Cairo

Two

It was the scent of matooke that woke Jordan up on Saturday. He shifted on the couch as he got his bearings. It had been a wild night. They had done two more clubs after their first and in the light of day, his 35 year old body was reminding him of all the damage his overnight bender had inflicted.

The urge to fight hadn't clawed through his body again after he got the first one out of his system. He had reached boiling point with Cairo and in the light of day, he regretted exactly nothing about how it had turned out. From the moment she had walked into the club wrapped around Scar, she had set his blood racing.

She looked like a vision; one that he needed to possess without delay. She had been the usual Cairo—super flirt—wrapping any man within her sights around her finger. She was drinking for free; again, as usual and she topped it off with racy dancing that nearly made him smash his fist into the counter top.

He had ended up ramming his fist into the face of the first clown that rubbed him the wrong way. It had been a stupid fight. He couldn't even remember what had started it. But as long as he lived, he would not forget his kiss with Cairo. She had blown the top of his head off.

For the rest of the night, she had stuck with the Raiders (and him). They had danced quite a bit. He had discovered that her waist really was a dream and he wondered how any of the men she had danced with in the past had ever let her walk away. He had only managed to let her dance with Fox a few times. When she took too long on a bathroom break, he elected to escort her on her next one. By the end of the night, he was drunk and wrapped around her literally.

Most of what had happened in the parking lot was a blur. He blacked out in a car and woke up as Cairo supported him into her house with a hand around his waist. While he was drunk, she was only tipsy. She had a liver of cast iron—everyone within the Special Forces teams could attest to it.

"You're sleeping here," she told him as she deposited him on her living room couch. "I'm not in the mood to wash the sheets in the spare bedroom after you."

She hadn't been joking. She covered him in a blanket and left him there with a bucket close by. He pushed away the blanket, sat up and walked towards the bathroom. He had only a basic knowledge of her home, from the handful of times that the Raiders had visited over the last few years.

After taking a leak, he followed the scent of matooke to the kitchen. Cairo looked up at him as he walked in. She looked fresh and fabulous—her damn iron liver—while he felt like he needed the rest of the weekend to recover. She was in a navy 'Nike Women' t-shirt and a pair of old, black jeans. The only makeup she had on was lip gloss and her hair was folded into a bun at the top of her head. Tendrils of hair framed her face and fell over her neck and ears. She was cutting onions and tomatoes on a plate. The domestic version of Cairo smacked him in the chest. He stood at the kitchen door for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath. This is what he'd wanted—Cairo in all her shades—and he needed to man up and take it.

"You look like sh*t," she said, her eyes on her tomatoes.

"I'm in good company," he shot back, even though she looked great. She flipped him the finger, as he'd expected and he chuckled, as she'd hoped. It was never that deep when they traded insults.

He crossed to the kitchen counter and lifted the lid on the pan there. As his nose had predicted, he found matooke and irish potatoes boiled with onions and tomatoes. The scent that wafted to his nostrils drew a contented sigh from him. It was the perfect start to curing a hangover and he nearly kissed Cairo's feet. While he served himself some food, she went to the fridge and poured him a glass of juice.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Just after noon," she replied as she put the juice near him.

"Last night was something else," he said with a groan as he began to eat.