by Lena Black
I wake to a slap on my butt and the stunning, blue-haired Izzie ordering me to scoot my sweet little ass out of bed. Late morning light streams into the bedroom through the shuttered windows, separating me from the already buzzing streets.
I must’ve slept straight through the night.
“Why?”
“Because, suga, we’re goin’ shoppin’.”
I flip the blanket over my head and say groggily, “I’m broke.”
“It’s on Greier.” Suddenly, the blanket is gone. I spring upright and stare at her fanning herself with a credit card. “Now, move ya ass.” She walks out of the room before I protest, leaving the door wide open. “I’ll get coffee.”
“Where is he anyway?” I call after her.
“Out. Probably the whole day.”
“What about the restaurant?”
“Tiny, the manager, takes over the restaurant on Sundays.”
Ah.
I stumble out of bed and into the bathroom, taking off my clothes en route. “Don’t think I met Tiny.”
“Don’t let the ironic name fool ya,” she says, her voice booming from the kitchen. “That boy is a behemoth of a man. But the gentlest damn soul ya ever gonna meet. Unlike me. Now, enough questions, hear? Get ya ass into gear.”
I chuckle.
Turning on the shower, I jump into the cold spray of the faucet head, giving myself a shock to the system. I multitask, brushing my teeth while I’m in here. Luckily, Greier had a fresh one handy.
Once I’m awake, I step out, dry off, and then head into the room to pick an outfit. Jean shorts and a plain tank top, without a bra. Even if I wanted to wear the ex’s over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders, they wouldn’t fit my pebbles.
Suddenly, Greier’s mouth hijacks my brain, gluttonously drawing the entirety of my breast inside the refuge of its warmth, tasting me while I rode him. It was the first time I’d ever taken control in bed. I was more of a lay-back-and-take-it girl when it came to Shaw. It never felt like it mattered if I was there. I could’ve been anyone. (INSERT GIRL HERE)
It wasn’t anything like that with Greier.
My dirty mind isn’t making this platonic thing very easy.
Izzie comes back in with two mugs and hands one to me. My fingers bend around the mouth and take it from her carefully.
“Thanks.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, she sips on her coffee. “I was wondering. Why doesn’t Greier work Sundays?”
“Personal.”
Not going into further detail. Gotcha.
“Why is he doing this?”
“He doesn’t want ya wearin’ Skankenstein’s clothes.”
“No.” I shake my head and set the coffee down on the bedside table. “Trying to save me.”
“Ah.” She takes another draw of her coffee, buying herself time to figure out what to say. “Yeah, he does that, doesn’t he?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful. If it weren’t for him…” I stop before I divulge too much.
“I get it,” she assures me.
Does she?
Could she?
I don’t push the topic any further, and neither does Izzie. Instead, we finish our coffees while I dress.
When my mother and I took one of our monthly shopping trips, it was to Neiman Marcus, Bloomingdales, or some designer boutique. This is not the case with Izzie. She takes me to a secondhand store. Nana’s Attic. A mix of new and vintage clothes. Another first for me.
As we browse the racks, hanging the pieces we like over an arm and passing on the things we hate, Izzie does most of the talking. About growing up on the bayou and moving to the city when she was nine to live with her grandmother after a gator ate her dad…Seriously. An alligator.
“When I was twelve,” she says from the changing room next to mine, “I met Greier. He moved to the Vieux Carré to live with his daddy, in the very same apartment. He was fourteen. We’ve been best friends ever since. We look out for each other.”
“He mentioned something about California the other night.”
Even before Greier told me, I’d figured he wasn’t from around here. Hardly any zest in his accent, except with certain words. Not like my colorful friend here. At times, hers sounds as if she were from Brooklyn. Like when she says words that rhyme with hurt. Other times, it’s so saturated with Cajun flavor, I have to strain to understand.
“Yeah, with his mama when he was still in Huggies.”
Left with mother. Came back to live with father. I have no right to be, but I’m itching to learn the story there, the torn pages from Greier’s book.
I end up buying everything I try on. I feel guilty until I see the amount everything came out to. I’ve spent more on a single outfit shopping with my mother than on the whole lot. And it wasn’t so much I can’t pay him back from my first paycheck. Luckily, I can live off tips until then.
Afterward, we hit Victoria’s Secret to buy delicates for my delicates. Even though I got amazing steals at the boutique, I’m relieved she’s not one to skimp in the panty department. I have no desire to rock the girlfriend’s used underwear or anyone else’s for that matter.
While we’re in the fitting rooms, trying on bras, I catch myself covering my goodies every now and then. Besides the fact I’m naturally shy about my body, a gift my mother bestowed on me growing up, I have, easily, the most stunning creature standing next me, with curves a man would dream up. Anyone standing next to Izzie in lingerie would be self-aware of their own faults. Her killer body is to die for. Picture Jessica Rabbit with aquamarine hair and a rose tat on her left asscheek. I can’t stop wondering if Greier has noticed her…attributes. He’s a man, and men can’t help themselves. Hell, I’m a straight woman, and I can’t help noticing.
As the living, breathing embodiment of sex appeal and cool hooks my B-cup bra, I let curiosity kill me.
“So,” I mumble with a dry throat, tucking a bit of hair behind my ear, “have you and Greier ever…?”
“I’m not into cock,” she states bluntly, jiggling my breasts into the cups by the straps. My eyelids suck back into my head like garage doors on speed. “But if I was, Greier’s ain’t half bad.” She sees the question in my eyes as I stare back at her through the mirror. “Occupational hazard of being a guy’s friend, ya eventually see dick. Even if ya don’t want to.”
After clearing out most of the Quarter, Izzie takes me to lunch at this hole-in-the-wall around the corner from the apartment. My stomach was screaming for nourishment. We chow down and talk, not about anything specific, about the clothes we bought, the people passing the window, the bar. She gives me pointers. Not just about the restaurant but living in the Quarter. She warns me about the smells of Bourbon Street, hot days and busy weekends are the worst. She says it’s the tourist mecca of New Orleans and Carnival is the worst of it. Great for business, bad for your nose.
“If ya want to taste the real New Orleans, ya hafta venture away from it. I’ll show ya the town,” she offers.
“I’d like that,” I accept. Of course. I’m in need of a friend right now, and Izzie seems like decent people.
“Or I’m sure Greier would be happy to show ya.” This remark wasn’t meant in a girl’s talk, I-think-he-likes-you kinda way. It’s more accusing.
“Uh.” I take a sip of water, buying myself time to untie my tongue and think of another topic. “So, think I did alright my first day?”
“Yeah,” she eyes me with a puckered smirk, “better than most. The others said good things.”
“I was nervous,” I admit. “I’d never had a job before.”
It feels as pathetic as it sounds.
“Eva?” She doesn’t wait for confirmation. “How did ya manage that?”
“My family is well off. They didn’t want me to work.”
I realize I’m giving her more clues about myself than I’m comfortable with, but I’m finding it too easy to open up to her. She has that kind of personality, sure of herself, strong-willed, no bullshit, and extremely
personable. I see why she’s Greier’s best friend.
“Did ya want to?” she probes further, using her tongue to dislodge something in her molars.
I figure answering this won’t give too much away, so I do. “Yes.”
“Grey’s curious about ya,” she says flatly. Well, as flat as her flavorful drawl grants. “Especially, the story behind ya showin’ up at his bar at three a.m. in a weddin’ dress.”
“You aren’t even going to extend the common courtesy of beating around the bush.”
“I’m not much of a bush beater.” Her face confirms that. “Well…not in that sense.”
“I’m not much of a storyteller.”
“Fair enough.” She bites into her sandwich and chews thoughtfully. “But if ya screw over Greier, hurt him in any way, ya hafta deal with me,” she warns. No, threatens. And yet, I can’t hate her for doing it. I’d probably do the same thing…if I had someone to do it for. “I love that boy like a brotha. The last thing he needs is more shit in his life, suga.”
After that, we keep our mouths occupied with food instead of words.
When we return to the apartment, she helps lug my bags upstairs and remove the ex’s clothes from the drawers and closet, which required tongs, rubber gloves, and a garbage bag.
“Hafta be extra careful with toxic waste,” she said with a bitchy grin. I laughed. I don’t know the girl, or Greier for that matter, yet I already dislike her for hurting him. He’s one of the nicest, though crude at times, people I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine he deserves any less than he gives. And he gives his all. You don’t need eyes to see that.
Once the room is clear of any relics of his previous relationship, Izzie leaves, and I work on putting away my new wardrobe. I’m almost finished when…
“Buy everything you need?”
I acknowledge Greier with a hasty glance.
“Yes,” I answer, folding a sweater and setting it in the dresser. “You can take it out of my wages.”
I hear him lean into the doorframe. It makes a slight crackle as his weight eases into it. I feel his eyes on my back. “Or you could thank me and consider it a gift.”
I sigh and shut my eyes.
“It wouldn’t be ethical. Not after…” I turn to face him because this should be said with eye contact, so he can see the seriousness in my stare. “We need to keep boundaries.”
“You’re the boss.” He salutes me, a pair of keys dangling from one of his fingers. “Just so we don’t have an incident like last time, I won’t be home for dinner and might get back late.” He steps into the room and over to the closet, pulling out a midnight blue dress shirt. He takes off his t-shirt, saturated with a day’s worth of his manly scent wafting past my nose when he rips it over his head. It’s intoxicating. And his body is glorious in the daylight. I should stop staring, but I don’t want to.
“If you’re hungry,” he says, pulling my attention off his impeccable torso and back onto his face, which, let’s face it, is off the charts gorgeous, “there’s leftovers in the fridge. Have whatever you like.” He shoulders into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned as he walks toward the doorway. “Try not to use the gun unless you really need it.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
He stops, setting his hand on the doorjamb and looking back at me from over his wide shoulder. “For a woman who wants to keep things platonic, you sure ask questions like we’re more.” He disappears out the door, leaving me to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.
Over the next week, I acclimate to my new surroundings one toe at a time, much like the icy water of a river. Work, the leisurely flow of NOLA, and my new digs. Not like with Greier, I dove right into the currents with him. We managed to swim back to the shallows though, even in my weaker moments when I wish we wouldn’t. It’s ridiculous because I have way too much on my plate right now to worry about getting into anything with him, but all the same.
He’s slept in the guest room every night. Though, I hear him crack open the door and check on me some nights. I pretend to be asleep, trying not to scare him off. I like that he keeps an eye on me. I like that he cares. Even without the promise of more from me.
Most nights, I find it hard to sleep, knowing the adjoining bathroom separates us by mere feet. It gets lonely lying in bed with the emptiness beside me to keep me company. But it’s more than a basic human need for connection. It’s more than a woman looking for comfort after a breakup. It’s him.
Maybe making him forbidden to me caused a want-what-you-can’t-have situation, but I think about him. A lot. Like, while I’m at work, when I should be paying attention to what my customers are ordering. When I’m reading, so I read the same paragraph over and over. During my showers, but that’s not so much a problem with the handheld showerhead. I’ve never thought about a boy—a man like this so much. I’ve also never encountered Greier before.
Saturday morning, I shuffle into the bathroom, my brain as thick with fog as the air outside. As I step through the door, Greier steps out of the shower. Steam wafts out around him, his body taut and pearled with water droplets. His mahogany hair plastered to his forehead. I stare at him, my eyes and body frozen. He stares back at me, his expression hard to decipher. Ripping a towel from the rack, he wipes down, his strong shoulders, his wide chest, his rippley abdominals, his memorable junk, really getting up in it. His eyes hammer into mine.
“Are you buying or browsing?”
“Browsing. Uh, leaving.”
I turn on my heel and scramble out of the bathroom, his laughter following me. I slam the door shut and slump against it, his rumbling laugh bouncing around the bathroom on the other side.
Remember to knock first. Remember to knock first. Remember to knock first.
Needing to distance myself from the situation and embarrassment, I make a pot of coffee and pour myself a cup, taking it down to the private brick courtyard behind the building. It’s peaceful. I sit in a wrought iron chair with a matching table and sip on my hot drink. Sweet jasmine cascades over the brick wall separating me from the street traffic beyond. A fountain trickles the soothing melody of running water. Blue, green, and clear bottles dangle from the branches of trees, occasionally clinking together when a warm breeze picks up.
I’m savoring my vanilla-flavored coffee and the cool refuge of the courtyard when Greier joins me with his mug of black coffee. When I offered him some the first time, he said, “Don’t drink that frilly shit.”
“Good,” I said. “More for me.”
I take another drink of my “frilly shit” and watch him stare out across the courtyard, his eyes glazed over with thought. His hair is wet and slicked back. He’s also shirtless, and his knees and thighs peek through the frayed edges of his ripped jeans. Unlike most men who buy their designer jeans shredded, his are clearly torn from natural wear and tear. He doesn’t wear them to be fashionable. He wears them because they’re comfortable. He don’t do frilly shit.
When my eyes drag from his masculine knees to his face, it’s trained on me.
“Is there something particularly interesting about my knees?”
“No, not particularly.”
He grins a closed mouth grin.
I return one.
Returning his focus out over the courtyard, before he takes another draw of his black coffee, he asks, “Are we going to talk about it?” referring to the peepshow.
“Let’s pretend what happened, didn’t,” I suggest.
“I’m down for a game of pretend.” He shrugs, still looking out at the brick garden.
“Good.” I release the breath I choked back when he mentioned our wet, naked encounter.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t want to take you right there in the bathroom.” He turns toward me, his arms crossed on the table, and leans in. “I’ll pretend I didn’t want to bend you over the sink, press your face into the mirror, and fuck you until you release all over me.”
And I’ll pretend I didn’t want you to.
; “Greier.”
“Don’t worry, Rae.” He sits back in his chair again. “I know the deal.”
“What’s with the bottles?” I ask, nodding my head in the direction of the closest tree, desperate to ignore the sexual tension between us. Not because I’m afraid to give him the wrong impression about us, but because I’m starting to.
“It’s a voodoo thing. Or hoodoo. I can’t remember. Anyway, it keeps evil spirits away or something to that effect. Izzie believes in all that. She put them there.”
“Do you believe in voodoo?”
“Can’t say one way or the other. Figure I can use all the help I can get.”
He tilts his head to the side briefly and then draws on his coffee.
“Have they worked so far?”
His bottom lip juts out in a thoughtful pout. “Spirits, yeah. People, no.”
“Whether they work or not,” I glance back to the bottles swaying on the branches, “they sure are pretty.”
“Yeah,” he agrees with an almost hypnotized voice, catching my attention and putting it back on him, “they really are.”
He isn’t looking at the bottles. He’s looking at my eyes.
“Uh, um,” I stutter.
He must get a high out of teasing me, ruffling my feathers. He smirks, telepathically patting himself on the back. I see it play across his gaze.
I nip that in the bud real quick, glaring fireballs at his head.
Showing mercy, he relents with a chuckle.
“If you like them, wait until Mardi Gras. Beads hang from every balcony and tree. It takes months to clean up. There’s so many, sometimes they aren’t all found, or they’re just left wherever they land.”
“Maybe it’s silly, but I’m really excited about seeing everything.”
“It isn’t silly. Carnival is something you have to see before you die. I’m happy to give you any time off you need.”
“I thought you hired me to help relieve the other girls.” I lean forward over the table. “I’d hate to think I was getting special treatment because I slept with the man in charge.”
My cheek muscles pull the corners of my mouth into a smile. He gives me one in return. It’s really radiant. It lights up his whole face like a Christmas tree. But it dies a slow death, mimicking mine when I realize what I’m doing. I’m flirting with him. I can’t even practice what I preach. I reel myself back in and sink deeply in my chair, distancing us from each other. Distance is good.