by Amber Brock
“We drink for free now?” Sebastian asked.
“Not you. The girls. For you, ten cents.” Marcela held the drinks out to Kitty and Hen, paying no attention to the boys’ groans of protest.
Kitty liked the sugary smell of the rum. She took a gulp to help settle her nerves and wished she’d worn something else. Hen was the only other woman in the room wearing a full swing skirt. Some had curve-hugging skirts like Marcela’s, and a few wore similarly snug capris. All of them had bare shoulders, and most had long hair piled high. At least Kitty’s layer of eye-catching lipstick fit the scene. She edged to the window where Hen had claimed a chair, hoping to feel a wisp of the cool night air. Though they had just come in, the warmth of the packed bodies had already caused sweat to break out on Kitty’s skin. She sucked an ice cube out of her glass and let it melt on her tongue.
Max paid for his drink and crossed to where Kitty stood. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Kitty didn’t answer. She was fixed on Sebastian, who was asking Hen to dance. “I hope she doesn’t stumble too much. Dancing was never Hen’s greatest talent.”
“She’ll be fine with him. He’s good enough for both of them.” Max tapped a finger against his glass. “What about you? Do you want to dance?”
“With Sebastian? Absolutely.”
“With me. I know you’re good. I saw you showing off that night in New York.”
She thought about how Max had looked at her as she left the dance floor that night, and the back of her neck tingled. Just as quickly, she recalled their odd interaction in her apartment. Still, she couldn’t say no; it was her job to distract him. She placed her drink on a nearby chair and held out a hand. They went closer to the musicians but still kept a little distance from the other dancers. She marveled that only three musicians could make music so loud. The sound pulsed under her skin.
Max laid a hand on her waist and pulled her close. He smelled like Burma-Shave and pomade. She could feel his hip bone against hers, and this time the heat in her face had nothing to do with the crowded room. He pressed his cheek against hers and whispered in her ear, “Just move with me.”
Then he moved—one long, languid stride followed by a few staccato steps. His hand felt unexpectedly strong through the fabric of her dress. He guided her so effortlessly, she felt as if she’d known the dance her whole life. She pulled back.
“Where did this come from?” she asked.
“Years of practice. I’ve been coming to this place for a long time.” There was a wicked look in his eye. “Why? Do you like it?”
“I’m surprised you wanted to dance with me,” she said. “Last time we talked you didn’t seem so interested.”
He reeled her out, holding her at arm’s length for a beat before pulling her close again. “But now it turns out you’ve got brains under all that style. That changes things.”
She touched her cheek to his once more, speaking softly in his ear. “You like me better because I’ve read a couple of books, huh?”
“Does that bother you? I’m betting you like it when a guy’s interested because of your looks.” His hand slid from her waist to her back.
“A cute girl doesn’t do it for you?” She tightened her grip on his shoulder.
“A pretty birdbrain doesn’t do it for me.”
“And what are you going to do if I am a birdbrain? Then you’ll only be interested because of my looks. I’m betting that would bug a guy like you.”
“Then I’ll have to get to know you better. Find out which you are.”
The song came to a dramatic end with a final pounding flourish from the bongo player. Kitty held Max’s gaze for a moment before going to retrieve her drink. So he is interested, she thought. Good. One more box checked off on her list. A little more interest, and she might be able to separate him entirely from his wayward friend.
An idea came to her so suddenly that she was shocked she hadn’t thought of it before. One of those intimate moments with Max might be of more use to her than simply throwing Hen in Sebastian’s path. Max would be the perfect person to get her off the hook with Andre. She could talk Max up, ask when he would be coming back to New York, little tidbits like that. Then, when Andre started to suspect her interest, she could arrange a little romantic interlude with Max near the end of their time in Miami for Andre to stumble upon. He’d know he never had a chance, and he’d probably think the whole trip was Kitty’s way of seeing Max again. Only a dope would want to go after a girl who’d used him that way.
At last, all the major elements had come together. Max would get Andre off the table and solve the problem of her father’s demands. If Andre wasn’t interested, Kitty’s father could hardly insist that she marry him then. He’d have no choice but to change his ultimatum, maybe to something more palatable, especially if she had an alternative husband lined up. And she would. Sebastian would help her separate Hen and Charles and, once Hen approved, Charles would be hers for the taking. All she had to do was arrange the proper timing, and soon everyone would have exactly what they deserved. Kitty would have her new social sphere, Hen the right match, and Charles all the payback he could handle.
Flush with excitement, Kitty eagerly agreed when Sebastian asked her to dance. She expected him to be the superior dancer of the two men but was surprised to find that he and Max were evenly matched in terms of skill. Every so often, she threw a glance over Sebastian’s shoulder to be sure Max still had his eyes on her. Even though he’d asked Hen to dance, Kitty was pleased to find that he was, indeed, watching her every chance he got.
“Are you having fun?” Sebastian asked when they took a break.
“I am,” Kitty said, taking another sip of her drink. She liked rum, as it turned out. “It’s different from how I pictured Miami.”
“There is more than one Miami,” he said.
“Which one is this?”
He grinned. “This is cubano. So much like Cuba. Although Marisol there—” He pointed to a tall, dark-skinned girl with a green print dress. “She is dominicana. Alonso is from the Dominican, too. But the sounds, the flavors, the people creating a party out of nothing…it’s so much like my home. Well…some parts of the island.” A cloud flickered over his expression so quickly, Kitty thought she’d imagined it.
“Cuba’s easy to get to from Miami, right? Maybe Hen and I should go while we’re here.”
He shook his head. “You may not want to go there right now. There was some…trouble this summer. Some people are unhappy.” He paused. “It might not be over.”
Before Kitty could respond, Sebastian stood. “I’d better ask Marcela to dance,” he said. “She doesn’t like to sit for long. Excuse me.”
She nodded, still puzzled. The only things she’d ever heard about Cuba involved movie stars and tropical drinks. She couldn’t picture movie stars sweltering in a converted living room, though. There was a more glamorous side to Cuba; Kitty had seen it in magazines. Sebastian must have grown up in the wrong part, she concluded. Perhaps that was why he was in Miami now.
Hen sat down in the chair next to Kitty, panting slightly. “Who would’ve thought Max could dance like that? Wowee.”
“He’s made an impression on you, has he?” Kitty swirled the few slivers of ice that remained in her glass.
“Nothing close to the impression you’ve made on him.” Hen leaned in. “Don’t look now, but I think you’ve still got his eye.”
Kitty flicked her gaze over to the makeshift bar and found Max watching her. “He thinks he’s hot stuff.”
“After dancing with him, I’m inclined to agree,” Hen said.
“I thought Sebastian was your guy.”
“You know very well that Charles is my guy.” Hen’s expression darkened. She sat up and brightened once more as Max approached with a fresh drink in each hand.
“Thought you two might be thir
sty,” he said. The girls accepted their drinks, thanking him. As he sat on Kitty’s other side, Hen raised her eyebrows at Kitty. Kitty resisted the urge to swat Hen. Even though she had been trying to hook Max, she didn’t want Hen teasing her about her success. Or worse, believing that Kitty actually liked him. Fortunately, Sebastian returned from his dance with Marcela a few minutes later. He asked Kitty to dance, but she declined, and Hen took her place.
“Are you waiting for me to ask you again?” Max said.
“I’m enjoying my drink and the music, thank you.” Kitty dabbed at an errant drop of condensation that had landed on her skirt. “So where does Marcela find all these people? Surely she doesn’t hire a trio for every house party.”
“She’s what you might call a talent finder,” Max said. “Marcela loves music, and she has back-of-the-house connections at pretty much every club and venue on the other side of the Causeway. She’s been helping people find jobs so long, now people send musicians to her.”
“Is that how you and Sebastian met her?”
“Actually, she introduced us. I met her through a friend at a show down at the Lyric, and she had me an audition at the Imperium within a week. Practically everyone here either plays at the resorts or will soon enough.” He pointed across the room to a balding man. “Marcos there plays the trombone at the Park Avenue. The girl beside him is Daniela. She sings, but she hasn’t found a gig yet. I think Marcela has big plans for her. Bigger than the clubs.”
Kitty studied Daniela’s cream-colored skin and wide brown eyes. “She’s certainly pretty enough to be a star.”
Max stood. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Though she began to feel more at ease, especially after meeting some of Max’s friends, Kitty couldn’t shake the sensation that she was more of a curiosity than a guest. She didn’t fit in, despite the warm welcome, and she felt it acutely. When they finally climbed back into Sebastian’s car to return to the hotel, she felt a relief that was also, in a way, uncomfortable. She stepped into the lobby of the Imperium, resolved not to think about it any further. After all, she’d never see that place or those people again.
The jangle of the telephone woke Kitty far earlier than she had expected. She cleared her throat in an attempt to make it sound like she’d been awake for hours. Even more unexpected than the call was hearing Max’s voice on the other end.
“Did I wake you?” he asked, his voice as sunny as the view from Kitty’s window.
“Of course not.” She rubbed her eyes with one hand.
“That’s too bad. If you can’t sleep late when you’re on vacation, when can you?” he said. “I mean, obviously you can sleep late any time you want, I suppose.”
She gritted her teeth. So he was still intent on teasing her. “Is there something I can do for you, Max?”
“I was thinking about how you girls said you hadn’t seen the real Miami yet.”
“I believe you were the one who said that. Besides, you said the party last night was the real Miami. Problem solved.”
“Here’s the thing,” he said. He sounded just the tiniest bit unsure. Maybe even nervous. “I’m playing tonight, so I can’t ask you to dinner. I thought I’d take you out to lunch.”
“Hen and me?”
“No, just you.” He paused. “And just me. Unless you think Hen would mind.”
Kitty’s mind snapped out of its dazed, half-asleep state. Max was asking her on a real date, of all things. This part of her plan was falling into place faster than she could have hoped. “Lunch sounds swell. What time will you pick me up?”
“Sebastian is going to give me a ride to the hotel, but I thought we could walk. It’s only about a mile down the road.”
She dreaded what the sticky sea air would do to her hair, but she agreed. “Where are we going exactly?”
“To get a real taste of the South. Don’t worry, you’ll love it. But maybe don’t dress fancy, okay?”
Kitty agreed with as much strength as she could dig up. What a delightful lunch date—she’d dress in rags and then walk a mile in the heat to some dump. After she hung up, she chose a pair of red shorts, flat sandals, and a sleeveless gingham blouse that tied at the bottom. There was no reason to look like a peasant, no matter where they were going.
Once she was properly primped, she went out to the living room, where Hen sat in her pajamas, reading a magazine. When Hen saw Kitty, she did a double take.
“I didn’t think you’d be up and dressed so early,” Hen said.
Kitty called Loco over and hooked the dog’s leash on. She might as well get it over with quickly. “I’m going out to lunch.”
Hen slapped the magazine closed. “With who?”
“Max.” Kitty walked Loco to the door of the suite, but Hen leapt into her path.
“Just you and Max?”
“So it would seem.”
Hen studied Kitty with a tight-lipped expression somewhere between smug and pleased. “Was this arranged last night, or was that the call this morning?”
Kitty sighed. “Does it matter?”
Hen pushed her shoulder. “Don’t get worked up. I’m not thinking it’s true love forever between you and a trumpet player. It’s lunch. You’re entitled to enjoy yourself. Someone should.” Hen caught herself. “But won’t your father be angry if he thinks you’re not serious about Andre?”
“That’s why Andre doesn’t need to hear about this.” Not yet, Kitty thought.
Hen twisted an invisible key at the corner of her mouth. “Not a word from me.”
“Thank you.”
“And I think Max is pretty dreamy, personally. I didn’t at first, but—” Hen fanned herself. “That dancing.”
“Yes, I know.” Kitty couldn’t help but smile. “ ‘Wowee.’ ”
Hen giggled. Her curiosity satisfied, she stepped out of the way so Kitty could take Loco out.
Sebastian and Max pulled up to the roundabout in front of the hotel a little while later. Kitty waited in the lobby to give her hair its last few minutes of undisturbed beauty. When she spotted Sebastian’s car, she walked outside into the white sunlight. Max got out of the car, and Sebastian sped off with a wave.
“Where’s he off to?” she asked.
“He works in the kitchen at a hotel a couple blocks over,” Max said.
“Two jobs?”
“Plus he picks up day shifts at the pool.”
“All that money for his car, huh?”
“I think he sends a lot home.” Max gestured down the street. “Ready? It’s this way.”
They took a left down Collins Avenue and fell into an easy pace. “Any chance you can let me in on our secret lunch location now?” Kitty asked.
“You like chicken?” he asked.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Then you’re going to like this place,” he said. “I’m glad you agreed to come out. Like I said last night, I wanted to get to know you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“You grew up in New York, right? And I know you like to read. What else do you like?”
She had prepared for conversation, but she wasn’t sure how much of the truth she wanted to share with Max. Very few of the men she went out with bothered to ask her much about herself. After all, she didn’t have a high-powered career or a golf handicap. They usually waxed long about themselves, allowing her to play the coquette when they paused to draw breath. That suited Kitty fine. She could try that angle with Max, but she sensed it wouldn’t work.
“The usual, I guess,” she said. “Fashion. Nightclubs, dancing. Having a good time.”
He was quiet a moment. “That’s what I assumed at first, to be honest. Another silly rich girl. But I don’t think that’s true.”
“You have a strange way of complimenting someone.” She glanced at him. “Are you
telling me I don’t like those things?”
“What you read, the way you talk. I’m saying there’s more on your mind than fashion. I want to know what it is.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but that’s me.” Time to deflect, she thought. “What about you? A musician’s life must be more interesting than mine.”
“Oh, no. You’re not getting out of it that easy. It’s just you and your pop, huh?”
Kitty let out something between a sigh and a laugh. Why did this guy want her life story? “What are you hoping to unearth? I don’t have that much going.”
“You’re the daughter of one of the most ambitious, hardworking men I ever met. That’s not nothing. You’ve got to have a little of that in you.”
“Just because my father is ambitious doesn’t mean I am.”
Max paused again. She was learning not to like that. “It’s something in your eyes,” he said. “Some kind of fire.”
“Amazing what a little mascara can do. Anyway—” Kitty stopped short. A larger-than-life sign on a nearby building declared PICKIN’ CHICKEN. “Oh, good grief. Tell me that’s not lunch.”
“What’s the matter? I thought you liked chicken.” Max’s voice was full of false innocence.
Kitty turned to him, ready to give him an earful of her opinion on eating with her hands. Then she saw the mischievous flash in his eyes. Something in her couldn’t ignore the challenge. She straightened her back. “I love chicken. Let’s go.”
The inside of the Pickin’ Chicken was no less offensive than the pink neon sign outside. Families with squealing children filled turquoise vinyl booths, and the thick smell of grease wafted from the kitchen. Kitty glanced around out of habit, then chided herself. No one is going to catch you in this place. No one important is here. She took her seat with as much dignity as she could and accepted the chicken-shaped menu from the hostess. Even the place mat was a jumble of hand-drawn chickens, all in full squawk, as if the proprietors feared their patrons would forget the theme without constant reminders. Kitty flipped the place mat over, glad for the reprieve of the blank side.
Fried chicken was, indeed, the only real option on the menu. Kitty and Max both ordered the luncheon special and Cokes.