Cancer - Mr. Intuitive: The 12 Signs of Love (The Zodiac Lovers Series Book 7)

by Tiana Laveen

  Something for my beautiful song bird…

  I had a great time with you last night.

  – Cain

  The early morning breeze caressed her skin. The sun hadn’t gotten good into the air yet; the world around here was lazy and asleep, and hues of gray loitered in the sky, not yet ready to let the dawn show her glow. Standing in her ratty, raspberry-colored robe with one of the pockets half hanging off that she’d sworn she’d sew back on a million and one times, she fell deep in thought. Honestly though, she didn’t know what to think, but perhaps mental heavy lifting wasn’t necessary. This was just one of those moments in life where acceptance of a universal gift was the order of the day, though she struggled to embrace it.

  He is somethin’ else. What a charmer…

  Simply put, Tapestry wasn’t used to this sort of courting. She’d been dealing with the Netflix and Chill dudes, the guys who felt like she should be happy with a Coke and a Po’ Boy, and then give up them damn draws. She shoved those old memories out of her mind and focused on the here and now….

  And NOW was damn good.

  In one hand she held a white cup of coffee she’d just brewed and in the other, a bouquet of the same colored roses he’d apparently plucked a few petals from, setting the stage for a stunning floral display at her feet. Closing and locking the front door of her apartment behind her, she returned to her kitchen with a smile on her face. Her bare feet hit the cool linoleum, and she looked down, taking note that her early morning hot shower had removed a bit of red polish on her baby toenail.

  Need to fix that before I head out…

  She looked at her phone once again and smiled… wanting to make certain she wasn’t dreaming.

  Cain had sent her an early morning text moments ago that read:

  Good morning, Oiseau Chanteur. I stopped by on my way to work. Have to be at this residence by 5:30 AM. Check your front door for a little gift from me to you. C U 2NITE. – Cain

  Still grinning from ear to ear, her stomach flipped and flopped about as she swam in the beauty of his prolific romantic ways. Honestly, she wasn’t certain what to make of Cain just yet. Everything was going so damn fast. Her growing attraction to him was a bit frightening.

  They seemed to have so much in common, including their sense of humor. The day previous, after their time at the Preserve, they both had an envie, an awful hankering for some good soup and sandwiches, so off they went and got a bite to eat at Parkway Bakery and Tavern. They talked for hours while there, drank plenty and ate some more, too. What was only supposed to be a date scheduled to last three or four hours max ended with them kissing in his big ol’ truck into the wee hours of the night. She didn’t get home until almost 10:30 P.M.

  Sitting parked outside her place, they spent a whole ’nother hour talking. She hated how she felt as if she no longer had control over this; they just couldn’t seem to turn one another loose. They’d had far too much fun and it got to the point where he no longer felt like a stranger. He felt like someone she’d known for 3,000 full moons.

  In between cuddling, kissing, and laughing, they talked about everything. She spoke of memories she hadn’t delved in since she was a child… because he made her feel like one. He was so damn silly—and wise, too. And so open, spilling his guts about his first love, even telling her the crazy story about when he lost his virginity.

  Cain was a real cut up. What she loved most about him was how much he seemed to love his family, especially his mother. And he loved to hear about her life; he asked so many questions, and he listened. He would look at her as if his very life hung on each word she uttered, and then he’d ask more questions, and react to her responses. With him she had real life conversations, and he genuinely seemed to care.

  Still, with all of that laughter, heart to hearts and such, she couldn’t help the feeling that Cain had some unmentioned struggles; of course, everyone did, but she surmised someone of his genius didn’t get that way all on his lonesome. Cain had too much soul, the type of depth that didn’t arrive from a lack of trials and tribulations. She’d noticed this trait in musically inclined folks and creative comrades, herself included—they had pain and anger that often fueled their creative outlets. Want to see some magic? Get ’em good and heated! They kept that shit behind closed doors.

  But his eyes… the man’s beautiful, big blue eyes told her that he saw the entire world for what it was—a beautiful place with pockets of quicksand and pitfalls of treachery. Life was often a minefield of fuckery and if you weren’t careful about where you treaded, you wouldn’t make it out unscathed.

  You’d become the next Amy Winehouse—an artist the man obviously adored. Apparently, he’d met her many times, felt a special connection with the woman. He identified with her.

  They talked about politics, religion, and race, the ‘no-no’ topics her mama always told her to avoid, ’specially with ‘boys she liked.’ But it worked out this time, for they agreed on more things than not. Cain was no liberal, but he was so open minded, he didn’t seem to care about the differences he had with people regarding race and how they worshipped God. He professed to only care about how people treated him. It was truly about character for him.

  She admitted to the man that he’d be only the second White guy she’d dated in her entire life. Cain didn’t seem concerned, but let it be known that he had dated mostly Black women, not on purpose, but it just kind of happened that way. She found that intriguing and asked why.

  “Guess I was simply more attracted to them,” he’d responded. “After a while, I stopped questioning it, even though I got flack about it from family and friends sometimes… not that it mattered to me. I like what I like. Fuck it.”

  “Yeah, I like his ass.”

  She smirked as she placed the flowers in a vase, arranged them just so, and set them on the kitchen counter. She then grabbed a skillet from a cabinet to scramble up a few eggs. Grabbing her phone from off the counter, she selected her soul classics playlist and listened to “In the Rain” by the Dramatics.

  She’d discovered that, like herself, Cain seemed to be an old soul. He enjoyed music from his parents’ and grandparents’ time as much as she did, and he had a penchant for rhythm and blues. Standing before the stove as it heated up, she tossed a couple pats of butter into the pan, cracked three eggs into a bowl, added a dash of salt and pepper, as well as some chopped up fresh green peppers, lightly stirred the mixture, then poured it into the hot pan when it was ready. Taking a spatula, she lightly folded and mixed the eggs every so often, her thoughts drifting here and there. Minutes later, she was sitting at her small kitchen table, legs crossed, with a fresh cup of coffee, the hot buttery eggs, a freshly cut half of a pink grapefruit, and a slice of lightly toasted bread coated with a thin layer of strawberry jam.

  She sat there with her hair under a purple satin bonnet and that same damn smile on her face that she sported when she’d seen the flowers. Plucking her phone from the table, she decided to listen to the songs they’d be practicing, get to know them a bit before she headed off to care for Ms. Robertson. Bobbing her head to the music, she listened carefully, memorizing the lyrics.

  This is a nice song. I see why he likes it. Yeah, I can sing this, add my own touch to it… this is good…

  And she felt good… yeah… she felt damn good all over…

  She insisted on coming by, that she didn’t need a ride, even though he’d offered to pick her up… Cain now had more time to get himself together. It had been a long ass, exhausting day. The people who wanted their staircase ripped out and redone kept changing their mind for how they wished it to be taken care of. They’d jumped on his very last nerve and rode that son of a bitch to the hilt. At one point he contemplated grabbing his toolbox and never looking back. On a deep sigh, he tried to push the day out of his mind and get ready for tonight. He was home now and covered in sweat.

  His t-shirt stuck to his body, his hair that had been pulled back in a ponytail was now limp and lifeless, co
vered in dust and debris. He turned on his stereo and put in Quadron’s CD. Yeah, he was old school like Tapestry, still enjoying CDs. He liked that about her. She’d also admitted to having collections of cassette tapes just as he did, along with his old iPod and playlists. He had an affection for all that was music, past and present. One of the songs that they were to rehearse, “Slippin’,” began to play as he ripped his clothing off like he was some male stripper. He wanted that shit off his body in the worst way. He hated feeling unclean.

  Naked as a newborn in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, he reached for the ponytail wrap in his hair. His chest, stomach and upper thighs were covered in dark blue and black heavily detailed tattoos. At one point he believed he was addicted to getting them. Some of them featured musical notes. There was a pulsating heart with, ‘Mama’ written on his left bicep. Another one of three blazing guitars on his upper shoulder, another of a group of some of his favorite artists standing by a piano: Bob Marley, John Lennon, Amy Winehouse, 2-Pac, Chuck Berry, Tom Petty, and Jimi Hendrix. He tossed the hair band onto his dresser and his tresses immediately fell to well past the middle of his back.

  “Damn, the shit seems to have grown overnight. My hair grows so fast… probably need the ends trimmed again.”

  He ran his hands through it, brushing the long, jet black strands away from his face, exposing his widow’s peak. Moments later, he was standing under the hot water of the shower, the music blasting and his body swaying to the beat. He vigorously washed his hair; the fragrant shampoo improved his mood… a little aroma therapy. Soon he was finished and dried off, a thick, black towel wrapped securely around his narrow waist. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and applied some deodorant, splashed on a bit of aftershave and cologne, and put on his necklace, one that featured a black and white musical note.

  “Shit!” He looked at the time, realizing she’d be there at any second. Racing out of the master suite bathroom, he opened the door to his large walk in closet door but it was too late—the doorbell had rung. “Damn…”

  On a sigh, he stormed out of his bedroom without a second thought, looked through the peephole, and opened the door. The woman’s smile quickly faded and a look of utter surprise came over her.

  “Hey Tapestry, I’m sorry, I just got out the shower… I was about to get dressed and didn’t wanna keep you waitin’. Come on in.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder, motioning behind him.

  “Oh… uh, that’s okay.” She stepped inside, looking like a treat he wanted to eat, standing there like a damn dream come true.

  “Mmmm! You smell good!” He leaned in close to her and kissed her cheek, and her smile soon returned.

  “Thank you.” She removed her light jacket and he immediately took it from her.

  “I’ll take that. Go on and have a seat… make yourself comfortable.”

  “All right.” She looked about then decided upon his couch. All of his furniture was white and black. He enjoyed those shades paired together. However, the walls were covered with framed vintage album covers, concert posters, and the like.

  “You want anything to drink? I’ve got water, beer, juice, wine, probably anything you want,” he offered, watching with amusement as she kept turning in various directions, checking out his digs.

  “Water is fine… thank you. Oh my! You’ve got a piano, too. I take it you play?” She’d craned her neck in the opposite direction from where he stood.

  In the dining room was his musical equipment instead of the traditional set up. He typically just ate in the kitchen or his bedroom. In the middle of that room sat a beautiful white piano.

  “I ain’t much good at it, but I know the basics. It gets more use when I have a party with some of my musician friends.”

  “Oh, well then, why do you have it? Just for decoration?”

  “It was a gift from a friend of mine… He was the one that actually knew how to play it. He’s passed away now.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry about that, Cain.”

  He went to his black and white checkerboard decorated kitchen, opened the stainless-steel refrigerator door, then paused when a very old photo of him and his ex caught his eye. The thing was still on that damn refrigerator, kept up with a magnet shaped like a taco. He snatched the photo off, tossed it in the silverware drawer, and returned to her with a chilled bottle of water.

  “Thank you.” He handed it to her.

  “You’re welcome. Yeah… he was real talented, and a real good friend.” He stood before her as she cracked the seal, removed the top and took a sip.

  Look at how her fuckin’ lips wrap around that bottle… ohhh baby… I’d love to be that bottle right about now…

  “Do you mind me askin’ what happened?” Her question crushed his libido like a grape.

  “Accidental drug overdose.”

  “Oh shit…” She shook her head, looking sorrowful as if she’d known the guy, too. Perhaps she simply empathized. In her profession, surely, she’d seen her share of such tragedies. “Sorry again… I know I said that, but that’s terrible. I’m sure you were devastated. I’ve lost people due to addiction, too.”

  “Yeah, I was devastated… one minute he was here, the next he was gone. But it proves one thing.” He shook his finger in her direction. “Life ain’t promised to none of us, now is it?”

  “You’re right about that… sho ’nuff.”

  He winked at her then started to walk away. “I’ll be right back… gonna get dressed and then we can get started.”

  “All right. Sounds nude! I mean, sounds good! Oh, Lord!”

  They both burst out laughing…

  At least now I know she liked what she saw…

  Cain was a manipulative son of a bitch, and he took pride in his skills.

  He’d purposefully allowed the towel to drift a bit low across his hips, to tease and entice the lady. The top portion of his black pubic hair peeked through, and he was quite proud of his abs… he flexed them a time or two… drawing her eye there just for shits and giggles.

  He kept chuckling to himself at her faux pas as he stood in his bedroom, looking for his favorite pair of jeans.

  Now where the hell did I lay ’em?

  He finally spied the damn things under a stack of neatly folded white shirts and slid them up over a pair of boxer briefs he’d just put on seconds prior. Less than five minutes later, his hair was brushed and he was fully dressed. Stomping barefoot back into his living room, he found his lovely songbird busy on her phone, her water bottle halfway consumed. Her fingers were flying as she texted and then, she slowly looked up at him and grinned.

  Placing her phone next to her purse on the table, she got to her feet.

  “All right, we ready?” She clasped her hands together.

  He looked her up and down. Tonight she wore a dark red top with a plunging v neckline. Her huge breasts looked as if they were going to burst free… and he prayed they would.

  Them thangs in there lookin’ like two oiled up pigs with a tan havin’ a fight… Squeal, mothafucka, squeal!

  Her legs were encased in tight, hip hugging jeans, showing off her curves in all the right places.

  “Take your shoes off.” He pointed down at her black high heels.

  “Oh?” She turned towards his front door and seemed to take notice of a couple pairs of his shoes right there by the entrance. “Yeah… all right.” He waited a couple of seconds and then there she was, several inches shorter, her cute little feet with perfectly painted red polish approaching him. She followed him into the dining room, which had now been converted into his makeshift practice room, or studio. He set it up just so—plugged in his guitar, got the microphones in order and then handed her one. When he was done, he gave her a piece of paper with the lyrics typed across it.

  “I took the liberty of practicing the song a bit before I came over,” she explained as she looked down at the paper and bobbed her head as if she already heard the music playing in her mind before they’d even g
otten started.

  “Good.” He sighed as he grabbed his guitar and sat down in a fold up chair. “’Preciate you being proactive.” He turned on the CD and let the song play a couple of times. “You got the vibe of the song now?”

  “I do. I’m ready.” He nodded and then warmed up for the next few minutes, after which he gave her the cue to start.

  “I was demanding to be oh so strong…” she began.

  A few lines later he slapped the strings of his guitar with an open palm.

  “Stop. Start over…” She looked at him perplexed, but then began again. This time, she got a bit farther in the melody, but he stomped his foot to get her attention.

  “Tapestry… stop. Stop. Stop.”

  They began again…

  And again…

  And again…

  And yet again…

  He was so frustrated at this point, he threw his pick across the goddamn dining room, not certain where it went.

  “Shit!” He closed his eyes and gripped his forehead for a spell. “I think we need to take a break… let’s just take five.”

  “What is it?” The woman’s brows were furrowed, a clear look of irritation on her face. “I’m not takin’ five until you tell me what the problem is! I’m not a mind reader. Tell me what you want, Cain.”

  “You’re putting too much pretty shit in the way you’re twistin’ and turnin’ the words, Tapestry. You got it soundin’ like a gospel song, and it’s not. This ain’t the Clark Sisters, this ain’t no jubilee or celebration of the Most High! This is a song about fallin’ in love… havin’ no control. It’s about fallin’ out with a friend, and carryin’ more than she thought she would. It’s about feelin’ things deep in her soul and it makes ’er uncomfortable. It’s about lettin’ loose ’cause ain’t shit she can do. Things goin’ wrong, and it’s all happening to her… she’s slippin’. The original artists that we are doin’ this cover on are soundin’ like this for a reason. That singer sounds good, but her voice is lazy—it flows, it ain’t forced. It is matchin’ what she feels… like somebody bein’ high off love, feeling regret, filled with guilt. Dejected. Her life ain’t right. Her emotions are twisted up and she isn’t strong anymore… she’s slippin’ and havin’ no control. See, control is actually your issue.”