Vulnerable

by Bonita Thompson

  “This woman is special, Rawn. I don’t—I can’t afford to mess it up. It’s difficult to find a woman like this one. I’ve never run into someone like her in Seattle. Oh, Rawn. She’s one of a kind.”

  Good-naturedly, he smiled, and broke in with an occasional, “Uh-huh.”

  Sicily went on and on, nearly out of breath while she spoke of this woman like a young schoolgirl with a silly little schoolgirl crush. He was half-finished with his seafood pasta and Sicily had barely touched her pasta salad.

  He reached for an Italian roll in the wicker basket. “When will I meet her?” he asked.

  “I’m glad you asked,” said Sicily. “I thought Thanksgiving would be nice. That’s if you’ve decided not to go home.”

  Sicily was so happy; this thing must have happened out of nowhere and they rushed into something. Depending on the people involved, the first few weeks of a new relationship could be intense. It verged on obsession, and it was all one could talk about. Think about. Until the person felt familiar. Rawn would have picked up on this relationship had it started many weeks ago. Listening to her, watching her, Rawn was beginning to feel a tinge of jealousy. For several years they had been everything but lovers. Sicily spoke of her new lover with such passion; she was verging on pure ecstasy talking about this woman. He could not make sense of why he reacted to it in the way that he did. He pondered contentiously the remainder of the day why her bliss made him feel annoyed, when he should have been very pleased she found someone.

  After lunch, and later in the day, Rawn replayed what Sicily once said to him, not too long after they met: “I want to be loved, of course. Loved madly, addictively, and to the exclusion of any other.” Back then it sounded quite profound to him, but the way she was acting; Rawn never saw her so excited over a girlfriend. In the last year it took everything Sicily had to go on a first date.

  When he entered the apartment, Rawn walked to the rich espresso leather ottoman and sat for quite a while, his mind filled with noise. While it surprised him, he was pleased that D’Becca had not called. He was deeply confused, and needed some time to sort out what was really taking place inside his head. Sitting in the dark trying to quell his inexplicable thoughts, the phone chimed, but he was grateful for his new high-tech answering machine his mother sent him as a birthday gift.

  “Poussaint, it’s Chap.” He could hear the deep-throated voice from the distance. “I’m on my way to the Alley. Hey, drop on by the club if you can. Oh, it’s about six forty-five on Tuesday. Later, man.”

  Rawn rushed to the phone in the pitch-dark kitchen, but when he reached it, there was a dial tone. “Dammit!” he said, annoyed. He gathered his keys and bomber jacket.

  The night air smelled of recent rain and a full moon made the evening sky look dramatic, mysterious. He started his Jeep, and Rawn began to concentrate on all sorts of things: fundamentally his relationship with D’Becca. He was clueless where their relationship was headed, or if it was on the verge of ending. And there was Christmas and his plans to go home to see his family and old friends. He and Khalil made tentative plans to go skiing in Vail. He was indecisive on whether he should invite D’Becca, although Khalil had encouraged him to do so since he was bringing his London girlfriend, Moon. Rawn felt a swell of emotion while conjuring up everything, everything but the fact that he had learned earlier in the day that Sicily was in love. He realized no matter how intelligently he reasoned or how passionately he rationalized, he was envious of her new relationship, and more precisely, with a woman.

  Moody’s Jazz Alley was unusually packed for a Tuesday night. Rawn moved through the crowd like a regular, speaking to familiar faces in passing, and signaled the bartender to send his usual to the piano.

  When he sat at the piano, he nodded to the other musicians. A freckled redhead brought Rawn’s drink and openly flirted. He took a taste of his rum and Coke and eyeballed the crowd, and with finesse blended in with the band. They began to play a darkly romantic number—a hit that won Dante Godreau his first Grammy. They played their set for well over an hour, dedicating the evening to Godreau, and Rawn felt so loose and free he managed to lose track of his earlier thoughts and the demon they left behind. When he decided to end the evening, it was midnight. Before he headed home, he sat alone at the bar and nursed a beer. The room was especially lively. Rawn’s favorite version of “Unchained Melody” played in the background, and for the first time he listened closely to the lyrics.

  He felt a presence—someone—standing very close to him at the bar. A woman, probably no more than twenty and dressed provocatively, between ordinary and attractive but trying too hard, grinned, and held a drink. She looked too young and without enough history to be drinking a brandy. Even the way she held it made her look inexperienced. It only added to her insatiable need to be anyone but who she was at that moment. He wanted to tell her: The older you get the more complicated life becomes. You might want to rethink trying to rush this.

  “I like how you play,” she said, easing into a candid flirt.

  Rawn felt sorry for her. D’Becca crossed his mind because when they first met, she said to him, “I grew up too fast.”

  Leaning against the bar, she said, “You good, too. You got this groove going. You got a girlfriend?”

  Rawn took a better look at the provocatively dressed young woman. Plump cleavage oozed out of a low-cut sweater. While he was so not in the mood, he did not want to take his present frame of mind out on her. “That’s a matter of interpretation.”

  “What that mean?” she asked.

  “What do you consider a girlfriend?”

  “You know.” She grinned wider, which made her dimples deepen.

  “My interpretation might not be the same as yours. So tell me, what makes a woman a man’s girlfriend?”

  She looked unsure, and her face said: he’s trying to fool with my head or something. He trusted that she was not a young woman who was used to having thought-provoking conversations with a man. Not even something as simple as the distinction of things: Right versus wrong; good versus bad. Where she came from, it was common knowledge what the differences were. There were no nuances.

  “You messin’ with me, right?”

  “No,” Rawn said, sincere.

  She glanced down at her chipped nail polish and Rawn realized he might have embarrassed her.

  When he stood, he finished his beer. “In answer to your question—yes, I have a girlfriend.” He winked, adding, “Take care.”

  The young woman gazed at Rawn disappearing into the slim crowd standing at the end of the bar. A man slapped him on the back in a friendly way, and then like out of thin air, the young woman lost sight of him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When Rawn called and invited D’Becca to Sicily’s for Thanksgiving, she was ecstatic to be sharing a holiday with people she could relate to. While she did not know Sicily all that well, she was impressed with her and liked her attitude. Slipping into a pair of black Lycra slacks, D’Becca had to admit to herself she was really curious about Sicily’s new girlfriend.

  “I’ve gained weight since I last wore these? No way!”

  Tripping over a pair of black stiletto booties in the middle of the bedroom floor, D’Becca dashed to her wardrobe mirror across the room and looked front, back, sides, and then back to front and then to back. She let out a heavy sigh. After peeling the snug-fitting slacks off her hips, she stepped out of each leg and hurried to her scale in the bathroom wearing only a push-up bra. She tapped the poise weight on the physician’s scale more to the left than to the right, because her eyes had to be deceiving her. “One-hundred and twenty-eight? No way!”

  D’Becca was professionally 5’11, but in truth she stood 5’9-[sup]1[/sup]/[sub]2[/sub] barefooted. At one-hundred and twenty-eight pounds she would hardly be considered overweight. Yet in order for her to keep working she needed to be no more than seven stones—one-hundred and twenty-three pounds give or take, and not an ounce more. Even at that weight she
could not do swimsuits and lingerie. While they were not the high-profile designers she used to work for in her early days, several American designers still requested her. The popular sleek cut that was en vogue at the moment hung ideally on someone with her stature.

  Once she slipped the fitted sweater over her head and saw how all-black truly did make her look thin—well, lean—D’Becca felt pleased. “You look fab!” she complimented her reflection in the mirror. Because she gave Rawn her word that she would not be her established ten-minute late self, she decided against spending fifteen minutes camouflaging her delicate flaws with makeup. Instead she used her thick and fluffy makeup brush and swept mineral powder over her face and topped her look with a flashy watermelon-colored lipstick that made her collagen-injected lips appear even more voluptuous. In quite good spirits, she checked the number on her caller ID from her ringing cellular. Her vulnerable side was desperate to answer, but she chose to let it go into voicemail. D’Becca reached for her leather jacket, scarf and gloves at the foot of the bed and was blowing her horn in front of Rawn’s at exactly three sharp.

  Since the streets were virtually deserted, they arrived at Sicily’s thirty-seven minutes later. She opened her door to receive her holiday guests warmly in an ink-black dress that gingerly traced her petite frame. Her hair was often pulled back or she wore it straight with a nice gloss to it and it bounced when she walked, but today it was a mane of tight curls cascading sensually over her shoulders. Once, Khalil inquired whether or not Sicily wore extensions, but Rawn was not sure either way. Her face was made up carefully, and the scent she wore, delicate and feminine, brushed against his taupe-colored sweater when they embraced and the smell would linger on him throughout the evening. Sicily and D’Becca did the European double-cheek bit and kissing the air routine that Sicily picked up during her Broadway days, and D’Becca picked up during her days when she worked European runways. One evening, when Sicily decided to have an impromptu gathering, Rawn and D’Becca dropped by and D’Becca and Sicily discovered that they had people in common—six, or less, degrees of separation.

  Sicily’s loft had the familiar smell of burning logs in the fireplace, and steam-cooked vegetables. Smoked turkey blended with all the rich holiday spices. Scent oil burned and left a smell of gentle ginger floating over the extended living area. There was an entrancing view of Elliott Bay from every floor-to-ceiling window that artfully defined the space. Sicily’s loft was warmly decorated in nontoxic colors of beige and cream, and blended evenly with strong highlights—olive and cinnamon. Framed by soft ivory brown walls, it had a grand ceiling and oversized artwork, including a portrait of Sicily. Her Tony set alone above the fireplace and over it a framed poster of Opposites Don’t Attract!

  Sicily’s latest girlfriend—Rawn remembered her the second he laid eyes on her. It was a while back, but the last time he was at Kingfish Café, he saw her there with Henderson Payne. She came across as being comfortable in her skin and deliberately threw her sexuality around because she knew it would get the attention of men; and more to the point, women would be provoked by the attention she received from the men they were with. Rawn knew enough about Tamara’s history with Henderson because his best friend, Khalil, was his agent. What the hell is she doing with Sicily? She stood at the opposite end of the room, near the naked paned windows and the exposed-brick wall, holding a glass of white wine. Provocatively, Tamara wore a pair of black skin-tight straight-leg suede jeans. Her white sheer poet’s blouse with extended cuffs was see-through and cut low to expose a tattoo that was at the start of her cleavage—the letter H, oversized but in lower case.

  At once, D’Becca was captivated with Tamara, and Rawn picked up on it even before she started in on her compliments and strange attentiveness toward her. D’Becca’s world—and the world Sicily once knew; the same world Khalil was a part of—lacked boundaries. They were uninhibited people, hugging and kissing and touching. It was not a judgment so much as it was an observation. While the three women seemed to have an enigmatic energy between them, Rawn felt out of his depth. D’Becca, Sicily and Tamara started chatting and laughing and acting like old friends from back in the day. They talked about people they had in common, Paris and Milan and Manhattan. Rawn, feeling somewhat excluded, could not stop looking at Tamara. She must have picked up on his curiosity because occasionally she glanced his way. Subtly, she began to flirt, and the amorous nature of her looks was premeditated. Sicily’s new friend began to annoy him. And yet he was unconsciously drawn to her; almost hypnotized by her sex appeal. He wondered if she was still involved with Henderson, and if that were the case, why was she with Sicily? The way she had spoken of Tamara, Sicily was desperately in love with her, and what started between them happened on the fly. In the end, Rawn presaged the outcome: It was inevitably that Sicily would get hurt.

  Before he could catch himself, Rawn broke up their girl-talk with, “Where did you two meet?” Even he could hear the tightness in his throat.

  Sicily flipped her hair off her neck, holding her glass of white wine in her naturally feminine way. When he first noticed that she was drinking Chardonnay, Rawn was unconsciously surprised. It was in large part because she mentioned on their first trip to Chateau Ste. Michelle winery that she did not like white wine; red was her preference. Everything about her—her attitude, body language, the gentleness, the quiet glow that scattered like ashes over a woman’s aura when her life was right where she wanted it to be—suggested Sicily fell, and deep. She was different in this setting—with Tamara in the room. The influence over her was remarkable, and Rawn was not sure what to make of it all.

  “I should have known you weren’t paying attention. I told you where we met,” Sicily replied.

  Tamara tilted forward, her toned legs crossed while her hard cocoa-brown nipples were visible through the sheer poet’s blouse. “I first saw Sicily at Kingfish. She was with you. But we met three weeks ago. A friend and I had left Elliott Bay Books, and we bumped into Sicily. She was alone and we rescued her from whatever she would have done had we not met her that night. My friend invited her to join us. It was all very—what did you call it, Sicily: a contract between souls?”

  Rawn had no intention of being sarcastic. “Just like that?” he said.

  With a delicate touch, D’Becca placed her hand on his thigh. “Rawn!” And with the look of surprise on her face.

  “Just like that,” Tamara said straight into Rawn’s soothing eyes. She wet her tongue with a nip of wine.

  The energy in the room shifted and D’Becca decided to change the mood. “Rawn and I met in a similar way.”

  “How so?” Tamara asked.

  Rawn knew she couldn’t care less.

  “Well, back during the summer I’d just returned from two weeks in New York. It never got below ninety. It was unbearably sticky and I couldn’t wait to get away from the exhausting energy in that city. I mean I wanted to walk out onto the sidewalk and not meet nearly eighty percent humidity. I made an appointment with Gene Juarez first thing. I spent all afternoon…”

  “I love that place,” Tamara interrupted.

  “Do you?” Sicily asked, looking over to Tamara.

  “Oh, lady. There’s this masseuse…her name escapes me, but…I’ll get the name. Try her, luv. Trust me.”

  Flirtatiously, Sicily said, “I do, and I will.”

  “D’Becca, you were saying?” Tamara’s eyes left D’Becca and for a split-second, she met Rawn’s gaze.

  “I’m a block from Café Neuf and it starts to pour down rain,” D’Becca continued. “All day I spent in Gene Juarez and for…naught!”

  Sicily and Tamara were quite amused while Rawn had no clue what was so droll.

  Sicily picked up the expression on his face and said, “It’s a girl thing, Rawn. You don’t know what it’s like to spend hours in a salon and then in ten minutes, your hair is a hot mess.”

  “You see why I wear mine short. I used to have hair down to here,” Tamara said, pointing a ta
d above her elbow. “I finally said to hell with it and chopped it off.”

  “Rawn was amused by the fact that I’d ruined a perfectly good pair of shoes and my hair was ruined. But a few weeks later I ran into him at Street Two and we—we clicked. Maybe we experienced a kinda soul contract, too.”

  “Hmmm,” said Tamara.

  “Yeah, our experiences are similar. I never even realized that.” In that moment, Sicily was exceptionally happy.

  “Who made the first move?” D’Becca asked.

  A hush fell over the room for several slow moments.

  “It’s something you know,” Tamara said, picking the subject back up. “Neither one of us actually made a move.”

  “Well, someone had to do something,” D’Becca said.

  “Who—between you and Rawn—made the first move?” Sicily had never bothered to ask Rawn, but it was not for the lack of curiosity that she failed to inquire.

  “D’Becca did.” Rawn looked straight at Sicily.

  “I did,” she admitted. “Rawn can put a spell on a girl. Watch out, Tamara.”

  “You haven’t met Khalil yet, I take it?” Sicily asked D’Becca.

  “I know a Khalil.” Tamara’s voice was so blasé, and because she was one-dimensional, she failed to make the connection.

  “Not yet, but we’re going skiing in Vail with him and his girlfriend, aren’t we?” D’Becca looked over to Rawn, seeking confirmation.

  Rawn, his head lowered, said in a quiet voice, “It’s a plan.” His cognac-colored eyes roamed to Tamara and that’s when he decided she was hollow.

  From the moment they arrived, a burning question stayed at the tip of his tongue, although Rawn felt it impolite to ask it. But then D’Becca broached the subject without him having to.

  “Tamara, I’ve been dying to ask.”

  Tamara extended D’Becca a cunning look.

  “Weren’t…didn’t you…you’re the one who had a thing with Henderson Payne that was splashed all over the tabloids?”