“How long ago?”
“Four years ago. Was with my fiancé. He died on that rainy day.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“He died, and I woke up in the hospital thirty days later.”
“You were in a coma?”
“When I woke up, he was dead and buried. They had taken me off life support. They had written me off. Then said it was a miracle I survived. A miracle. I ended up in a wheelchair, and they called that a miracle. I didn’t see it that way. Sometimes I sit in my chair and watch people run and I want to cry.”
I said, “Doc, you okay?”
With a hard face and a soft voice, she said, “I’m okay, boo. I’m okay.”
She yanked her wheelchair to her. She plopped herself in the seat, then took herself to the bathroom. When she came back, she eased back onto the bed, inched back to me. I kissed her face a dozen times.
She asked, “How often can I see you like this? For chess and whatever happens to happen after?”
“How often do you want to see me?”
“Once a week. On Mondays. I don’t work Mondays.”
“I could be yours from midnight to midnight, if you wanted me. Same rate.”
“I will need a lower rate. I have to budget.”
“We can work something out. It will be to your advantage.”
“You accept Groupons?”
“Groupons, coupons, any discount you can think of. I can make an exception for you.”
“Should I be ashamed?”
“For what?”
“For paying for this.”
“No more than I should be ashamed.”
“How many times have you done this? Hundreds?”
“You are number three.”
“I was almost your first.”
“Almost. You had an opening and middle act. That makes you the headliner.”
“You’re my first. Like this. I can count the number of men I’ve been with on one hand and not have to use my thumb or my pinky or my traffic finger. Wasn’t an easy decision to make, but I thought, why not?”
I held her. She mumbled, nodded off.
I stared at the ceiling, tired but not sleeping. It was funny how fate had worked out. I had been searching for her, and she had ended up needing me. Not me, but a man she now perceived me to be, for only one night.
I wanted to make her breakfast, then lunch, then dinner, then breakfast again.
I whispered, “I don’t know you, but I could love you, and I really, really, really need to love somebody. Someone as amazing as you. I adore you. Your mind is amazing. Everything about you is amazing. Be mine. Just give me a chance, one chance, and if we break up, it won’t be because I cheated. I’d never cheat. I’d try to work things out, and then if it doesn’t work out, we tried, and we just go our separate ways, but it won’t end over infidelity. So, tell me, actuary, what are the odds of a woman like you giving a guy like me a chance at happiness? Long shot. I’m not a man who needs or craves a lot of women. I just want one I can call my own. A remarkable, stunningly fine woman like you.”
Listening to her smooth breathing, fantasizing, I fell asleep too.
CHAPTER 47
DWAYNE
AS INSTRUCTED, I parked a few houses away, then tiptoed through the overgrown grass on the side of Frenchie’s crib. I tapped the bedroom window twice and it eased open. Like Romeo creeping to see Juliet, I crawled into Frenchie’s boudoir, then stood before her holding a box of chocolates and three roses from 7-Eleven. She softened, surprised by the romantic gesture. She stood in candlelight and soft music, Teena Marie singing “Portuguese Love,” and she put her finger to her lips and shook her head. Hair down, Frenchie wore an Italian infinity cross lariat necklace. Stainless steel earrings with Swarovski crystals. Pink lingerie. She smelled like heaven, like mangoes. The girl from Vermont looked vulnerable now. Just a girl waiting on a boy. No grudge, no chip on her shoulder. Trembling like a virgin on her wedding night.
Frenchie took the chocolates and roses, eased her gifts on her dresser, then tiptoed toward me. She put her hand on my chest, touched me, her first time touching me since before Fela was born. She kept her hand there a few seconds, on the rise and fall, felt my energy; then Frenchie backed away, went and blew out the candle.
She stood in front of me and I was nervous, both of us asking if we were really going to do this.
I wanted her.
I pulled her to me, sucked her lips. She shuddered, gave me her tongue, kissed me like she was famished. It was as good now as it had been the first time. At the midnight hour, I quivered from my head down to my liver.
The kisses were dizzying. I took my tender kisses to her ear, down her neck, to her breasts, sucked her nipple as she made “wanna cry but don’t stop because it feels so good” faces. I kissed down across her belly, pushed her back on the bed, opened her legs, went down on her, gave her my tongue with an urgency. My tongue made her body dance. She made sounds like it felt too good, covered her face with a pillow, then panted into the pillow. I held her suntanned ass in my eager hands, pulled her toward me, went deeper. Frenchie muffled her moans the best she could, but my tongue made her jerk like she wanted to hit Mariah Carey high notes. I took my tongue away and left her squirming. I undressed and took out the box of condoms, ripped it open, pulled out one, dropped the box with the remaining two, rolled on a condom as fast as I could. She watched me, anticipating, waiting on me to come back. I eased down on top of her. My weight eased down on hers. She was wet. Wide open. Swollen. I moved inside her and opened up more memories. She slapped her hand over her own mouth to muffle her suddenly savage moans. Vocal rest was being tested to the max. Her throaty groans roared in my ear, and it was arousing. I swallowed; then I moaned like a man dying from lust. She clamped her hand over my mouth to hush me. I moved against her, grew harder as I slid deeper inside her, made her feel me while I filled her.
The sex was Tennessee whiskey: smooth, harsh, and needed. No sounds, but our faces told all. The headboard tapped the wall a half dozen times. Frenchie gave me a panicked expression, made me stop. It hurt for me to stop. Hurt for me to pull out of her. We grabbed pillows, yanked the comforter from the bed, rushed to the floor. She got on her back, legs open, and without guidance, I sank inside her again. She whimpered to God and Jesus. I wanted to shout. It was too much. The wonderful feeling was too much to bear. I stroked her so good. My low, guttural moan tickled her ear. Being on the floor was so much better. She could move against me. She didn’t have to hold back. Floor didn’t give. More intense faces were made in vocal silence. She held me and started to come. Her breathing was dense. The pillow fell away. I let out another low moan. She let out a soft whine. Together we struggled. We were almost there, close to coming together, our ragged breathing the perfect duet. The lines in Frenchie’s face, the way her lips were pulled in, the way she clenched her jaw, the way she bared her teeth, showed how bad she wanted to curse. Her wicked expression was pure swearwords, the kind you made when pleasure was too much. I stroked her, and she gave it back to me as good as I was giving it. I gave her my urgency, gave her the desperate, out-of-control stroking a man gave when a man was about to come the come of all comes. I pushed so far inside of her she almost screamed. She felt me coming and that heat set her on fire, made her move like she had the Holy Spirit.
I slowed my stroke, but she didn’t slow hers. I rode her the best I could, until she stopped bucking.
As we panted in each other’s arms, Frenchie sat up like she’d heard something. She hurried, yanked on a robe, peeped out her door, saw no one, then listened. She tiptoed to Fela’s bedroom door as if Fela was the parent and she didn’t want to get caught. She came back and closed her door, still nervous. Frenchie slipped off her robe, got back down on the floor with me. I took the condom off. She wrapped it in tissues and put it to the side. No words. I sat up. One
and done. I reached for my pants. She touched my shoulder as she gazed into my eyes. She reached for my penis, then motioned at the box of condoms. I nodded. Message received. She licked her lips, still hungry, nodded. I ripped open another condom. She stopped me from putting it on. She bit her lip, touched my face, kissed me as she stroked me, then went down on me, made me grow inside the warmth of her mouth. Frenchie made me feel so good it was my turn to bite and chew into a pillow to keep from howling at the moon. The second round of ex-sex started slow, kisses sweet like strawberry wine, then evolved, hands over mouths, light moans, soft giggles hidden by the music that she’d left playing, both of us struggling not to break vocal rest as the passion elevated. We came and tried to recover from another orgasm. Frenchie was glowing and radiant. I took her right foot in my hand, massaged it gently. Frenchie cooed. I massaged her calf, then her foot again. In that post-sex haze, I wished I was a male alligator, forever erect and aroused, and I’d spend the rest of my life inside Frenchie. A man lost himself in the things he loved. He found himself there, too. She took her foot away, crawled to me, and kissed me over and over and over.
CHAPTER 48
DWAYNE
EXHAUSTED, I GAVE Frenchie a deep fairy-tale kiss, then climbed back out of the window. By the time I made it to where I had parked my rental car, my phone vibrated. It was a text message from Frenchie.
COME BACK. PARK IN FRONT. I’LL COME OUT.
I wondered what I’d done wrong. Or maybe I’d forgotten something, left some evidence behind.
I drove over and parked in front. Frenchie had come outside. She peeped in the rental car’s passenger-side window, then went to the trunk of the car and leaned against it. I got out and sat on the trunk next to her.
I asked, “What I do wrong?”
“Who said you did something wrong?”
“Well, what’s on your mind?”
“Was thinking about all the sex we’d had. Morning sex. Afternoon sex. Before-the-show sex. During-the-show sex. After-the-performance sex. After-dinner sex. After-lunch sex. Day-off sex. Mad-at-you sex.”
“Monday sex. Tuesday sex. Wednesday sex. Thursday sex. Friday sex. Saturday sex.”
“Sunday-before-the-matinée sex.”
“Sunday-after-the-matinée sex.”
“Sex-because-we-liked-having-sex-together sex.”
“Sex-because-I-loved-you sex.”
“We made a mess of things. We hurt other people. And we ended up hurting each other.”
“We did.”
“I was married to one man and pregnant by another. I was so scared.”
“I was scared too.”
Nothing was said, not for a while. Our most tranquil moment in the last sixteen years.
She asked, “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Fela said you’re sleeping in your car. Don’t lie to me.”
“Let’s just say I’m camping. I’ll be okay.”
“Dwayne.”
“We’ve both hit rock bottom.”
“Why aren’t you staying with your brothers? Both have apartments.”
“They had guests. I didn’t want to impose. I feel . . . To be honest . . . I’m too old to be couch surfing.”
“André owns an apartment building.”
“All the units are leased and he keeps a pair of hot legs in his bed damn near every night.”
“A beach for men doesn’t need lifeguards because if a man is drowning, he won’t ask for help.”
“I’ll make it, one way or another.”
“Gurgle, gurgle, drown.”
I said, “It’s just another rough period.”
She paused. “We have water again. We have running water.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you pay to have it turned back on?”
I didn’t answer, just said, “Glad it’s back on.”
She wiped away a tear. “Where have you been crashing at night? Everywhere is dangerous. People are getting held up at gunpoint at Coliseum and Crenshaw, not too far from where your brothers live. Nipsey got gunned down in front of his store. It’s crazy out there.”
“Parked here and there. Parked by Monteith Park in View Park one night; parked by Rueben Ingold Park the next. Let the seat back. Cracked the window for ventilation. Hoped I didn’t get jacked.”
“Why didn’t you use that money to get yourself a hotel room? Plenty of cheap motels on La Brea.”
“I can’t be in a motel living large when my son . . . and you . . . don’t have water.”
“It’s cold until I get the power back on. The water is cold af, but every drop is appreciated.”
“Give it a day. It will warm up.”
“Dwayne.”
“Frenchie.”
“Thanks.”
The door opened and Fela came outside, using his phone as a flashlight, stretching. He came over to where we were, stood next to us, scrunched his nose, then stared at the sky, clocked an airplane heading into LAX.
Frenchie said, “Fela.”
“I know, Ma. It’s past my curfew.”
“It’s fine, Fela. Tonight, it’s fine.” She hummed. “Mind if your daddy sleeps on the couch?”
Fela smiled. “Cool. He can drop me at school. The million-dollar kid wants to show Dad off to the teachers. Some of the older ones are his fans. Maybe he can chat to the class about Broadway and Hollywood stuff. You come too, Ma. You have a lot of fans there too. Every time ‘Everybody Knows’ comes on, Jesus, the older teachers come running to me. I want everybody to see us together for once. That would be better than Christmas.”
Fela told us good night, yawned again, and staggered back into the house.
Frenchie whispered, “He heard us. I knew I heard him in the hallway. He heard us.”
“He heard you.”
“I won’t be able to look him in the eye tomorrow.”
“Me either.”
Frenchie sighed. “What did we just do?”
“I have no idea.”
“I feel foolish.”
“Yeah. Feels like . . . like it did back then.”
Frenchie hummed the Teena Marie part of “Fire and Desire.” I sang the Rick James part.
Frenchie said, “It’s getting cold out here.”
“Nothing like these desert nights. I miss this coolness when I’m in Florida.”
“Bring your stuff into the house.”
“You sure?”
“No. But bring it in anyway. Clean your car out. It looks disgusting. Just turn it back in. Use mine.”
“One car for two people in LA? You sure that would work for you?”
“I’m not sure about anything other than going to court is going to be interesting.”
“Very.”
She bit the corner of her lip, nudged me. “One condom left.”
I nudged her back. “Waste not, want not.”
“Then we can go back to hating each other.”
“I missed you.”
“Missed you too.”
We went to Frenchie’s bedroom.
After a dozen kisses, we took turns and showered in cold water.
The chilling water wasn’t enough to put out fire and desire.
We locked the bedroom door, opened the last condom.
I took Frenchie to the bedroom floor, and we put vocal rest to the test one more time.
CHAPTER 49
BRICK
BY TEN IN the morning, each time a lift opened, it was packed with frowning politicians who dared me to squeeze into an already crowded sardine can. I let three elevators go by before I accepted the challenge. Most were heading to the express checkout, a few in a hurry to get to breakfast and pig out on the taxpayers’ dime before catching flights across the divided nation. When I exited t
he people pulley at the lobby, I strutted like a maverick who’d broken free from a stud of pale horses. My swagger took me to the hotel’s five-star restaurant. Penny, Mocha Latte, and Christiana were already there, seated in the midst of a malapertness of political peddlers. The pace of asses were dressed in dark business suits with American flags on their lapels, like they were lackeys for the politicians.
I’d left Dr. Allison Émilie Chappelle in the well-appointed hotel room. At sunrise we’d played chess and she’d beat me in three out of five games. It had been a wonderful night and an even better morning.
I grinned at the pace of asses. “Well, if it ain’t the good, the bad, and the ugly.”
Penny rubbed her nose with her middle finger. “Wow. You look good in that suit. Democrat or Republican?”
“Independent. Hard to choose when in the end all you’re doing is picking a devil you hope to be kinder.”
“That haircut is sharper than a kitchen knife.”
I said, “The stylist was meticulous. She waxed inside my nostrils and checked my prostate.”
Christiana said, “I waxed the rest of Brick yesterday. Now I have waxed all of you.”
The pace had worked here last night. They had been put in suites by clients, then waited for their customers to come to them. They laughed about how old men paid top dollar to just sit and look at women more beautiful than their wives. They said that the men who paid the most were knocking on the doors of impotence, or already impotent, but flexed their financial power. If they could come once, it took forever to get it up, then forever to get them to come, and when they did, they were done, down for the count, and probably done for the month. They wanted a woman younger than their daughters at their side for the night. They wanted to eat out a beautiful woman and see her naked.
I said, “No issues?”
Penny laughed. “No one broke into a room and kicked everybody’s ass.”
We got comfortable amid the pale male power. The table to our right was filled with men older than Moses. They talked unemotionally about human trafficking and sex slaves. The table to our left was filled with millennials, Fox News–type pundits, who used Black Lives Matter as a punch line. They were huge fans of a racist president who lacked self-control and tweeted like an emotionally immature, hormonal thirteen-year-old going through puberty.
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