And then he began to play.
As he rocked back and forth, the guitar wailed, sang and whined, sounding eerily like a human voice at times. The tune was one Robyn had never heard before, alternating crescendo and diminuendo, loud and soft, celebratory and mournful. Etienne and his partners leaned forward in their seats as though scarcely believing their ears. Robyn didn’t know enough about music to say whether Chris was good or not. But what held her, kept her from moving a muscle and seemed to have stopped her breath, was the look of rapt concentration, the emotional hunch of his shoulders, his tightly shut eyes and the movements he made with his lips as though speaking to the guitar, coaxing it to make music.
And then—far too soon—he was finished and looking up, his eyes regaining awareness of the here-and-now, as though he had been channeling something divine and had returned all at once back to earth. Etienne flipped a switch, the lights went up once again and Chris squinted. When he returned to the control room, his Pouvoir Noir partners hugged him, and there was something new in their eyes, a kinship that now accompanied the respect. Chris was no longer just the moneyed American.
He was one of them; an artist.
19
Robyn slid down Chris’ torso, tonguing his chest, along his sternum, pausing at his abs and kissing him there, moving lower still.
They were supposed to be getting ready for dinner. For their last night in Paris, Etienne was taking them all out for a celebratory meal and a night in the clubs where the “music that matters” was played. Chris liked that; that a French guy could call hip-hop the music that mattered. So he was looking forward to it, but as soon as he and Robyn shut the door to the suite, she attacked him, stripping on the way to the bedroom, dropping items of clothing on the stairs as she ascended.
“You were . . . so . . . so . . . sexy with that guitar,” Robyn breathed against his stomach now. “I wanted to rip your clothes off right there . . . and then when you . . .”
She didn’t finish her sentence because she had taken him in her mouth and the stunning, sudden pleasure of it made a choking noise escape the back of Chris’ throat. Robyn was not a woman who got shy when faced with hard dick, that was for damn sure. Her tongue curled around the shaft, her jaws hollowed as she sucked him deep, swallowing as though she wanted to detach it at the root.
“Damn, baby,” he gasped, lifting off the sheets.
Robyn raised her head and smiled, looking for a moment sweet and innocent, if that were possible for a woman engaged in her present activity.
“I love it when you call me that,” she said.
“I’ll call you whatever you want.”
Chris closed his eyes and felt the slow build of pressure at the pit of his stomach, the inevitability of his what would come next. But so far it had been all about him, so he forced himself to pull away. Robyn licked her lips, pulling her the lower one in and looking up at him. Her hair was disheveled in that sexy, just-been-fucked way. Except she hadn’t been fucked.
Not yet.
Chris sat up and pulled her toward him, turning her over onto her stomach. In bed, always, no matter how he moved her around and arranged her body, she complied, without even the barest hint of hesitation. His eyes fell to the bruise on her tailbone that had become that strange shade of yellow, the purple fading to black; Chris leaned over and kissed it, his tongue swirling in circles over the tender area. Robyn sighed, her buttocks arching up toward him.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked.
Robyn groaned and turned over onto her back, throwing an arm across her eyes.
“No, Chris, it doesn’t hurt,” she said. “And I’m getting tired of talking about it, honestly.”
“You don’t want to talk about it because you don’t want me to remember that you threw yourself off the bike.”
She looked at him, blinked and then sighed. “Thanks for killing the mood.”
“I just don’t want you to be hurt,” he said, before he could stop himself. It was a fleeting thought that had escaped the filter, passing between his lips before he could censor it.
Robyn removed her arm from across her face and propped herself up, her eyes wide and suddenly softer as she looked at him.
“I know you don’t,” she said quietly. “And so I’ll be careful. Haven’t you ever wanted to do something that other people told you was crazy, that you knew you could do anyway?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Start a record company.”
“So you should understand. Because what I’m doing isn’t nearly as risky as that.”
“No,” Chris shook his head. “It’s riskier. You could cripple yourself. Or lose your life. All I had to lose was a dream.”
“Well, nothing’s worse than letting go of a dream,” Robyn said, staring off into space for a moment. Then she was smiling and looking at him again. “Y’know that’s one thing you never told me—what it feels like to accomplish everything you ever wanted to. I mean, that has to be just . . . epic, right?”
Chris grinned at her choice of words. “You’re starting to sound like the kids around the office,” he said.
“Kids,” Robyn said. “Like you’re so old.”
“I’m thirty-eight. I could be their father, some of them.”
“If you started early, sure. So when Deuce was born you were, what? Twenty-two?”
Chris nodded. “And nowhere near ready to be anybody’s Daddy.”
“But now . . .”
“Still not ready,” Chris joked, reaching for her. “But I think I’ll keep the ones I’ve got.”
“That’s a rotten attitude to have about parenting.”
“How’d we get on this topic anyway?” he said. Sliding a hand between her legs, Chris stroked her.
“Can’t remember,” Robyn said, but now she seemed pensive, not nearly as enthusiastic as she’d been just minutes earlier. “You were the one who ruined the mood.”
“Let’s see if we can get it back, then,” he said inserting two fingers.
Warm. Wet. Silken. Hot.
Robyn shut her eyes, lifting her ass off the bed. Dropping his head, Chris kissed her across her stomach, from hip to hip, his fingers stroking and twisting, moving back and forth until she moaned, digging her fingers into the sheets. Chris liked looking at her face when she made sounds like she was making now, so he raised his head, watching her bare her teeth and bite down. He lowered his head again and spreading her wide, tasted her.
“Do it,’ she said, her breaths short and ragged. “Do it now.”
Between them, they’d developed a habit, that before the act could be completed someone would have to say the magic word, the word that signaled surrender . . . He’d come close a couple times, but Robyn was always the one to give in first and say it.
“Please,” she gasped. “Please.”
And at that, Chris raised his head and wasted no time moving up her body, and grasping her hips, pulling her back against him. He plunged deep, feeling himself enveloped in a smooth warmth, liquid and molten. Robyn opened her eyes and grasped his face in both her hands.
“Baby,” he said.
Robyn smiled.
___________________
“Before we fly back tomorrow,” Robyn said. “I wanted to make sure of something.”
Standing next to him the elevator as they rode down to the lobby to meet Etienne and Jamal for their night out, Robyn was wearing a white silk mini-dress, little more than a chemise, from what Chris could tell. With it she wore satin sandals, high enough to accentuate her lithe legs, perfect calves. But the dress was so short that if she dropped something, there was no way he was letting her bend over to pick it up. Lots of women dressed like this when they were going to nightclubs. Most women did. It was standard nightlife attire. Reciting that in his head didn’t make him feel much better about it, but he felt compelled to continue the recitation nevertheless.
Whenever they had sex, what happened afterwards was something Chris couldn’t recall experiencing before. He felt
possessive of her, agitated and very, very uncomfortable. It reminded him of the time back in the day when his custom was to get high with his boys before going into the studio. All he ever did was smoke a little weed, but once someone had given him a joint that, he didn’t find out until later, was laced with a cocaine. Chris recalled the experience as one of the most unpleasant of his life. He was too high—jumpy, anxious and a little paranoid, and coming down hadn’t been the soft descent from a marijuana high, it had been a crash landing. It was like that with Robyn. Releasing her to the world, and acknowledging that she was a free agent was an unpleasant crashing down to earth. The fact that in his bed, she gave herself completely over to him, and then afterwards could put on a dress like this one, and belong to any man who wanted to look at her drove him just to the edge of what felt like crazy.
“Chris?”
“Yeah,” he said, focusing once again. “You have something to ask me. What is it?”
She moved closer, touching the lapel of his shirt, leaning into him. “About my lessons with Jon . . .”
He laughed. “Seriously? Are we back to that?”
Robyn laughed with him at first and then became serious once again. “Chris, I promise . . .”
And at that moment the elevator opened at the lobby level and they had to get out. Robyn paused before exiting, looking at him imploringly. He shook his head and mouthed the word ‘no’ and she exhaled sharply.
“I could pay him myself,” she threatened.
“You couldn’t afford it,” he returned.
Before she could respond, Jamal was coming toward them. He extended a hand to Chris for some dap and grinned at Robyn.
“Let’s go tear some shit up,” he said.
Etienne took them to a small, noisy Moroccan restaurant where the walls were painted a warm, dark orange and adorned with rich tapestries in brown and maroon. Circular tables, intricately carved and exquisitely beautiful, were so low that they all sat on the ground on plush cushions instead of chairs. Because of her short dress, Robyn had a giggly few minutes trying to arrange herself so that no one could see up her skirt. Jamal and Etienne watched her navigate the dilemma with a little too much focus and interest for Chris’ taste. But finally, she managed to sit with her legs modestly folded to one side, knees pressed together.
Their servers were dark-haired young women with kohl-circled eyes, and crimson lips, wearing dramatic traditional dress and anklets on their bare feet. Chris had been to Paris—and once to Morocco itself—so he knew it was all an overdone, not-entirely-accurate and gimmicky show meant for tourists, but Robyn was entranced with it, as she had been with just about everything on the trip. Her smiles and delighted reactions transfixed him. For her, every tiny thing was an experience, a new adventure to be had. From the lighting on the walls, the tapestries which she reached out to caress with her fingertips, to the spicy and unfamiliar appetizers. While everyone else remained blasé and even bored by the scene, Robyn dived right into the evening, like a kid hugging her knees and jumping into a pool.
The meal, when it came, was served family-style in enormous brass platters: lamb with prunes and apricots, couscous, salmon with sharmoula, khubz, bstilla and tajine, all presented with dramatic flair. Hungry from the evening’s earlier exertions, Chris dug in, and Robyn did the same. Undaunted when told that there were no utensils, she reached into the platters and followed Etienne’s lead for how to capture and direct clumps of food into her mouth with the flavorful flatbreads. Crumbs at the corner of her mouth were brushed away unselfconsciously, and she flipped her bangs out of her eyes.
Equal parts pleased that she was having a good time, and displeased that she was spending some of that time with Etienne, Chris tried to concentrate on listening to Jamal. He was staying on in Paris after they left, and was peppering him with questions, wanting to make sure he had his marching orders correct. But Chris’ focus was tested, as he kept looking over at Robyn who seemed determined to at least try every single one of the flavored alcoholic drinks Etienne was plying her with at every opportunity. Her eyes were becoming a little bright, a little glassy as the drinks took their effect.
“There is one more place I wish I had taken you,” Etienne said to her, leaning in closer. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”
Probably making his last ditch effort to get some, before his Black American dream flew away.
Robyn looked up. “Eleven, right Chris?”
He nodded.
“We might have time,” Etienne said, smiling at her. “If you get up very early. Or don’t sleep.”
“Oh, but I have to sleep,” Robyn responded. “It’s one of my favorite things to do.”
She obviously didn’t see what Chris saw, and heard. The implication that if she was awake all night, she would be with Etienne, and that they would be doing something that made her want to be up, something that required her to be up. Chris circled his neck, trying to loosen up the tension he felt beginning there.
“Sleep on the plane,” Etienne suggested.
Robyn smiled at him. “Thank you, but I think you’ve done enough for me this trip. I only hope I get a chance to return the favor one day.”
Etienne shook his head dismissively. “Me in New York? No, I don’t see this happening.”
“If you’re about to say something messed up about my city, I’ma let you have it,” Jamal warned.
“It is energetic and alive,” Etienne said with a wave of the hand, as though grudgingly admitting something unpleasant. “Vibrant, and . . . soulless.”
Jamal laughed. “Oh no you didn’t.”
Etienne shrugged. “It is a place that takes but does not give.”
“That’s funny coming from you.” Chris leaned back and took a deep swallow of his drink.
Etienne looked up. “How so?”
“You take.”
Etienne looked puzzled.
“You take our music, you take our culture. Our style of dress . . . and you replicate it and you put a French-Algerian label on it. And you even have the nerve to call it ‘Black Power’.”
Etienne’s face fell and his eyes narrowed.
“The phrase alone is purely American. The music is American. So you take, Etienne. And the reason we let you?” Chris continued. “The only reason? Is because you can make all the hip-hop you want, but it doesn’t make you Black, and it sure as hell doesn’t make you American.”
___________________
The terrace doors were open when they returned to the suite and from below they could hear the late night revelry continue without them. Etienne and Jamal had continued on to the clubs, but after dinner, Robyn announced to everyone that she was tired would just as soon return to the hotel, so Chris had taken her as she knew he would. Outside the restaurant, before they got in a car, she kissed Etienne on both cheeks, and whispered in his ear: thank you, you’re a good friend.
As are you, he returned, and his eyes and voice were warm.
The private exchange was a tiny thing, but it was all she could do to salve the wound to his ego Chris had inflicted.
Robyn kicked her shoes off and went to wash away her make-up as soon as they were in the suite, then standing on the terrace and looking out at the city, she took it in for what could well be the last time. Behind her in the room, she heard Chris moving around, probably changing out of his clothes as well, and moments later he was behind her, pressing against her, caging her in with his arms.
“That was beneath you,” she said.
“What was?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Trying to humiliate him.”
Chris said nothing, but pressed harder against her. Robyn could feel him getting hard against the small of her back.
“Everyone at that table knows who you are, and what you can do,” she said. “It wasn’t necessary for you to . . . show your power in that way, Chris. I’m disappointed in you.”
“Disappointed?�
� That word seemed to get his attention. He grabbed her by the arms and turned her around so she was facing him. “Why? Because I put him in his place?”
“He already knows his place,” she said, keeping her voice level. “He knows full well that at the end of the day, despite all his posturing, you could buy or sell his company on a whim.”
Chris sucked his teeth and looked away from her, over her shoulder.
“That’s not the kind of thing you do,” Robyn pressed on. “Bring people to heel just for the fun of it.”
He cleared his throat and would not meet her gaze, and Robyn saw him, for the first time since she’d known him, look unsure of himself. Thrown off balance.
“So what was that about?”
Chris put his hands up, cupping her breasts, stroking them, saying nothing, behaving as though she hadn’t spoken either. Because they’d made love earlier, Robyn knew his motive as he touched her now wasn’t just sex. This time would be about possession as much as it was desire.
“I didn’t mean to make you jealous. That’s not what I was trying to do.”
His eyes met hers again and he looked surprised. Robyn realized in that instant that not only was her guess right on point, but she’d actually identified for Chris a feeling he didn’t even know he was having.
“Etienne was a gentleman the entire time we spent together,” she said slowly. “Even when we were in Lyon. He knows that I’m . . . He never even tried anything. And if he had, in case you’re wondering, I would have shut it down.”
Chris still did not speak. Instead he reached up and slid the satin straps of her dress down over her shoulders. Out there on the stone terrace, no one could see them. It was dark and the walls were four feet high, and solid. When the dress fell to her feet, Robyn knew her exposure was only symbolic, witnessed by no one but them; even if it hadn’t been, she wasn’t sure she would have moved to cover herself. And she still didn’t when Chris crouched before her, removing her underwear so that she was completely naked. Robyn stepped away from them and when Chris stood upright once again, she let him look at her.
Afterwards Page 18