Whitegirls Like You Ch 05

Whitegirls Like You

Chapter 5 - Ally for Blacks

Trisha fidgeted in her seat, glancing uneasily at the unfamiliar streets flashing past the car windows. "Millie,

seriously

, where are we going?"

Millie kept her eyes on the road, her grip firm on the steering wheel. "You'll see."

Her mother let out an exasperated sigh. "Millie―"

"

I said

, you'll see."

The finality in her tone shut Trisha up.

For a moment, silence settled over the car, save for the deep thrum of bass from the speakers.

Markus' voice filled the cabin once again, smooth and commanding, the beat rolling beneath his lyrics like an unstoppable force.

"She took my money when I was green,

Made me feel like she was so keen.

Oh, she's a gold digger,

Dreaming 'bout a mansion, not me."

Millie glanced sideways, expecting her mother to tense up―to complain, scoff, change the subject.

But instead...

Trisha sat still, her hands neatly folded in her lap. Her face was unreadable, but her head was nodding slightly, almost absentmindedly.

And then―

Millie could barely believe it at first―

Trisha started humming along.

It was quiet, almost subconscious, like she wasn't even aware she was doing it. Just like Millie had the first few days following the L.A. concert, finding herself snapping out of a daze after getting lost in Markus' music for longer than she'd thought.

Millie didn't say anything, even refrained from humming along. She didn't want to break the trance. So she just let it happen, with a big smile on her face. It seemed like her mother's shell was finally cracking and something new was getting through to her.

They drove like that for another ten minutes―Markus' music filling the car, Trisha no longer arguing, no longer resisting. Millie could swear her expression even seemed eager now. It was also the longest time she had spent with her mother without a word between them.

By the time they pulled up near the rally and Millie turned the music off, Trisha blinked like she was waking up from a dream. Millie parked on a side street, away from the main crowd. She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to her mother.

"We're here. Time to get out." Millie said.

"Um, where― where's 'here'?" Trisha asked, rubbing her eyes.

"Downtown. At a

Black Lives Matter

rally," Millie stated firmly. "You're coming with me to see it."

Sure, her mother may have zoned out during the drive, but surely what Millie had said would elicit some kind of fresh protest from her. Instead, Trisha looked like a deer caught in headlights. She was staring straight ahead, her fingers gripping the hem of her dress. For the first time all night, she looked unsure of what to say or do.

Millie smirked. "Nervous?"

Trisha scoffed―but it wasn't convincing.

Millie stepped out of the car, pulling on her baseball cap and sunglasses for a disguise. After a long pause, Trisha followed her with slow but deliberate steps. The sounds of the rally felt like a roaring lion, vibrating through the ground. But to Millie, it was a siren's song, pulling her ever closer.

They didn't walk directly into the rally―Millie knew better than to throw her mother into the deep end all at once.

Instead, she led her to the sidelines, near the edge of the square, where they could watch without drawing attention.

The scene before them was electric.

A sea of people stood together, holding signs high, their voices unified in powerful chants. Some raised their fists, others waved banners with messages of justice, unity, and change.

Despite the intensity of the movement, the atmosphere was not chaotic. It was organized, passionate, but most of all―alive.

Even so, Millie noticed the police nearby, standing warily between the BLM activists and some white counter-protesters, who were frankly acting far more unruly than their counterparts. She heard several of them hurl threats and insults at the

Black

members of the protest, ones which should have stirred some kind of response from the officers, but it was plain the police had no intention of intervening unless a BLM member got reactive.

Millie could see the way her mother's eyes darted across the crowd, her expression flickering between apprehension and intrigue.

She was afraid―not in the sense of danger, but in the way that only someone who had never truly stepped outside their bubble could be.

But there was something else, too.

Something like... curiosity.

Millie noted that her mothers eyes continued turning toward a

Black

man standing next to them―not one of the protesters himself, but possibly a family member or friend to one. Trisha was giving the tall, athletic man several 'once'-overs, something Millie could not recall her mother ever having done before.

Millie folded her arms, watching Trisha watch him.

The energy of the rally seemed to be growing ever more electric, pulsing through the streets of downtown Nashville like a living, breathing force.

Millie had never seen anything like it.

The crowd had been large when she and Trisha arrived, but now it was growing, swelling―bystanders, once hesitant, started stepping forward, joining in, raising their voices in unity.

People chanted, fists raised high.

The rhythmic, powerful call vibrated through Millie's chest, and before she even realized it, she was chanting too.

But then―

The crowd surged forward like a stampede.

A wave of former bystanders flooded around them and into the street, some holding signs, others simply linking arms with strangers, drawn in by the undeniable momentum of change.

Millie felt herself bumped, jostled―and suddenly, she was being pulled one way, while her mother was pulled another.

"Mom?!" Millie called, twisting to see through the mass of people.

She caught a final glimpse of Trisha―her mother's wide, startled blue eyes flicking toward her, mouth parting as if to call out. The tall

Black

man was still beside her, turning to look in Millie's direction, a sudden understanding dawning on his face. He pulled close to Trisha, his strong frame trying to hold steady even as the crowd shifted, like a boulder in a river. Even so, it wasn't enough.

Millie tried to push through the sea of people, but it was impossible―the sheer number of bodies moved like a tide, sweeping her forward, further from her mother. Millie's last glimpse was of her mother standing beside the

Black

man, their arms accidentally brushing as they were carried away from her in a different direction.

Millie's heart pounded.

In her anger, Millie had brought Trisha here to prove a point, a little wadding in to the reality of

Black

America to bring her down off her pedestal. Instead, Millie had thrown her in deep.

For the first time in her life, Trisha Lucas was truly surrounded by something bigger than herself. This movement for

Black

lives,

Black

souls―Trisha was immersed in it, consumed by it. Whatever she encountered there, Trisha couldn't run away from it like she always did when faced with an uncomfortable truth.

Millie swallowed hard, feeling guilty but also realizing she had no control over what happened next.

She had to trust that, wherever Trisha ended up, she would finally see what Millie had been trying to show her. Millie would just have to look for her once things settled down.

For now, Millie turned in the direction of the flow, letting the crowd carry her into the movement.

Millie had never felt anything like this. Even when she was performing, she had never been shoulder to shoulder with the massive crowd of her fans, keeping a healthy distance from them up on the stage. She imagined this might be comparable to jumping off the stage and into that crowd―something she had thought of doing more than once―and letting the arms of her fans lift her up.

Millie became keenly aware of the heat of the bodies pressing against her as they marched, the thrumming pulse of something bigger than herself. She had never been part of something this raw, this real.

The crowd grew denser, and she found herself sandwiched between a couple of

Black

men, their muscular forms moving rhythmically with the chant. Her heart raced―not from fear, but from a sudden, unexpected thrill.

The way they looked at her―those dark, hungry eyes―it was as if they knew she was here as a white ally. Here for them. It sent a shiver down her spine.

Her thoughts grew more daring, imagining the strength of their hands on her body, the feel of their skin against hers. The way they moved in sync down the street, the confidence in their stride―it was intoxicating.

Millie found herself leaning into their touches, brushing up against them 'accidentally'. Each contact sent a jolt of excitement through her, making her breath hitch. She knew what she was doing was risky, but she couldn't help it―it was like an invisible force was pulling her in.

The men didn't miss her subtle cues. They returned her glances with smirks, their hands finding ways to linger just a moment too long on her hips, her shoulders.

It was as if they knew she was ripe for the picking.

And she

was.

Her mind swam with illicit thoughts, her body responding like it did when she watched her porn―like it did when she played with her wet,

slutty pussy

in the bathroom while Tytus railed Helen in the next stall. Best of all, she was anonymous here.

This was her chance to explore her newfound desires―desires that had been whispered to her by Markus' lyrics, by the very essence of his being.

Her baseball cap was pulled low over her forehead, sunglasses shielding her face from wandering eyes. She wasn't here as Millie Lucas, the pop princess―she was just another face in the crowd, another voice in the movement.

And it felt freeing.

But also... overwhelming.

The sounds around her―voices, horns, footsteps, the steady pounding of drums in the distance―grew louder, heavier, consuming.

The air felt thick.

Her breath came faster, dizzy, uneven. She was in too deep, having fallen into this lustful trap sweeping her to who-knows-where.

She tried to turn and pull away, to push back against the movement, but the crowd was still too dense. She was being pulled along, her sense of direction slipping with every step.

Then someone shoved her and she lost her footing, stumbling, fear of getting trampled welling within her. Her vision blurred, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Then―

A gap.

A break between bodies.

Millie stumbled through it, desperate for space, for air―and suddenly, she was in a narrow side alley, the roar of the rally still pulsing behind her but now muffled, distant.

She swayed, gripping the rough brick wall for balance, chest heaving.

Alone.

Finally alone. Or so she thought.

She exhaled sharply, tilting her head back against the cool brick, trying to steady herself.

That's when she saw them. A group of

Black

men, blocking the exit back toward the main street.

Behind them, the rally was still surging forward, the energy still radiating outward, keeping all attention away from the lone white girl stuck in an alley, and whatever might happen there.

A young black man about her age spoke up first. He was lean but muscular, and wore a smirk that could have melted ice. His eyes were a dark, penetrating brown, and they swept over her, from her cap down to her sneakers.

"White ally, huh?" he said. His words were laden with amusement, as if the concept was as foreign to him as the sight of her in that alley. He didn't believe someone like her could be serious about that even as he said it.

Millie swallowed hard, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. "Yes," she said, straightening up. "I'm here to support

Black

lives. To stand with you all and do what I can to help."

The men around her chuckled. It wasn't a mean laugh―more like the sound of a group of friends sharing an inside joke she hadn't been privy to. The tension in her chest eased a little, but only a little.

"That's cute," one of the older men said, his voice low and rumbling. He had a shaved head and a thick beard, his eyes gleaming with curiosity as he stepped closer. "But why?"

Millie sensed this man actually wanted a sincere answer from her, and that he wouldn't accept anything less.

Millie took a deep breath, trying to find the words to explain what she hadn't quite figured out herself. "Because it's right. Because I see what's happening, and I know it's not fair. Because―"

The man with the smirk put a hand up, silencing her. "Look around you, sweetcheeks," he said, gesturing to the alley. "This ain't exactly the safest place to be. You sure you know what you're getting into?"

The other men nodded in agreement, their eyes never leaving her. They were all dressed in streetwear, but there was something about the way they moved, something sharp and predatory that made her stomach clench even as her pussy ached.

She felt their eyes on her like a physical touch, her skin growing hot and tight. "I do," she lied, her voice a little shakier than she would have liked.

Millie had researched, sure, but actually being here, being part of a movement, was so radically different, she hadn't really grasped what it all really meant yet.

The smirk grew wider, and he took a step closer. "Prove it," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Prove to us you're down for the cause."

The crowd around them grew denser, pressing her closer to the wall, closer to him. The air thickened, the smell of sweat and desire heavy in her nose. What could she do to prove herself? She worried she already knew, but still pretended she didn't anyway.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice small.

He leaned in, his breath hot against her neck. "Show me you're here for us, whitegirl," he whispered, his hand sliding to the waistband of her jeans.

That was too far. She wanted a

Black

man's touch, but she hadn't been prepared for them to touch her there. Not yet. Impulsively, she slapped the man away.

"What the fuck,

bitch

?" The young man spat out.

But before he could say more, the bearded man stepped forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Hold up, son," he said firmly. "Let's not start off on the wrong foot here. My apologies for the miscommunication, miss."

The smirk slipped off the young man's face, replaced by a look of annoyance as he stepped back. The bearded man took his place, his gaze now the only thing keeping Millie pinned to the wall.

"You see," he began, his voice a smoother, more mature version of the young man's, "my friend here, he's got a bit of a... let's call it enthusiasm. But we all know that ain't how we roll. We're gentlemen, see?"

He took another step closer to her, and Millie felt the heat of his body. She didn't know if it was fear or anticipation that made her heart race faster, but she couldn't help the way her chest rose and fell as she took in shallow breaths.

"We aren't here to make you do anything you don't want to do," the man continued. "Say the word, and you can be on your way. But if you really meant what you said about being a white ally, then we should have a little chat before you decide."

"Okay," Millie said, summoning her courage. She glanced back toward the main street, then locked her gaze on the

Black

man looming over her. "Let's talk."

The man nodded, respecting Millie's commitment.

"Being a white ally isn't about guilt," he said, scanning the other

Black

men as if he were speaking to them as well, his eyes sharp and knowing. "And it sure as hell isn't about patting yourself on the back because you showed up today."

Millie swallowed hard.

"It's about using your privilege―the same privilege that has protected you, elevated you, shielded you―to dismantle the system that created it in the first place."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd of men.

"It's about listening more than you talk. Learning without demanding to be taught. Amplifying voices without speaking over them."

Millie felt those words. So much of what he said seemed to echo Markus' songs. If not the actual lyrics, then certainly the intent.

She had thought of herself as friend to people of color, if not exactly an ally, even before considering a partnership with Markus. She had donated, she had spoken out, she had cared―but had she ever really examined what that meant? Now that she earnestly wanted to be a white ally, was she making the same mistake again? Assuming she knew what was needed, what she could do to prove herself? Letting her guilt and privilege guide her, rather than the people she was trying to help.

"White guilt doesn't do a damn thing," the man said again, as if reading her mind. "We don't need your apologies. We need your action."

Millie felt her pulse quickening.

"Supporting Black businesses. Hiring Black talent. Demanding representation in your workplaces, in your industry, in your media. You say you believe in diversity? Then make sure it's more than just a damn hashtag."

Millie's mind was racing.

Her industry―the music industry―was built on

Black

culture, yet so much of it was still controlled by white executives, white producers, white gatekeepers. Like Bob. Like Trisha.

She was part of that system too. And she had power within it. Suddenly her idea of the partnership with Markus shifted in her mind. It could be so much more than a business arrangement.

"I promise," Millie whispered. "I'll do everything I can. Just tell me."

"That's what I like to hear," the man nodded, but then he said, "I ain't done just yet."

"Reparations aren't just about money," he continued, clasping a hand on Millie's shoulder. Millie whimpered pleasurably at his touch.

He turned his attention fully toward the other men now. "Reparations are about rebuilding what was stolen. About acknowledging history―not whitewashing it. About making sure Black children grow up seeing themselves in places of power, in stories that aren't just about their pain, in futures that don't keep them fighting the same damn battles over and over again."

Millie felt something shift inside her again.

A realization. A responsibility.

She had come here tonight to prove something―to her mother, to herself.

But now? Was she ready to accept the responsibility she owed to these men?

The man returned his gaze to Millie, looking her up and down hungrily. Millie felt herself melt a bit as his eyes scanned every part of her.

"Now that I've told you something about being an ally." His hand reached up to gently touch her cheek, and she flinched despite herself. "You gotta be ready to get your hands dirty. Allyship is a verb, not a title. So don't just stand here―do something."

Millie nodded, her mind racing with the weight of his words. This was her chance to prove she was more than just a pop star playing dress-up. More than just a white girl who thought she knew.

She bit her lip before gripping the man's shirt, pulling herself into his embrace. As she tilted upwards, Millie's lips parted eagerly. The man leaned in, and she braced herself for impact. But instead of the harshness she had feared, his lips were surprisingly gentle, coaxing hers apart even further. His beard tickled her cheek, and she felt the heat of his skin against hers. The kiss grew deeper, more demanding. It was unlike any kiss she had ever experienced―like he was claiming her, marking her as his. And she liked it.

Her body responded, eagerly, pressing against his, feeling the hardness of his growing cock through his pants. She had never felt so right, so wanted. This was a different kind of power she could put to use―raw and primal, and she craved to give him more.

When he finally pulled away, his dark eyes searched hers, looking for something. And she knew what it was―her surrender. Her willingness to truly be an ally, not just in word but in deed.