The Past Never Left

Late night. Atlanta. Devonté’s loft.

 

 

 

The key clicked in the lock. Devonté stepped into the loft, letting the door swing shut behind him. The air inside was still—too still, too warm. The scent of sandalwood lingered, but something felt off. Instinct kicked in. The kind of instinct that never dulled, no matter how long you’d been out the game.

Then he saw her.

Alease.

Sitting on his velvet couch like a vision dipped in sin—legs crossed, cloaked in black lingerie that hugged every inch of her thick, chocolate skin. Her curves didn’t ask for attention—they demanded it. Her full lips wrapped around a glass of his bourbon like they’d never forgotten his name.

“You changed the locks again,” she said, calm like chaos in disguise.

Devonté froze mid-step. “What the hell you doin’ here, Alease?”

“I live here,” she said smoothly, flashing a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

He scoffed. “No—you live in my townhouse. This the loft. The one you just broke into.”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Semantics.”

He set his keys down slow, the tension already coiling in his jaw. “You need to leave. Tonight ain’t the night.”

“Yeah whatever, nigga—I don’t want to hear all that,” she said, standing. Every step toward him was deliberate. “You really thought you could disappear without me noticing? After everything we been through?”

He shook his head. “We been done.”

Her laugh was low and sharp. “Yet your family still calls me on holidays. King still calls me ‘Alease Acosta.’ And that fifteen-thousand-dollar ring you gave me when you thought you were dying? Still in my drawer. Right next to my Glock.”

“Leave King outta this,” Devonté snapped.

She stepped into his space, chest brushing his. “That boy’s the only part of you I still love. The rest?” She leaned in close, her breath brushing his jaw. “Just a ghost in a suit.”

He didn’t move. “You always come around to stir up some shit.”

“You bring it outta me.”

He exhaled, already tired. “Alease—go home.”

But before he could turn, she shoved him—hard. He fell back into the couch, landing with a grunt. She climbed into his lap like she owned the lease on his body.

“I told you—I gotta be up early,” he said through gritted teeth.

“And I told you—I don’t give a damn.”

Her hand slid down his chest and grabbed him boldly. He caught her wrist.

“Alease, come on. This ain’t it.”

She stared him down, voice cutting like a blade. “What—you been out fuckin’ some dumb red bitch again? Huh? Typical Devonté. You always run to something soft after me.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Her laugh was cracked glass. “You cheat. You lie. You disappear. But you never change. Still can’t tell me to my face I ain’t what you want.”

She squeezed again. “Your lil’ three inches turned into eleven real quick for a man who don’t want me.”

Before he could speak, her palm cracked across his face—not hard, just sharp enough to shut him up. She reached into her robe and pulled a pistol, tossing it onto the coffee table like it was a pair of keys.

“Shut up,” she said coldly.

His eyes narrowed. “You threatening me now?”

She stepped back just enough to stand tall. Her voice dropped, low and lethal.

“I’m Lieutenant Alease Iesha Dennis-Acosta of the major crimes task force. I do what the hell I want in this city. I could take you in for murder tomorrow if I felt like it.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

“But you won’t,” Devonté said, rising slowly. He brushed a hand across her hip, voice low. “Because you still love this whore, huh?”

She shoved him again, but this time he caught her. Their lips crashed in a kiss full of war and memory. Her robe slid off her shoulders, revealing full breasts, soft skin, and a body he still knew better than his own reflection.

“Yeah, motherfucker,” she whispered against his lips. “Just like you like ’em.”

She dropped to her knees. His breath hitched. She was fire and revenge, and he was already burning.

“You act like I’m poison,” she whispered, “but I’m the only thing you ever let kill you slow.”

He grabbed her jaw, lifted her to her feet, and carried her into the bedroom like she weighed nothing. She tried to flip the power again, but Devonté pinned her wrists to the satin-white bed, kissing her with all the weight of every argument they never finished.

“You make me sick,” she gasped.

“And you make me weak,” he muttered into her neck.

It was rough, raw, and real—like trying to put out a fire with gasoline. They weren’t making love. They were declaring war on everything unresolved. Nails scratched. Hands gripped. Their bodies moved like rivals who could only surrender in the dark.

And when it was done, breath heavy, skin hot, tangled in sheets like two sinners in confession, she spoke first.

“You get on my nerves. I always fall for you and come running. I’m tired of this shit.”

Devonté chuckled, pulling her in close.

“And you still here.”

The moon hovered over the night sky as they both lay there for a while. Alease said her famous phrase to Devonté in times like this—one that he knew was coming.

“Hold me,” she whispered, snuggling under his arm, head on his chest, feeling at peace.

Devonté could feel her melting in on his chest. He smiled in the dark as she drifted to sleep.