“That she’s dying. I knew that already.”
“Did she say how soon?”
Angelina shakes her head. “But she was curious about this one here.” She hammers her thumb in my direction. “Daisy’s husband’s brother.” Angelina chuckles.
I slap my chest. “Me?”
“She has this fascination with Daisy. They met once in Caracas years ago, but Daisy didn’t know my mom was involved with her father, our father.” Jacques is looking off as if he’s tuned Angelina out. “That’s when she really got crazy about me becoming a doctor. She just won’t let that shit go.”
One of the French doors opens. The nurse wheels a frail woman, who looks to be in her fifties, out on the porch. I recognize the woman’s face from all the portraits hanging on the walls. She’s not as lively and vivid as she had once been, but her eyes still have a jovial and seductive quality to them. From what I remember, her playful eyes have always been her trademark.
“I had to see for myself,” Madame Josephine Beauchamp says.
“Mama, what are you doing out here?” Angelina says, shocked to see her.
“Thought I should join my guests since y’all are never here.”
“That’s not my fault,” Angelina says.
Madame Josephine Beauchamp ignores Angelina and continues to size me up. The nurse gets her IV drip situated and checks the oxygen.
“Remember to push the button when you feel some pain,” the nurse says as she taps the arm of the wheelchair.
“Don’t worry about me, Dorothy. Angel can take it from here.”
Dorothy winks at Angelina. “All right then. I’ll go make dinner.”
Angelina squeezes my thigh to thrust herself forward. “You don’t have to do that, Miss Dorothy. I got it,” she says.
I look down at her hand. It’s awfully close to my dick.
“Uh-uh, Angel. You stay seated. Enjoy your family time. It’s good to see y’all together.”
When I look up, Josephine is still staring at me.
“Is your brother half as handsome as you are?” she asks.
Angelina moves her hand, but pokes me in the shoulder with her elbow. I think she’s mortified. I extend my arm across the top of the bench behind her in an effort to get her to relax.
“The consensus is that he’s the finer spawn of the two of us.”
Jacques laughs a little.
“Then he must be Zeus, darling, because you are gorgeous.” She ruffles her eyebrows curiously. “And you flew all the way out here with Angel. Why?”
My first inclination is to tell the truth. That’s what Josephine’s voice and the expression on her face make me want to do. But I catch myself before that happens. “Because we’re family now,” I say. Damn, that sounded insincere, which is probably why Jacques and Josephine are chuckling.
I turn to study Angelina, and she looks puzzled. I’m hoping she didn’t get it like her parents obviously have. I’m a liar.
Thankfully, Josephine changes the subject. “Jacques, you bring your harmonica?”
“I have it right here.” He slips the harmonica out of his pants pocket.
“Then play something for me.”
“I’m not the only music man out here,” he says and tilts his head in my direction.
“Is that right? What do you play?” Josephine asks. Her tone is lyrical. Although it’s hampered by her illness, it still sounds as though she’s singing when she speaks.
“I play Betty. She’s in the truck of the car.”
“Oh, Betty,” she sings. “Is she a guitar?”
I’m surprised that she guessed it. “Yeah!”
“Then you better go get her.”
I leap to my feet so quickly that my head spins. This is a pivotal moment in history. “Really?” I’m still dizzy as hell.
Jacques points his head toward the driveway. “Go get her.”
I nearly jump off the patio on my way to the car.
Jacques Blanchard is leading the jam session. It’s been a while since I had to get in sync with another player, especially one of his caliber. The sun has already set. Jacques has changed melodies more than a woman changes her mind. I’ve surprised myself by keeping up. Josephine jumps in at times to hum some bars. If she pushes it too far, she’ll cough, take a deep breath, and smile. Angelina dances her shoulders and snaps her fingers to whatever rhythm we’re playing. I’m trying not to look at her because she’s damn inspiring and I’m hopping to Jacques’ tune, not my own. Then, she taps the beat out on my thigh, and I rip the wrong chord. It’s so bad that Jacques stops playing.
I shake my head. “Sorry, sorry about that.” I don’t want to stop. I’m waiting for him to start up again.
He’s about to say something, but then a woman exclaims from the lawn, “I give up, I give up, I give up!”
Josephine straightens the silk scarf on her head and tugs at the red robe she’s wearing. I don’t think she expected to have another visitor. Angelina takes off running down the steps of the porch to hug the woman.
Jacques stands against the rail, grinning. “Thought we’d go ahead and put you to shame,” he says jovially.
“That you did!” The woman must be Karina. She has gray eyes the color of mud and thin red lips. Her hair is pulled back into an unrelenting bun, which shows off her pretty Russian face.
“Why haven’t you come over to see me yet?” she says, chastising Angelina.
“We got caught up.” Angelina matches Karina’s accent. I feel like I need to speak a little Southern myself to fit in.
Karina narrows one eye at me. “That’s your new type?”
Angelina looks petrified.
“They’re family,” Jacques says. It sounds like he’s mocking me.
“Are you Heloise’s son?” she asks.
“Nah, not that kind of family.”
“What other kind is there, darling?”
“Will y’all leave him alone, please?” Angelina says.
“All right, but I’m still confused,” Karina says but then tilts her head to focus on Josephine. “It’s nice to see you out and about, Josephine.”
Josephine smiles, but it’s frigid. Her whole demeanor matches her smile.
“I heard you singing before I showed myself. It sure was lovely.”
Angelina squeezes my thigh, and I stare at her hand because it’s almost against my cock. What the hell is she doing? The two women are talking, but I can’t concentrate on a damn thing they’re saying. My dick is growing, and if she leaves her hand there, she’s going to feel it real soon. I try to think of something less stimulating than our eventual collision. Then it happens. Angelina glances at me, but she doesn’t remove her hand. My heart is racing. I struggle to keep my cool as Karina fills Josephine and Jacques in on the whereabouts and welfare of people I don’t know. I swear that if Angelina were to rub me one time, I would blow.
All eyes are on me. I think Karina asked if I’m a trained musician.
I clear my throat. Twice. “Um, mostly self taught.”
“That’s why he can keep up with you, Jacques,” she says.
“Naturally gifted,” Josephine says. She’s more relaxed now.
Angelina and I smile at each other. I want to kiss her.
Miss Dorothy steps out on the porch to announce that dinner is ready. She takes Josephine upstairs while the rest of us sit down to butter noodles and pepper steak. Of course there’s bourbon. Jacques and I are the only ones who partake in the libations. Angelina doesn’t drink. And then he gives me a master class on inspiration and putting it into music as he tells me how some of his most popular work came to be. When we get to the end of the session, Jacques puts his full attention on Angelina.
“Have you left Los Angeles for good?” he asks.
She freezes with a bite of noodles halfway to her mouth. “Not yet, but I’m going to stick around here for while. Until mother gets a little bit better.”
“She’s not going to get a little bit better, Angel.”
He says it bitterly. “She’s dying.”
“I know that,” Angelina snaps.
“The months she had are now days.”
“But she seemed to be doing just fine out back today.”
“Dr. Pete found a cocktail of pain medications that are making it better. She can’t take them for more than a week, but the medication is giving her that extra energy she needs to get through this stage.”
Angelina puts her fork on her plate with the noodles still on it. “I still haven’t seen her like this in a long time,” she says sort of dismissively, kind of like someone who doesn’t want to accept the truth.
Jacques looks like he has something heavy on his mind. “I’ve been here since Monday, and Josephine and I have been doing a lot of talking. Why does she think you’re in medical school in Los Angeles?”
Angelina closes her eyes. The question hangs in the air, still waiting to be answered. “Because it’s easier to tell her what she wants to hear.”
“Then you purposefully lied?”
“Yes, I did.” Her voice is sharp.
Jacques doesn’t let her tiny bark effect him. He glares at her and calmly wipes his mouth with a napkin. “You tell her the truth.” He stands up and jabs a finger in her direction. “You tell the truth.”
He strolls out of the dining room. Angelina doesn’t move a muscle. She’s staring into her plate. I don’t know what the hell to do, but what a way to cap off one of the best days of my life.
“You okay?” I finally ask.
She nods stiffly. “Why don’t you go to bed while I clean up down here?” It sounds like she wants to get rid of me so she can be alone. I don’t want to leave her like this, but I understand what she’s going through, so I do.
I go to my isolated room on the third floor. I thought at least Jacques would be in one of the rooms up here, but nope. I’m alone, which is kind of good and kind of daunting. I strip down to my underwear and hop on top of the bed. I look out the window. It’s pitch black. I didn’t realize how late it was, but it’s after midnight. That was how much fun we were having shooting the breeze and talking music during dinner.
I close my eyes and think of Angelina in that long blue dress. It’s really the color of a clear blue sea. Then there’s her cinnamon-colored skin and eyes. She has a dancer’s body. And that ass… I moisten my hand and grab myself. I rub it and pretend she’s letting me make love to her. I turn on my side and gaze out into the darkness. Jacking off is not easing my yearning for her, but I have to rid myself of a case of blue balls. So I close my eyes and don’t stop fantasizing about all the shit I’m going to do to her tits until I find my release.
Chapter 6
Invitation Only
Someone is shaking my leg. “Wake up, Charlie.”
I flip over and am graced by the sexy sight of Angelina in a white halter top and loose-fitting faded jeans. Skin is showing in all the right places.
“What time is it?” I ask, blinking so that I can focus more on her body in that outfit. It’s very farmer’s daughter, and my favorite tits don’t have a bra binding them. Shit.
“Late,” Angelina says, tapping an imaginary watch on her wrist. “We have to go to New Orleans. So get dressed.” Her smile is as bright as the light in the room. The bourbon from last night must’ve been more potent than the usual. If it weren’t for Angelina’s tits, I’d let my headache get the best of me.
“Sure, let’s do it.” I’ll take her anywhere she wants to go.
She hitches herself up onto the dresser. “Madame Josephine wants me to drop a note off at her friend’s apartment on Frenchman.”
“How far is New Orleans from here?” I stand up. Angelina’s eyes widen. My dick’s pushing against my boxer-briefs first because of her tits and second because I just woke up. I don’t feel the need to apologize. She felt how hard it was yesterday. I want her to understand how much I want to plain old, down and dirty fuck her.
“Um,” she hesitates before looking me in the face. “About two hours, depending on how fast you drive.” She hops off the dresser. “Are you hungry?”
“That a loaded question?” I smirk.
She chuckles. “For food?”
“Maybe we can grab something in New Orleans,” I say. Last night’s dinner and bourbon are still sitting on my stomach.
“Fine with me.” She sneaks a glance at my dick. “Get dressed. Meet me on the back porch.” She lifts her eyebrows and closes the door behind her on the way out.
I shower and put on a pair of white Bermuda shorts, a navy blue button-front shirt, and navy blue espadrilles that most chicks seem to like on me. I don’t forget the cologne I wear every now and then. The salesgirl in Barneys suggested it. I tried it and liked it.
When I make it to the porch, the look on Angelina’s face says it all. I can pat myself on the back. She stands up from the bench.
“After you,” I say.
She moves as if she suddenly remembered how to walk. I’d rather skip New Orleans, go back upstairs, and spread her across the bed like creamy butter.
“You smell good,” she says as she sweeps past me.
“So do you.”
We grin at each other on our way to the car. I open the door for her. It’s already happening. My dick is going up and then halfway down and then back up. It’s going to be fluctuating all day long. I’ll have a serious case of blue balls by bedtime.
Angelina guides me to the highway. She doesn’t need to. I’m good at remembering how I got somewhere in the first place.
“Did you grow up in New Iberia?” I ask once we’re on the open road.
“Some,” she says, fiddling with that letter in her hands.
“Did you split the time between here and California?”
“No, not California.” Angelina looks preoccupied as she gazes out the window.
“Oh,” I say. She’s distant. I hope it’s not because of me.
Finally she turns to smile at me. “Sorry, I’m somewhere else right now—mainly inside of this envelope. It’s awfully strange.” She shakes the envelope and holds it up to the window so that it catches some sunlight. “Doesn’t feel like there’s much to it. And it’s not even sealed.”
“Just open it.”
Angelina flexes her eyebrows naughtily. “I should. Shouldn’t I?”
“It’s just me and you, and I’m not going to tell on you.”
“You’ll keep my secrets?”
I take my eyes off the road to glance at her. She’s batting her eyelashes.
I smirk. “Every single one of them.”
Her eyes narrow to slits. After a beat, she sighs. “Okay, I’ll control myself.” Angelina stuffs the letter into the small handbag she’s carrying. “What did you ask again? Oh, that’s right. I went to school in D.C. for two years, and then when my mom booked a two-year gig in Paris, I lived there.”
“Oh, parlez-vous français, Mademoiselle?”
“Très peu et très mal,” she says with a cynical air.
I laugh.
“What about you?” she asks. “Where did you grow up?”
“Colorado.”
“And now you live in L.A.”
“I don’t live in L.A. I’m just passing through.”
“Then you call Colorado home?”
“I call Martha’s Vineyard home.”
“Oh.” She sounds intrigued. “I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s gorgeous and a lot of rich people live there—you being one of them.”
“What’s wrong? You don’t like rich people?” I smirk, waiting for her response.
“Why did you ask me that?”
“You’ve blasted me about shopping at Barneys and having a cook.”
“Oh, I wasn’t blasting you. I would never criticize anyone for being something that doesn’t hurt anyone else.”
It falls silent between us. Molecules of pure chemistry are pulling us together. I want to kiss her so badly. I wonder if she feels the same way.
“So wh
at do you want to do in New Orleans?”
That smile of hers always gets me in the heart. “Everything and anything.”
My eyes take a dip down to her braless tits. “I like the sound of that,” I say.
She snickers. “Do you dance?” I think she’s purposely changing the subject.
“I can dance.”
“Good. Today I want you to be a voyeur, not a music man. Experience the thrill of sound and movement with me. Can you do that?”
The car swerves. “Shit!” I pull the steering wheel to set the tires back between the lines. She must know what the fuck she’s doing to me.
For the rest of the drive we talk about some of the places she lived in New York over the last five years and try to figure out if we were ever in the city at the same time. Just knowing she was there during some of the worst periods of my life is like finally putting a Band-Aid over the crazy shit that happened. We barely take notice of the trees lording over the sides of the highway, the dank waters under and around the bridges we cross, or the white stone plantations, relics of the antebellum South.
“The first time I came to Hollywood I was one of those people who criticized everyone for being fake. Then, I thought, how could they be fake when they’re real people, and there are more than one of the same kind?” Angelina takes that pause where she waits for me to reply.
“Right,” I say on cue.
“My mother taught me never to come to a conclusion until you know the whole story, which you’ll never fully know. So I learned to respect L.A. for being different from everywhere else and everywhere else for being different from L.A.”
“Josephine is a wise woman,” I say.
“In a lot of ways she is, but in some ways she isn’t. She just won’t get off of this doctor thing. Can you ever see me as a doctor? It’s just nonsensical to put that kind of pressure on me.”
“If you were a doctor, I’d be a hypochondriac.”
She tosses her head back and pushes her chest up as she chuckles. That’s something she does unintentionally. Hell, she doesn’t know that every time she does that I have a reaction.
“I have to figure out a way to break the bad news. Maybe I could say, ‘Mother…’” She looks upwards to ponder. The silence rolls on and on.
Say You Love Her Page 6