Black Magnolia (An Opposites Attract Novel)

by Lena Black

  “Welcome.”

  I step away for her to shut and latch the door. Once it’s closed, I stand for a moment, fighting to pull myself away. Steeling myself, I head back into the kitchen to stir the leftovers—and pour ice water down my pants.

  When you’re a young girl, you imagine your wedding day, the dress, the flowers, the theme, and most important, the groom. Likely some obscure celebrity you’d never stand a chance with.

  As you mature, you imagine the wedding night, your first time together as husband and wife. You picture him assisting you out of your dress like a piece of candy out of its wrapper before he devours you. But there isn’t a woman alive who pictured the man undressing her wasn’t her husband.

  I should’ve expected my day would end bizarrely. It started that way. Why shouldn’t it end the same? In some smokin’ bartender’s bathroom, naked in his tub after he liberated me from my dress.

  I should feel horrible after the nightmare I went through, but I don’t. I’m drunk on those tasty mixed drinks sitting hot in my tummy. I lounge back into the water, numb of thought and feeling.

  Tomorrow will be a different story.

  No place.

  No job.

  No family.

  No hope.

  I moved my entire life down here, dull and miniscule as it was, to be with him. I refuse to say his name, to think it.

  Tonight, I welcome the numbness of alcohol. Tomorrow, I’ll worry about my next move.

  When Greier (not Greg) knocks on the bedroom door and announces the food is ready, I climb out of the bath and wrap myself in a robe. His girlfriend’s, I presume. Unless he likes yellow rubber duckies. It’s not my taste, but it smells clean and that’s good enough for me.

  Beggars can’t be whiners.

  I pick out a pair of sweatpants and a tank top from one of her drawers. They fit for shit in the bust and butt areas, but they do their job. I wasn’t about to venture into her underwear drawer. No way. I draw the line at wearing another woman’s clothes. And even that’s pushing the boundaries of decency. It’s this or nothing.

  I walk out to the exposed brick living room with tasteful yet lived-in furniture. It isn’t too masculine or feminine. It’s just right. The ex had a hand in that, I’m guessing. This guy doesn’t have a feminine bone in his body. His breakup must’ve been recent. I sympathize with him. He’s dealing with the loss of love, same as me. It may not have gone as far as the alter before crumbling to pieces, but loss is loss.

  I take comfort in our common misery, wrapping myself around it like a well-loved stuffed animal.

  He appears from the kitchen with bowls balancing on his forearms. “Hope you’re still hungry.”

  “Like I’ve never eaten.”

  His artic blue eyes beam down at me. He towers over me by almost a foot. His sheer size makes me take a step back. Not out of fear of his intentions but the sensation of wanting it against me. He’s terminally handsome, and I’m ashamed of myself for noticing.

  I sit on the couch, and he serves me gumbo with a side of beans and rice. Being from the North, this is a treat. Authentic Cajun food.

  “Where are you from?” he asks, shoveling a man-sized helping into his mouth, avoiding the real questions dangling in the air.

  “Philadelphia.”

  “How long are you thinking about staying here?”

  I haven’t thought about it because I’d planned to be here for a lifetime. Now I’m not sure.

  “For an undetermined amount of time,” I answer, pushing a slice of sausage around in my gumbo.

  “Going to be hard without a place to stay or money, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose.” I teeter my head, considering his inquiry while chewing on beans and rice. I was hoping to avoid these issues until tomorrow. “I haven’t thought beyond today to be honest.”

  “Do you have a job lined up down here? For once you were…”

  He wants to say married. He’s tip-toeing around the subject with nimble ease.

  “I hadn’t planned on one.”

  That isn’t true. I wanted one. Especially since I didn’t know anyone down here. I thought it would be a good forum to meet people and get out to explore my new home. My husband-to-be had other plans. In our families, women stay home with the children, while the men work. I haven’t the foggiest why. They hire nannies to raise the ankle-biters and maids to cook and clean the house.

  What did they expect me to do? Sip mint juleps? Shop? Gossip with the other bored hens? That’s fine for them. But I want more. And I hate mint, so it would never work.

  Anyway, needless to say, I hadn’t lined anything up. And now I regret it.

  “I’ll need one now.”

  Even with everything baring down on me, I inhale the meal he made for me. This is some serious comfort food. And I was starving nutritionally and emotionally. Not Greg has managed to feed both. I hadn’t eaten the whole day, nervous about the impending ceremony and the life laid out for me.

  Then, there was the incident. You tend to lose your appetite after experiencing what I went through this afternoon.

  I wonder how long it took for people to notice I was gone. How will my family handle it? This is a high-profile wedding. People are going to ask questions. Like, what happened to the bride?

  But I’m none too eager to deliberate about that now. Instead, I’m going to savor the flavor of an unknown tomorrow like a dish I’ve never tried before.

  I glance over at my handsome savior, starting to wonder about him, curious what path led him here.

  “What brought you to New Orleans?” I ask.

  “What makes you think I’m not from here?” he replies with a mouthful of gumbo shoved into his cheek.

  “Call it intuition.”

  “Sometimes, I’m more LA than La. I lived in California until I was fourteen. So, don’t use me as an example of Southern hospitality.” I chuckle, and he smiles. As they both fade, we continue to stare, an unidentifiable force forming between us. When it feels like it’s about to burst, he dislodges something in his throat, his eyes flicking to the bowl in his hand. “Anyway, to answer your question, family brought me back. They’re from here.”

  He doesn’t venture further. This must be a touchy subject. Family. But, when isn’t it?

  I wondered why he lacked the twang in his voice. It shows hints of itself in certain words though. Knowing he’s a once-outsider makes me feel more of a connection to this man.

  Greier. Not Greg.

  I’ve felt out of place ever since I arrived in New Orleans. Not that I hate this city. The opposite. But there’s a definite culture shock, traditions and customs and ways you’re expected to behave at every moment. From the first day, Shaw’s mother began educating me on the behaviors of a Southern lady. She explained how the wife of her son would conduct herself. Apparently, the daughter of a public official needs more lessons on how to act in public. The thought of living one more moment in that life turns my stomach to queasy mush.

  As silence falls over the room, I rake my fork through the gumbo.

  He glances at the clock on the wall and then back at me. “You can have my bedroom.”

  “I can’t take your room.”

  “I have a pullout in my home office.” His head nods toward another door at the front of the apartment. “I’ve been sleeping in there since my girlfriend left anyway.”

  He rises from the couch and takes my empty dishes from me. He may not display the overt politeness of the South, but he’s nonetheless thoughtful. Giving me his bed, his food, his help. That goes beyond the veneer of superficial civility.

  To thank him, I clean and dry the dishes while he showers, putting most of them away by the time he comes back out in pajama bottoms. Only bottoms. He enters the kitchen and takes a cup from the dish-drainer, serving himself a glass of pineapple juice from the fridge. His broad male chest and flat abdominals exposed as he leans back against the counter to enjoy his drink. A gnawing feeling eats at me. I shouldn’t be
ogling another man on the night of my wedding.

  How did this happen?

  I glimpse at the digital clock on the microwave. It’s already four-thirty in the morning. And I’ve been awake since about this time yesterday.

  “It’s late,” I announce.

  “Or early. Depending on your view.”

  “When you’ve been awake shy of twenty-four hours, it’s late.”

  I hang the dishrag I’ve been twisting in my hands on a rail behind me. “Alright then.” I back out of the kitchen. “Goodnight.”

  I cross the living room.

  “Goodnight.”

  I enter his room and slip into his bed. With how physically drained I am, you’d think I’d pass out the instant my head hit the pillow. But it’s the opposite. My mind is wide-awake, preventing me from finding sleep. I flip and flop, my eyes darting to the clock next to his bed frequently, becoming more frustrated I’m awake with every minute that slips by. The vacancy beside me lends as a reminder that my husband is supposed to be there. The darkened stillness of Greier’s room doesn’t lend to forgetting it. In fact, it makes remembering that much easier. My mind flips through the events of the day and every event leading to the wedding like a scrapbook. My life flashes behind my eyes, a slideshow of pathetic moments and planned occurrences, showing me how meaningless it’s been.

  Tears break into my eyes like tiny vandals, stealing my vision, clouding it over. I whimper through constricted lips, dwelling on the occurrences responsible for my pitiful loneliness.

  No.

  I spring upright, my hair flinging over my shoulder.

  No. I wipe away the wetness from my cheeks. I’m not going to pity myself.

  Unable to be left alone with my own thoughts, I roll out of his bed. A moment later, I discover myself facing the living room side of his office door. There’s no noise inside. Not even the level breathing of sleep. If it weren’t for the traces of alcohol in my blood, I’d never have the nerve to do what I’m about to do.

  Gingerly testing the knob, it gives, and I open the unlocked door. Greier twists around in bed when it squeaks to a stop.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks in a groggy voice, his eyes squinted.

  “Nothing,” I sniffle. “I’m sorry. I’m a stupid woman.”

  “Reagan.” My name sounds foreign coming from his voice box, but it also provokes something in me, something new and overwhelming. “We may not know one another, but if you need anything, I’m here.”

  He’s right. We don’t know one another. But I’m certain of two things.

  First, if he intended to harm or take advantage of me, he would’ve done it already—plenty of opportunities. He wouldn’t take me in and care for me if his motives were nefarious.

  Second, I crave the presence of a man near me, the heat of his body assuring me I’m not alone.

  I may not know this man, but in this moment, I need him. Maybe I’m what he needs, too.

  “I’m lonely.”

  And you’re the antidote.

  Without hesitation, he scoots across the bed, making space for me. I step into the room and shut the door, darkness falling over the room again. Carefully, I move over to the bed, finding it with my outstretched fingers, and climb in beside him. His solid body weighs his side of the mattress down. It’s exactly what I need. I lie in the alcove, the back of my head supported against the width of his hard chest. His arm moves around my stomach, holding me against him. I welcome the security of his masculine touch. Even if it’s unfamiliar to me.

  After a few moments of unspoken communication, I speak, “I’m sorry.”

  His body stiffens around mine, as if my words are headlights and he’s a dear.

  “For what?” he asks in a bedroom voice, like he doesn’t want anyone but me to hear.

  “I’ve been such a burden to you.”

  “Truthfully,” his breath brushes against the top of my head, “you’ve been a nice distraction.”

  Goose bumps freckle my skin.

  Speaking of distracting, the way his body molds to mine is doing a very good job.

  “Do you love your ex-girlfriend?” If that question was made of metal, it would be brass. It’s not my business. But it’s out there, looming over us. No taking it back.

  “I thought I did.” He pauses on a breath. “Do you love him? Your…”

  “I thought I did.”

  He’s got the itch to ask me if that’s why I ran. I sense it in the way his muscles twitch with an anxious energy. That’s what I’d want to know if I were him. And I scratch.

  “He did something unforgiveable.”

  He eases.

  “You don’t have to explain. Not tonight.” His fingers run over my collarbone with a feather-like touch. I wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it. It’s so intimate for two people who are near strangers. But it’s comforting, so I let him. “Except one thing.”

  “What?” I shift my face to look him square in the artic eyes.

  “Don’t you have anyone searching for you?”

  Turning away from him again, I mutter, “I doubt it.” It’s a barefaced lie.

  Shaw. In his eyes, he owns me. He expects his property back.

  My parents. My father’s campaign fund and political future counts on it.

  The LeBlanc’s. They want their money’s worth—every damn dime.

  “I’m unloved, unappreciated, unwanted.” That was meant for my head only, but alcohol makes one helluva filter killer.

  He clamps a supportive hand on my shoulder. I glance at it and then him, a sincerity in his expression. “Maybe you are unappreciated. I can believe that. But there’s no fucking way you’re unwanted.”

  “You believe that,” I search his face, “don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  I cringe at those two simple words, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like them on his lips.

  “How could you?” I face away from him.

  But he brings my gaze back to his with a gentle coaxing of my chin, my whole body coming with it. “Because I want you.”

  For reasons beyond me—alcohol, the need to feel desired, my attraction to him, D, all of the above—I lift my mouth to his, kissing him with every bit of energy I have after today. Surprisingly, it’s a lot.

  I mount him, continuing my desperate assault on his lips. He grasps his long fingers around my biceps, lifting me away from him. His eyes search for mine through the mess of black hair hanging in my face. I see him quarreling with himself. But his willingness pokes me between my thighs.

  “I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he says with sincere concern. It makes me want him more.

  “I need this.” I do need this. I need to feel wanted, to feel want for someone else, even for a few minutes. “And you need this. It’s win-win.”

  I’ve never slept around. Every man I’ve been with was a long-term boyfriend. But here I am, on my wedding night, ready to let a man inside me who is not my husband.

  He hasn’t even told me his last name. But I want to come in this man’s arms.

  I want it.

  I want him.

  “Use me,” I plead, my hips grinding into his cock, coming out of the slit in his bottoms.

  He sits up, taking me with him, his stare pegging mine. He presses his palm to the back of my head and the other on my lower back, holding me against him. Like I’d try to get away.

  “Fuck,” he breathes out, rubbing the rough pad of his thumb over my bottom lip, “you’re going to be my undoing.”

  His mouth moves in, kissing along my jaw and down my neck. He removes the hand on my back and then the scrape of a drawer opening cuts through the silence. He continues kissing me, touching me, wanting me. His arm moves around my lower back again, and he lifts me. I hear the rip of a wrapper and the stretch of rubber as it expands over the width of his erection.

  “Greier,” I whisper, my hands finding his face, the roughness of his stubble under my fingertips. His fingers push my pant
ies aside. I hover over the head of his cock, the tip kissing my entrance.

  “Reagan,” he moans against my collarbone, entering me.

  I’m disgusting. I’m despicable. I’m done for.

  It was fucking dumb to sleep with someone else’s bride, a wounded woman. This was fucked on so many levels.

  But she was spectacular. I wasn’t half bad either.

  She collapsed on top of me, a grin carved into her face. Not a weak one like she’d forced all night either. A face-splitting, ear-to-ear grin. And I got off on putting it there.

  In a matter of hours, this woman went from stranger to lover.

  I watch Reagan sleep, her naked body clinging to me, her arms locked around my trunk. Her smooth legs tangle with mine. She’s dead to the world, her head on my chest. She snores. At least, when she drinks.

  Her pale skin glows from the pre-morning moonlight streaming in the windows. Her raven hair is almost a midnight blue.

  As tempting as staying here with her sounds, I have work and want to get a run in beforehand. I sneak out from the warmth of the sheets and her body to dress. I tiptoe around my room. Me, with my six-foot-two frame. I’m a bull in a china shop. She stirs once and then settles with a moan. She’s in a deep sleep and probably will be for hours. She passed out little more than an hour ago. I’m sure I’ll be back before she wakes, so I forgo leaving a note on my way out.

  With Toadies blasting through my earbuds, I drown out the world around me with music. Nestled between rows of confined buildings, I run the comfortably cramped streets of the Quarter, the pounding of pavement under my feet. Each time they make contact gives me a sense of satisfaction. It’s one of the few times I’m able to forget everything plaguing my life. But today, my mind is racing right alongside me. Images of Reagan flicker behind my eyes.

  I picture her now, sleeping, sprawled out naked, entangled in my sheets.

  I think over the offer I made her earlier, while she was falling asleep in my arms, my fingers tracing the long line of her back. She never gave me an answer. The words died on her lips as sleep pulled her into darkness.

  The morning air, damp with a dense mist, hits my face and rushes past me as I put distance between me and the Magnolia. The city is beginning to wake, only the odd person out, some, women doing the “walk of shame” back to their hotel after a night of depravity in the Big Easy.