by Kenya Wright
She shook her head and typed into her phone.
Minutes later the song filled the air, and she returned back to my arms. That day we played the song over and over. We listened to those sweet notes—especially the violin. How beautiful the male lover crooned and belted about his one and only.
That had been one of the most peaceful and loving days of my life.
After all the money, power, and even fame. That moment, with her in my arms, with that song filing the air, mingling with the scent of our sex.
That had been heaven.
So this morning, I played that song for her.
It was our goodbye.
My speakers blasted, Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers.
For the first time, I could relate to the song more than ever before. Sure, it was mushy. It was cheesy, but it was all true.
The man belted out the ballad, full of emotional lyrics over an epic orchestra. He swooned into crescendo. There was real, undeniable hunger in the singer’s voice. There was a rawness of a man that knew heartbreak but would still love again. There were layers upon layers.
I played it over and over, hearing the song different with each turn.
Swarms of flies entered the house. They skittered over the roses and Shalimar’s graying body and the music rising in the cottage.
Goodbye. I hope you have more joy wherever you go.
I leaned against the wall and had whiskey for breakfast.
Giorgio came on the twentieth time of playing the song. By then the bottle was halfway gone. He took a swig of the bottle and helped me get Shalimar together.
And the day begins.
A few hours later, the church ceremony began. It had been closed casket. Not many knew Shalimar. They’d come for me. But even if they did know her, that wasn’t the way I wanted everyone to see her for the last time—cut, battered, and bruised.
They’d wanted me to say something at the ceremony. Jean-Pierre thought it would be good to get everything off my chest. I didn’t agree. We didn’t have enough days for me to talk about it all. The stupidity. The fucked-up parts. It was better to leave everything unsaid and move on.
I never spoke.
Eden did. It was sad. I couldn’t listen. So beautiful, but heart aching.
I left the church.
Jean-Pierre followed and met me outside.
We stood on the steps. Silent. The breeze blowing. And then I put on my mask just as the tears came down.
He had the good manners to not say anything.
Others came out. My men carried Shalimar in that white casket and placed it on the horse drawn carriage—one worthy of a queen.
We walked her to the last place that she would rest. It was all so unfair. I wanted to scream at the sky. Without Eden on one side and Jean-Pierre on the other, I may have never made it to the grave.
Minutes later, we stood around a hole in the earth, ready to be filled with her. Hundreds of red roses covered her white casket. Through the mask, I scanned the sea of black-masked faces. No sun had come this morning—only gray clouds.
The priest murmured a prayer.
I didn’t listen. I never did, when it came to death.
What good are prayers, when they’re already gone?
Everyone remained quiet and somber. No one had been in a good mood anyway. Our fighting with Russians and Kazimir’s bombing had brought a gloom over France.
The President had nicely asked us to take a holiday somewhere else—anywhere else. Jean-Pierre refused to leave France but compromised by getting us out of Paris. Before leaving, we gave millions to rebuild Paris, and we’d be giving millions more.
Still, none of that mattered as everyone stared back at me. I’d worn the mask too. It hid my tears, but it couldn’t conceal the sadness in my voice.
Would it had hurt less, if you’d loved me too, Shalimar? Or would it hurt even more?
I frowned under the mask.
And you never gave me my heart back.
What was a heart anyway? What did it matter if one fell in love? If I couldn’t get the guarantee that the other would love me back, I didn’t want to play the damn game in the first place.
I had her. I had her in my hands. In my arms. I’d wrapped them around her. I’d consumed that mouth. I’d tasted her.
And then I fucked it up.
And I couldn’t get it back. And now she was gone. And we had no more time. And all I had was regrets and guilt. They gathered in the rotting hole in my chest.
At the end of the funeral, everyone slowly walked away.
I remained there.
Several men shoveled dirt into the hole.
The cool breeze twirled leaves near their feet.
Louis got to my side. “You need more time?”
No. Shalimar and I needed more time.
I cleared my throat. “No. I’m fine.”
“Let’s go.” He walked off. “We’ll lift your spirits. I know you miss her.”
I do, and I always will.
I followed. When we made it to the limos, I took my mask off. Louis did too. Cars drove off, heading to the after party.
We believed that one had to celebrate, after funeral. If anything, we were congratulating another person for learning the biggest question to life—what happens after death. Now Shalimar knew, while we walked this earth unsure. She knew, and that was enough to toast to her.
Jean-Pierre stood by my limo.
I didn’t see Eden.
She must’ve already gone inside.
He took off his mask, when I walked up. The bandage showed on his cheek. No one had asked him earlier, when we spotted it. The moment had been too intense.
But now, I shook my head. “What the fuck did you do?”
Jean-Pierre grinned like the stupid bastard he was. “I was proving a point.”
“To who?”
“Eden.”
“That you’re psychotic?”
“And that her scars don’t matter.”
“Something is wrong with you, and that’s a lot coming from me.” I hugged the idiot anyway. “But don’t let her go.”
Not waiting for a response, I moved past him and got into the limo. We were becoming a little new family. Eden sat between Jean-Pierre and I on one side. Giorgio and Louis sat across.
I thought the drive would be silent and sad, but Eden changed that, by telling us the entire story of Jean-Pierre scarring himself. Giorgio found it to be a romantic gesture. Jean-Pierre beamed with pride. Louis called him an idiot. They went back and forth which was always fun.
Sometime in the middle of it, Eden put her arm around my shoulders and leaned her head on me. The closeness felt good. It soothed me.
And I decided in that moment, that Eden was my favorite of all Jean-Pierre’s lovers. None of the others could’ve compared anyway. None had captured Jean-Pierre so much. None had made him so obsessed.
But still it felt good, that I finally agreed with him.
I let out a long breathe. “I like having you around, Eden.”
“I like having you around too, Rafael.”
Still, my heart ached. I needed more than a hug. I needed to be inside of a warm woman. A very soft, warm woman.
Turning the other way, I looked out my window. “Anyone see Gwen there? I sent her plane tickets. It was so many people.”
Giorgio quirked his eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because I was wondering if she was coming to the after party.” I rolled my eyes.
“Why were you wondering that?” Giorgio placed his hands in his lap.
Louis grinned.
“Why all the questions?” I asked.
“I like Gwen,” Giorgio said.
I eyed him. “Like as in you want to fuck her?”
“No.” Giorgio shrugged. “You said Gwen was off limits.”
“She is.”
“But she’s nice,” Giorgio added. “I don’t want you to hurt her.”
I gritted my teeth.
I d
id hurt women. Didn’t I? Had I not? Shalimar might’ve been alive.
It was all connected. Had I not betrayed her years ago, she might’ve been able to trust me with her life. But she couldn’t even trust me with her body and heart. I’d misused both.
I wouldn’t have come to me either.
We arrived at the party minutes later. Some of our most loyal men packed the place. Close to a hundred. All had that dapper look required—polished, tailored, and designer. Watches and cufflinks sparkling and shining. Haircuts slick. They’d put their best on to help me say goodbye and I appreciated it. Cigars in their mouth. Girlfriends or wives at their arms, pouring champagne. Wolves in sheep clothing. All killers on good behavior for the evening.
Family. It’s good to have them all around me. . .I’m not completely alone.
For the first time that week, I realized the party had been a good idea. Jean-Pierre had forced me to plan one. I knew it was his way of keeping my head busy. Surely, Louis had his men monitoring me. They probably knew that I’d been crying by Shalimar’s corpse every night.
They know, but they better keep their mouths closed.
I walked around, nodding when anyone came by and gave me a hug.
Can you see it, Shalimar? Do you like it?
I’d spared no cost—high end food and decor. Everything had been draped in sheer fabric, that gave a fairy forest effect. Shalimar had said once that she’d liked fairies. I hadn’t known much else about her. I hadn’t taken the time.
Next woman. . .if there’s a next. . .I will do better.
More regret came as I walked through the massive night club. Mirrors lined the walls. Lights covered tiny trees with no leaves, looking like glowing skeletons hovering over the guests. The scent of vanilla filled the air. I’d ordered the scent and had no idea how the party planner did it, but she’d come through.
I inhaled the space and thought of Shalimar.
There you go baby.
Waitresses strolled around. Body art covered their nudity—lots of lovely dragons snaking up thighs and legs.
Four gorgeous women tended bar. In every corner, a nude woman danced in a large white birdcage. Their breasts bounced as they swayed. There bare pussies moved in and out of the shadows of the bars.
Usually my cock would’ve gotten hard, from that sight alone. But I didn’t know when I would be back in the mood to fuck again or do anything with any woman.
I’m done with them. I’m done with. . .human contact.
Jean-Pierre used to say that, long ago before Eden. Now I understood. Sometimes life broke a person too much, where they wanted to go inside a cave or on top of a mountain and hide.
I need to find my mountain and get away.
A blues singer would begin performing later. I didn’t want too much loud music the first hour. I wasn’t even sure how long I would stay at my own party.
I scanned the space, taking in every face and wondering if Gwen was among them. I didn’t see her. Minutes later, Giorgio ended up dragging me to the second floor where the gambling always happened.
The second level was a long, narrow upstairs room, with a runway and a small circular stage fitted with a shiny pole. Two twins danced and twirled around it.
I clenched my jaw.
I told you no twins, Louis. No fucking twins!!
My cousin had done it, anyway, probably thinking it would cheer me up. Twins was the last thing I wanted to see. If anything, I never fucking wanted my gaze to fall on another set of twins again.
They smiled at me as they rubbed against themselves.
Don’t even think about it!
I glared.
One of them widened her eyes, probably unsure of why I appeared so mad.
Wicked temptresses of the devil.
I put my back to them and followed Giorgio to the table.
More people filled the room up here. Seven tables had been filled with men and women playing poker. Large stacks of money covered their surfaces. Some had their jewelry off and had slung it in the center of the table. Lots of feminine giggling, and cries of encouragement scattered the space.
I spotted our table further back. Eden laughed as she sat by Jean-Pierre. Surely, he was holding his cards and talked shit as only he would.
I hope you’re ready to lose your money.
Eden held cards too. A cigar dangled in her other hand, but it wasn’t lit. With that bandage on and wearing that lovely black dress, she looked like a gorgeous gangstress. Surely, Jean-Pierre saw the same thing. He couldn’t keep his gaze off of her.
I checked out the side of his face that was bandaged and shook my head.
Yeah. No more women for me. They make you fucking crazy. . .and they die. Maybe. . .if they didn’t die.
I watched my odd family some more, not ready to go over yet.
Louis inspected his cards and frowned. Bad hand, huh? Louis couldn’t hide his emotions, when he held a gun. But when he held cards, he had no poker face.
Gambling was another funeral family tradition, but our generation had started it. Our grandparents dealt with death in spiritual ways. They prayed to their gods. They set jars and crosses out. They cried on bended knees for days.
Our parents masked their emotions as well as their faces. When they cried, our fathers hid it and so did our mothers.
For us, death triggered a greater gratitude for life. While we always started off the day in the old traditional ways, we ended with the loves of our lives—gambling, naked women, drinks, food, and laughter.
And maybe losing our money, made death feel better. Or perhaps it was the only way we could sit together, without dealing with the Corsican or more death.
I’m ready.
Jean-Pierre always bought a box of expensive cigars and whiskey.
I sniffed the air and knew he’d brought out the Black Dragons. The limited-edition cigars were released in 2006. They boasted a size of 52 inches, and a length of 8.5. They came in a chest carved from camel bone.
Sparing no cost for Shalimar. Thank you, Jean-Pierre.
I walked in on Jean-Pierre bragging about the cigars. “The wrapper made them from Connecticut Broadleaf Maduro.”
“Which he assumes is a good thing.” Louis rolled his eyes. “I just want a good taste to the smoke. I don’t need to know the birthplace of every part of the cigar.”
Jean-Pierre ignored him. “The binder is Cameroon, and the five-year aged filler is Dominican.”
“Jesus,” Louis muttered and picked one up to light.
“No smoking. She’s pregnant.” Jean-Pierre took the lighter from Louis. “Tonight, we respect the artwork and simply smell.”
Louis frowned. “But, they’re smoking downstairs.”
“Then, go downstairs.” Jean-Pierre looked at Eden. “Each cigar is packed individually, in a frosted tube and then placed in a leather box, that has orange velvet layers. All of this, is then delivered in a—”
Louis and I chimed in, “In a chest carved by camel bone!”
“They’re jealous.” Jean-Pierre sniffed one and damn near groaned. “The flavor of each cigar is quite complex. It ranges from sour to sweet through its length.”
“No one cares.” I sat down next to Eden and snatched her cigar away. “Let’s begin.”
She laughed. “Hope you’re ready to lose your money.”
“Listen.” I waved the cigar at her. “No way I’m letting a violin player beat me in poker.”
“You would be surprised how much orchestra players gamble. When the symphony is on tour, and we’re stuck in boring towns, there’s not much else to do but drink and gamble.”
“Nerds.” I set the cigar down.
“Save your geek jokes and put your money where your mouth is.” She snatched her cigar back and put it in her purse. “And get your own cigar.”
“You can’t smoke it.”
“Not the point. It will always remind me of tonight.”
Giorgio sat down across from me. I was happy about that. He was
a tricky little bastard. I liked a good eye on him during the game. He was liable to cheat.
“I’m watching your hands,” I hissed at him.
“I don’t cheat. I don’t think you can cheat with poker.” Giorgio gave us all that innocent look. That shit would work on our mothers, not us. He was the baby of the cousins and took complete enjoyment in the favoritism.
But we’re not kids anymore.
“Let’s begin.” I grabbed my cards.
We did.
And the game was cold. Like a dead body. Like this fucked up world. Like the moment, I thought I had the winning cards in my hand and then Giorgio placed his winning ones down.
“I think this means I won?” Whistling, Giorgio grabbed the large pile of money. “What a lucky one.”
“What? That can’t be right.” Eden shook her head. “How do you even have those cards?”
I leaned her way. “He cheats.”
“I’m going to watch him.” Eden pointed at him. “You’ve been warned, Giorgio.”
Giorgio raised his hands in the air and batted his eyes. “I’m just a simple French man from the country. It was only a lucky hand.”
“Fuck this. I’m done with you, Giorgio. It’s on.” I took off my suit jacket, cracked my neck, and turned to Eden. “Watch him.”
She nodded. “We’ve got this.”
I gestured for the waitress to get me and Eden something to drink —liquor for me and pink lemonade for her. She had become my new poker buddy.
Jean-Pierre laughed as he watched us whisper and strategize the next game. He’d only been looking our way most of the game. Apparently when Eden was around, he would try to be on his best behavior.
You can’t fake for long, Jean-Pierre. By the second game, she’ll see how ridiculous you get with cards.
A major sore loser, Jean-Pierre flipped the table over once and stomped out of the game. Giorgio had been cheating again. Only I couldn’t prove it.
I’d just been about to tell that story to Eden, when I spotted Gwen walk in.
Damn. She came.
Gwen arrived on the second floor, taking away my attention. She wore a fitted black dress. Simple, yet elegant. Covering most of her body, but not hiding it at all.
Her sister wasn’t with her, but four large black men were.
Who the hell are they?
She held an embarrassed expression on her face as she must’ve been searching the space for me. One of the tall men stood on her side. The other three remained in the back.
