The Wedding: Dark Romance

by Sienna Mynx

  “Thank you, Georgie.”

  Georgie comes over and hugs me. I squeeze her to my chest. We are the same height.

  “Now, can you take off your sheriff's hat and help me find my jazz man?”

  “Okay.”

  “He's cute, I just want him to be my friend,” I tease Georgie with a sly smile. “I don't need him to know my baggage. Promise me you won't tell Marcel about Xavier? And stop mentioning my brothers. Promise?”

  Georgie does an invisible zip of her lips. She tosses the key. I nod. She nods. We do our cross hand shake and snap of our fingers like we used to do as kids. We laugh and hug each other again. With Georgie I’ll never grow up. I always end a disagreement with a hug. She’s the best friend I could ever have. The night feels good once again. Where did my Cajun go?

  I slam the trunk to my ride and see my man Marcel on the sidewalk giving me the stink-eye. I nod to him and in a flash the rules are all transferred and understood.

  I will be a gentleman.

  I will deliver the lady home safe.

  I will go only as far as the lady likes.

  I will obey all traffic laws to and from my place.

  I will not cause any blow back to Marcel and his relationship with princess Georgie. I don't have to be told that this beauty isn't some groupie or piece of ass. I can already feel that Coco is special.

  “You sure about this?” Georgie asks. She leans in with her hands fastened to the door on the passenger side of my car. After a night of dancing and whispering my best 'come-with-me-girl' lines in Coco's ear she was nothing but a tease. And then we kissed. Now she's leaving with me. But her best friend, who I thought was inebriated, sobered quick. Georgie is a firecracker. Her and Marcel have had plenty of shouting matches and hot and heavy makeup sessions right in front of me. She's the only obstacle now between me and heaven tonight. And if Georgie doesn’t want it to go down it won’t go down.

  “She'll be fine with me Georgie, I swear,” I tell her. Georgie shoots me a withering glare. Coco laughs.

  “We discussed it Brick. Georgie is cool. Right Georgie? Right?”

  “Mmmhmm,” Georgie says.

  “I’m okay. I know my way home,” Coco says and kisses Georgie on the cheek.

  “Don't play around Brick. You do anything but deliver my girl safe and sound I'll tell Marcel and her brothers…. ah, just know you’ll get your ass kicked.”

  “Georgie!” Coco gasps. “You promised!”

  Brothers? I frown and look at Coco who is putting on an innocent grin for me. “How many brothers do you have?”

  “Six. Two of them married and living in Texas. Three of them out in the Gulf, and one of them lives here in N'awlins with me. I'm the baby,” she winks. Georgie points a warning finger at me and then smiles at her friend before Marcel pulls her away. Now it's just me and Coco. We are in my convertible. It’s a 2012 bumblebee yellow corvette stingray. A special gift from Pops. The Bondurants deal in cars, above and under the law. And business with my father and brothers is good. I don’t care about the money. I just want the Bone Room, and that’s fine with the family. That's why they don't give a shit about my club. Blood money of the Bondurants washes clean here on Dauphine Street.

  “Where too?” I ask.

  “I live in English Turn with my grand-mère and brother,” she says. The news is disappointing. I glance over at her. My suspicions are right. She's one of those girls. And now I hear she got six mean brothers.

  “How about your place first, and mine for breakfast?” she asks.

  “What about your grand-mère and brother?”

  “She’s in Shreveport visiting with my mom and dad.” Coco says then looks straight ahead. “My brother, well, my family owns a distillery in Lafayette.”

  “So?” I ask and start up my ride.

  “Bayou rum! Nathan, my brother, he goes out there on Wednesdays. Usually leave around six in the morning and stay all night. He thinks I'm with Georgie. So you can take me home after sunrise.”

  “I thought you were in school?”

  “I am, I go to Tulane, graduating in a few weeks. But my family…” she sighs. “It's a long story. They kind of protective over me. Won’t let me get an apartment or anything. It sucks.”

  “Indeed,” I say and pull out onto the one-way street. I bring up the top of the ‘vette before the first drops fall. She looks relaxed. Her lids are low and she's smiling.

  “What's your story?” I ask.

  “No story. Just looking to make friends.”

  “Friends huh?”

  “Yep. Friends. What's your story? You in a band? Or you a solo artist?”

  “Both. Marcel is going to manage a deal that I think might work out for me. May send me to Paris for a stretch. My old man won't like it.”

  “He don't like your career choices?” she asks.

  “Nope, he don't think they real choices. Thinks I’m just having fun with Smoke, and I’ll never be a real jazz man. Calls my saxophone a flute.”

  “Has he heard you play?”

  “Hundred of times, doesn’t change his opinion. Most of my family can play instruments. It’s no big deal to him. He don't mind my gigs but he thinks it’s something I'm toying at. Not something I'm good at. Does that make sense?”

  “I understand, that,” she says. “How old are you?”

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Twenty-two, in graduate school. And you?”

  “I’m twenty-four, dropped out of school in the twelfth grade.”

  “Are you serious?” Her face wrinkles with disgust.

  “That a problem?”

  “Ah, no, but why drop out in the twelfth grade? All you had to do was graduate?”

  “I only stayed in school because my mother insisted. When she died my senior year I didn't feel much like it anymore. Pops didn't care. None of my brothers have gone passed the tenth grade in school. He had already gifted me the club. I spent most of my time in the Quarter with Smoke. So that became my home.”

  “Why do they call you Brick? It’s a strange name?”

  We’re traveling down the dark quiet roads to the back end of the Quarter. But I can still hear the music, laughter, and bottle breaking off of Bourbon Street. It carries in the wind. As does her question. Why indeed?

  “Long story,” I evade.

  ‘Tell me,” she insists.

  I look over at her and she gives me a look of defiance. This woman is used to getting her way. I park outside of my condo and turn off my ride. We aren't far from the quarter. My place went untouched during Katrina. Many people were surprised. Some say its because my street is haunted. A couple not too far from me rode out the storm. Months later the man killed and cooked his woman in a pot and then jumped from a roof to his death. I’d say there are strong reasons for superstition on my street. But my Mocha baby feels like my good luck charm tonight.

  “Tell me!”

  “Okay, okay! I was eight. Like I said before I always loved the Quarter. When Smoke would bring me down here to get the place ready for a night performance he’d give me money to hit up the praline candy shop on Royal street. One day I go, and I run into some “Bottle-Cap” boys. You know the kids that put bottle caps under the soles of their shoes and tap dance for money. They were around my age at the time. It was early and not many tourists were out. The kids were there to get ahead of the competition. Any ways, they know who I am. They seen me go in and out of the candy shop before so they know I got money. They try to shake me down for it. We fight and a lady breaks us up. I take off for Dauphine street and six of them are after me. Running fast. Most ignore us. I almost got hit by a car twice. I make it to the alley that leads to the club but I’m all out of flight wind. I’m wheezing and trying to catch my breath. The boys surround me. The biggest one is twice my size in height. I guessed that he was the leader. He shoves me and I land in some broken bottle glass. He kicks my leg so hard I holler for Smoke. Smoke comes out. He stops and looks at us. The boys don’t see h
im, but I do. I think he’s going to help me. I won’t him to help me.”

  “Is he? Did he help you?”

  “No,” I smile. “He gives me this look.”

  “What look?”

  “It’s hard to explain. It’s a look.”

  “Why a look?”

  “I grew up in the bayou. Blacks and Cajuns get into fights and then go on about their business all the time. But every man needs to defend himself. He has to start somewhere. That’s how my Pops and Smoke see it. Smoke stabbed Pops once after a drunken night. They were up drinking and out hunting the next day.”

  She frowns. I understand why the logic is lost on her. Maybe I should stop the story and not ruin the night. But she puts a hand on my thigh. I get a look of what to me seems like sympathy. I have to hold back my laughter. Does she think I’m sad or ashamed? She’s wrong. I’m proud. And I’m proud of what I did to that bully.

  “So what happens to the boy? Does he beat you up?”

  “Not really. He tries but my hand is on a brick. I get up and I use it. I want to hit him in the face with it but he’s too tall. So I use it to punch his gut three hard times and he’s bent over craping his pants and vomiting. The kids run out. Before I can smash his head with the brick good Smoke stops me. So I drop the brick and we leave it there with the crying kid. When I get home Smoke is telling my Pops and my uncles the story. From that day on they called me Brick.”

  “That’s a terrible story. I like it,” she grins.

  I laugh and she leans over to kiss me. I can taste the rum on her lips. It’s sweeter on her tongue.

  “You want to come inside?” I ask her.

  “That's why we’re here,” she says and settles back in her seat. She waits. Like a lady. I get out of the car and walk around it to open her door. She steps out with my help. I have to get my sax from the trunk. They can take the car. I could give a damn. But someone steals my horn and I'm libel to commit homicide.

  Ms. Mocha is walking up the sidewalk like she knows where she’s going. I have to catch up. “You live over here, don't you,” she asks. She points to the middle two condos. “I’m right? Aren’t I?”

  “Yeah, I live in that one. How did you know?”

  “I got the gift.”

  “What gift?”

  “The seeing gift.”

  “Oh yeah? You gris-gris?”

  “No. It’s not voodoo silly. When I was born I had a caul over my face. My grand-mère says it gave me sight and was a good omen for the family. Many people believe that it makes the child special. That's what they told my mother at the hospital too. She had nothing but boys before me. She was in her forties when she found out she was pregnant with me. Never mind. I don't see ghosts or nothing. I just get these feelings. Like intuition.”

  She stops on the sidewalk and looks me in the eye. “Like the feeling I got when you played your saxophone for me. The feeling that let me know that you are the one, for tonight anyway. Same feeling that said you stay here.”

  “You bullshitting!” I laugh.

  She doesn't.

  I have to swallow my smile. I look over to my place and then to her. She steps closer to me. Steps right in front of me. And the rain is like a light mist blowing over us both. I look into her eyes and do feel bewitched. Fuck, it's N'awlins. Who wouldn’t?

  “Tell me Brick ‘slayer of the bottle cap boys’ when you saw me come down those stairs in this purple dress while you was playing cards did you get a feeling, or no?”

  I bit down on my bottom lip, that's gone tough from wetting my reed on my instrument. And I'm taken down by the question. Hell, yeah I felt it. Had me hopping out of my seat like my chair was a hot plate. Felt it again when I kissed her. Never wanted to kiss and drink a babe as much as I did her. It was instant heat. Like lightening trapped in my chest.

  “I’m getting wet?” she says with a sly smile.

  “Shit!” I grab her hand and pull her toward the steps. We go up three and stop at my door. I'm fumbling with the key but I manage to get the door open. I toss it wide and she walks inside. She pauses to step out of her high-heel shoes and I can see she's a bit shorter than I originally thought. I set my case down at the door. I don't have ceiling lights in my place. I prefer it that way. I light my home by lamps and cool it with floor fans. So I start to turn on a few. Coco is checking out my paintings. Every wall has one. Each of them done by a girl I dated years ago. She hung them too. Some are pretty good. All of them are supposedly of me and my saxophone. But it's abstract art so its just a bunch of colors, jagged lines, triangles and circles that take shapes.

  “I like this one,” Coco says.

  Instantly know which painting she's referencing. “Yeah, that's call ‘Cream in the Bayou’.”

  “Really? I can’t see it,” she says and tilts her head left. “More like Cajun in the Bayou.”

  I pause. That is exactly what I call it from time to time. She is intuitive.

  “Am I right?” she asks.

  “You need to stop doing that psychic stuff, it’s getting in my head.”

  “Common sense, really. Look at all of this?” she points to my collection of ‘Proud to be Cajun’ candles and shot glasses. I even got a shirt tacked on the wall that says: Cajun Lickin Good.

  “But that’s offensive,” she says and points to a plaque I have on a wall. It say’s “Registered Louisiana Coonass.”

  “Do you know what it means?” I ask her.

  “I do.”

  I’m not sure if she does. Most blacks find the word “Coon” as offensive as the N-word.

  “What does it mean?” I press her.

  “It’s a stereotype of Cajuns that they were lower than blacks. They were given that name because people believed Cajuns regularly ate raccoons.”

  I smile. “That over there belonged to my grandfather. Not sure where he got it from. But I’ve kept it. And yeah, he hunted raccoons. Took no offense to being called a coonass.”

  “Yucky!” She smiles and then walks over to me. Her purple mini-dress is sticking to her curves. Her nipples are large for her small breasts. And they poke through the strained fabric. To my delight she reaches down and pulls the dress up over her head. In a flash its tossed to the floor. She's standing before me in some high-waisted thong—nothing else. C'est magnifique! I want to shout. But I maintain my cool. I take off my hat and toss it like a frisbee across the room. She laughs. And then Ms. Mocha Lady is on the move. Like the Pied Piper of Hamlin she's leading the way by the sway of her hips. Playing my song. I have no choice but to follow. She's heavenly from the front—but from the back? This is where heaven makes a u-turn for sinful decadence. Never seen an ass so perfect in symmetry and roundness. I can't wait to push up behind it.

  I wonder if Ms. Psychic can find my bedroom? It's not hard. There are only two doors to my flat, one to the bathroom and the other to the bedroom. She passes through without hesitation. To make the room pleasant I turn on the lamp near the bed. The bulb is low wattage so it only illuminates half the room.

  Before I can turn around she takes my hand and pulls me to her. Again the kiss between us is a natural thing. It's as if our lips have turned into magnets. Coco leaps up and I catch her so she can wrap those thick thighs of hers around my waist. Her warm chest is pressed against mine. She smells like a rose dipped in spicy rum. When I bring her down on the bed she pulls me with her. I can't undress with her holding me so tightly. There's a burning need in me to be naked and inside of her. We playfully continue to kiss and roll around on my sheets until she gains the advantage and pins me down.

  She sits up on my lap and smiles down at me. “I don't know if I can call you Brick when we make love. You feel more like a Byran to me,” she rubbed her hands over my chest.

  “Make love? You in love cher?” I ask her.

  “People get love wrong. Love is more of a feeling. I’ve fallen in love with many things, people, places.”

  “Tell me more.” The lamplight reveals part of her face and body
while the other part is bathed in a shadow. Her hair is wavy from the rain and slung over the right side of her face. She's a has a rich brown tan that smooths out across her mocha skin with flawless perfection. Not a mark or blemish. Maybe it's the liquor, the excitement of having her for the night. I don't know but she's got me relaxing and tensing all over.

  “My definition of love is similar to Corelli Mandolin's interpretation. That love between a man and a woman is a temporary madness,” she says in a voice of a poet. “It erupts like a volcano and then recedes like the waters of the ocean. It is not excitement. It is not the promises of eternal passion. It is not the desire to make love every minute of the day. It’s not lying awake at night imagining that your man is kissing every sweet spot of your body when the distance between you is too much to bare. That is just being ‘in love’, which any person can do. Love itself is what is left over when ‘being in love’ has burned away, and this I consider both an art and a fortunate accident.”

  “Ah, hmmm, okay, so that's a poet speaking not you?”

  “He speaks through me,” she smiles.

  “So you’re into poetry?”

  “I want to be an writer, a screenplay writer. One day I will write the Great American Story on broadway with an all black cast to the sound of jazz.”

  “I think that’s been done.”

  “Not by me.”

  “Ah, I see, and love is fleeting? Isn’t that what the poet is saying? If that’s true then why bother making love? Why not just fuck? We can do that tonight you know.”

  Her smile fades. She looks at me and I see a serious glean in her eyes. “I like to make love because it’s a feeling, not an emotion for me. And it fades to make room for more new feelings. I don't imagine I will ever be in love. That takes a level of commitment to one emotion that is just an illusion. Fucking, is raw, and animalistic, not gratifying to me. But for men, yeah, you can poke your dick a hole and get all the love you need. If I share my body it’s meaningful, no matter who I choose. Remember that feeling I had when I first heard you play?"