by Amarie Avant
“Well in that case, I better run. You sound like The Big Bad Wolf.” I chuckle as Evan nips at me. “What big teeth you have…” I say, quoting The Little Red Riding Hood.
“The better to eat you, my dear–no wait, that sounds too fucking corny. You’re turning me into one of those lame-types.” He chuckles pulling me onto him.
Evan is this mixture of bad, good. His strength tells the story of a man who’s had to pull the trigger, but not like my father, not in vain, not on a power trip.
He simply is the hero I’ve never known I needed.
God, does he understand how much I need a dorky-dufus date?
Chapter 11
Evan
High pitched, tiny voices clash against each other and travel toward my bed. And the subsequent laughter, Reese’s silky, uninhibited laughter, has my dick saluting her. I turn over onto my side, and glance across my vast studio apartment. Reese is leaning against the kitchen counter, head back, with a hearty laugh. She’s watching the flat-screen that’s bolted cater-cornered near the wall stove.
I think hard, I've had to interview children on occasion. Though it's something I detest, children and questioning, I know this cartoon. PJ Masks is all the rave these days. When I made Detective 1, Dora the Explorer was hot shit, so I had to quickly cram a few episodes of that in. SpongeBob Square Pants had me pausing from taking notes to laugh. Now, it’s all about the PJ Masks. Don't even know when and how, but those little child heroes dressed in pajamas can spark an entire conversation, with innocent little children.
I lick my lips, wondering if I'd prefer to wake up to sex or cinnamon. She's making some sort of cinnamon pastry. On cue, my stomach growls. Guess one beast is overshadowing the other when it comes to fundamental needs.
I get up from bed, eyes trained on her creamy thighs, half her ass is creeping from my old, faded Cal State LA shirt. Usually my worn clothes get the boot. But I couldn't part ways with my alma mater shirt, it held so many memories. And after that, it's just held a spot in the back of my walk-in closet. Glad to see the old pal has reinvented itself as the curve of Reese’s ass continues to play peek-a-boo while she enjoys the show.
Then her butt cheeks are hidden once more. She pops up into a standing position.
“You're awake!” There's an airy happiness to her tone that I imagined would accompany the bakery she owns, but hadn't personally observed during my one trip to Flour.
Reese flits over to the cappuccino maker, grabs a royal-blue cup and hands it to me. “Right on time. If it's not hot enough, feel free to punish me.”
I chuckle. Then take a sip. “Perfect.”
She fakes a pout.
After eating cinnamon buns topped with fruit, Reese begins a tour of my walk-in closet. The entire room is custom built, with suits in an array of colors from black to coal to blue at one side. My shoes are in individual display cases and Reese begins to press the button which makes the trolley of ties twirl around.
“Cut it out, Reese.”
“I would, if I could find a single pair of jeans.” She grins, then finally lets the button go.
“Well, you won’t find one pair of jeans because I don’t own any.”
“OCD, much?” She cocks an eyebrow.
“No, I’m a grown ass man. Suits are for men.”
“Yeah right, you’ve still got that New Yorker mentality. I bet you were once a three-foot-tall miniature man.” She jokes of my childhood.
I rub a thumb across the stubble at my jawline while smiling. “That I was. You could take the boy outta Manhattan, but I stay classic. Always have, always will.”
“Sure, Evan. Can you ride a horse in a suit?” Reese says, stepping toward a tweed suit to which I snatch from her hands and place it back. “Oh, the cop is afraid of horses?”
Horseback riding has never popped into my brain when considering a bucket list of things to try. But with Reese, I wouldn’t be able to live it down if I declined. After taking her home for another pair of jeans and a shirt, we start for the Horseback Riding Ranch within the Santa Monica Mountain Range.
While heading onto the freeway I ask, “So, your dad. What happened with him and Lolita?”
From her position looking out the window, Reese turns around. Her brows are pensively drawn together, “I don’t know what went wrong with their marriage…”
“Oh,” I nod, allowing Reese a moment as I’ve noted a slight fluctuation in her tone. The pitch is almost akin to fear.
Instincts warned that this is a touchy subject. Therefore, bringing it up while I drive gives Reese the security blanket she needs. She’s a lot flightier when we have a simple conversation head on. From the corner of my eye, I notice her dragging her teeth over her bottom lip.
“Hey, Evan, I've been meaning to say, there are lots of cops coming into Flour. The other night we had a huge order for a stakeout. Did you have something to do with that?” She asks, worry momentarily vanished.
“I might have made mention of the good food,” I reply, with a quick grin, though she has changed the subject.
Reese rakes a hand through her hair, “Oh sheesh, I bet you can read right through me. It’s hard to talk about him, and you’ve been no less than candid with about your mother. Mi—my father actually died when I was very young. Sometimes I believe my memories of M… my father are dreams and dreams are memories.” She shrugs, “Can’t differentiate, I really was pretty young when he died.”
My heart reaches out for Reese. I blink and I’m the twelve-year-old boy again, asking God why my mother had to be the one to go. It took ages for me to proceed through the stages of grief. Whether Reese’s brain is processing memories and dreams, I realize, her demeanor is tensed with fear. She’s held some form of fear of her father. Was he overly strict? Did he punish her too much?
Taking her hand in mine, I decide to call my father later and ask him more about Reese’s father. Surely Tony should know. My thumb rubs softly at the satin patch of skin on her wrist. Then I lift her hand and kiss the vulnerability of Reese’s heartbeat. As my mouth then caresses the inside of Reese’s palm, a smile bright like the sun on her face.
Indeed, I need to talk to dad. Then once I know exactly what kind of monster Reese’s father is, I can proceed with the process of talking to her about him.
The ranch is a massive log cabin, hidden within a thick foliage of woods. Once the tiny road leading into the hills opens up, I mention the sight before us.
“You haven’t seen nothing yet,” Reese says, back to her spunky self as we get out of the car.
“Why do I have the feeling your goal is seeing me fold,” I mumble, closing her door behind her.
“It’s not that I want to see you fold, Evan. You just have this astronomical confidence, city boy. You’re like Batman nix the cape. Let’s see how well you fair on top of a horse.”
Our guide, a young woman in a cowboy hat and boots, gives us the grand tour since it is my first time. Reese jokes about lunch at their restaurant once I successfully ride a horse. When we get outside, I notice that the guide has continued to glance at me up and down, with a smirk on her face.
“Hmmm, you’re a classic man.” She says pointedly.
“That I am,” I nod as the three of us walk toward the stables. Reese silently sniggers since I said those very words this morning. Looping my arm into hers, I whisper, “Keep on and I’ll tell her all the nasty things you do with your stepbrother.”
The guide glances back as Reese shoots me daggers of anger. “How long have you two been together? Five years? Lucky number seven, am I right? You two quarrel like an old married couple, who albeit are unable to stop touching each other. I love it! I’ve always preferred the couples who’ve learned to trust each other. The new ones, end up bickering when one doesn’t connect well with our horses.”
“Little less than a month,” Reese beams.
“Oh,” she pauses, “Well, you seem to have this extreme connection.”
The instructor helps Reese get sit
uated on her horse. As a behavioral analyst, I’m highly unaware of this animal’s social cues. I reach out to touch his slick, coppery hair, but second-guess it. My arms fold, and I take a gander into the dark-brown eyes of a black stallion.
I reach out to pat my horse, but he trots away.
Reese chuckles. “Don’t be afraid, babe. You’ll love it.”
“Yes, I will,” my smile is tensed.
“Actually, you’re onto something there, Evan. Flash likes to be petted.”
My eyebrow arches, Flash? I’d prefer a more stable horse, named… Rusty or Gus. Yet, mentioning as much is like stripping myself of a piece of my manhood. “See, Reese, I’m getting to know our friend Flash.”
“Okay, horse whisperer,” Reese’s horse trots along with her as if to co-sign her dig.
My cell phone begins to buzz within the inside pocket of my blazer. I snatch it out, praying it’s work.
“Looky here, I’ve been called in.”
Chapter 12
Reese
Three weeks later…
The top of Hidden Hills, located in the west San Fernando Valley, is where many stars call home. And so does my mother’s current situation, Tony Zaccaro. As my Honda hatchback pulled up, I almost scoffed; the place was like a quaint cottage on steroids. From stone walls, to vaulted ceilings, my gaze took it all in as my mother gave a grand tour to include every en-suite bedroom to the stellar theatre and exercise room.
“Get outta here,” Jamie says. He is a roasted-almond skin tone, and his hair is always kept in a neat fade. Gloss shines over full-chocolate colored lips. His fury geared toward my mother takes a backseat as I pull into the lengthy driveway. That sparkle in his dark-brown eyes displays that he has become accustom to the finer things in life.
“Are you going to drool on the marble floor when we get inside—I’m sure there’s marble flooring—or will you help me get through to Lolita?”
He places up a manicured index finger. “First of all, I will always put you first. Second, I am so over your mom it’s a damn sin. So yes, she’ll be seeing the error of her ways before all is said and done. And I just might become her worst nightmare and take her man…”
I gulp. Since Chu has been in California, Jamie has gone from pulling the ‘sick’ line to receiving my blessing to take a two-week vacay. I had no issues with doing so, seeing that paying all my employees has become a feat. Needless to say, everyone working at the Flour Shoppe knows each other’s business. Jamie was never told about the dynamic of myself shagging the stepbrother, who is also the cop and the main reason my mom shouldn’t be married to Tony Zaccaro anyway.
Hopefully, this minut detail is glided over during brunch.
In a pale-pink dress, I get out of the car. Though I’m wearing wedges, Jamie is already five-foot-eleven and with six-inch snake-skin stilettos that pair perfectly with cropped pants, he towers over me as we descend the sloped passageway to the front door.
A woman in a gray maid-uniform opens the front door and greets me by name. “Miss Reese Dunham, your mother has been expecting you. Do come in.”
I smile.
As we walk through Tony Zaccaro’s home, is it bad for me to size up his assets? Meeting him was off putting. Tony's resonance took me back almost fifteen years ago. And his shiny suits, so unlike Evan. I just can't trust him, no matter how open Tony is when he talks incessantly. Yet, he won't be the first husband of my mother’s that I am unable to trust. Then I recall Evan’s story about his mother…
Mrs. Zaccaro was a very refined woman. Evan’s childhood was enriched with the Metropolitan Opera, visits to his father’s hometown of Cosenza, Italy, and traveling with his mother to pursue important historic artifacts. She’d seemed independent enough. Would the fifteen to twenty years younger Mrs. Zaccaro marry a disgusting old geezer? In her defense, the big guy was rather handsome back in the day. Evan seems to have been gifted with a few of his father’s handsome—albeit thinner days— genes.
Tony is far from the archetype for Lolita’s usual fleeting form of entertainment. He has a heart.
We’re escorted to a sunroom, where my mother has her back to us. Her tone is hushed, harsh even as she talks on her cell phone.
Jamie clears his throat.
“Oh, Reese, you’re here. I’m cooking…” Her voice falters as she turns around to see Jamie. But even still, she’s breathtakingly beautiful standing before us in a Vera Wang chiffon dress. For all intents and purposes, she’s flawless, yet rude as she says, “Oh, you brought her.”
“Hmmm. I’m pretty darn sure we’ve had this discussion before,” Jamie says tapping an index finger to his lips. “Please don’t call me a ‘her,’ honey. I am all male, and everything that your—”
“Okay,” I chime in. One of my mother’s ex’s had attempted to flirt with Jamie once. Though my friend put an end to his intentions swiftly, Lolita was too conceited to believe in such deceit even though she’d been cheated on before. Heck, the asshole did it right in front of my face, so I do believe my eyes weren’t being deceptive either.
“So where’s your sugar da… ahem your old man?” I ask.
Lolita’s head tips just slightly.
“What, you’ve never taken offense to any of the walking Amex cards,” I say, trying to disconnect the feelings I have for Evan at the moment. I need to observe the slightest bit of hesitation in my mother’s flawless façade. There has to be one single seed of doubt in her demeanor. Lolita and Tony can’t last. I am falling, dreadfully fast, for his son. In less than a month, we’ve gotten together for much of it. I can’t foolishly simplify our activities into a form of exercise, no.
“Tony’s out,” Is all my mother will say, as we step onto the patio. Truly no portion of this home was left unadorned. There are sprawling lawns and an infinity pool gleams as the afternoon sun sets it ablaze with turquoise sparkles.
The conversation veers toward agreeable grounds as the three of us set the table. I feel the echo of the vaulted ceilings as we return to the state-of-the-art kitchen.
My eyes close, chest rising as I breath in Mediterranean flavors. It's what my mom does. She turns a house into a home. And that's just it. The added touches are all new, all her. The orchids in the crystal vase in the foyer. Throw rugs and touches of color. Like Evan’s home with his pristine white–and I found out added color due to him hording his mother’s antiques. Tony is just the same. This humongous place had become a beige exhibit, until my mom added pops of color here and there. None rings Tony Zaccaro the widower or even the old man who blabbers when nervous.
“You okay, Reese?” Jamie murmurs, quickly as my mother takes a pitcher of cucumber and lemon water from the fridge. We’d previously set a game plan to bring up the touchy subject after eating.
I nod.
“I’ll toss the salad,” Jamie says, never one to steer away from being crude. My mom laughs at that and I do too. He steps toward the island and picks up the wood spoon.
“I made an olive oil based salad dressing in the fridge,” Lolita says, she adds, “thanks.”
“Need any more help?” I ask as mom ties a shimmery pale-pink apron around her. I almost smile, she’s Betty Crocker meets haute couture model. “C’mere, beautiful…” A vivid image of Milo smooching the back of her neck and hugging her tightly as she stands near a stove in a polka dot apron flashes before my mind. I’m seven and watching him give her ass a fleshy smack. In my innocence, I look away, as warmth creeps up my cheek.
“Reese…” Jamie begins.
“Reese’s Pieces, what are you thinking about?” Lolita inquires, as the past evaporates before my eyes. She’s holding a non-stick pan, with flaky, buttery herb fish on top of it, and Jamie has placed down the large spoons to give me all of his attention too.
“My bakery…” I mumble. Though I seldom bring up my business since my mother only shows interest in the financial aspect when she is in need of capital, I mention how behind I am. Jamie is the only one who knows everything, I suppo
se that’s the sucky part about being a true friend. You have to hold onto another person’s woes as if they’re your own.
“Oh, you’ll figure it out, Reese, you always do,” Lolita says with a confident smile, while she skillfully places the fish on a crystal serving tray. Jamie rolls his eyes, tossing the salad so harshly that bits of kale and lettuce go flying. Oblivious to it all, my mom adds char-grilled zucchini to the tray.
“Yeah, I suppose I always do,” I shrug, deciding not to bring up the fact that I’ve never been this far in the red. Besides, if she keeps it up with the nonchalance about Flour Shoppe, I might scream.
“Yes, you’ll figure out how to deal with Nook,” Jamie says sardonically. He wants to make this a pivotal point of the conversation.
“Nook…?” Lolita’s eyebrows scrunch together, and then those bright eyes, flawless clarity illuminate even more as she recalls my store, Nook. “How is the new business coming along?”
The Flour Shoppe was doing so well this time last year, I decided to open an additional coffee and pastry shop, I had named “Nook” after breakfast nook, in downtown Los Angeles. Flour had always been mine from top to bottom, custom designed everything. Money got shifted around for the new place, but being investment savvy, I didn’t place all my eggs into the new basket, no. Though it wasn’t my entire pot of gold, I'd put so much money into design and construction, it was still money that I can't get back. Then my mother got added to the equation,needless to say, I lost Nook while it was in its developing stages and ended up having to take a loan out on Flour Shoppe. Hence, starting from the ground up. “Reese, you worry too much. I had no doubt that you'd pull through. Yes, I recall the lovely breakfast nook concept, you once chatted about.”
Letting my teeth scour over my bottom lip, I sigh before answering her, “Nook’s not gonna happen, Mom. The food is piping hot let’s go outside to eat.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Lolita gestures toward the maid, who for so long had stood silently near the arched entryway. “Please fetch the vintage Pinot Grigio.”