Someone from the Chicago branch of his NY agency wanted to meet with him to say hello while he was in town. Apparently the New York people read the Chicago Tribune. Now that he’d paired up with Fiona Love they thought he was perfect for this, and might be a shoe-in for that. Why argue? He’d need some cash to squire his new lady around.
He lasered his brother with a green-eyed glare. “I like her.”
Buck had run off more than one woman Dane had liked in the past few years. Run off wasn’t the right word. More like he orchestrated things so Daney saw them in a fucked up light and got turned off. He didn’t want Buck anywhere near Fiona.
She was the most beautiful, sexually exciting woman he’d met in years. He’d spent the weekend making love to her every which way he could think of, had only been apart from her for a little over an hour, and was already suffering withdrawal. His dick refused to get all the way soft because she refused to get out of his head. Yet he was beyond sated. The phrase ‘well fucked’ came to mind. If he hadn’t had to work, he’d have been snoring in her arms right now.
“Did you find me a gym to go to here?”
Buck nodded, pouting the way he had since he was a toddler not getting enough of his older brother’s attention.
Dane eyed his brother dispassionately. “You’ll meet her when I introduce you, and not before,” he told them both, and went to shower.
******
“Fifi,” Fiona answered.
“Hey.”
“Hey, boo boo.”
Dane grinned. He could hear Fiona smiling. “I miss you.”
“Yeah? It’s only been like three hours since you saw me.”
“That’s two hours and 50 minutes too long.”
Fiona chuckled, and Dane shifted behind the wheel of his boy’s Benz to accommodate a rising erection. “How’s the voice?”
“Shitty. How was the meeting?”
“Good. I think I got a job.” He knew he’d got it. “Whatcha’ doin’?”
“Waitin’ for the doctor to come. I may have to cancel my studio time. My boy’s gonna be pissed.”
“Is this for your next album?”
“No. No album right now. I’m on hiatus from the scene.” This was Fiona-speak for the music business. “I’m just doing a hook for a friend, but my voice is fucked so – listen. I just heard the door. If Cleo catches me on the phone!”
“Can I see you later?”
“If you don’t, I’ll be crushed.” Two kisses into the phone and she was gone.
Cleo knocked and poked her head around the door. “Dr. Shaw’s here. Were you on the phone?”
“No. No talking remember?”
Cleo snorted. “Here she is, Dr. Shaw.”
Fiona answered a shit load of questions, stuck her tongue out, endured palpations of her throat by the doctor’s soft, fat little hands, gagged over the pen light shone down her gullet and after myriad additional gyrations was finally diagnosed with non-threatening vocal strain. She was given a few days worth of mild antibiotics to soothe her slightly inflamed vocal chords, a long list of foods to avoid, a recommendation for a humidifier, a special kind of white tea – to be drunk without sugar – and instructed not to talk at all for at least two weeks.
“Come see me after that, and you absolutely must stop smoking,” the doctor told her. No one asked him how he knew she smoked.
Cleo snorted.
Fiona glared.
“Well, what happens if she talks a little, doc? She’s got a few meetings.” Andrea said, standing over the bed where Fiona was propped up like a gangly, braceleted little bird.
“That will just delay her recovery. I will come see you in two weeks, yes? We’ll need to discuss voice habits and come up with some limits to avoid further irritation.”
Fiona kissed the good doctor’s cheek and sent the little man off smiling without having said more than hello. The one word was all he’d allow after she greeted him in her throaty rasp. He’d clapped his hand over her mouth and grinned like he was there to celebrate a holiday, not examine a sick patient.
Fiona looked both extremely cuddly and extremely sexy with her hint of discomfort smile and the occasional, unconscious hand to her throat, a gesture that drew the eye to a delicate Lucite charm hanging between her plump breasts.
She gestured to Netty when Andrea and Cleo started arguing, and made the universal sign of the smoker with two fingers.
“AC’s gon’ kill you.” Andrea and Cleo.
Fuck ‘em, Fiona mouthed. Roll up.
“You know this is perverse, right? The doctor just left.”
Fiona eyed her and Netty rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Since I knew you wasn’t gon’ listen, can you at least wait ‘til they leave before you light this shit?”
Fiona made the okay sign. When are they leaving? She asked. Then – I’m thirsty. Make tea, please.
Cleo and Andrea left 20 minutes later, still bickering, and Sugar, Fiona and Netty sat on Fiona’s huge tumbled bed and sparked one of Netty’s patented slow burners.
“Andrea says we should cancel tonight,” Netty said. “She says it’s not important. She doesn’t trust you not to drink and talk.”
I can do it, Fiona mouthed, exhaling two perfect smoke rings and taking a sip of the pomegranate green tea Netty liked. It tasted like dishwater.
It was only a pre-production dinner thing with key staff like Stephen the director, eager to pick her brain for information. They were shooting most of the movie in Chicago and its surrounding suburbs, and as a native she’d been appointed an expert. She’d cemented her position very early in the location scouting process when she made two excellent recommendations for critical scenes that worked from both a technical and a visual perspective.
While Stephen was mining her for more golden nuggets they’d all drink themselves silly. Fiona would get tipsy, someone would make an oblique pass, and she’d use it as an excuse to leave. Predictable and she supposed not necessarily essential, but it would be better to go and not stay than to miss it altogether.
“She can do it,” Sugar agreed. “All she gon’ do is drink a brew and bounce.” It was her standard MO.
Fiona gave the thumbs up. The phone rang.
“Peace,” Netty answered. “Yeah. She right here. No, she’s not smoking! What are you talkin’ about? We gettin’ ready to go for the humidifier now.” She listened intently and hit the joint. “Yeah? Cleo just ran into one of the producers of that show Transplants.”
What? Fiona mouthed.
“You know! They say it’s the new hot shit.”
“With that green-eyed cat on HBO?” Sugar asked, laughing. “The one that looks like Daney?”
“Cleo says can you be ready for a lunch meeting?”
Fiona nodded. Meeting was a loose term. Cleo would have told the cat she’d be dropping by on their way somewhere. It would look like a happy coincidence.
“Bet. Get up, bitch!” Netty hopped up, geeked. “She told me sexy sheik. Apparently, pretty boy from the show might show up. He’s in town hiding out from the paparazzi. We could pour you into that gold strapless I just finished. Whatchu’ think? And before you ask, no. It’s not too much for day when you’re Fiona Love.”
Fiona looked doubtful. Netty always came up with fabulous things for her to wear, but sometimes her outfits took a little getting used to.
“It’s not shiny,” Netty wheedled. “It’s matte, a day dress for you. Really! Shower.” She pushed her boss toward the bathroom.
Of course when Fiona saw the outfit later it was neither matte nor shiny but an attractive hybrid of both. It was a gorgeous metallic fabric, a beaten gold color that felt great. Cotton, Fiona mouthed, and Netty winked.
“Pima.” She’d bought the fabric over the Internet, which she was addicted to. Thank God she knew how to sew.
Twenty minutes later Fiona was again smoking while Sugar polished her finger and toenails a rich violet so dark it appeared black.
Different, she mouthed when Sug
ar first held up the bottle.
“Switch hands.”
Fiona inhaled – she had imposed a two hit limit on herself, per joint. It wasn’t much but it made her feel better for being weak – and dropped the pinner in the ash tray.
“You shouldna’ smoked that last one. I’ma need toothpicks to keep your eyes open.” Sugar put her boss’s hand off to the side. “In front of the fan.”
“Where the fuck are those dark gold platforms with the ankle straps?”
Fiona turned to look at her friend/assistant/stylist’s round ass weaving raggedly from side to side. Its owner was buried head first in the floor of her accessories closet.
“I organized this shit perfectly the other day. I told you if you need something, just tell me,” Netty said. “Now everything’s fucked up, and I can’t find what I want! We may have to change outfits.”
“Dude, you can’t change outfits. I picked this color special for this.”
“Sugar, it’s black. Black goes with everything. A gold, strapless, wide-legged vintage-looking fucking pants suit goes with gold platforms with ankle straps. Would you hurry up? Her hair’s not done! I don’t wanna hear Cleo’s mouth.”
Speaking of, Fiona pantomimed eye drops.
“And it’s not black, either. It’s purple.” Sugar caught sight of Fiona’s act. “Yes, Lord! We gon’ need a few applications to hook you up.”
“You know what? I haven’t seen momma’s angel in days.” Fiona said suddenly. Her voice sounded rusty, gritty. “Netty, call and get my baby.”
The phone rang. Netty snatched Fiona’s sea foam green rotary from its cradle. “Peace,” she said impatiently. “We on our way! Stop callin’. I gotta stop what I’m doin’ to fuck witchu and this damn phone. Beat it!” She hung up with a bang and dialed Fiona’s mother’s number. “How long?”
“Two days,” said Fiona. “I want her all weekend. Daney will love her.”
Netty nodded, but Sugar saw her roll her eyes when Fiona couldn’t see, and she moved out of ear shot.
“Hey, Mom. Yeah. How you doin’? For real? Yeah. I know. It’s been a minute, but seems like she got somethin’ to do every time we turn around, you know? You saw that? It looks great huh? Yeah, Sugar did her makeup. Well, she helped. They have designer stuff for that. I’m her everyday look, not so much for special occasions. But that’s not why I called. Feef wants Flora. Yeah, just a visit.” She’d stop saying what Fiona wanted a long ago to spare her friend the embarrassment. “If she wants her to stay overnight we’ll call you by 10, okay?”
******
“What the fuck are you doing?” Andrea said, busting in like the police. “Is she smoking?”
“No,” Netty said, and fervently hoped Fiona wasn’t. “Why didn’t you call from the street?”
“Because I wanted to catch her,” Andrea said, like duh. “This cat is at the restaurant waiting. Can she come on? She picked the fuckin’ place. You should see it. It’s a dump. He loves it. Fuckin’ Soul Veg, can you believe it? Vegetarian bull shit. Christ.”
“Can you not take the Lord’s name in vain in my house?” Fiona asked, appearing suddenly.
At 5’9”, she was taller than all of them in her bare feet. In 4-inch black, white and blue fabric stilettos with a gold corkscrew heel, she dominated the room. Any room.
“Nice work, girl,” Fiona said to Netty.
Indeed. The gold suit hung perfectly on her long legs and shapely hips. Her belly, despite having given birth fairly recently, was nearly flat. Netty had cleverly disguised the remaining baby fat with a casually looped belt in thick white-colored straw with an odd-shaped buckle made of bleached white stone. The top of it seemed to point lazily to Fiona’s cleavage. Her chest had gone back to normal quickly since she hadn’t breast-fed long, but there was that added bit of lush that comes with any baby/weight activity. And titties would always be one of Netty’s favorite accessories.
“How come Momma’s angel ain’t got no toys over here? I’ve been slackin’. Where the hell were you guys while I was slackin’? Slackin’?”
“You want me to get her a few toys?” ‘Cause Netty wasn’t about to explain the baby never stayed long enough to make them necessary.
“Please. Just a few ‘til I can get out and shop for her tomorrow. They don’t need to be fancy. I think they have Fisher Price at Kmart. Just read the label to see what’s age-appropriate. She’s advanced so you can get up to a year.”
“Done. Sugar, tell Cleo to keep an eye on the tape over the nipples, and if she drinks, periodically remind her not to move around too much.”
“I’m not drinking. It’s a work meeting.”
“It’s an early dinner work meeting with New York actors and writers. You gon’ drink.”
“Why are you fuckin’ talking? Didn’t the doctor say shut up for two weeks? Can we go? Do we have a purse? Sunglasses? A wrap? You know she’s gonna freeze in the restaurant,” said Andrea.
Netty had each item ready accompanied by an eye roll. “The air in that joint ain’t even that good. Bring me some food back.”
Chapter four
The Transplants actor was even yummier in person than he was on TV. If he hadn’t smelled pleasantly of Dial, Fiona’d have expected him to reek of cigarettes and sex. He was earthy, and she knew without knowing that he smoked weed.
Their tastes magically collided over the menu. They ended up getting everything the same: the bread and butter, the salad with its yogurt-based dressing, the candied yams and BBQ tofu. Fiona enjoyed it all, blithely ignoring Cleo’s pointed eyebrow-raising and pursed lips when she ordered dessert.
She’d already pulled her much taller cousin to the side and read her the riot act for showing up shit-faced since, in true Hollywood style, Fiona insisted on holding court with her sunglasses on. At least they were sitting in full glare of the sun. Who the hell told these people to have outdoor seating in the hood? The paparazzi would probably be here any minute.
By the time Fiona and Tino shared the peach crumble, with its heavy, nut-flavored crust, they were talking like old friends. After the food was gone, Fiona excused them from Cleo and the agents and publicists and invited him into the back of the car for an illicit smoke.
“So, you hidin’ out.”
“Yeah.” He flashed big, gorgeous white teeth. They might even be his. “I can’t even take a shit without somebody offering’ to wipe my ass out East, and the paparazzi are nuts out West. They’ll fuckin’ run you off the road to get a good picture! You live here, right? Chicago’s a nice town.”
“Born and bred.”
Tino inhaled thoughtfully as he watched her.
Fiona sat patiently while his eyes traced her natural hair. Sugar had mixed one of her potions added hot rollers and wah-la, soft, shiny curls. Then, tongue in cheek, she’d wound several formerly unassuming white, grey and baby blue terry cloth head bands together with a scrap of black silk to tie her hair back. Surprisingly effective and unassumingly low brow, typical Sugar.
She wore her trademark gold hoop earrings. These were dusky vintage with silver knots, an impromptu gift from her mother that matched her outfit perfectly despite being 30 years older than everything else she was wearing. Her makeup was flawless, though Fiona never wore much. Her lips were always the exception. She kept them tinted red and shiny.
Tino saw the gloss on the edge of the perfectly rolled joint she’d offered him, and thought she was beyond sexy. He’d seen pictures of her before her baby. He couldn’t see all that much difference. She just looked riper, he thought, unknowingly echoing her assessment of him. She was succulent, like some advertisement for the perfect after-baby body. Lush, firm curves everywhere, she looked strong, healthier than many of her contemporaries whose beauty faded off camera like old makeup in the sun.
He’d heard she had an ungettable reputation. He didn’t. It was an industry joke that his big break had come from playing himself, an immigrant who’d been discovered selling oranges and ended up a handsome and spoil
ed actor.
Fiona had tripped mildly over the eerie similarities between his background and Daney’s. The similarities in their looks were less so up close. Tino was handsome, but scruffy, less overtly sexy and picture-ready than Daney. He looked as though he’d spent time recently playing video games on a couch drinking beer. He was two inches shorter too. Daney looked like he ate fish and rice and worked out four days a week for over an hour – probably because he did.
“So, what are you thinking? You wanna do the show?”
Fiona smiled slowly as she reached out to pat his thigh. Her breasts looked so enticing he actually leaned forward before he drew himself up.
“Yeah. Baring some bull shit I’m down. I’ll have to live in New York for a minute, but I might make it. I gotta be there anyway for this other lil’ thing.” Though Daney was not in fact a little thing.
He laughed. “I got you. Don’t worry about a thing. You can stay with me.”
Fiona just smiled.
******
Netty made it home about an hour after Fiona. She’d gone toy hunting at Kmart and grocery shopping at Jewel since nearly eight-month-old baby girls didn’t as a rule enjoy frozen pizza, bagged salad, beer or frozen cheesecake bites. Netty didn’t mind; it was a pleasure being out with the baby.
With ridiculously curly black hair exploding from two pigtails on top of her tiny head, and several pearly teeth, Flora Gene Love was as sweet and pretty as an Annie Lee picture. She used the teeny white chips to great effect grinning in a near mirror image of Fiona at the same age. They made friends wherever they went.
“Here comes your girl,” she called out, dropping her bags inside the door.
Flora began to jump in her arms.
“Is Momma’s angel here?” Fiona rasped, appearing suddenly around the corner. “Hey, puddin’! Momma’s funky boodie.”
Flora fell into her mother’s arms with an exuberant grin and chuckle and a bit of drool that Fiona cheerfully kissed away.
Fiona Love Page 4