Maya groaned, pressing a pillow over her head. It didn't help. If anything, the song only seemed to grow louder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
Maya sat up in her bed, heart pounding -- not with arousal but pure, unfiltered annoyance. She had survived a twelve-hour shift on nothing but coffee and a granola bar, and now she was being kept awake at nearly one in the morning by some inconsiderate asshole next door with a sub-woofer?
With an exasperated sigh, Maya threw back her sheets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cool air kissed her bare thighs, a stark contrast to the warmth of her comforter. She was still in her sleepwear, so she grabbed the robe from the hook behind her bedroom door and tied it loosely around her waist.
"Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath as she stomped toward her apartment door.
Passing the mirror in the hallway, she saw that her curls were a mess, tumbling over her shoulders, and her caramel-toned skin still carried the faint scent of coconut oil from her after-shift shower. She knew she looked half-feral, dark circles under her eyes, lips slightly swollen from the way she had been chewing on them in exhaustion earlier. But she didn't care. This man had woken her up, and she was about to let him know exactly how she felt about it. The asshole!
The music blared even louder as she stepped into the hallway. She could hear laughter, the clinking of glasses, voices--some deep, some light and feminine -- mixing into the low hum of a bass-heavy R&B song. As she reached the door she caught the whiff of weed and beer. It was a housewarming party. Fantastic.
She'd seen boxes piled up in the hallway the previous day, but she had been rushing to her shift to the hospital and hadn't paid any attention or even glanced through the open door of the next door apartment. Now she was going to find out who her new neighbor was.
Gritting her teeth, she knocked sharply on the door.
The door swung open, and the music spilled into the hallway along with warm air and the scent of beer and weed. Maya was fully prepared to cuss someone out, but the words stalled on her tongue.
The man in front of her was not the beer-bellied frat bro she'd half expected. He was tall, perhaps a touch over six feet at least, with tousled dark blonde hair and sharp, blue-green eyes that blinked down at her with amused curiosity. A plain black Henley clung to a lean, muscular frame, and his lips -- fuller than she would've guessed for a white guy -- curved into a lopsided smirk, seemingly unperturbed by the appearance of an Afro-Latina woman at his doorstep at one in the morning in her pajamas.
Maya had never been into white guys. Not really. The ones she met at the hospital were mostly married doctors who flirted with her like she was some exotic thrill, whispering sleazy things in break rooms when they thought no one was listening. But this man? He didn't look like the type to whisper. He looked like the type to take.
Not that she cared. She just wanted her damn sleep.
"Hey," she started, crossing her arms. "I live next door, and I just got off a twelve-hour shift at a hospital. I don't know if you realize, but your music is loud as hell, and some of us have to work in the morning."
His gaze flickered over her, just for a second. Not in a sleazy way. Just... assessing. His lips parted slightly, and then, to her mild surprise, he actually looked a little sheepish.
"Shit," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was that loud."
Maya lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. "It's shaking my walls."
His mouth twisted up in a half-smile. "Damn. That bad?"
"Yes."
There was a beat of silence. His eyes were still on her, and for some reason, the weight of his gaze made her shift slightly under her robe. She suddenly became very aware of how loosely it hung over her caramel brown frame, the smooth slope of her collarbone, the way her tank top clung to her curves beneath it.
"Alright," he said finally. "I'll turn it down. Sorry about that."
Something about his easy apology caught her off guard. Most men -- especially Trey -- would've argued, brushed her off, or gotten defensive. This guy just nodded and took responsibility. It was a refreshing change.
"Okay... umm..." she said, feeling strangely deflated as some of the irritation bled from her shoulders. "Thanks."
"Hey... " he called just as she was about to turn.
She glanced back. He was still watching her. His gaze wasn't lecherous, but it wasn't entirely innocent, either. "I'm Lucas, by the way. Lucas Carter. Just moved in."
Her lips pressed together. She wasn't looking to make friends with a noisy neighbor, but something about the way he said it -- low, casual, relaxed -- made her hesitate.
"Maya." She paused. "Maya Delgado."
His smile widened just a fraction. "Nice to meet you, Maya."
She didn't respond. Just turned and walked back into her apartment, shutting the door behind her.
But when she slid back into bed, the music was softer. At least he was as good as his word.
And for some stupid reason, she thought about the way Lucas had looked at her.
*****
The next evening, Maya barely made it through the door before she was kicking off her sneakers, exhaustion weighing down her bones. Tonight, the highlight had been a Manhattan socialite that the NYPD had brought in. She had been as high as a kite on coke and had decided to lash out at Maya while she was trying to take her vitals. It had taken two burly security guards to pin her down while Maya and the other nurses had hurried to fasten restraints. Great, another fucking coked-up junkie.
The Afro-Latina stood in her bedroom, peeling off her top to let the cool air kiss her warm, dark-brown skin, and was just about to strip off her pants when --
Knock, knock.
She froze.
Who the hell? I swear, if that's Trey...
Pulling her tank top back over her head, she walked cautiously toward the front door. When she opened it, she was met with a familiar broad-shouldered figure.
Lucas.
Except this time, he wasn't wearing his casual party clothes. He was in a fitted gray T-shirt and jeans, standing there with a small brown bag in his hands.
