by Kennedy Ryan
I squeeze my eyes shut, at once blocking the image and also trapping it behind my eyelids for later. Forever. I want to rip it from the wall and burn it. I want to take it home and wake up seeing it every day. My jaw aches with the pain of clenched teeth. My hand opens and closes, making and releasing a fist.
“Nice tits, huh?” A guy with a receding hairline nudges me with his elbow and shares a roguish grin.
I grab his arm and squeeze. He yelps, and Kenya pries my fingers from his elbow.
“Kenan, what the hell?” Kenya asks, turning apologetic eyes to the man who is rubbing his elbow, fury and fear on his face. “My brother has, uh . . . PTSD. Sorry about that.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No problem,” he says hastily, walking away and flinging parting words over his shoulder. “Thank you for your service.”
“My service?” I ask, bewildered. “What’s he—”
“You’re welcome,” Kenya snaps. “Better a troubled vet than the NBA player he could sue the pants off for mauling him. Dude, what’s wrong with you?”
I look back to the photo.
“This?” She points her thumb at the wall. “The Lo thing?”
“It’s not a thing,” I grit out. “It’s her.”
“Huh?” Her face wrinkles into a frown and then stretches wide with realization. She looks back to the wall. “Lo? That’s Lotus?”
A guy beside us snaps a picture of the photo with his phone. Before I can snatch and crush it, a woman in glasses walks up to address him.
“No photos.” She points to a sign a few feet away. “Please show me your phone. I need to see you delete the photo you took.”
I watch in anger and frustration, holding my tongue until she’s done.
“How much?” I ask as soon as the guy walks off.
“Excuse me?” She turns to me with a polite smile, but her eyes gleam avariciously behind her rimless glasses. “For Lo, you mean?”
“For the photo, yeah.”
“It’s only been in the gallery two days,” she says. “And we’ve had so many inquiries about it already. It fetches quite a price. It’s—”
“Not for sale,” a man’s voice, semi-familiar, says from behind me.
When I turn and Chase is standing there, I almost lunge for his neck. He and I stare at each other, dislike shimmering in the air like heatwaves rising off asphalt.
“How much is that one?” I point to the photo to the left of Lo.
“Six thousand,” he replies with a smirk.
“And that one?” I point to the photo on the right.
“Oh, that one’s a steal at fifty-five hundred,” he says.
“And that one?” I point to the wall behind me, not even looking at what’s back there.
“Whichever one you mean,” he says, his eyes gleaming with malice, “they all have price tags, except this one.”
“Seven thousand,” I offer, leveling my tone, controlling my anger.
“No,” he says, his jaw set at an obstinate angle.
“Ten thousand.”
“I said no.”
“Fifteen thousand,” I snap, the little patience I’ve ever had for this motherfucker completely gone.
“Kenan,” my sister whispers. “Let’s go.”
“Twenty thousand dollars,” I offer, my eyes trained on Chase.
“I told you, she’s mine.” His smile taunts. “You can see why I wouldn’t want to give her up.”
“Ahem,” the gallery attendant clears her throat. “Mr. Montclair, surely we could—”
“Nope,” he cuts her off, not looking away from me. “Mine.”
I don’t even realize I’ve taken the three steps that separate us until I’m right in his face, looming over him, and Kenya pulls me back by my shoulder.
“We understand,” she says with a stiff smile. “My brother is a . . . collector, and has been looking for something like this. Goodbye.”
She drags me out of the gallery, and I draw in a huge lungful of fresh air, clearing some of the red haze from my vision.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Kenya demands once we’re a few feet beyond the gallery.
“That’s . . .” I flounder, fury pumping through my blood. “He has her up there for everyone to see. He shouldn’t . . . He has no right.”
“She must have signed off on it, Kenan,” she says. “She must want it to be seen. It wasn’t that bad. You only see her breast.”
She doesn’t get it. No one gets it. I hate people seeing her like that. I hate that he has seen her like that. She told me they used to fuck. I know that with my rational mind, but that photo flaunts an intimacy he never deserved with a woman he’s not worthy of.
“Ken, I need to, uh . . . I got something to do,” I tell her, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “That alright?”
“Yeah,” she says, concern on her face. “But get your shit under control before you talk to her.”
Kenya’s right. If I see Lotus now, like this, I’ll screw something up. But seeing her displayed like that, hearing Chase gloat over her, having him deny me like that . . . how can I not?
22
Lotus
“Oh, so you just out here living your best life and shit, huh?”
Yari’s joking question draws my attention away from the sample I’m consulting on with one of our seamstresses.
“Gimme a sec,” I tell her, grinning and turning back to the seamstress. “So the embroidery will go all along here.” I run my fingernail around the waistband of the skirt.
“But won’t see?” she asks, her English broken and her face puzzled.
“Short shirt.” I draw an imaginary line under my breasts. “You’ll see the embroidery on the skirt because the shirt will be so short.”
“Ahhh.” She offers a beatific smile of understanding and walks back over to the Juke sewing machines that are standard issue in this studio. I prefer my old Singer at home.
“What are you talking about, Ri?” I ask, propping my butt against one of the sewing tables.
“Jetsetting off to Milan.” She waves her hand in front of me. “Fly outfit. Face beat.”
“The makeup and dress were for a CFDA luncheon JP asked me to attend with him.” I tug the clingy silk away from my body and let it pop back. “Believe me, I’m about to slip into something more comfortable so I can get my work done.”
“Ooooh, love that dress,” Billie says, crossing the work room toward us. “Last year spring?”
I nod. It was one of my favorites. Burnt orange silk, strapless, A-line, it streams over my body from breast to knee, flaring out at the hem. We finished the look with gold rhinestone-studded ankle-strap stilettos, which are killing me.
“And the hair, too,” Yari chimes in. “I haven’t seen you wear it platinum without the braids.”
I touch the huge cloud of curls the humidity will only make huge-er. I took the braids out, but kept the color. “JP’s brilliant idea,” I say dryly. “Experimenting, he calls it.”
“So now that you’re back,” Yari says, “Billie and I are thinking we need some BFF time. What do you say to movie night at our place? I’m thinking we’re long overdue for Black Panther.”
“Again?” Billie asks faintly.
“Wakanda forever,” Yari says, crossing her chest in the Black Panther salute.
I repeat the salute and laugh. “But Wakanda will have to wait because I have plans.”
With Kenan, I singsong in my head.
I don’t mean to smile, but even thinking his name has me all up in my feelings. When I got home from the airport last night, I had mail. No return address, but I knew immediately who sent it. I recognized that nearly barely readable scrawl and my heartbeat quickened when I slid it open.
“There is no one else but you, my friend, my equal.”
--Song of Solomon 5:2
I stowed the card in the clutch I carried today, and have probably read it twenty times.
“Wha
t plans?” Billie leans one hip on a sewing table. “These plans wouldn’t happen to be with Kenan Ross?”
My smile slips and I look from one friend to the other, wondering how much to tell them. I haven’t exactly been purposely keeping things from them, but I haven’t talked about how the relationship has progressed. I haven’t told them I kissed Kenan . . . a few times. I haven’t told them we are now more than friends.
Okay. Maybe I have been purposely keeping things from them.
“If you don’t want Kenan Ross,” Yari says with a shrug, “I’ll assume he’s free game and go for it. He looks like he might like some Latina loving.”
“Bitch, do not even,” I say with a knife of a smile.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Yari laughs. “Come on. Tell us.”
I draw a deep breath, exhale, and glance around at the seamstresses with their heads down, seemingly absorbed in their tasks.
“Okay, so we’re seeing each other,” I say low enough for only us to hear.
“Yes!” Yari fist pumps. “Bill, you owe me five bucks.”
“We bet on how long it would take,” Billie admits, digging into her pocket and handing Yari a five. “She said before Fashion Week. I said after. Dammit. I thought you’d hold out for the summer.”
My mouth hangs open, and I swing a surprised look between them.
“You guys are obviously into each other,” Yari says, pocketing the bill. “It was only a matter of time.”
“Yeah, well, please don’t talk to anyone about this, guys,” I say, pressing my hands together under my chin. “We’re not exactly hiding it, but we’re being really discreet. His ex is tripping and could make things complicated, especially for his daughter. They’re planning to tell her he’s seeing someone in their next family counseling session on Monday.”
“Lips sealed,” Billie says, running an imaginary zipper over her mouth.
“Locked down,” Yari agrees. “But you’ll keep us posted? We just want to make sure you’re happy, Lo.”
“I am.” I fiddle with the slim gold chain around my neck. “He’s pretty great, and fine with me needing to take things slow.”
“You mean still being off the dick?” Billie asks.
“Pretty much.” I twist my lips. “I’m just working through some things.”
“We’re crazy,” Billie says, watching me intently. “But you know we’re here if you need us, right?”
“I know.”
Besides MiMi and Iris, I’ve only talked to Marsha about what happened to me all those years ago. Maybe telling my friends is the next step.
“I, um, I’ve been attending a support group for childhood sexual abuse survivors.” My voice, though soft, goes off with the report of a bullet in the quiet room.
“Shit,” Billie mutters and takes my hand. “Lo, I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay, or at least getting there,” I say wryly. “So far, I’ve just listened to the other women, but I’ve talked to the group leader. I think it’s helping.”
“So the whole sex break thing . . .” Yari frowns and takes my other hand.
“Yeah, it’s complicated.” I exhale a quick breath. “But I’m working through my shit.”
“Whenever you want to talk,” Billie says, “we’re here.”
“I know.” I nod, grateful for them. “Just be patient with me. I’ll get there, but for now, at least you know.”
I look between my two best friends, deep affection momentarily crowding out the ache in my heart. “I love you, guys.”
“And we love you, too,” Yari says, looping an arm around my shoulders. “Bring it in for the real thing.”
We huddle together in a quick three-way squeeze that has me holding back tears.
My phone rings in the clutch behind me on the table. I disentangle from my girls to grab it. When Kenan’s name flashes onscreen, I can’t suppress a grin.
“Hey.” I turn my back to my friends, facing the lobby and lowering my voice. “I was gonna call you to confirm things for tonight.”
“I’m outside,” he says abruptly, not acknowledging my words. “Can I come up?”
“Uh, sure. That should be . . .” I spot him walking off the elevator with the cell pressed to his ear. “. . . fine.”
As soon as he comes in, heads pop up, and he’s the center of attention. He glances around the room, his thick brows furrowed. He spots me, and the frown doesn’t lift as he comes over.
“Hey,” he says, dividing a terse greeting between the three of us before settling his gaze on me. “Can we talk?”
“Uh, sure. Later, bitches,” I tell them with a wink, hoping to dispel the duh duh duuuuuhh vibe Kenan ushered in. “We can talk back here.”
We walk past the curious seamstresses who inspect every foot and inch of Kenan as we pass. I open the door of the backroom, my usual haven. He walks past me, and I lock the door in case someone gets curious or wander-y.
“Welcome home, Lotus,” I say, clutching the knob in my hands behind me, my back pressed to the door. “Glad to see you, Lotus. How was Milan? Did you—”
“You have a nipple piercing.”
He says it almost like an accusation. I’m mystified, because we’ve had a few deep, shivery, drawn-out kisses, yes, but he hasn’t seen the girls yet, so far as I can recall.
“I do,” I agree quietly, frowning. “How do you know that?”
“Anyone in Soho could know that,” he says, walking in tight circles. “Step into the Gilded Bean and bam. It’s right there.”
Something prickles my memory. The Gilded Bean. Where have I heard . . .
“Chase,” I blurt. “He has some photos showing there.”
“Bingo.” He props his big body against an unsuspecting table I’m not sure can hold him. He’s not exactly sitting, but not quite standing. I worry for them both.
“Is there a photo of me in the collection or something?” I ask. “You think you saw something that—”
“I don’t think I saw shit, Lotus,” he snaps. “I would recognize my girlfriend in a photo that’s as tall as I am.”
His girlfriend.
It’s the first time he’s called me that and I can’t even appreciate it because of this interrogation.
“No, it can’t be.” I shake my head, unable to compute the data. “You saw my face?”
“I didn’t need to.”
“Then you could be mistaken.”
“The tattoo on your collar bone, the moons on your fingers, your gris-gris ring, the lotus flower around your belly button. Do I sound mistaken?”
“That doesn’t make sense. I didn’t sign a release for any nudity. I saw the photos he took. I’d remember that. I don’t have a problem with nudity in art, for the record, but I didn’t want to do it personally.”
“But you did pose for him?” Another accusation. One he isn’t entitled to, and it’s starting to irk me.
“Yes, I did,” I answer stiffly. “I was finishing up at FIT, and was basically an intern here making no real money. Chase paid me to sit for him. It’s not a secret, and it’s none of your business.”
He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I know. You’re right. I just . . .” His head drops back, his eyes on the ceiling. “I hate people seeing you like that.”
“I don’t belong to you, Kenan,” I tell him. “You don’t get to criticize me posing for photos, even if there isn’t supposed to be any nudity. I’ll deal with Chase, believe that, but you don’t get to come up in here growling with some caveman shit over things that happened before we were . . . anything. It doesn’t work that way, and if you think you can tell me what to do, let me set you straight. I am not that chick.”
“I know you don’t belong to me, Lotus,” he growls. “Why do you think I’m acting like an asshole? It makes me crazy that you don’t. If I’m honest—”
“Yes, please, let’s try that.”
“If I’m honest,” he repeats, both brows raised meaningfully. “It makes me crazy t
hat Chase had something with you that I haven’t yet. He knows you in ways I don’t.”
“You mean because we fucked?” I cross my arms over my chest. “In this little game where you and Chase keep score, it bothers you that you’re behind? We can fuck right now and your problem will be solved, right? You’ll be even? You want to fuck me, Kenan?”
“Of course I do, but not just that.” His frown softens. His voice softens. “You know not just that, Lotus.”
I push off the door and walk over until I’m standing in front of him. “Then what is this about?” I ask, my voice softening, too. “Chase and I had sex, yeah, but I thought you wanted more.”
“I do.” He cups my hips with huge hands, and pulls me to stand between his legs. “You know I do.”
“Then don’t ruin it,” I whisper. I press closer, and, with him sitting and me in my stilettos, I can more easily link my arms behind his neck. “Don’t let him ruin it.”
His hands shift from my hips to rubbing my back through the silk.
“I haven’t been jealous of him before,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t like that you’d been with him, but you’re a grown woman with a normal sex life, so I get it.”
“Things haven’t been exactly typical for me in the sex department lately.” I laugh dryly, “but go on.”
“The photo is so gorgeous, and he wouldn’t sell it to me.” He tucks my unruly hair back, tracking the shell of my ear like he does often. “You’re fantastic in it, so uninhibited. It’s decadent, and you look like you’re . . .”
“Like I’m what?”
“Coming.”
The word caresses my lips. “I realized he’s seen your face, how you look when you come, and I haven’t. He knows things about your body that I don’t. For instance, I have no idea what the ink is at the top of your thighs. I’ve seen flashes of it, but I don’t know. He does. I guess what I’m saying is he knows you intimately.”